~ David ~

Evening had brought with it a light fog. David stood out on the balcony at the top of the Tower, watching as the fog strangled the horizon and drew ever closer. It was peaceful, really. The chill was a gentle one, the sort that required a coat but didn’t require that the coat was fastened. The chattering birds who’d made their nest in the grove behind the Tower were silent. Everything weighed slightly heavy on him, like the whole world had been transposed into some liminal realm where the clocks ticked a half-measure slow, the sort of place where the front and rear wheels of a carriage would rotate in syncopation. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He lived for such a feeling.

Evening had also brought with it the Governor, followed closely by Oliver Wrack and a portion of his retinue. David had sighed loudly when he saw them coming up the road towards him. He’d watched for a while, lest they suddenly veer away and head for the Plaza instead. When it was clear that wouldn’t happen, he made his way to the Tower’s reception to greet them.

Operations had been scaled back for the night. The only lights were the low lanterns above the desk and the doors; the big chandelier at the centre of the room was unlit, and in its absence deep shadows had sprung up. Corporal Rawlinson was stood in one of these shadows. David didn’t notice him until he lurched out. The shock almost sent him tumbling.

This, apparently, was amusing to the guards following Oliver Wrack. One spotty youngster was bent double in raptures, at least until the old Lieutenant jabbed him sharply in the side. Then he stood upright, face sober. Bloody hell. It’s the little runt who tried to stop me from getting onto Wrack’s property. Why would Wrack have brought this one along?

“Governor.” David greeted Chris with a hollow smile and his formal title. “What can I help you with?”

Chris gestured towards Wrack. “Oliver came to me with some questions regarding a prisoner of yours. Questions I couldn’t answer myself, unfortunately.”

“There’s no need to be vague, Chris, it’s obvious you’re on about Comestine Argent. Let’s not take each other for fools here.”

“Has she confessed yet?” Chris asked the question with a smile of his own, but there was a barbed incisiveness to his tone. Like he had an answer in mind and wasn’t prepared to hear any different.

But if he wanted to learn that Comestine Argent had confessed, he was about to be disappointed. David had spent another hour with her that day, following on from Lieutenant Baxendale’s efforts yesterday. By now all the petty officers in the Constabulary had put questions to Argent, tried every trick in the arsenal to get a confession. There had been no success. “She’s denying everything. I’ve had Lieutenant Baxendale poring over the transcripts of every interview, but her story’s remarkably consistent. Either she’s genuinely innocent or she’s very good at memorising her lies.”

“We all know she isn’t innocent,” said Chris, a sly grin forming on his face. “A man of your talents will be able to secure her confession, one way or another. The alternative would be that an innocent woman has spent a month unjustly imprisoned—and that would be highly embarrassing for the Constabulary.”

“Now, hang about,” said Oliver Wrack. “When you laid your plan out, Governor, I said it was a gamble. We all knew it was going to be difficult, but I swallowed my reservations and went along with it—because at the end of the day, we want the same for Essegena. I’m down for some hardships. I’m down for bending the law here and there. What I’m not down for is my staff being scapegoated. Mam Argent has been loyal to my wife and I, a great cook. Tash is still distraught at her arrest. If she didn’t do the things she was arrested for doing, she must be returned to me. With an apology and compensation.”

“Just because she hasn’t confessed doesn’t mean she isn’t guilty,” said Chris. “Lord Constable, perhaps she’ll be more willing to admit the truth if she hasn’t had a meal for a few days. I doubt Master Ellavon would complain about having one fewer mouth to feed.”

David let his eyes flick over to Wrack. Starving a confession from someone was a bit out of his wheelhouse, but if Wrack objected he wouldn’t need to annoy Chris.

Wrack, helpfully, obliged. “You’ll treat Stini with respect,” he said. “The same dignity due to anybody on Essegena. Governor, I have your back all the way, but I will escalate matters if food is withheld from her, or her rights in any other way impugned. I’m no fan of General Bradshaw, but I’ll raise the issue with him if I need to. I’ll raise it in the next Council meeting too.”

“There’s no need for that, Master Wrack,” said David, glaring pointedly at Chris. “I’m not a monster. Comestine will enjoy the best conditions we can provide for her, on that you have my word.”

“And how long do you intend to keep her for?” shot Wrack. “Surely at some point you reach the stage where there’s no longer any justification for keeping her in a cage. What evidence do you have that she poisoned Caroline?”

“Caroline’s close to death behind the locked bulkhead doors of the hospital,” said Chris.

Wrack snorted. “Yes, and you happened to have the antidote with you. If your Lord Constable here had a bit more respect for the possessions he was safeguarding, Caroline would be right as rain again. It would be a real pity if Bradshaw knew you were expecting Caroline to get sick.” His voice rose steadily, until it was a full-on shout.

Apparently Wrack’s guards weren’t in the loop to the same degree he was. “What’s this?” asked Lieutenant Sharp.

“It’s nothing,” David hissed. “Give me a week, Master Wrack. Then I’ll let her go—provided no evidence comes to light in the meantime.”

Oliver seemed placated by that. “That’s acceptable,” he said. “Though I’d rather have her go free tonight. I’ll speak to her, if I may.”

David couldn’t see any reason why not, but who could ever tell what Chris had planned? But Chris was nodding along. “Corporal Rawlinson will take you to her,” said David.

“Thank-you.” Wrack followed Corporal Rawlinson, who lumbered along towards the cells. Rawlinson would only be able to go as far as the first few cells. They’d been dug into the ground, and the shaft narrowed substantially further away from the stairwell. A man of Corporal Rawlinson’s size simply couldn’t safely get all the way to the far end, to the cell which held Comestine Argent.

Wrack’s security team went with him, and when they were gone David was alone with Chris. They stood for a minute without speaking, as the echo of footsteps on the stairs down below fell quieter and quieter.

Then David spoke. “She didn’t do anything, did she?”

Chris shook his head. “It doesn’t look that way.”

“So we should release her.”

“Probably.” Chris shrugged. “But then you’d have to find another suspect.” And that’ll mean arresting the Governor. No doubt Chris hadn’t meant for things to get this far out of hand, but he’d been the one to make Caroline ill. Only David hadn’t done his bit, hadn’t kept that bottle safe as Chris asked, and now Caroline and who knows how many others were destined to die. An investigation into the matter wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“We can still save her, can’t we?”

Chris looked at him darkly. “It’s out of our hands. But I hope so. She always spoke very highly of Doctor Caerlin.”

He was still hopeful that the bottle might turn up, and with it the antidote. Lieutenant Baxendale had been charged with exhuming Corporal Bartley’s body—by cover of darkness, of course, so nobody would protest—and Curlie had scoured it for any trace of the powder. When he found some, David had gone personally to see that Master Stockton received it. Whether Stockton would glean anything from it was another matter anyway. There was nothing to say that it was even the same thing as the Governor’s missing antidote. If only Chris had said what the bottle was for…

David bit his lip. “Next time you have a plan, Chris, lay it all out for me. I’ll work with you, no matter what. But I don’t like people dying because we got our wires crossed. I need to know what you have planned.”

Chris nodded. “Of course. On that note, tomorrow we’re head up to the church on the hill. Ian’s request.”

And so it was: bright and early the next morning, they travelled to the north-western corner of the valley, and up the slopes. Soon enough, the church came into view.

He wasn’t a holy man, but if ever a building could make him turn this was it. The church which Ian Fitzhenry had sent them to, sat atop a hill at the end of a long path lined with leafy trees, was a thing of beauty. It seemed to have a spirit, some invisible strength emanating power. And it was stunningly built. Where much of the colony’s architecture was functional, this transcended function. The stone with which the walls had been built was whitewashed. Outside, a finely-painted mural showed several scenes from the religious canon, each framed by meandering green vines. The vines, like the images within, were painted on. Work was still ongoing in this respect—a woman in a white gown was knelt against the far end of the front wall, brush in hand, a cotton caul over her head to protect her from the heat of the day.

The man who David knew was called Skerrett was stood in the open doorway waiting for them. He had a beard, gold-brown but starting to grey, pointed but neatly cropped, with an impressive moustache to match. Any flamboyancies in his facial hair hadn’t extended to his attire. He had a plain tunic of light brown cotton, the only form of decoration a golden pendant on a chain around his neck.

Ian hadn’t said why Skerrett wanted to see the Governor, only that he had a request to make. That struck David as suspicious. Ordinarily, he would have recommended that Chris send one of his deputies. If treachery was the intent, it would have far less impact on the colony if Ian or the Hookbill were to come to harm than if the Governor were to be injured. But Ian Fitzhenry wasn’t a man capable of treachery. He’d always been the honest one, back in Borrowood. He was the one to run home and fetch an adult when the rest of them were jumping the fence to visit the Ontay house.

For that reason, David hadn’t raised any objections when Chris decided to pay Skerrett’s church a visit. In his capacity as Lord Constable, and in his capacity as a good friend of Chris, he’d insisted on coming along as well. This damnable heat was already making him regret that choice. There were five soldiers with them, marshalled by Lieutenant Baxendale. Each had foregone their surcoats in favour of a lighter, airier shirt, with the Constabulary colours present only in the form of stripes sewn into the sides. David’s insistence that they at least wear their kepis—how else would they be identifiable as the Constabulary?—had been met with dissatisfaction. In the end, he’d allowed them to hold the hats in their hands until they made it up the hill.

By the time they’d emerged from the Mettywood—having soaked up the cool air of the wood’s shade gratefully—they were every one of them sweating rivers. Hoult was taking great interest in the outline of breasts that had soaked into Onslow’s vest, apparently oblivious to Onslow’s glares. David held back a touch to get between them, and offered Onslow his own jacket, to preserve her dignity some.

Not that Onslow looked comfortable wearing an oversized dolman festooned with the decals of a Lord Constable, but she seemed a lot happier. And David was glad to feel a breeze at his arms. Sweat had formed great patches of red all on his skin.

Would summer ever end here? Somebody had probably done the science to figure it out. It certainly seemed like it was hotter here than on Belaboras. For the most part it had been hot and dry since they arrived. The exceptions—even days where the cloud cover had been enough to keep temperatures mild—were so infrequent as to be memorable. In the past week especially it seemed to be getting steadily hotter, and today was the hottest day of the lot. Before then, amidst a flurry of rainstorms and overcast days, he’d briefly entertained the idea that this world was coming into its winter. If only.

“Governor Ballard.” Lightness Skerrett had a broad smile on his face as he stepped forward to greet the Governor. “How nice to see you on a day as fine as this. And you have brought friends?”

“I hope my bringing security doesn’t offend you, Lightness. It pays to be careful.”

“No offence has been taken, Governor, let me assure you. I have seen first-hand what can happen when men of office choose to forego precaution.” Lightness Skerrett looked past Chris, to David and his soldiers. He looked concerned. That was fair, David thought. If the five stood behind him were even half as haggard and red-faced as he was, they were a sorry sight indeed.

Chris followed Lightness Skerrett’s eyes. He didn’t look quite so hot himself, but even his face was flushed. “Can we go inside to talk,” he said, addressing the priest. “It’s a bore of a day today.”

“Of course. I have a room set aside for just that purpose. Follow me.”

David caught Lieutenant Baxendale as she made to follow the Governor inside. “I know it’s a balmy day, Lieutenant, but I need you to hold back out here. I can’t imagine we’ll be gone long.” He was reluctant to give up his eyes. Much as he trusted Ian’s judgement, something about Lightness Skerrett was making him ill at ease. He was half expecting to have been followed by soldiers hostile to the Governor—Bradshaw would have the means to cobble such a unit together if he chose. With Lieutenant Baxendale outside, they’d have an early warning if there was any treachery planned. It would keep them in with a fighting chance.

The church’s outer was nothing in comparison with the interior. A great high hall, at least two dozen metres high, stretched upwards, the whitewashed stone crossed with varnished timbers. A vaulted ceiling covered most of the roof, but one small section, roughly above the dais from where Skerrett would no doubt give his sermons, stretched even higher. At the top of this—at least thirty metres above the ground—was a glass pyramid, trimmed with gold.

At the sides of the hall, on the second level, timber-framed walkways led from twin spiral staircases of wrought iron across to an upper area. David craned his neck to try and see what was up there, but he could not. If the churches he’d entered in the past were reference, it was likely a gallery for the wealthy of the congregation to sit, elevated from the poor and sweaty masses.

Light poured into the hallway from a number of high windows. Curiously, none of these had glass. “What’s the reasoning behind the open windows,” David began, “if you don’t mind me asking? Er, Lightness.”

“The glass has not yet been completed,” Lightness Skerrett said, without looking David’s way. “Perfection takes a long time. It’s important not to rush the painting, so our acolytes are taking their time.” He pointed to an open doorway leading to a side-chamber, where a few men in white tunics dressed just like the woman outside were gently painting onto squares of glass.

The whole place was brimming with the saccharine aroma of some sweet and fruity incense, burning on gilded trays at the edge of every row of seats. It reminded David of summertime, and the Daughter’s Day services his parents had always dragged him to. In those days the night air was always heady with berries and cider, and riven with laughter.

Chris seemed to be drinking the church in. He’d not said a word since they crossed the threshold, instead looking up and aside. It was easy to see that he was enamoured with the building. As long as he didn’t fall in love with the religion behind it...

“Just through here,” Lightness Skerrett said, as they reached one of the only closed doors in the place. “My solar.”

David turned to his soldiers as they followed Skerrett in. “Briar, Hoult, the two of you hang about in here,” he said. “Just in case.” The smell of deceit had weakened within the church, replaced by a mellow comfort, but it was better to be careful.

He brought up the rear as they went into Lightness Skerrett’s solar. It was significantly more crowded than the main hall, but significantly more homely too. The window here had glass in it, and a windowsill so deep it doubled up as a handy seat. The farthest wall was taken up by a small, roughly-made bed. A desk with two chairs and a bookshelf filled with huge centuries-old tomes meant there was only a small amount of space remaining for people to stand.

Chris took the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Skerrett, while David and the soldiers spread out around the room. They nodded at him when they got into their positions, and he focused on the conversation.

“Are you a man of faith, Master Ballard?”

“Governor Ballard,” Chris corrected. “And no, I’m afraid not. Though I did spend a bit of time looking over some of the texts—in an academic sense. They’re very interesting.”

Skerrett nodded. “Gods weave extraordinary tales. Tell me, are you familiar with the doctrine of cleanliness? Matilda’s dialogues with Stephen on the burdens of the soul?”

Chris shook his head.

“Then I shall read a fragment from them, if you’ll permit me.” Skerrett turned to David. “Can I trouble your man to pass me Matilda’s fourth book? You’ll find it on the third shelf from the bottom, somewhere on the left-hand side.”

David scanned the bookshelf behind him. Sure enough, just as Skerrett had said, the third shelf from the bottom began with a book bound in red leather, the gold-spun title on the spine reading ‘MATILDA—I’. Next to this were several more books, each bound the same and continuing the sequence, from ‘MATILDA—II’ all the way to ‘MATILDA—XIV’. He never knew these old prophets lived such busy lives. Whoever this Matilda was, she must have spent her whole life writing. He took the fourth book from the shelf and handed it to Skerrett, who opened it at once to a page a third of the way in. The pages were wafer thin, and they had an almost plasticky sound when he threw open the book.

“The whole piece is fascinating, but overlong I fear. But this segment is particularly important, to myself and to the church. ‘Matilda, my dearest friend, you do not know how it feels to have a soul weighted down by the darkness. And to feel this weight with each step. And to feel the burden growing with each day. And to have no respite even in your very home from this burden, which ever more weighs your soul down... but if your house be given to the Darkness, friend Stephen, then know only that it needs to be cleansed. And that the chaste and the good can by their blood avail you. That only Lightness might dwell here. And at the end of days, when the wraiths are boldened, your home shall be your church. And your church shall be the covenant you make with the heavens. And thus shall you live unbroken by hellish things. For now your soul is cleansed.’

“They continue in this fashion for quite some time. Brevity, it seems, was one aspect our beloved Matilda never seemed to grasp.”

Chris was nodding his head sagely, but David narrowed his eyes. “I’m not following.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Matilda herself may have communed with the Gods, but her contemporaries did not. Hence why she wrote the book, I should think.” Skerrett beckoned him to sit. He shook his head and folded his arms. “In ancient Talmaetia, four thousand years ago or more, when a man was convicted of murder, he and his whole family would be sentenced to die. Were he a soldier, the entire legion would be killed. The Talmaetians believed that, like the apple, a man gone bad would spoil all around him. The Talmaetians were wrong. No man needs die for the sins of his father, no woman for her mother’s misdeeds. There are evil things in the mortal world, but that doesn’t make the mortal world evil. There are ways for even the most vile of sinners to achieve salvation.”

“Not easy ways, of course,” David muttered.

A small smile appeared on Skerrett’s face. “When it comes to the Gods, nothing is easy.”

Chris leaned forward. “I was told you wanted to make a request. Make it, before I get bored. I was never a great student of the faiths.”

Lightness Skerrett bristled, clearly unused to being spoken to so frankly in his own solar. He fixed Chris with a dirty look unsuited to such a well-kempt face, and eased his book of Matilda closed with a haughty sigh. His chair scraped against the stone floor as he slid it back and stood, walking to the shelf and returning the book to its proper place. With deliberate step, each considered pace allowed to echo to its full resonance on the hard ground, Skerrett returned to his seat. “Were you perhaps a student of histories instead?”

“I dabbled,” Chris shrugged.

“Well, then you should be familiar with the former laws of humanity’s domains. Do not forget that the Unity has made enemies in their time. Wars were fought against them, against what they represented. Your own ancestors made their name fighting against the Unity, Governor, during the Wars of Veneration. Even within the last few decades, they’ve impressed their hegemony on unwilling subjects by brute force.”

What they represented. David had done his time, been there on Tol Manase. You couldn’t see what happened there and still have any belief left in Unity ideals. It was all pageantry. Whatever the Unity claimed they represented, it was a lie. They were disparate bureaucrats unified by nothing more than the desire to hold onto what power they had. No wonder they’d had to take their hegemony by force. “We’re no friends of the Unity,” David said.

“I hope that means you’ll listen to sense,” said Skerrett. “Once upon a time, according to the teachings laid down by our dear Matilda, we of the faith sanctified our churches, that they might offer protection at the end of days. That was a freedom taken from us by the Unity, and one not returned. They claimed the Veneration Act as a restoration of our powers, but that’s another lie.”

“And you want those powers back?” Chris had sat up straight, and his hands were interlocked at the fingers—a sure sign that his interest had been piqued.

Lightness Skerrett nodded dramatically. “You catch on quickly. This church has not been sanctified. These walls are made of strong stone, but even the strongest stone can be toppled. I hope you’ll not tell my acolytes, but no Gods dwell here yet.”

A kernel of half-remembered history jostled for attention in David’s mind. The church had a violent origin, he seemed to recall. “What does this sanctification entail?”

A flicker of a smile on Skerrett’s lips, there and gone. “A simple ceremony, in truth. A member of the Faithful, truly devoted and truly innocent and—most importantly—a true virgin, will read aloud certain passages before all who are assembled.”

“That’s it?”

“There are some other details. Certain oils must be burned, certain customs observed. Traditionally the Lord of the Land attends, to signal to the Gods that they will be welcomed. That would be you, Governor.”

Chris didn’t seem to be listening. “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

They were interrupted by a sudden crash. One of the chosen soldiers, Rippen, had fallen to the floor, taking half of the books from the nearest shelf with him. The other, Onslow, was at him in a second. David ran to them.

“Is he alright?”

Onslow nodded. “He’ll be fine. It’s the heat, that’s all—he passed out.” She ran a finger across his forehead, and when she pulled it away it was covered in his sweat. Onslow pulled a face.

“Take him outside and get him some water,” David told her. “If need be, Hoult and Briar will help you carry him back to town.”

Onslow did as she was bid, and David set about putting the books back in place. They were immaculate tomes, not a trace of dust or mildew on them, and yet the bindings looked ancient. These were the Songs of the Kings, according to the text engraved in the spine. They felt almost electrified. He could feel his heart fluttering with some palpable excitement as he held them in his hand.

Lightness Skerrett took the books from him. “Your man should be more careful,” he chided. “These are very old manuscripts. Very fragile.” He slid them back into their places on the shelf and turned back to Chris, now sitting alone and twiddling his thumbs. “I thank you for your presence, Governor. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Now, not so fast,” said Chris. “I still need to pass this by the Council. There are certain members who pride themselves on opposing my motions.”

“Mark Bradshaw is a man of strong will,” Skerrett agreed. How did he know who Chris was referring to? “But more than anything he loves his daughters. It will be in their interest for the Cleansing to take place—you need not worry about Mark Bradshaw.”

Chris stood, and David stood too. “Before I leave, Lightness, there’s one more point I want to discuss.”

“But of course.” Skerrett bowed awkwardly—evidently a foreign gesture to him.

“You can head back to town now, Captain Clifford,” said Chris. The sudden formality threw him. The instruction did too. Did Chris not want security? It wasn’t as if the extra few minutes David might save leaving now would help him in anything; he was banking on an evening of rest and reading and very little work.

“Governor?”

“Consider than an instruction, Captain. Go.”

He wasn’t the sort of man who had to be told twice, even when he didn’t understand what was being asked of him. Part of his job was to follow instructions, after all. He nodded and stepped out of the solar. The door was slammed loudly behind him.

Outside, Rippen was being fanned by Onslow and one of the acolytes, while another poured water over him from a ceramic jug. The fruity incense was suddenly overbearing. “Come,” he said, pointing to the church’s door. “Let’s go.”

Onslow started to protest. “But the Governor—”

“We can wait for him outside,” said David. The old mistrust was back. Suddenly he didn’t feel comfortable being here.