“We’re close now,” Clera said. “There will be guards up ahead. They know me. You two they’ll put chains on.”
Nona frowned. She felt a little better, but hardly fighting fit. Pain and sickness had been replaced by tiredness, hunger, and a fierce thirst. Her ribs still troubled her but were perhaps only bruised rather than broken. Her nose stung where Lano Tacsis had cut her. That particular sting made her angry though and anger chased tiredness into the background. “How many? I don’t want to kill them unless I have to.”
What? Keot had held silent ever since the aftermath of Nona’s Path-walking but now he spoke up. Kill them! They’re the enemy!
“Normally four on duty with twenty more close at hand. They’re quality too, veterans. Sherzal doesn’t trust the Noi-Guin any more than she has to. There are sigils on the walls that they say can be used to collapse them if there’s an attack.”
“So we make our entry unseen,” Kettle said.
“Because with all the Noi-Guin in the whole world connected to her palace’s basements Sherzal won’t have defences against stealthy intrusion?” Clera rolled her eyes. “It can’t be done. I just brought you here to prove it.”
Kettle and Nona exchanged glances, their faces shadowed, just the edges caught in the glow of Clera’s lantern. They shared a nod. Even without a thread-bond Nona knew they both would have understood.
“We’ll just have to kill them all,” Nona said.
Yes! Keot flushed across her chest, rising along both collarbones. Yes!
Clera snorted. “You’d be lucky to take one down before they got you, Nona. And Kettle will be lucky to reach them at all.”
“Did the Noi-Guin not teach you all that shade-work can do, Clera?” Kettle closed a pale hand into a black fist, night running liquid from her fingers. “I may be wounded but my shadow can still rend.”
Clera shrugged. “Pray too, if you like. You’ll still both be dead before the reinforcements get there.”
Nona knew it to be true, and knew that Kettle shared the understanding. It didn’t matter. With the abbess and the shipheart both in reach, no sister, Grey or Red, would abandon them. The nun took Clera’s advice and bent her head to pray.
Nona resisted the urge to join Kettle’s devotions, instead looking around the bare tunnel for inspiration. “What we really need,” she said, “is a diversion.”
Whatever Clera had to say about that Nona never had the chance to find out. The echoing thunder that reached down the tunnel from the palace above took the words from both their mouths.
41
ABBESS GLASS
“YOU PROPOSE TO torture a confession from me? In my own house?” Sherzal’s neck burned red above the white froth of her collar. She looked furious rather than scared.
“There are serious charges against you, Sherzal.” Sister Agika aimed her dark-eyed regard at the woman, slowly warming to her new role. “Your employee stole an object of incalculable value, exploiting a position that she was only able to obtain at your insistence. Your implicit guarantee of her good conduct demands that you answer our questions. The same investigation would be carried out in any other case.”
“You had best vote upon it then. I have pressing matters to attend to.” Sherzal waved Agika on as if impatient. “A great many more guests are expected . . .”
“You’ve nothing to offer in your defence?” Agika raised a brow.
“No, and I don’t plead guilty either.” Sherzal leaned across her rail to look past the judges at Glass. “Nor special dispensation!”
Sherzal looked entirely too self-composed for Glass’s liking, though she suspected that the woman’s self-confidence was, like the colour of her eyes, a thing that could not be dimmed. Glass thought that Sherzal would wear that same look of utter confidence were she to topple from a cliff. She’d be staring down the rocks even as they rushed up to greet her.
“We will consider our verdict then.” Sister Agika pushed back her chair. “This court can find you guilty, innocent, or require that you be put to questioning.”
To either side of Agika Brothers Seldom and Dimeon rotated their chairs so that all three faced each other. They leaned in close, heads almost touching. Agika began to address her two fellow judges, leading to a swift exchange of heated whispers. Glass had some sympathy: she had put them in a difficult position. Either follow their obvious duty and risk the ire of the empire’s most powerful woman within her own walls, or ignore their duty and deal the Inquisition a crushing blow before the assembled leaders of the Sis whilst simultaneously losing the chance to recover one of the Church’s most treasured possessions. Even arguing over their decision was a loss of face and authority. Dimeon would most likely opt for “innocent” whatever evidence was presented to him but thankfully a majority was all that was required, and there was no way that Agika and Seldom would not require further investigation.
Glass watched and listened, catching only the occasional word but getting a good sense of the direction of the discussion. As expected, Agika and Seldom were incredulous at Dimeon’s refusal to agree to subjecting Sherzal to questioning and both sounded as if they were getting exasperated by their failure to persuade him otherwise.
Then something unexpected. Pauses from Seldom. Interjections where he seemed angry at Agika. And from her, disbelief.
A cold crawling sensation advanced up Glass’s spine. Could Seldom somehow have been bought off? He’d always seemed the perfect inquisitor. No family to pressure, an ascetic’s disdain for money . . . She’d staked her life and more on the man’s integrity. How could he—
Glass looked away from the huddle of judges and scanned the audience. She found Joeli swiftly, the girl’s golden hair unmatched among the crowd save in one place. Lines of concentration crossed her usually flawless brow, and her fingers, raised before her chest, twitched.
Glass couldn’t see the threads haloed around Seldom nor appreciate the skill with which Joeli was changing the man’s mind, but she knew what was happening.
“. . . we should vote!” Seldom, his voice strained but decisive.
“We should!” Dimeon, almost crowing with victory.
Glass’s jaw tightened, the cold shock of defeat washed through her. She would die here, after-dinner entertainment for these over-fed lords.
“. . . but . . . wait . . . I’m confused . . .” Seldom lifted both hands to massage his temples.
At the far end of the guest benches Arabella Jotsis had raised her hands, plucking the air before her, face screwed tight with focused effort. The abbess knew from Sister Pan’s reports that Ara’s thread-working potential was smaller than Joeli’s and her skills far less developed. However, undoing thread-work takes less talent than the original manipulation. The human mind resists tampering and is always trying to return to its natural state.
Among the glittering crowd, Joeli sensed the interference and redoubled her efforts, her jaw taking on a determined set, face darkening. Brother Seldom, caught in the storm, allowed himself to be turned first by Dimeon’s arguments, then by Agika’s, then by Dimeon’s. Slowly though he seemed to be falling back beneath Joeli’s influence.
“. . . emperor’s sister! We just can’t . . .”
A loud thump and squeal of outrage snapped Glass’s attention back to the guest benches. Joeli lay sprawled in saffron skirts and cream lace, too stunned even to draw breath for a proper scream. The spot on the bench where her bottom had so recently resided lay empty and gleaming. Darla was just straightening up after using her height to lean in from the back, crowding past several outraged matrons, and then to deliver a hefty shove between Joeli’s shoulderblades.
“General Rathon, control your daughter!” This from Joen Namsis, rising from the lords’ benches.
By the time Darla had been scolded and two palace guards had escorted her from the hall, while Joeli was restored to her seat by several fussing daughters of the Sis, the judging panel had reached their verdict. Sherzal regarded them with a face like thunder
.
Agika straightened in her seat. Brothers Dimeon and Seldom pulled back.
“By a majority decision we find good cause for Sherzal Lansis to be put to moderate questioning by an officer of the Inquisition.”
Brother Pelter blinked at that, as if unable to comprehend the scale of the change of direction so recently delivered upon him. He would get to use the skills and tools of his trade, just not against the person he had believed would be given into his care.
Sherzal leaned back from the rail, her anger replaced by a speculative look. Glass imagined that she was weighing up her options. She must have realized by now that all she had to do was hold out until her guests had departed—something that she could make happen quite swiftly. Then, with her lordly audience back on the westward roads, she could take matters into her own hands. Later a suitable story could be spun, one of innocence declared followed by a tragic accident involving returning judges. Quite possibly Brothers Dimeon and Pelter might survive such an accident and corroborate Sherzal’s version of events . . .
“I have a second document.” Glass raised both her voice and her right elbow, gesturing to her side with her head. “That will save the honourable Sherzal the distress of questioning under duress.” She saw Sherzal’s brows rise at that. Even a woman as redoubtable as the emperor’s sister must have had some concerns about inquisition. Moderate duress extended to whippings of various types, along with the stressing of joints and the application of various mechanical devices to the hands and feet. It sounded unpleasant in theory and in practice was fairly horrific.
Melkir came across to extract the second parchment, which was tied with ribbons to Glass’s side. A tiny muslin bag hung from the document, sewn to the lower edge. He took it to the judges who crowded together, devouring the words.
Agika pulled the bag free and tipped five small black tablets into the palm of her hand. She pursed her lips. “They look so insignificant . . .”
“A work of genius,” Glass said. “The combined efforts of the Academy and the Church’s own Mistress Shade. Sadly, they are frighteningly expensive and very time-consuming to prepare. It would be nice to believe that such wonders might one day remove the need for any to suffer in the Inquisition’s quest for the truth.”
Sister Agika straightened and addressed the lords. “High Inquisitor Gemon has set his signature and seal against this authorization to use these ‘truth’ pills in the trial of Sherzal. This will allow the Inquisition to avoid inflicting physical harm upon its prime instigator, which would be highly regrettable were she to prove innocent of the charges against her. Furthermore it will permit a swift and public resolution of the matter with the Sis as witness. And—”
“Poison!” Sherzal shouted. “I will not be fed poison from that woman’s hand!”
Sister Agika picked a pill from her palm between thumb and finger. “The High Inquisitor’s own seal attests to their safety but I am sure that the abbess will not mind taking one herself to set your mind at ease.”
Glass minded very much. She understood Sherzal’s objections perfectly. For a woman whose power was built upon secrets the compulsion to speak the truth was indeed poison. “I would be delighted, Sister Agika.” She smiled and nodded.
Melkir returned with one of the black pills in his hand. He raised it towards Glass’s mouth.
“I request that only Judge Agika be permitted to ask me questions, and only those that she plans to put to the prisoner. I know many of the Church’s most holy secrets and will not be able to resist betraying them if asked inappropriate questions.”
Sister Agika inclined her head. “A reasonable request.”
Glass opened her mouth, then closed it. “I’m told the taste of this mixture is incredibly bitter. If I choke or spit it isn’t because I am being poisoned.” A smile towards Sherzal. She opened her mouth again.
The taste when Melkir placed the pill upon her tongue was far worse than anything Glass had imagined. She clamped her jaw tight, sucked her cheeks in hard, and screwed her eyes shut, willing herself not to vomit or cry out.
It was shouts and exclamations of shock that forced Glass to open her eyes. When the commotion reached through her distress she wondered if the pill had perhaps done something ghastly to her appearance. Then, on focusing her vision, she wondered if Apple’s concoction really had poisoned her and the scene before her was hallucination.
Sera had fallen to her knees, hands at her throat, crimson with the blood pulsing between her fingers. Safira stood behind her, knife held steady, its edge scarlet. Sherzal had shaken off her chain and moved from the rail. Several of her house guards flanked her as she approached her throne.
Glass spat out a bitter, black mess from her mouth, pressing her puckered lips into a grim line. Such an attack had always been a possibility but she had felt that the weight of probability lay with Sherzal throwing herself upon her brother’s mercy. If Crucical had any murderous instincts towards his siblings then they had certainly given him enough past excuses to act upon. Likely this time he would have banished Sherzal to the ice. The ice being the symbolic punishment, the banishment real. From the ice, no doubt burdened with funds, Sherzal would have been able to return to some other country along the Corridor and live a comfortable life in exile. That was how Glass had anticipated events unfolding. However, she had always known that the chance Sherzal would throw caution to the wind and take to violence was a real one.
Sherzal reached her throne and turned in an imperious swirl of white. “My friends, lords of the Sis, I brought you here not just for the pleasure of your company but to make an announcement.”
Sera pitched forward with a clatter and lay still in the spreading pool of her blood. Melkir, ashen-faced, bared his steel and went to stand with the judges, placing himself between them and Safira.
“The moon is falling.” Sherzal stood before her throne, hands moving to underscore her words. “The ice is pressing, closing its jaws upon the empire, squeezing all of us from the lowest peasant on the margins to each of you, my brothers and sisters of the Sis. The same ice advances on the Durns and on the Scithrowl, and on their most distant borders it presses equally on the witch-cults of Barron and the Kingdom of Ald.”
Lord Jotsis stood up from his chair. “Your servant just murdered an Inquisition enforcer! I demand an explanation, not a lesson in geography!”
“My brother cannot save this empire!” Sherzal carried on as if Lord Jotsis were still silent and seated. “His armies can barely contain the Durns. Our coast is washed by the Marn but three miles out it might as well be called the Durnsea.” She gestured east, waving an arm towards the banqueting hall. “When the Scithrowl come they will not be stopped. These mountains have been all of the empire’s strength in the east but they are no longer tall enough to hold back this tide.”
The scattered protests at Sherzal’s assertion rose above a background of worried silence. Word of the Scithrowl numbers had been spreading westward like a plague.
“The moon is falling!” Sherzal raised her arms. “Listen to the words. We say ‘When the moon falls’ and by that saying we mean never . . . but I’ll repeat myself. The moon is falling.” She scanned the room, her stare challenging any dissent. “The moon is falling but it has not fallen yet. It will fly a lifetime more, and another perhaps, but in that time the northern ice will hasten its advance towards the southern.
“What do the Scithrowl want with us, my lords? Why brave the harsh slopes of the Grampains? Why spend their blood here instead of racing across the hills of the Ald?” Sherzal allowed no time for answers. “The Ark can control the moon. She who controls the moon owns the Corridor. Adoma, battle-queen, knows this. She also knows that my brother would break the Ark asunder before he let it fall to those who had destroyed our empire, and rightly so.”
Lord Jotsis, still on his feet, found his voice again. “If the Ark controls the moon why is Crucical not exploiting such a power?”
“How could the moon be used to save us
?” Lord Tacsis asked from his seat. If Glass was any judge it was a question posed to allow Sherzal to answer. Lord Tacsis had been alone in his lack of surprise at the unfolding of recent events.
“The Ark can aim the moon,” Sherzal said. “It can make the moon’s focus spend more time in one part of the Corridor, less in another. With such control we could push back the ice from the empire—”
“And the price?” Lord Jotsis demanded.
“Somewhere else the ice would advance more swiftly,” Sherzal replied.
From the muttering behind Lord Jotsis it seemed that many of the Sis didn’t consider this too high a cost.
“Why then does Crucical not use this power?” Lord Tacsis presented Carvon Jotsis’s first point as if it were his own. “The emperors have dwelled in the Ark for centuries.”
Sherzal acknowledged the question with a nod. “The Ark needs to send energy to the moon so that it may flex and turn. To provide sufficient energy four shiphearts are required, and because of an ancient covenant set to ensure unity of purpose between the tribes, they must be the hearts of ships from each of the four tribes. Without these shiphearts the Ark cannot even be opened.”
A ripple of understanding ran through the crowd, followed by confusion.
“There are only three shiphearts in all of the empire.” Lord Glosis, her voice rusty with age and querulous. “And even if you have stolen from the Church you do not own the other two!”
“Strength is built from alliances, Lord Glosis.” Sherzal exposed her shark’s smile. “The strength of the great bow comes from the alliance of different woods, each with their own contribution to make.” She turned to the judges. “I said I would not plead guilty or claim dispensation. But I did not plead innocent. The truth is that I ordered the shipheart taken from Sweet Mercy convent. I state it now, with no shame. Guilty of taking from a handful of nuns, isolated on a lonely rock, something of incalculable benefit to all of the empire. Guilty of putting all our futures before the elitism of the Grey and the Red, and before the selfish abstractions of Holy Witches.” Sherzal walked behind her throne, facing the room over its high back. “The Noi-Guin have a marjal shipheart.”
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