Estevan stopped her with a hand over her shoulder. “It is here,” he said, pointing toward a door down the hallway. “But before … the shackles, they—”
“It’s fine,” Semras replied, glancing toward the door—and the Venator guards lying behind it. “They might still see me through the windows, so we can’t remove them yet.”
“I take it you never wore such things before. Be careful, and do not try to weave with them on you,” the inquisitor said, brow creased with concern. “They are made to cut you if you struggle against them too much. Do not let the cold iron touch your blood.”
Semras nodded, looking down at her binds. An odd chill had started spreading from them, numbing her hands. She tried to shake it off.
It was nothing—just the hyperawareness of the cold iron against her skin, surely. Estevan would get them off her soon enough.
She trusted him, she realized. To have let him place such dreadful binds on her, she had to. Estevan enjoyed acting like a bastard, but his actions had proven that she could depend on him. He had shielded her in front of disgruntled sword-bearers, had saved her from the one who tried to take her life … andhe hadn’t betrayed Nimue. They were not together. The child’s existence and his lack of interest in them didn’t … well, please her, but he was doing right by them, and that mattered more than her growing feelings of envy.
Maybe … maybe Estevan really did like her. Her heart had no business swelling so much at the thought.
Semras blinked her focus back onto the door in front of her, then reached for the handle. Trapping her tongue between her lips, she curled her restrained fingers over the round piece of brass. With enough patience and a little strain, she should be able to turn it.
Before she could manage to, Estevan moved his hand over hers and twisted the handle. “You might want to hold your breath,” he said.
He opened the door, and Semras gasped.
The parlour was ransacked. Books and papers had flown everywhere, mixing in with the glassware and ceramic shards littering the ground. The hairs on her arms rose. Something was wrong here, very wrong. She could feel it.
It was in the air, in the way it clung to her skin and threatened to choke her out. The smell of several days’ old blood and vomit swirled all around her into a heavy, suffocating fog.
Recoiling from the stench, Semras stepped back into Estevan.
He caught her arm and steadied her before she could stumble any further. “Careful, witch.”
“I have a name,” she snapped. “Use it.”
“Make me,” he replied, chuckling. His mirth sounded wrong here, in this place of death.
Semras braced herself, then walked into the room, carefully stepping around the chaos. She just needed time to get used to the scent. Once she’d get her bearing, she’d—
Semras froze at the sight of the corpse.
It lay on the floor, contorted in the throes of its agony. Its taut, yellowed skin was stretched over an emaciated frame dressed in the black and burgundy robes of a tribunal. Its belly had swelled horrendously, turning it into a bulbous mass. It had been a tall, sturdy old man once, before rigor mortis came and stole any semblance of life and humanity away.
“Tribunal Eloy Torqedan,” Estevan announced. “His body has spent the entire week in the basement cold room, but decay might have set in already. I sent orders this evening to bring him out and lay him in the exact position we found him in for your inspection.”
Semras couldn’t tear her eyes off the corpse. Animated by the amber glow of a nearby candle, the eyes of the dead man seemed to be glancing at her.
“There was vomit and blood everywhere when I first examined the scene a week ago,” the inquisitor continued. “It has been cleaned since then; I did not think you would need to see it. Or smell it, though my nose tells me they missed a spot or two.”
She must have frozen for longer than she thought, for her vision was suddenly blocked by Estevan stepping in front of her.
He frowned. “Are you—?”
“No, I-I can do it. I’m not some delicate city flower who hasn’t seen death before. I just never saw …” Semras paused. No words sufficed to convey her thoughts.
“… Never saw one so violent before?” he offered.
She expected mockery, or judgment, or any other form of belittlement from him, but his eyes held only sincere empathy.
The witch swallowed her nerves. “I’ll have to examine him. And see the blood and the vomit, if there’s any remaining.” She raised her wrists up. “You can remove these now.”
“Youvolunteeredthose binds,” he said, smirking. “And I do not fancy putting them back on and off each time the sword-bearers feel like dropping by. Keep them on for now, and just tell me how I can assist you.”
Semras clicked her tongue. If he wanted to spare her from collecting the samples herself, she’d gleefully make him regret it. “Fine.If you insist,”she mocked. “Grab my bag and lay out its contents on the desk over there. Use one of the empty vials to gather a sample from his mouth, then bring it to me.”
