He was right, which didn’t make it any easier to hear. We were still half numb and too slow to avoid the Inquisitors as they grabbed us, one each. Dench snatched Lise’s syringe out of my hand.
“I’ll take that, thanks.”
And without magic, without enough juice to zap a rat, that was all it took. Two beefy Inquisitors and a syringe. Made me feel pretty pathetic. Dench took a savage pleasure in shoving the needle into my neck, and I could feel enough for it to hurt in a vague, dreamy kind of way which seemed to disappoint him before he did the same to Pasha.
“That should be enough to keep you where I want you, for long enough.” Dench jerked his head at the Inquisitors and they shoved us through the door. “And you’re going to do what I want, Rojan. Just what I want, because if you don’t, poor Lise’s recovery could very well become a relapse.”
Odd, how regretful he sounded, but that wasn’t what filled my mind.
Fire spread out from the needle mark in my neck, ran through me in heartbeats, made that heart speed like a Rapture addict sprinting for his life from Namrat come to take him. What had Lise done to Whelar’s concoction? I didn’t care, because it wasn’t numbness that Dench had injected us with, wasn’t dead legs that made me stagger. It was feeling, not just feeling but feeling. Every nerve ending blazed with it, my fingertips fizzed with life, my skin felt like it was on fire. Sadly, every little ache also became magnified, so that I had to bite down on a scream when my bad hand brushed my leg.
But the best, and the worst, was the juice. I didn’t just have some, I was overflowing with it. It should have dripped down my cheeks, out of my nose. I was surprised when I blinked and lightning didn’t shoot down the corridor and blast the crap out of a fresco of some happy horseshit that involved things looking sparkly and nice.
With the juice, came the black. And, oh, it was loud now. It had power. It knew me better than I know myself, and it used it. Dip in, Rojan. Just a bit. You could have more magic than you ever thought possible. Forget blowing up temples, you could blow up the whole of Ministry. Take the whole fucking lot down, once and for all. You and me, Rojan, we could fire Top of the World, let the light Under. We could scare the crap out of the Storad and Mishans, enough to make sure we had no war. We could make it so it was kittens and sunbeams for everyone. Come on, come in, just a while, just a moment. Be everything, be everyone, leave all your fears at the door. Come in, you know you want to.
I staggered again, barely able to hold myself up. Dench smiled at that and must have thought I was numb as fuck, and I almost wished I was. Pasha glanced my way from the grip of an Inquisitor and I could see it in his eyes, too. He didn’t need to say a damned word, not out loud or in my head. Say nothing, do nothing. Yet.
I tried to still the black, tried to shut up the small voice in me that said Yes, yes, let’s blow it all the fuck up, right now, and start again, properly this time. The black is all your hopes come true and all your fears soothed away, and that is very, very tempting and I wanted it. When I shut my eyes I could see the spires of Top of the World in rubble, could see the vast estates of Clouds melt away and sunlight, real, first-hand sunlight, lay a cleansing hand on Under, scour it of corruption and take the Shitty out of No-Hope.
I was on the verge of doing it and to fuck with the consequences when Pasha fell into me, accidentally-on-purpose almost certainly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to distract me from temptation. Just as well, really.
The Inquisitors shoved us down a short corridor that ended in a mean little door. Dench didn’t send us through, not yet.
“We have to ally with the Storad. There’s nothing else for it. They’re at our gates with machines Dwarf would have been proud of, and we’re screwed. I’m sorry, Rojan, I really am, but I’m doing what I can for Mahala, for the Goddess. And to do that, to pacify the Storad, keep them sweet with the ministers, I need someone else to take the blame for the murders—what I wanted you to do in the first place, find a scapegoat. Nice bit of providence, Guinto coming to confess like that. The Goddess provides, eh? I know you’re a contrary bastard, so don’t forget that Lise is under my protection. And Pasha should remember that I’ll have Jake in my hands within the hour. Goddess’s tits, she left a bloody trail, but it won’t be long. Not long. So you two play like good little boys, confirm Guinto’s guilt and you won’t end the day in the Slump. It’s the best I could do for you both. It’ll be easy. Just testify that a priest is a bad man and you save the city. It’s a lie—but a lie that will help people live, and most certainly help the people you love to live.”
And then he shoved us through the door into my idea of hell.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Inquisition, the real part of it where they judged you guilty or innocent, was even worse than I imagined. This was the true Top of the World, a circular platform right at the top of the palace. It was ringed, for the most part, by pillars made of some weird stone that seemed to glow in the moonlight, and with ministers, cardinals, priests and good men come to see what Dench had for them. There was no light but that of the moon, and all I could see of them were dark, swishing robes and glittering eyes.
We stumbled forwards ahead of the Inquisitors and the juice made lights run in front of my eyes and laughter run through my brain.
Guinto was already there, standing in the centre of the circle in his white robes like a sacrificial lamb. Strange, how peaceful he seemed, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze steady, as though he was only going to deliver another sermon. I, on the other hand, was trying not to scream like a girl at the thought of what was on the far side of the circle. Namely a gap that made the wind whistle through it like ghosts, and beyond that a very long drop into the Slump. My nerves were not helped by the fact that what I could see past the edge from here was nothing but dark sky, hard stars and the secret light of the moon.
We were prodded to the centre of the circle next to Guinto and I thought I could make out a few very dim, very distant lights down there. I started to wish I had someone I could pray to, then told myself not to be so fucking stupid.
It seemed we’d missed Guinto’s confession. A murmur ran around the circle as ministers tutted, cardinals censured. Dench strode to the centre in front of Guinto and I’d never realised how tall he was, how imposing. He towered over the priest, and his faint shadow with its helmet towered further, and it seemed to me it was no accident that shadow looked like Namrat creeping the walls.
At a nod from Dench, Cardinal Manoto scurried forwards at a wobble. I’d been sure for a while that it was Manoto behind everything. Then sure he’d somehow lured Dench, chief of the unbribable, unturnable Specials to his cause by way of some Goddess-invoked duty, before Dench had made me think again. But with that nod and scurry, I had my final proof I’d been wrong. I knew who was dealing with the Storad, who had Fat Boy in his pocket rather than the other way around. And who, as head of the Specials and therefore head of the Inquisition, was safe enough to order the Inquisitors out, who knew he would never be called on to justify himself here in this circle. Who could rig the entrail reading because it was him that did that reading. The goat stood at the side of the circle now, chained to a pillar, chewing with equanimity and staring at me with liquid eyes. I dare say it looked a damn sight calmer than I did.
Manoto turned to face the crowd and, after a sideways glance that begged permission from Dench and an inclination of the head that gave it, launched into his speech.
“Your Graces, Excellencies and most Revered colleagues, we have heard from Father Guinto of his sins, that he has readily confessed, may it bring him swift mercy from the Goddess. Now I ask you to witness the Inquisition of heretics, and worse, of pain-mages who would bring about the downfall of Mahala, of the Ministry. Of everything we know. Men who have tried once before to destroy us, by destroying both the Glow and the previous Archdeacon.”
All eyes turned on me and Pasha. I stood as straight as I could, given the circumstances, and tried not to think how m
uch of the whole fucking Ministry I could take out with one well-aimed blast of magic. Right then, with all those eyes on us, greedy, bored, malevolent eyes, with only one or two showing any hint of mercy, I’d have shot the whole fucking palace sky-high. Everyone Under, well they’d be screwed, but probably no more than they were already and they’d not have that yoke on them, tying them to what they thought they knew. No Ministry stealing their sun, the food from their mouths, the joy from their souls.
I snuck a look at Pasha. Like the goat, he seemed a damn sight calmer than I was, though that wasn’t hard. Where I’d been flicking my gaze over everyone, trying to find a friendly face—Perak, surely Perak would be here if Dench was right and he was still alive—Pasha’s look was fixed on a woman at the back of the ring. She couldn’t hold his dark, angry gaze for long and turned away, her mouth curved down as though she was ashamed.
“Inquisitor?” Manoto inclined his head and Dench stepped forward. Under the rim of his helm, his moustache bristled and twisted with his lips—not quite a smile, or if it was it was full of regret. Which was nice enough, but not as nice as stopping this fucking charade. The thought of the big drop only feet away from me was making me very nervous indeed and I didn’t have a clue what to do, or even if there was anything I could do other than make things go boom, which, while incredibly tempting, wasn’t going to do anything to help. I had at least to try to be rational. I had no friend in Dench, no brother around to help me. All I had was my wits. Which meant we were probably dead.
“This,” Dench said, landing a hand on my shoulder. “This is Archdeacon Azama’s son and murderer. This is Rojan Dizon, destroyer of the Glow, opponent of the Ministry, spreader of false rumours, a pain-mage and a disbeliever.”
Funny, really. Barely a murmur at the murderer part—I was pretty sure my father had had an enemy or ten, or at least a lot of people who no longer wanted to be reminded they had been his supporters while he was alive. Destroyer of the Glow brought a disgruntled shuffle and a few voices. Disbeliever, though—it was like Dench had dropped in the fact he was the Goddess, or maybe had accused them all of goat buggery or something, because the ring of the good and great seemed to explode.
A pair of hands grabbed me from behind and tried to drag me to the open space on the far side of the ring. Only shoving my weight back and all but falling on whoever it was stopped my forward slide to oblivion, but that wasn’t much better because I was surrounded by a sea of angry faces, not shouting, nothing so crass, but so quietly intent that I pretty near pissed myself. That long drop was mine, one way or another, I knew it in my bones. I also knew that, if I fell, I’d be too piss-scared and short of time to do anything about it, like rearrange myself somewhere else.
Dench managed to get some order, eventually, and I was still in one piece but mutinous murmurs ran round the crowd like rats in pipes. It wouldn’t take much to set them off again—if there’s one thing the Ministry really doesn’t like it’s someone who refuses to believe their claptrap.
But Dench didn’t create order for my benefit. He hadn’t finished. His hand landed on Pasha’s shoulder and yet still Pasha didn’t move, didn’t tear his gaze away from the back of the crowd.
“This is Pasha, pain-mage, adherent of the Downside Goddess, maker of the blood and ash devotional, and heretic.” The woman that Pasha was staring at looked sick at that. Both hands flew to her mouth like startled birds and trembled there. “Both these men have used their magic to start up a pain factory, against everything the Goddess stands for, a crime of high treason against the Ministry, the people of Mahala and the Goddess.”
At Dench’s signal, Manoto stepped forward again. He stood in front of the pair of us, wobbling with anticipation, or fear perhaps. He kept darting little glances to Dench and back again.
“The evidence we have against you is quite damning. If you confess, your deaths will be quick. A mercy from the Goddess. If you deny the charges and are found guilty, then there is no mercy.”
“What if we’re found innocent?” I asked.
“Is that likely? Beside the point. Once brought to the Inquisitorial Circle, no one has ever been found innocent. Pasha, how do you plead?”
Pasha didn’t seem to have heard him, never looked his way but just kept on staring at the woman. But something must have got through, because he said, “I deny nothing. I can’t deny what and who I am, not any more. I am a Downside man, I worship according to our ways, and I am a pain-mage. I am not ashamed of that, or of anything I’ve done. Not any more.” He broke his stare at last to look to Guinto. “Sorry, Father.”
“Rojan? Maybe if you can corroborate what Guinto has told us, the Inquisition will look more kindly upon you.”
I’m a lot of things, as perhaps you’ve guessed about me by now. Liar, philanderer, cynic, bastard. I’m pretty proud of that list, too. When I went to sleep at night, at least I could tell myself I wasn’t a fucking sheep, bleating out what I was told to believe, doing what Ministry said was the good and right thing. I can work that out for myself, mostly, though I’ve been known to fuck it up on occasion. But this—this was hard. I could do what I’ve always dreamed of, really stick it to a priest, good and proper, tell everyone that, yes, it was Guinto who had goaded Abeya into murder, yes, I was an unbeliever, a pain-mage and, fucking right, I was using pain to make Glow.
Or I could look at Dench, my friend, a good and true man who believed and who did what he did for that belief, I could look him right in the eye and drop him so far in the shit, he’d hit bedrock.
Either way, Mahala was in trouble—if Guinto went over that drop, Under would burn. No doubt about it. He was who they looked to now, the face of the Ministry they relied on, the ear that listened when Top of the World was deaf. I looked him over and he spared me a glance—no disgust there, not now. Just a serene knowledge he was doing the right thing, and maybe that he thought I would, too.
If I fingered Dench and his pet cardinal, if I scuppered their plans with the Storad, it’d be worse. It was a good plan, and would save us, though we’d be beholden to the bastards and the part of me that belongs to this city, to the ancient legacy of being a sneaky bastard who takes shit from no one, balked at that. But people would live, Under would have food again. No one would starve. He was a good man who’d done a bad thing for a good reason. A better man than I’ll ever be.
Sometimes I feel that my life is blighted by the tyranny of good men.
Whatever I did, people were going to die. I was going to be responsible for a whole lot of shit. Again. So I did the only thing I could do.
I lied.
Chapter Twenty-seven
If I’ve learnt anything, it’s this: Rojan, keep your stupid fucking mouth shut. I may even make it a new rule number one.
Because when I dropped that lie into the cold space at Top of the World, I once again managed to screw the city, and everyone in it. Go me. All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d rather see possible war than an innocent man Inquisitioned, even if he is a priest.
“Dench killed those boys. With his own hands. He’s working for the Storad.” It felt like a betrayal, until I remembered that Downside family taken by the Inquisition, and all the others like them. Remembered that Dench could have stopped that. Then it felt pretty good.
All hell broke loose. Fat Cardinal wobbled so hard I thought he might actually fall over. Pasha stared at me like I’d gone completely mad. Everyone else just went crazy.
“You fucker.”
A smack across the chops from an Inquisitor’s gauntlet isn’t pleasant at the best of times but with Lise’s concoction blasting through me like a furnace it felt like the top of my head had come off. I landed flat on my back with a scream, sliding inexorably towards the gap, and the drop. Dench’s lip curled in contempt, but I thought I read something else there, too.
I scrabbled at the smooth stone, trying to grab something, anything, to stop my slide but there was nothing. Even if there had been, Dench str
ode towards me and it seemed no one was able, or wanted, to stop him. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of angry men, but no one wanted to get in his way. That Inquisitor’s uniform was really doing its work.
I started to slow and began to hope I’d stop in time, but a kick from Dench set me going again. It was slicker than soap, that stone, and my fear of the drop stymied any thought of using my magic with anything approaching delicacy.
“Can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” Dench growled. “Couldn’t just stay Under, out of trouble, out of my fucking plans. Couldn’t do as you were told for once in your life. I was going to save the city. I still am, once I’m done with you—I am the Inquisitor and I don’t need any entrails to know you’re a fucking unbeliever. I’m going to drop you in the Slump. Do you think they’ll care?”
Another kick, and my legs dropped over the edge. I could have sworn I felt every inch of the drop below me and that paralysed my brain as surely as any concoction of Whelar’s.
Behind Dench, Inquisitors flooded the circle and all of a sudden everyone stopped shouting. Obedience is ingrained into us somehow and, faced with those uniforms, everyone’s subconscious took over and shut them up. One or two tried, to my surprise, tried to protest, tried to fight back against the inevitable. They ended up crumpled heaps on the floor.
Which wasn’t much help to me. The weight of my legs dragged me further over, and the wind caught at the hem of my coat, whipped it round and snapped it out like a banner. I was torn between pissing myself and throwing up, neither of which was a helpful response, true, but the only responses I’m capable of when dangling half a mile above what would soon be my final resting place. I hoped the rats choked on me, and that was the only rational thought I was capable of because the rest of my brain had shorted out in terror.
Rojan Dizon 02 - Before the Fall Page 25