by Angus Wells
“I told them,” Var said, “that I would return with you. They’re frightened, Inquisitor.”
“Who’d not be?” Talle murmured, and glanced around the room. “Look at Major Spelt—does he not look frightened? And the governor?” His voice was dry enough it almost hid his contempt. Then the dark carrion eyes turned to Var. “Are you afraid, Major?”
Var felt embarrassed. For all he’d no great liking for Spelt or Wyme, still he saw no reason why Talle should humiliate them so. He licked his lips and said, “I am concerned, Inquisitor. A fellow soldier tried to kill me—for no reason I could discern—and that … Yes, frightens me.”
“Then we’d best do something about it, eh?” Talle rose. “Let us observe this thing.”
Var picked up his ruined coat and settled his tricorne in place. Talle waved Spelt back to his seat. “Stay here, Major; you and the governor. I’ll send for you, do I need you.”
Spelt’s face flushed bright red, but he offered no objection; Wyme looked only grateful. Talle strode thin-shanked from the study, shouting for a servant to bring his coat and hat. Var followed him. Like a faithful hound? he wondered. Like the Inquisitor’s right hand?
What else could he do? Evander, the Autarchy, vested command in Talle and gave Var orders to obey. And was he not a faithful soldier of the Autarchy? Save … He pushed the doubts aside. Time enough later to consider them; for now it was imperative that he know what agency had possessed Corporal Gerry to attempt his murder, and Talle was likely the only man in Grostheim could begin to uncover that mystery. So he matched his stride to the Inquisitor’s as they trod the empty streets back to the square, and the church where Gerry lay.
The body still dangled from the gibbet; Var was vaguely surprised. Almost, he’d anticipated the corpse flinging free of the gallows and come dancing out to meet them, but there was only a waiting crowd, summoned by the commotion and wondering if some new demonic attack came against Grostheim. The square was noisy until Talle appeared, and then abruptly silent as the Inquisitor came through the crowd.
He heard Talle chuckle and realized the Inquisitor had caught his look toward the scaffold, his nervousness, as the man said, “That one shall do no more harm. His neck’s well broken, and he’s hexed besides.”
“Could he,” Var heard himself asking, “do otherwise?”
“Oh yes.” Talle chuckled as if it were an enormous joke. “Were his neck not properly broken, was he not well hexed … Why, Major, he might well jump down from the gallows to bid you the day’s greeting and take you with him to hell.”
Var looked back at the corpse and felt his skin go colder than the night allowed. “I didn’t know,” he said. “Not that …”
“I honor you.” Talle parodied a courtly bow. “Few are granted such knowledge. But I trust you, Major Var; and so I allow you insights to the arcane I’d not grant another man.”
“And Corporal Gerry?” Var asked.
“We shall see,” Talle said, and hammered a fist against the door of the church as he shouted, “The Inquisitor Talle demands entry.”
“How do I know?” asked a nervous voice from the other side.
Var could not help grinning as he motioned Talle aside and called through the big door, “This is Major Tomas Var, do you recognize my voice?”
“Major? That’s you?”
“Yes,” Var shouted. “Open the door.”
The metal-bound panels swung inward and three cocked muskets faced them. Before Talle could complain, Var said, “Well done, lads. You guard this place well.” The Inquisitor only pushed past them, ignoring the bayonets and the threat of the musket balls.
“Where’s the body?”
“On the altar,” the oldest redcoat said. “Where the major told us to put it.”
Talle chuckled and swung around in a swirl of black coattails. Like a crow dancing, Var thought.
“And what did you see? Out there in the square, where your corporal went mad.”
The redcoats hesitated, looking nervously from the Inquisitor to Var. Talle’s eyes narrowed irritably and Var motioned that the soldiers speak. The elder said, “Nothing, Inquisitor. We were all around the other side of the gallows.”
“And did not go to look when you heard your corporal speaking with the major?”
Var caught the soldier’s eye and nodded encouragingly, so that the man said, “No, Inquisitor. Officers’ talk’s not for us. We just did our duty.”
“And when you heard your corporal’s musket discharge?” Talle asked. “What then?”
The redcoat looked at Var. Talle barked, “Look at me!”
“We came a-running, Inquisitor. I saw Corporal Gerry trying to stick the major and I couldn’t hardly believe it, but then the major shot him, and we all put our bayonets into him like the major ordered and he died. And then we brought him here like the major ordered, and …”
“Enough.” Talle smiled and waved a dismissive hand. The three redcoats looked confused and relieved.
Var said, “Go. And keep your mouths shut about this.”
From along the aisle, Talle added, “Else I’ll hex you. I’ll deliver you to silence forever, and pox besides.”
The redcoats hurried from the church, dispelled on the echoes of Talle’s laughter.
Var frowned, thinking to say something in argument of such bullying, but got no chance as Talle beckoned him along, down the aisle to where the body lay.
“They like you, Tomas; you are popular with them.”
“Inquisitor?”
Talle chuckled, a dry whisper of only his own humor. “You’re one of them, no?”
Var said, “I don’t understand.”
Talle said again, “They like you. They trust you, as they cannot trust me. They’d follow you, I think.”
Var said, “They? Do you mean Salvation’s soldiers? They’d follow me on order—under your command.”
“And the settlers?” Talle spun his mad dance again, coattails raised and black-clad legs prancing their thin-shanked rhythm. “Would they?”
Var frowned, confused. “I think I’m no better liked than you,” he said, “by the settlers.”
“Are you not?” Talle ceased his capering dance; straightened his coattails. “Then good; and let’s look at this body, eh?”
Var ducked his head and followed the Inquisitor to the altar.
He had no idea what signs Talle looked for, no idea what signs there might be to indicate possession, nor any great desire to see the dead man’s face again, but he did his duty and stood close as the Inquisitor set to his examination. To him, Gerry seemed no different to a great many other corpses. Blood had drained from the face, leaving it—he stifled an almost hysterical chuckle at the unintended pun—deathly pale; the eyes were opened wide and staring sightlessly at the shadowy roof of the church; the mouth was open in the rictal snarl that had been the man’s last expression. And if Talle saw aught else there, he made no comment, only said, “Help me undress him.”
Var hesitated; the Inquisitor snapped imperious fingers, and with great reluctance Var set to removing the dead man’s greatcoat and the uniform beneath.
When the body lay naked on the altar—that colored now with the gore that oozed sluggishly from the bayonet wounds—Talle leant close, examining every inch of skin. Then he had Var turn the corpse over so that he might repeat his minute search, even to the study of the dead man’s ears and hair and private parts, the soles of his feet and between his toes. Var watched, disgusted and intrigued in equal measure.
“Fascinating.” Talle stepped back, absently wiping his hands down the frontage of his black coat. “There’s not a hex sign on him.”
“Did you …” Var felt his voice failing him, cleared his throat and spoke again in firmer tones. “Did you anticipate hex signs, Inquisitor?”
Talle shrugged, which seemed to Var neither confirmation or negation. “Do you suppose he attacked you from choice, Major?”
“No.” Var shook his head. “It was as
I told you—we spoke equably enough until …” He shrugged in turn. “It was as if another spoke out of Gerry’s mouth.”
“Yes,” Talle said, and suddenly smiled, which seemed to Var most odd. “Listen, and you shall learn more of my … art.” He glanced at the corpse and then again at Var. “I might control a man—force him to attempt your murder, speak through him—but only with the use of the hexes. I’d need to hold him awhile, long enough I could put the marks on his body, and then he’d be mine. But the hex signs would remain after death. Do you understand?”
Var swallowed even as he nodded. “I think so, Inquisitor. Were Gerry hexed, then you’d have found the signs.”
“Quite.” Talle folded his hands as if about to pray, but instead tapped stained fingernails against his pursed lips, his dark eyes moving from Var back to the corpse. “And there are no marks on this. Yet, he was—clearly!—possessed. You say he spoke of owning Salvation?”
“Yes.” Var licked his lips, reliving those horrifying moments. “He spoke of the land as ‘ours’; he said, ‘We shall destroy you.’ ”
“Which would seem to be,” Talle declared in a thoughtful tone, “much what was said to … what was his name? That drunkard who first met the enemy and survived?”
“Corm,” Var supplied. “Captain Danyael Corm.”
“Yes, him.” Talle nodded. Then was abruptly brisk again. “Do we find him, Major? This Captain Corm?”
“Now?” Var asked, confused by the Inquisitor’s dramatic mood changes.
Talle said, “Now,” and began to walk away.
“What of …” Var indicated the corpse with a sidelong shifting of his head.
“That?” Talle’s voice was disinterested. “Have it burned.”
“Inquisitor!” Var came down the aisle before Talle reached the door. “Whatever has transpired this night, the man was still a soldier in the God’s Militia. Surely he deserves honest burial?”
Talle halted just inside the door. The smile came back to his face as he turned to Var. “Such niceties, Major; such delicacy. Burn it!”
Var swallowed his objections and nodded, following Talle out into the night. The crowd remained, curious in the square, held back from church and gallows by Militiamen. Lieutenant Minns saluted as the two emerged.
“Major Var; Inquisitor Talle—I am officer of the watch tonight. Do you have orders for me?”
Talle ignored him. Var said, “There’s a body on the altar, Lieutenant. Corporal Gerry. See that he’s burned immediately.”
Minns’s eyes expressed concern. “Burned, sir?”
“Yes.” Var heard his voice come out harsh. “Burned.”
Over his shoulder, Talle said, “And then bury what’s left in quicklime, outside the walls. Tonight!”
Var said, softer, “Do it, Lieutenant, eh?” And then: “Had he any family? A woman?”
Minns nodded. “A common-law wife, sir; no children.”
“Tell her she’ll receive his pension,” Var said. “And tell me where Captain Corm quarters.”
Minns looked bewildered, but he gave directions and Var went to join the Inquisitor. Talle was staring at the crowd, which stared back in such silence as throbbed with hostility.
“They’ve little liking for me, eh?” The notion appeared to amuse him.
Var said cautiously, “I think they cannot understand what you do. Nor do they like me better.”
“I’m God’s hound.” Talle chuckled and Var thought of a cold wind rattling withered branches. “And you’re mine, did you know? That’s what they name you—the Inquisitor’s dog.”
“I didn’t,” Var said, and thought of his conversation with Abram Jaymes. He added stiffly, “I do my duty.”
“Indeed.” Talle nodded affably. “So now have that young lieutenant clear the square and take me to Corm.”
Var gave the orders and led the black-clad man away. Redcoats cleared a path for them, though it was unnecessary—folk stepped automatically out of Talle’s way—and all the time Var heard the words echoing inside his head: the Inquisitor’s dog. He liked that appellation not at all.
Captain Danyael Corm was quartered, like most of Grostheim’s officers, outside the barracks. That latter accommodation was left to common soldiers, who could not afford better. Corm was a captain and had some small private income, which allowed him to rent rooms at an inn. The indentured man who served him was a perquisite of his rank.
The inn was called the Sailing Ship, located toward Grostheim’s eastern wall, where mostly sailors and fishermen lodged. Corm occupied three rooms—one not much larger than a cupboard, where his servant slept—with a dismal view of blank timber walls and a filthy alley. The servant, whose name was Jon, was drinking in the common room.
“Sieur Corm gave me the money,” he said, staring in open terror at Talle. “By God, I swear he did! A whole crown he gave me, and told me to spend it as I would. He said he’d not need me this night.”
The Sailing Ship had fallen very quiet when Talle and Var entered, and Jon’s voice rang out loud and frightened. His hand shook on the tankard he held, ale trembling over the rim to wet his hand unnoticed. The branded men who drank with him seemed to Var intent on melding themselves with the wooden walls, like those lizards he’d seen in Tarrabon that could assume the color of their surroundings and thus become invisible to predators. He smiled at the man—and was ignored, because Jon’s gaze was fixed entirely on the Inquisitor. Talle only grinned and shook his head.
“You’ve naught to fear from me … Jon, is it?”
Jon nodded. Var felt embarrassed; it seemed to him that the man’s undisguised panic was directed as much at him as at Talle. He said, “Where is Captain Corm?”
And was silenced by a wave of Talle’s hand.
“First,” Talle said, “tell me about your master’s dreams.”
“His dreams?” Jon’s voice quavered between octaves. “Sieur Corm doesn’t tell me about his dreams.”
“But you know whether he dreams or not, eh?” Talle said. He put his dirty hands on the table, leaning closer to Jon’s face. “Surely you hear him?”
Jon nodded. Var thought he might weep.
“And?” Talle prompted.
The branded man looked at the Inquisitor’s eyes like a mouse transfixed by a falcon’s gaze.
“He screams in the night, Inquisitor. Sometimes …” Jon spoke softer, ashamed for his master. “Sometimes, he wets the bed.”
“And lately?” Talle asked in a tone that was so natural as to be quite unnormal.
“Lately?” Jon’s whole head trembled, but his eyes did not leave Talle’s. Could not, Var thought. “Lately he’s cried out in a strange voice that I don’t recognize.”
Talle nodded and smiled and said, “Thank you; is he here now?”
Jon nodded.
“Direct us to him,” Talle said; and when the terrified servant had done that, again: “Thank you.”
Var followed him up the stairs, aware of the silence they left behind.
Corm’s rooms were on the topmost level of the three-story building, close under the roof, so that he lived in solitary squalor, what other rooms were there given over to storage. The stairs creaked as Talle and Var ascended, and the boards of the attic chambers not much less. Dust gathered gray in cracks and corners, and spiderwebs decorated the beams above. It was dark up there, and musty, but through the odor of dereliction Var caught another scent that was to him familiar.
He said, “Powder smoke.”
Talle said, “What?”
“I smell powder smoke,” Var explained. He sniffed the air. “Not much, but it’s here—as if a pistol’s been discharged.”
“Perhaps,” Talle glanced around, “Corm has been hunting rats.”
Var shrugged and set a hand to his own pistol, now reloaded. Talle pointed at a bar of faint light shining from under a door. “That must be his.” He hammered on the wood. There was no response and he flicked the latch, stepping inside.
The
room was dismally bright, the lantern suspended from the low ceiling wicked high and augmented by more that hung from nails hammered into walls and beams so that all the dust and ragged carpets, the cheap furniture, were illuminated. Jon was a poor servant, Var thought, or Corm a careless master. Shutters in dire need of paint were bolted closed over the window, the bolt wound round with string that held faded hawthorn flowers. The smell of powder smoke was stronger; Var drew his pistol.
Talle chuckled and said, “Too late for that, I think; nor any use.” And louder: “Corm?”
There was no answer.
Two doors opened off the room, one standing ajar to reveal the narrow bed where obviously Jon slept. The other was closed: they went to it and Talle shoved it wide without further ado.
Var gasped. This was Corm’s bedroom, and it was lit even brighter than the chamber beyond. Lanterns hung from the ceiling and candles stood on chairs and trunks, shelves, the floor. Wax pooled on unpolished boards and flames trailed upward, threatening to set the Sailing Ship ablaze. The single window was shuttered and bolted like the other, and also hung with hawthorn. Var noticed that the door latch was similarly draped, and that the smell of powder smoke was stronger.
It came from the wide bed, where Captain Danyael Corm, freshly shaved and dressed in full uniform, lay with a pistol in his still right hand. The heated muzzle had scorched the sheets. The discharge had exploded most of Corm’s skull so that the dirty wall and the pillows behind his head were obscenely decorated with red, and sticky patches of grayish white that Var recognized as brain matter.
Talle said, “So, a suicide,” and clicked his tongue against his teeth briskly. “And one who hangs his portals with hawthorn. Do you know what that means, Major?”
Var said, “Witchcraft?” surprised his voice came out so steady.
“That’s the old belief,” Talle replied. “That hawthorn protects against evil spirits. What do you think?”
He seemed to Var less appalled than intrigued. Var said, “I don’t know, Inquisitor.”
Talle chuckled. Var wondered if the candle flames truly shifted, or if that was only his imagination. Through the powder stink he could now smell Corm’s blood. He stared at Talle.