Ilan ran a finger down the soft leather strap of a flogger. All gifts had their uses to the Faith.
Sandor picked up a small pair of iron shears, the kind heated to neatly sever fingers and tongues, and Ilan smiled. That tool had stopped many a heresy from entering the world.
‘They cauterise as they cut. Quick and far less bloody.’
Sandor dropped them with a dull clank that did nothing for Ilan’s headache. ‘You praise the blades’ mercy?’
‘Mercyisone of the prime virtues.’ He took private victory in Sandor’s grimace. ‘If not the tools, maybe the paperwork is one of your strengths?’
Ilan gestured to the back of the room, where a sheave of paper sat, fresh-drawn victim portraits and older references. Beneath lay the ruined sheets, paper dark and rippled with dry ink.
‘It’s not my strength you need to worry about, it’s the Seal’s.’ Sandor’s gaze fell on one of the smudged sheets. ‘A compendium of demons?’ He scratched a long fingernail down the list of unholy names and the places that marked their banishment. ‘You really think the city is so far gone we’ve let a demon in.’
Ilan swallowed. ‘The victims have all been marked with Shadow script. The Seal is reacting. There’s clearly an evil presence.’
Sandor paused and looked him over – a long, appraising stare. The kind Ilan was used to giving, and loathed being on the other side of. ‘The problem is sin. An abundance of mortal evil, here in our most holy city.’
Something in the man’s posture, the slant of his gaze as it darted off the paper again, rubbed at Ilan with a niggling friction. He wasn’t saying everything.
But when he raised his hand to wipe at his brow, Ilan saw the ring again. Sandor didn’t need to say everything. He had spoken to the Incarnate more recently, accepted a direct charge for the Faith. Ilan could ask him question after question, and he would never be required to answer.
‘So put all thoughts of the script aside.’ Sandor set a heavy hand on Ilan’s carefully illustrated work. ‘The killer clearly means it as a distraction, and it’s working. Their tactic has you wrapped up in stores of Knowledge, ignoring Justice. You were led astray from your purview, Ilan.’
He smiled then, though there was nothing kind in it. ‘That is why I am here.’
The irritating smirk of the Izir flickered in Ilan’s mind. ‘No. But a demon or Sotir...’
‘No Sotir have been born in a century and any child of the Union can tell you why.’
Because they and every soul who shared dark blood were slaughtered. There were murals devoted to the holy sacrifice of those dying so there was no chance the curse could spring up in future generations.
‘If demons can enter Silgard, the city is already lost,’ Sandor continued.
The truth of that stung like the kiss of a lash.
Sandor continued. ‘This is someone who knows of Shadow work, but only that. I’m shocked the faith of the former High Inquisitor is so weak.’
He slapped his hand down on the stack, dislodging the buried papers. ‘Even the records are trash. If you thought this so important, you would have been more careful, no?’
Ilan’s frown deepened, the indignance of being rightly chastised fading with suspicion. He recognised something in that tone. The swagger of someone bluffing their way around doubts so they wouldn’t be questioned.
It was how he became who he was, from when he was eleven and informed his parents he would no longer be answering to the name they’d given him, to seven years later, when he offered back his title to join the priesthood. He’d learned to speak like he was comfortable long before he was, claiming the words for what he wanted until experience gave them confidence and weight.
Sandor spoke with authority, but there was a quickness, a weakness behind it that a man serving the Incarnate should have been purged of long ago.
‘My faith in the Church remains,’ Ilan said, pushing the papers away from Sandor. ‘You, I don’t know yet. Where in the front were you serving?’
If Sandor would push, Ilan could push back. They would see whose footing was secure.
‘Banksa. Would you like our list of stops? The names of the men who died in our convoy so you can check them against service records?’ Sandor’s gaze purposefully fell back on the pile of notes.
‘I respect that an inquisitor is meant to be suspicious,’ he continued, ‘but if you don’t want to work with me, perhaps you’d like to join the congregational priests? There is always other work for the Faithful.’
Leading sermons and taking confession, endless talking and administrative counsel... It was important work, but Ilan never had been one for tedium. Or talking.
‘That won’t be necessary, Sandor.’
‘Inquisitor,’ the man corrected. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you time to get used to it.’
