She might as well make this a little less awkward. A slight echo bounced off the high beams; save the table and a few wooden chests, the room was unfurnished. Perhaps he was new to Silgard. The room held things, but their haphazard placement and the lack of even a personal icon or homespun cloth gave it the air of being a mere house, no one’s home.
‘Herre Tamas,’ the older man introduced himself. ‘Sit.’
‘My mentor. He was my instructor at the University,’ Mihály explained, and Csilla’s eyes widened. Her expression earned a laugh from Tamas.
‘Oh, believe me, the pupil has far exceeded the teacher. I take no responsibility for him.’
There was a fond note of complaint as he shifted a few papers heaped with powders and tiny tinctures in amber bottles, the kind she’d seen Mihály use for his tea, and the tablecloth was soaked in places with drops of greasy oils.
‘How are your spells, Misi? I’ve got something else for you to try.’ He held up a small bottle, brown glass glowing amber in the firelight. ‘In moderation.’
Mihály examined it, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘I appreciate it.’
Csilla frowned. Something else to be on the lookout for. She’d seen various kinds of ‘spells’ – shaking fits, catatonias, ravings. Though, by the pungency of the treatment, she wondered if any supposed affliction was simply the tremors of someone kept too long off their spirits.
‘So what are you doing with this strange little bird? I saw you with that wine, child,’ he said before Csilla could jump in. ‘You think he can help you?’
The tone of his voice twisted her hope into a pitiful thing, like he thought her a child as well, sure she could get a miracle. How much did he know of what Mihály did well away from the Eye of Asten?
‘I—’
‘What do you know about demons?’ Mihály cut in. ‘You were a Servant of the Road; you tended seals and wards.’
This man had also left the Church. Now that she was looking, the old cut scars of his palm were visible, though long since faded into other wrinkles.
‘Getting right to the point, eh? You’ve been speaking to the refugees? They know more of broken seals than I do.’
‘Refugees?’ Csilla frowned. There had been more people coming to the city, but refugees and war orphans were tended closer to the lines. Silgard was at the centre of all but particularly close to none. ‘I noticed more people, but I thought...’
‘Thought they were coming to welcome the Incarnate back from his holy campaign?’ There was a wry twist to the man’s lips. ‘Maybe he will have vanquished all the Shadow breaking free before he returns. May Asten’s will prevail.’
Csilla reached for a mark that was no longer there, her hand brushing gauzy fabric and a jeweled brooch instead of the iron now folded among her old clothes and tucked in a drawer.
‘All the more reason to keep the city safe.’ She swallowed and swiped a finger over her knuckles instead. Children learned the four points of their finger joints could stand in to remind them of the virtues.
Mihály put a hand on her shoulder, though it felt more like being pushed into acting as a shield than serving as comfort. ‘Csilla has asked for my help in catching the killer.’
Tamas stiffened, heavy brows drawing together. ‘You have no business with that.’
‘Do I not? This is my home, too.’
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t get involved. You’re too valuable...’
‘More valuable than anyone else in the city?’ There was no vanity in his tone.
‘Honestly, yes. And I don’t see what either of you get out of this. Unless...’ He turned to Csilla, about to speak, when Mihály cut him off.
‘She’s agreed to help me, and I’ll help her.’
The older man let out a woofing breath. ‘Oh no. You leave the poor girl and whatever soft-hearted pity she has for your distress alone.’
‘Sir.’ Csilla’s fingers rubbed nervously together, though she tried to keep them still. ‘I don’t have many options, and he is helping me...’
‘Did he tell you why he came to this city in the first place?’ The man leaned back, crossing his arms over his thin chest. At this angle the light caught his glasses, hiding his eyes.
‘To preach, I assume.’
Tamas’s laugh caught her by the throat. ‘What a dear thing you are. Church-raised?’
