Nebsuel knew that Gotfrid Droisch was complicit in Sholeh’s death. The answer was simple, fierce, and impatient: Droisch and all things Droischish were to be erased. The insult and blasphemy of this man and his true-blood wife were a stain. The job of cleansing was given to the Travesty: a notable, fierce, and trusted person living in the city where such attributes were rare. Nebsuel would send him a message to explain the vileness of the transgression, and he would make his own decision about the punishment. He was to be trusted because it was known that his sense of retribution and chastisement was equivalent to theirs. Some said greater, if such a thing could be believed.
The Travesty, whose astonishing beauty was hidden beneath a hood that covered his entire body. A single piece of perfect silken cloth dropped over him, from the crown of his head to his corkscrewed ankles, eyeholes cut into the cloth, like a pantomime ghost. A wide-brimmed hat put on over it to keep it all in place. He stood in a beautiful night, in a street outside the skinners’ house. The stars were extraordinary and the air perfumed with jasmine and stillness. Even the wretched silhouette of this shunned house seemed to glow against the rich celestial darkness, and the scent that seeped from inside this dwelling was contoured to something rare, like an exotic musk. Nebsuel had told him of the blasphemies that had been committed here, in his beloved Essenwald, and the consequence that they carried. The news of it had made his wrath force his splendour to the breaking point. He had known of the rumours before the crime, but he’d had no idea that the slaying of Sholeh had been the responsibility of the ugly couple that now slept here, sweetly, in their wicked bed.
How had this vile fact escaped him? He watched everything in the city, balancing its rights and wrongs, keeping its thriving people in control, touching all things in a way that was never seen. The Men Without Substance saw him only as unclean and to be shunned. Most of the tribes saw him as a prophet or holy fool and made sure that he was fed and sheltered. None of them could lift their weak eyes to his true magnificence. He saw everything, except the guilt that was living here.
The Travesty knew the Droischs by sight. He understood something of their trade. Once the husband had cuffed him out of his way, sending his battered and stained sombrero wheeling away like a deflated tyre. The wife instantly scolded her husband and apologised profusely, begging forgiveness for him on her knees. He had given her his immaculate hand and she trembled at its beauty and her need to kiss it. The husband had spat in disgust. Now it was his duty to spit back and he would relish it.