Chapter Five

 

 

NEDLAM WAS READY to knock down every wall in Cinquetann, deep in her fighting-head, as Celestaine thought of it. She looked capable of it, too, and probably there was a quite a large band of Cheriveni militia within eyeshot and crapping themselves. She was also not the best raconteur, especially under threat, and so Celestaine was having a hard time working out what had happened.

“A bunch of the locals came and just… took Heno?”

“All sorts, a whole bunch!” Nedlam spat out. “I wanted to fight them, but he said you wouldn’t want that and then they were all over us. They had magic, C’leste, and while he was trying to talk, they got him. I said we should’ve just whacked them the moment they showed!”

“Wait, wait, got him how?” Celestaine was very aware of Catt and Fisher’s curious scrutiny from behind the shop counter. “They killed him?” A stab of guilt and worry, more than she’d ever thought she’d feel for a minion of the enemy, but then Heno was Heno. And he was even trying to do the right thing.

“Don’t think so. Took him off, though, a bunch of them.”

“And where’s Amkulyah?”

“Kul went after them,” Nedlam said. “Fast, that one. I was fighting by then. Tried to get me as well. Hit me in the head. Heno’d have told them that won’t help.” Her scalp and coxcomb were crusted with brown blood, and Celestaine reckoned someone must have gone for her with a bill hook.

She took a deep breath, because a lot of her just wanted to go with Nedlam and start kicking doors in at random until she found Heno, and that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Nedlam’s studded club was streaked with glistening red, she saw. “Ned, you were fighting. Did you kill anyone?”

Nedlam frowned, thinking back through the fight. “I reckon so. Two, three, maybe. Stopped them trying to grab me.”

Her heart sank; that only made things worse. A tiny, mad part of her told her it was all right, because they were in the office of a Cheriveni notary and surely that would make everything fine. “Who came, Ned? Were they in the uniforms, the blue?”

“Uniforms, yes,” Nedlam confirmed, and then frowned. “Not all of them, not that uniform. Not like them out there with one leg and a stick. They had like…” Her huge hands described something vague in the air. “Like a big stick with balls.”

“Like a what?”

“I don’t suppose you mean the Redecina?” Doctor Catt enquired. Celestaine and Nedlam looked at him blankly.

“Thing like this,” Fisher said, emerging from the back room holding a short gold rod. As he held it up, a scattering of gleaming orbs danced about its length, then guttered and died.

“Could have been a picture on it, up front on their robes,” Nedlam considered. Her eyes narrowed. “Why’ve you got it, then?”

To his credit, Doctor Catt did not back away as she loomed over the counter, although he was almost lost in her shadow. “That little trinket came from the Hospice, a little souvenir with no power to do anything but amuse. The original Redecina was lost when the Hospice was levelled, of course. It’s the symbol of the Gracious One here in Cinquetann, His healing wand.”

“So, what?” Celestaine demanded of him. “These were followers of the Gracious One?”

“Priests,” Fisher put in. Catt added, “To wear the Redicine surplice was the privilege of clergy, it’s true.”

“I thought the clergy all died,” Celestaine demanded. “And aren’t they all healing and bandages anyway? They took my… my companion! Why?” She became aware she was shouting, and tried to calm herself, then exploded with, “What in bloody fire is going on?”

The two Cheriveni regarded her sombrely and she threw up her hands. “I know, I know, not your problem, and sure as death nobody round here’s going to lift a finger for a Forinthi and a couple of Yoggs, right?”

“Well, actually,” said Doctor Catt primly, and Fisher gave out an exasperated snort and stomped off into the back room.

“He hates it when my benevolent side rises to the ascendant,” Catt confided in them. “To answer your multifarious queries: no, they didn’t all die; no, they’re not so much concerned with the good works the Gracious One was formerly associated with; I can make some educated guesses as to why, and, whilst it is not in any way my problem, a certain sense of civic pride is outraged at this treatment of a visitor to our fair township; and I know what this is about and where they’ll have taken your friend.”

“What’ll they do to him?” Nedlam demanded, going almost nose to nose with the little Cheriveni.

“Well, unfortunately, they are likely to want to engage in some ceremonial bloodletting, especially with a former servant of the enemy,” Catt said brightly. “However they will require some time of preparation before such a precipitate step. Where was your temporary accommodation, if I might enquire?”

“Some inn,” Celestaine said. And then remembered, “There was a picture above the door, man in white robes with his arms out.”

“The Mendicant,” Catt identified sadly. “Mistress Frame, the proprietor, is one of the pious. No doubt she took your arrival as prophetic and sent straight away for the Underprior.” He ducked into the back room and Nedlam growled, obviously anticipating escape. Instead, they heard the doctor clattering about and demanding Fisher find him various things.

“Underprior,” Celestaine echoed flatly. Everything she heard sounded worse and worse.

“Well, quite,” Catt’s voice drifted to them. “Not the most auspicious title in the history of nomenclature. When the Hospice fell, you see, most of the priesthood chose to die with it. They put their bodies in the way of the hammers and the spells, so that others from the town could evacuate as many of their charges as possible. Even the Lightbearer, our resident Guardian. Courageous fellows all.” His tone strongly suggested it was a courage he could admire, but wouldn’t emulate. “But during the occupation, rumours began to circulate. Obviously everyone was very hush about who did what against the Kinslayer, mostly because being found out meant a quick trip to the excruciation pits. The suggestion was that some of the Gracious One’s priesthood had survived the fire and collapse, and one in particular—a churchman of some stature who still had some magical might to throw around, despite the gods’ silence. Not healing might, though. Not with the Gracious One cut from us all and the Redecina gone or broken. Was your friend a magus, by the way?”

“Yes,” Celestaine confirmed.

“That rather cements my hypothesis, then.” Catt reappeared, wearing a robe of silver-grey embroidered with ravens, a purple jewel at his throat and a hawk-headed walking stick in his hand. “The Underprior went after the magic and the magicians of the Kinslayer over other targets, and often at great risk.”

Celestaine wanted to ask why, but she found she already knew. “Because he was cut off from his god? And thought that would help?”

“Imagine if the power to heal the world was just a wound away,” Catt suggested. “How deep would you cut into how many throats, if you thought that just one more would let you help so many people?” He eyed Nedlam. “And there was a war on. We didn’t like your people much, back then.”

“And now?” Nedlam growled.

“I, my dear creature, am egalitarianism personified. Alas, many of my compatriots may not share my cosmopolitan leanings.”

“So where are they?” Celestaine demanded of him.

“Why, just next door, in a way,” Catt told her. “Just look outside and you can see the Hospice, or what’s left of it. There are cellars, they say; cellars and tunnels, and a sacred cave. So, what do you say: shall we go meet the neighbours?”

 

 

THERE WERE INDEED militia lurking a safe distance outside Catt and Fisher’s premises, but Catt sauntered over to them and had a word. Despite the fact that Nedlam had apparently left the Mendicant’s interior spattered with the blood of at least three cultists, this was apparently satisfactory. He met Celestaine’s sharp gaze and shrugged. “Firstly, I convinced them that we were engaged about a vital evidence-gathering errand which would, when concluded, throw an entirely contrary light on matters.” He paused to draw breath. “Secondly, the magistrate is my cousin and they know she’d give me a licence to vivisect kittens if I asked nicely enough. Either way, we have a little time in hand.” Celestaine’s gaze hadn’t got any less sharp, and he cocked his head at her. “What?”

“Why all this?” she asked. “You’re shutting up shop to help a couple of complete strangers.”

His smile was brilliant and as full of guile as a coven of foxes. “Why, my dear, I feel we’ve become acquainted with one another in the brief time you’ve been my guest, and besides, you’re a Slayer, and we all owe you a debt of not-inconsiderable size. Also, are you really in a position to turn down any help that’s on offer, right now? You want your Yorughan friend back, don’t you?”

Something inside her kicked and wanted to argue, but she recognised it as her Forinthi upbringing, unwilling to give a Cheriveni the benefit of the doubt. With bad grace she shrugged. “Lead on, then.”

He did so, tripping off down an alley from the Hospice street as blithely as though they were going sightseeing. Celestaine and Nedlam followed him, and Fisher trailed dourly behind, carrying rope and grappling irons and a robust iron-shod staff.

“So if the priesthood’s all supposed to be dead,” Celestaine asked over Catt’s shoulder, “and they’re now some sort of secret murder cult, how do you know where they do their murdering?”

“Oh, as to that, it’s no great mystery.” Catt’s grin was nonetheless a little shamefaced. “They were taking all manner of magical bric-a-brac from the minions of the Kinslayer during the war, so of course I tooled up and went to take a look, in case they had anything that deserved to be preserved for the ages in a private collection.” He sighed theatrically. “Alas, nothing of worth. Except the poor old Redecina, or what’s left of it. They abstracted it from the rubble, I’d guess, but only in pieces. So much for the Grace of the Gracious One.”

He got them to a street where the houses were boarded up, the doors and shutters chained and padlocked. They were all imposing three-storey jobs; Celestaine guessed they were the townhouses of rich families who had yet to return for them. Catt stopped at one door and tutted. “Remarkably inconvenient. They’ve resecured the place since my last exploratory larceny. Fishy, do the honours, would you?”

Fisher muttered something uncomplimentary and came for the door, tweaking a pair of picks out from behind his ear. Before he could get to work, Nedlam reached forwards and took the lock and chain in both hands. A mulish look came to her face that Celestaine was well acquainted with, and the muscles of her arms bulged like blue-grey melons. The snap of the metal shearing was muffled in her grip.

“It would seem, Fishy, that you’re surplus to requirements,” Doctor Catt remarked mildly, pulling the door open. Within was a dust-caked hallway, rich furnishings and hangings defaced and spattered. Picking at the splintered gilding of a balustrade, he added ruefully, “They barracked the curfew patrol down this street. I fear the character of the neighbourhood will not soon recover.”

“Why are we here?” Celestaine asked him. “The Hospice was over by your shop,”

“Yes, but when we descend to the wine cellar here, now sadly denuded of comestibles, you’ll see that one entrance to the sacred caves is behind the barrel racks. All through the occupation, the Underprior’s agents were sneaking in and out under the noses of the guard.” He frowned at her unhappy expression. “Hmm?”

“They’re heroes,” she said simply. “They fought the Kinslayer, like I did. And now I’m going to fight them.”

Catt glanced at Nedlam. “You have a curious choice in friends, and they’re desperate. The Kinslayer’s death didn’t give them back their god.”

 

 

IN THE CELLAR, behind the barrel rack and the false wall, both of which Nedlam shifted with a minimum of fuss, they found their way. It was a chasm straight down, a crack in the earth that made Celestaine think of giant spiders and centipedes, mostly from personal experience.

“They utilise magic to ascend and descend, I suspect,” Doctor Catt murmured. “We are bound to a more traditional methodology, alas.”

“Where’s Amkulyah?” Celestaine hissed at Nedlam.

The Yorughan shrugged. “Little razzer was right on their heels. Moves quick and quiet for a prince. They got him, or he got in after them, or something else.”

“An admirably complete list of options,” Catt commented. “Fishy, make yourself useful, would you?”

Fisher hooked his grappling iron over a beam, swinging on it like a bellringer to test its firmness. With a long-suffering look at Catt, he kicked the rope down the hole, watching the fixed end shake and shiver as the rest unravelled down the abyss.

“Only about twenty feet, no demanding venture,” Catt said, before clambering down the rope with a nimbleness Celestaine wouldn’t have credited. She followed, wishing she’d had a chance to get her armour—surely there would be steel flying about soon enough. She was halfway down when Nedlam started after her, and she got off the rope quickly in case the beam gave. Yorughan weighed a lot, but they were stronger even than that, and Nedlam let herself down effortlessly, hand over hand.

Down below, the walls were part natural rock, part carved. Where the cave dipped low, it had been worked into an elaborate arch; where it reached higher again, one wall had been levelled out and inscribed with lessons of the Gracious One, all open hands and unconditional love. The sconces by the words were empty, and Celestaine guessed the surviving priesthood had been operating off-book for a while now.

There was a wavering light to be seen somewhere ahead and they made their way forwards cautiously through the narrow cleft in the rock, hearing the murmur of a few voices talking in low, agitated tones. Doctor Catt walked like his namesake and Nedlam had her boots off, her bare leathery soles soft on the stone. Behind them, Fisher was clumping along as though every step was a personal insult to his standing as a professional.

The cultists were arguing in that strained, formal way people do when they really want to come to blows but can’t. The discussion seemed to be part magical theory and part theology. The dominant voice was a woman’s, but two or three others had strong, academically complex opinions they were trying to get in. Celestaine couldn’t follow two words of it together, magic never having been her thing. The debate was involved enough, though, that it covered their approach nicely.

The fugitive priests had a couple of braziers set up, and the heavy scent on the air suggested they were for more than just light. Between them, where the rock floor had been levelled precisely flat, was the Redecina. It had been a golden pillar about six feet tall at one point, but as Catt said, the temple had fallen on it since. Now it stood, crooked, within a rough scaffold of wood and cane, and the orbs that had danced about Catt’s little toy were conspicuous by their absence. It formed the centrepiece of a phenomenally complex design on the floor, some of which was carved, the rest written in chalk, and now being rewritten as one of the priests made some philosophical point. Chained to the Redecina was Heno.