Something flashed in the other man’s eyes. ‘A little late for the Church to be talking about rights, don’t you think?’
Genuine anger simmered through Ilan’s irritation. ‘Says the heretic.’
The Izir bent close, warm lips brushing Ilan’s ear, and Ilan’s hand tightened on the hilt of his cane, eager to draw the blade inside. The Church frowned upon carrying weapons that were too obvious in the city; he’d managed a compromise by which he simply didn’t tell anyone, and they didn’t ask.
‘Says the one who wanted to have me killed.’
Confusion warred with violent instinct, and for a panicked second Ilan feared the Izir could read minds.
‘You’re deluded.’
The other man turned his head slightly, dark mirth in his eyes.
‘Feigning shock is almost a lie, Inquisitor. She came to me on your orders, didn’t she? You baited a trap with a pretty thing and poison. I always thought your methods were more straightforward than that.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Ilan slid the blade out of the cane and let it rest at his side. He couldn’t strike the Izir, but he was going to make quite sure the consecrated ground wasn’t sullied with so much as one of his footsteps while he made such accusations.
‘Really?’ the Izir laughed, still close enough for his breath to warm Ilan’s skin. ‘Then the Church thinks very little of you.’
Ilan’s lip curled, not letting the doubt seep through. The Izir couldn’t have known exactly which nerve he’d managed to strike.
‘If what you’re saying is true, you’re foolish to be here.’ A smart grouse took a missed shot as a lucky lesson and quickly flew out of reach. It didn’t roost on the hunter’s stoop.
Mihály stepped back, looking over Ilan’s shoulder as if he could see through the stone and glass to whatever corner Csilla had tucked herself in.
‘She’s worth the risk. And what are you going to do to me in daylight? Are you that sure of yourself?’
The spectators stepped closer, straining to hear the conversation, waiting to see what their idol would do.
The Church would lose these six no matter what he did, Ilan realised with a hardness in the pit of his stomach. They’d come to pray in Brilliance and would leave in the false light of heretical promises with gossip on their lips.
He waited for the Izir to push further, to give him a true excuse to strike.
‘I will not let you cross this courtyard until you’ve renounced your heresy and made a proper confession.’ More words he’dhave to bark, not allowed to bite. The Izir was right that, should he decide to stride on in, there was nothing Ilan could do.
But the Izir paused, looking between Ilan and the spires, something calculating in his gaze.
‘Fine,’ he conceded. ‘I’m not in the mood to get stung today. She’ll come back to me.’ He turned and locked gazes with Ilan. ‘And I’d stake my blessing that you’ll be the one that forces her to.’ Then he leaned forward again, voice low and filled with sharpness like a scattering of broken glass. ‘Watch yourself, Inquisitor. If there’s one thing Asten hates more than heresy, it’s hypocrites. And don’t you have more dangerous things to catch than me?’
‘You’re the only threat to the Church.’
But that wasn’t quite true. Murders were a threat to the people. If the dark markings he’d seen on the bodies were real, they were a bigger threat to the Faith. The only thing that could erase the power of divinity were works of Shadow.
But they still had divinity on their side. His glass still worked. His ministrations still absolved. They could still see how their faith purified.
Nothing in the Izir’s face gave away whether the secrets the bodies carried had leaked. He could only be referring to the fact of mortal deaths.
‘I’m not a threat to you. I simply think about things differently.’ Mihály drew back, voice still low. ‘But if you’d like me to be, I could certainly tell my followers what the Church tried. Now let us go in peace.’
The sharp smugness in his face evaporated as he turned to his waiting followers, his smile again luminous as he was embraced by their raised arms and grateful sighs.
The Church couldn’t compete with such direct intercession.
Ilan watched a moment longer, sweat on his back and breath shallow. He then turned and strode back to the cathedral,bypassing the airy light of the sanctuary and heading straight to the Prelate’s office in one of the small side chapels.
The young attendant dozing outside startled as Ilan pushed past, shoving open the door without knocking.
Prelate Abe was at his desk with an open copy of the writ before him and a letter in one liver-spotted hand, the translucent wax of the Incarnate’s seal crumbling on the edges of the paper. The Prelate tilted his head in admonishment, but Ilan spoke before he could be scolded.
