Ilan gave the smallest possible nod. He would bear the humiliation for the sake of his city, acrid as the flavour was.
Abe nodded. ‘Now, Ilan, go with Sandor and show him what there is to see thus far.’
None of the seated servants would meet Ilan’s gaze as he passed, and his hard steps echoed in the rounded chamber.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t yet brought the man in to hang,’ Sandor said when they were alone in the corridor. Though they had plenty of space and Ilan took up far less of it, the larger man insisted on walking right beside him, occasionally jostling his arm. ‘You have quite a reputation for keeping the city spotless. Hard to believe you’ve only been at it, what, three years?’
There was a needling note to the question, though when Ilan glanced at the man, his eyes were still straight ahead.
‘A little more than four now, I believe.’
He’d been twenty-one when he entered the great city for the first time and had been granted his rank two years later. Theresults had quieted even the loudest tongues wagging that he hadn’t truly earned it.
‘Humans crave order as much as they resist it. I simply put things right. I’m blessed to have such a calling.’ He moved to the side and was followed, sped up and was matched. They danced step in step as his irritation rose. ‘And how fares the Incarnate?’
‘Things are progressing well. Asten’s return is closer each day.’ Sandor emphasised the words with another bump, and Ilan watched his steps, thinking how easy it would be to jut out his foot just so, and send the man sprawling to the floor in the dapple of stained-glass light. Just another accident, as Sandor would surely say all his ridiculous goat-like butting was. ‘No doubt the broken territories will be welcomed back to our fold by the end of the year.’
That was a far more generous assessment than the rumours said. The plan to bring the entirety of the continent back into the Union was on its second generation and seemed more of a drudge than holy war. Seda had decided Asten’s decision to abandon the world was enough reason to abandon Their Church, and in Ilan’s opinion, good riddance. The Church and governing classes alike were bleeding money into the campaign. If an entire region wished to declare themselves damned, so be it.
‘I’ll pray for his success,’ is what he said instead. It would serve everyone for the whole matter to end, one way or the other. ‘He can only do so much from afar. Like send orders for murder.’
It was a sharp and graceless stab, but would show him how much the Incarnate trusted the man he had sent.
Sandor’s steps didn’t falter. ‘The matter of the heretic, I take it? The one who didn’t die?’
So he did know.
‘Who wasn’t killed,’ Ilan corrected. ‘The girl they sent failed.’ Refused. ‘I offered to handle the matter myself, but the Prelatethought it best to wait for the Incarnate’s direction. He was worried about retaliation from the Izir’s followers.’
The other man made a smallhmm. ‘He was right to. And as I rode through the city, it was quiet. Has the heretic spoken since the attempt?’
He’d spoken to Ilan, which had been unwelcome and extremely annoying, but not what Sandor meant. There’d been no gatherings last night that he’d been made aware of. ‘No.’
‘Then he was silenced, as Asten willed him to be. The Incarnate’s order was wise, and the result was achieved without sin. If he stops speaking, the people will have to have something – they’ll come back, whether it be from fear or for nourishment. We do not always know why Asten orders what They do, but this was clearly what was meant to be.’
‘Clearly.’
Hopefully his rolled eyes would be mistaken for heavenward praise. Something about the easy dismissal still didn’t sit well with him, even when he tried to push it away as his own desires being thwarted.
Sandor made a sound of assent that ignored Ilan’s tone. ‘If it becomes a problem again, we will address it again, but for now I would love to see where the more passionate side of your work takes place. I suppose now those duties will be mine, too.’
Ilan inclined his head. If the man had the stomach for torture, at least he might be useful.
‘Of course.’
The main inquisitorial room was dim, even with the door propped to steal a little of the hall’s window light, but every hook, table and instrument had been laid out to Ilan’s specifications. Something Ilan couldn’t read flashed over Sandor’s face as he took in the sight of the ropes and stretched leather straps that hung expectantly along the wall, waiting for wrists and necks.
‘They say you’ve been zealous in your punishments,’ Sandor said, reaching out to shake the knotted rope tails of a cat whip. ‘The Church allows redemption through coin and service. Why choose this?’
Ilan shrugged. It was a common question, though people rarely liked his answer.
‘We have the same rich sinners paying off indiscretions every week. Write something on a man’s flesh, and he will remember it long enough to save his soul.’
As the words left his mouth, he remembered Lili and the weeping marks on the bodies before her. A momentary revulsion climbed his throat, and he quieted it with a prayer. When scars were made here, they were redemption.
‘Noble of you to take on the sacrifice of such disturbing work.’
‘Holy work,’ corrected Ilan. There was no reason to defend the rest. No one sniped when a knowledge priest enjoyed teaching or a mercy priest found peace in comforting the dying. A talent for pain was an equally useful blessing. There were even those who crawled to him voluntarily, submitting to purging before they were consumed by sin.
