“Good.” Kalum fished a letter from an inner coat pocket. “Here’s my holy writ. I’m commandeering this building until further notice. I’m sure you can find somewhere else to stay.”
The Bishop’s eyes bulged, then he swallowed. “Is that necessary, Lord-Inquisitor? There are more than enough rooms to—”
“I’m afraid so.” Kalum shoved the letter into the man’s soft chest, a tad too forcefully. Eyes widening further, Mangesh staggered back. Air hissed around Kalum’s teeth. Oh, how he hated these sniveling, womanish fools. “You have my apologies,” he added in a voice untouched by remorse.
Lieutenant Bodua’s commanding voice rose behind him, and soldiers of the Guardians of the Flame streamed past the Bishop, securing the Episcopal Palace grounds. The priestly attendants wilted before their ferocity with eyes as round as black buttons.
Bishop Mangesh stewed silently, clutched the letter in a trembling hand, and, for a moment, Kalum was unsure which emotion would eventually dominate the man, rage or fear. Yes, this outrage demanded a rebuke, but did the Bishop have the courage to say as much?
Kalum leaned forward, eager, but trying to hide it. Always he tested, not merely for the joy of mindless conflict—or not only—but for the truths the skirmish would reveal. Either Bishop Mangesh sensed the danger or logic made a coward of him. He averted his gaze.
Though it was the sound decision, Kalum could not help hating the fat worm even more. Who cared if a Lord-Inquisitor had the right of absolute incarceration, no matter the offending party’s rank or station, without writ or reason? Was not pride worth your life? Was not honor?
Duty. It always came back to duty. Duty kept him from smashing the Bishop’s face like he longed to. Duty was what had kept him from doing the same all those years ago, when he had first entered the Empire with Worship Osei.
“Your Worship,” the Bishop had said, his voice crackling with barely suppressed mirth, “when I told you to bring me a treat on your return, I had no idea you’d gift me my very own savage.”
The old slight had long festered, growing dark purple with the turning of the wheel. The fat fool had laughed at him. At him!
An ache drew his gaze down, to where his hand gripped the pommel of his sword. How easy it would be to. . . !
The clatter of carriage wheels, screeching to a stop on wet, interlocking, concrete pavers.
Thankful for the distraction, Kalum unclenched his hand from his sword, shooed away a guff-faced soldier and opened the carriage door himself. Fana stepped down from the hallowed interior, heralded by panicked cries of “Sophic Nun” that quickly sputtered into silence. As aloof as ever, like a lofty tower surrounded by tattered huts, she unfurled a paper umbrella, decorated in cloud-swamped vistas, for Worship Osei, who followed behind her, leaning on a wooden staff.
“Your Worship!” Bishop Mangesh dropped to his knees, and his attendants mirrored him, slamming to the pavement with a splash. Liquid strings slipped from half a dozen bowed heads.
Osei pinched the Bishop’s cheek, as one might a mischievous, but much-loved child. “Mangesh, you’ve grown larger since I’ve last seen you.”
“Your Worship,” Bishop Mangesh murmured again, then pressed his lips to her ecclesiastical ring.
“Get up,” she said. “Get up, all of you.”
The Bishop rose, took Osei’s arm and guided her inside. “I didn’t know you were coming as well, your Worship, otherwise I would have prepared a feast in your honor.”
Kalum and Fana followed the chattering pair into the myrrh-scented building, trailed and preceded by expressionless soldiers. Above, silver candle-wheels hung beneath a distant ceiling, painted with soaring visions of Holy Consorts and golden imaginings of the Thousand Heavens.
“A feast?” the Worship asked. “By Her glory, Mangesh, are you trying to fatten me? Don’t you think you’ve grown big enough for the both of us?”
Kalum laughed loud enough to blot out the chorus of marching boots thundering through the hallway. Bishop Mangesh stiffen, then glanced back at him and Fana. Kalum met the man’s cold look with a toothy grin.
Bishop Mangesh’s complexion deepened into a light crimson. He jerked back around and continued on in silence.
Banishing his smile, Kalum scrubbed the water from his face. It was the small joys that made any of this bearable, he decided. Fana watched him from the corner of her eyes with what might have been disapproval. His expression soured.
From there on, he avoided her gaze and pretended to be overawed by the artisanship that almost made the hallways blister with manifest grandeur, slowing to admire the gold finery that lined each evenly spaced painting. Extravagance heaped upon extravagance. None of the Clans of the Ancient East were so wealthy as to—
“How long has it been?” Osei was asking the Bishop as they stopped before a closed threshold.
Bishop Mangesh stroked his fat nose. “About ten years now, your Worship, give or take a month.”
“So long?”
“I’m afraid so.” Bishop opened the door with a dramatic flourish that would have put any of his priestly brothers to shame. “This way, your Worship.”
Kalum cleared his throat loudly, and the Bishop turned back with a question in his eyes, a question he dared not broach himself. The Worship patted the Bishop’s arm and smiled the way a doting grandmother might.
“We must allow the warriors their privileges, Mangesh,” she said.
“He can’t mean. . . ?” The Bishop frowned, aghast. “An ambush? Here? Outrageous! This is—”
Kalum brushed past the man and strode into the small chamber with a score of the Guardians of the Flame on his heels. Dark birds adorned the blue wallpapered walls, and onyx-colored rugs and stuffed jackals added a flair of pageantry to the otherwise blandly decorated room—bland compared to the innumerable others they had passed on the way to this one. This was not a place meant to dazzle. To go by the detailed maps of the city that dotted the walls and the unadorned, mahogany table that sat at its heart, it was devoted to the practical business of managing a sprawling organization.
Kalum studied the high-ranking officials that rose from their seats around the table. A few of their faces stirred his memory, though time had lined them as it was wont to. There, sporting an elegant goatee and mustache with hints of gray, Sargon Turay, a lieutenant during the Second Crusade, now a high-ranking member of the Blackcloaks. And over there, leaning on an ebony-colored walking stick, Minos Jamal—just as dour as ever—no longer a major but the Lord-Commander of Dilgan’s Peacebringers, evidenced by the pins and ribbons that looped the chest of his blue coat.
Where was the Lord-Governor? Had the fool dared ignored his summons?
Surprised murmurers of “Your Worship” and “Lord-Inquisitor” and “Sophic Nun” filled the room, tugging Kalum’s attention back onto the matter at hand. One thing at a time, he told himself. He would deal with the Lord-Governor later.
Before anyone could press puckered lips to Osei’s ecclesiastical ring, Kalum hammered the table with a hard fist. “Enough!” he shouted. “There will be time enough for ceremony later. We have work to do.”
Those who did not gape at him opened mouthed, glowered and scowled. Only Lord-Inspector Sargon Turay, among the host of high-ranking officials, remained unflustered by his supposed rudeness.
Kalum smiled hungrily at them. He had always liked Lord Sargon, he decided—well, as much as any Clansman could like any Imperial—and this just proved the correctness of his previous opinion. At least he understood the peril of provoking one who wore the black-and-gold.
“What is this exactly about?” Minos asked, his irritation shining through his tone. “We weren’t given any information, we were just told to appear. And here we are. So, if you don’t mine, Lord-Inquisitor, could you dispense with the telling? Some of us have pressing concerns elsewhere.” He graced the Worship with a half bow, as if in apology for his uncouthed manner.
“Out,” Kalum said to the black-and-silver cl
ad soldiers that had ringed the chamber. They saluted with a precision that would make any leader of men proud, then filed out of the room, closing the door behind themselves.
“No. . . .” Sargon whispered, collapsing into his chair with a groan. His eyes, now, almost vacant, peered up at the ceiling. “Not again.”
The Bishop helped Worship Osei into her seat at the head of the table, watching Kalum with a carefulness that stung. Fana watched him, too, her head tilted to the side slightly.
“Yes. Again.” Kalum shot Sargon a glance. “You reveal what I tell you next at the risk of excommunication and death. There’s a Mindripper in the city.”
“A what?” Minos asked, looking from bewildered face to bewildered face.
Sargon blinked. “Wait. Could this have something to do with the recent murders that have plagued the city? That would explain why we have found no hard clues. You know about the Dilgan Murderer, correct?”
“Yes,” Kalum said, “I’m aware, but the murders don’t follow the pattern. Mindrippers are drawn to power and sex, this has held true for as long as I have hunted them.”
“And I,” Osei added.
The sound of a palm slamming against the table.
All eyes shifted to the one responsible, to the enraged Lord-Commander of Dilgan’s Peacebringers. The crippled man’s eyes narrowed under the attention and his knuckles whitened about his cane.
“What in all that is holy is a fucking Mindripper?” he asked.
Chapter Seventeen
Shadow’s Light
Hazy vistas filed behind closed eyelids before dissolving into fog-peaked mountains bitter with the smell of sulfur—fatal truths cloaked in abstractions. Four legs paused above a mighty staircase, Enk knew he hunted one of his own, a jackal. He had already stalked it through the ancient gloom of the long, dead ruins behind him, through galleries pillared by mounds of lemon-hued bones. Now, he trudged his way up the weathered stonework and negotiated slopes fierce with the rush of volcanic smoke.
Close. His prey was close.
Beyond the smog’s desolation, where the gray swell was thin and swamped by what little light fell from the veil, broken battlements thrust out of the mountain heights, ringed by withered pines, sickly with blight. Deformed shapes wheeled above them, moon-sized splotches of gold-tinged violet, swallowing then vomiting whole fields of needle points of hanging silver. Disappearing and reappearing stars. So faint next to the looping horrors, so cold next to the hate inside his chest.
A hate that burned and burned. . . !
Enk awoke with an ache at the base of his skull, sprawled on top of an unfamiliar bed. His heart raced, a clatter like horse hooves about an ancient track, and air wheezed into his panicked lungs.
What. . . ? Where am I?
He pressed a damp palm to his aching forehead. Sour bottles of wine and stories of ones lost to a butcher’s blade. Yes, he remembered. . . .
Something caught his eyes, a flash of straw-colored hair, falling down soft features, illuminated by a scattering of rays that spewed from a sputtering oil lamp. He turned and stiffened. Milky, white breasts painted by skittering shadows. Bare legs intertwined with a frayed blanket. A hint of fine, peach-like fuzz peaking from the top of a. . . .
The shock of the view struck Enk breathless. A naked woman. There was a naked woman in his bed. How. . . ?
An image skipped free from some inner mire—an image of a woman in a wet cloak perched on his lap, a wine bottle held to her mouth.
No!
The consequences of his actions struck with a force greater than the breathless view had. The young scion gagged on it. It was difficult to breathe. Everything had become wild and unpredictable.
Something precious had been taken—no. Stolen! He had meant Inanna to be his first and his last.
Inanna . . . forgive me.
But some sniveling part of himself whispered that was before she was chosen as a Tribute of Flesh. Before she left him for the White Sea and the Immortal-Emperor’s bed. Before—before. . . ! If there was a betrayal here, it was not his. It was hers. Hers!
The bitterness of these thoughts chased him from his prone position as much as their significance. Like a gaping fish, he flopped out of the bed, tripped and crumbled to his knees, his mouth round with trepidation.
The nameless woman stirred on the mattress, her rosy lips parting slightly, her fingertips fluttering at her side. Slowly, oh, so slowly, she stilled, her breathing just as even—just as restful as before.
Enk exhaled in relief, turning to untangle himself from the black cloak that had caught his foot. The last thing he needed at this moment was an awkward exchange of pleasantries with an unremembered conquest.
A garrote wire, bound a by worn, wooden handle on either end, tumbled free from the cloak. He paused, touching it. An assassin’s tool. Goosebumps pimpled his bare buttocks. Who was this woman he had pressed loins with exactly?
Enk shook his head. Of all the concerns that besotted him, this was one of the least important. He stood, letting go of the weapon. The last of the light vanished, sputtering as it died at the end of the sagging lamp wick.
As shadow robed in shadow, he tiptoed around the room, donning his discarded clothes. He opened the door and glanced back at the naked woman one last time, searing the vision into his mind as a reminder. This, he decided, was what came of too much drink and self-pity—moral decay.
Damnation.
Enk escaped the sight of his shame, closing the door softly behind himself. It seemed an oddity that he should be so focused on the safeguarding of another’s slumber while simultaneously berating himself.
He waded through the chill of the unheated air and clambered toward the second floor railing. Like glittering notes, childish giggles spiked the shallow heights from the rotted iron that crowded the stonework below. A little girl of about six-years-old ran, her flaxen curls in a wild tangle, dashing around debris, chased by a shaggy, brown-and-gray dog.
Enk leaned forward. There was something about this scene that yoked and yoked. Even here, in the heart of ruin, there was still grace, still beauty. Here! Where nothing should grow—a lilac flower sprouting from the rutted walls of an abandoned salt mine. The profundity of all of it made him want to weep.
Finally, the little girl noticed him, raised a hesitant hand and waved.
Enk blinked the watery warmness from his eyes, but did not return the gesture. He had been that young and innocent once.
Once . . . but no longer.
■■■
Enk came upon Tizkar unobserved.
Slouched above tattered chair cushions, the older boy looked worn and unbalance by things unperceived, his eyes held rapt by the mystery of an open locket. His head, uncrowned by the wig of dark curls he had worn, seethed with a scattering of red sores, partially concealed by thinning threads of graying hair, yet too few to overwhelm his skull outright.
Enk cleared his throat.
Tizkar’s eyes rose to find him in the office doorway, devoid of bewilderment, though come upon unaware. Like something ancient cast into the semblance of something new, each instant saw more recognition dawn—until Tizkar touched his balding scalp and smiled.
“A gift,” he said, scooping a wig of blood-colored hair from the floor. “That’s what the Soused call the strange ailments that beset them. A gift.”
Enk looked away, but not out of any disgust. He felt exposed to the arcane elements of the ether. This was yet another way he and this man overlapped. What unseen hand of fate worked to bring together such a circumstance?
“I always thought it idiotic,” Tizkar continued, robing his skull in false curls that dangled below his shoulders. “Why exalt illness? Why make sickness holy? Then it happened to me.” A hacking cough.
Enk hurried forward, but Tizkar lifted a hand and waved away the unspoken promise of aid, and the young scion stopped.
“I’m fine.” The older boy spat a crimson plume into a white handkerchief and straightened in his
seat. “Enough about me. How was your night?”
“It was . . . serviceable,” Enk intoned.
“Only serviceable?” Tizkar’s lips quickened, smeared by a splotch of scarlet. “Last time I saw you, you and Lulu were getting quite friendly.”
Enk studied his palms. They needed a good wash. When was the last time he—
“Have you experimented?” Tizkar asked. “For our kind, sex is a vast wonderland, an endless dimension of bliss. If you so choose, you can feel what your partner feels. You can wed yourself to every thought and secret desire to shameful to speak.” For an instant Tizkar’s eyes widened in remembrance. “Nothing is more . . . more. . . . Two sweat-slicked bodies moving in tandem, thrashing from the repetition of a simple command: cum.”
The word seemed to hang in the air between them, seemed to morph silence into licentious squeals of cavernous delight.
“No.” Enk pressed his thumb into his forefinger, finding strength in the stab of pain that followed. “I have no interest in such insights. I’ve seen how lust engulfs the horizons of those who fall victim to its pull, how it pins and twists souls into monstrous shapes.”
Tizkar blinked, his expression at once one of puzzlement and amusement. “You surprise me, Enk. Though, you are right, our passions do sometimes bend and warp us into what we were before God molded us into men—beasts. Yet there are depths only sentiment can plum, truths only women hold. To copulate is to reach beyond the mountains, to grasp at the sky with hands of fire. Life, Enk, is the darkness only love can illuminate.”
“There’s a difference between love and sex.”
“Less of one than you think, but let us let the subject lie,” Tizkar said. “We have more pressing concerns. Just do me a favor, will you? Be kind to Lulu. Like everyone here, she’s suffered enough without you breaking her heart anew.”
Enk shifted on his feet, turned his back to Tizkar. He stared at the wall of sketches and tried to swallow around the coal in his throat. Don’t break her heart? How was he supposed to do that when he did not even remember copulating with the stupid girl?
Mindripper Page 13
