She raised her eyes, a tiny grain of confidence rooting in her purpose. ‘I’m trying to save the city.’
The matter of her own soul aside, Ágnes had to understand that she was trying to do something good. That shewasgood.
The woman’s spasming cough shook her like a crumpled fall leaf. Csilla put an arm around her.
‘You’re worse. I’ll get something that can help you. Mihály—’
Ágnes waved her hand. ‘No.’
Csilla held Ágnes’s shoulders as she coughed again, so frail there was practically no weight against Csilla at all. How could this be the woman who’d carried her around on her hip until she came waist-high and was far too old for such babying?
The new steps in the hallway were heavier.
Ilan emerged and leaned on the doorway, scowling, his collar and hems stark for their lack of decoration. He looked like any other priest, save the crackling anger in his stare. ‘Csilla. And Elder Ágnes. Are you not late for prayer?’
‘Aren’t you?’ she asked, standing and smoothing her skirt. Csilla’s heart ached to see that Ágnes stood in front of her, still trying to offer some protection in her frailty. Too many of her few and precious breaths were being spent defending Csilla.
‘I have to question her. Only questions for the moment.’ He held out his hands as if the lack of a whip assured Csilla’s safety.
The woman nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave Ilan as she left. As if reminding him that whatever he did, it would be seen. If not by her, then by the divine.
‘What are you planning?’ Ilan leaned against the iron bars, blocking the door. As if there were any way she would run.
‘Me?’ How did he know they were planning something? Csilla shrunk under his dissecting gaze. Perhaps it had been foolish to think the Church wouldn’t know. Asten’s eyes were stamped throughout the city, seeing everything. Maybe that was more tangible than she’d realised. ‘I’m just trying to help.’
It sounded pointless falling from her lips and even worse when reflected in his expression.
‘How was stealing my notes helping?’
Of course he would have noticed. He continued before she could conjure another pale defence.
‘And you didn’t kill the heretic. How long have you been working together? Since before I even found you in the street?’
‘You think this is some kind of conspiracy?’ Her exhalation was a brittle laugh. ‘I didn’t kill him because I’m not as good as you, I suppose. And as for your work, I just needed information. Not for anything bad.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t sound like he believed her. Her breathing quickened. She knew what happened when he didn’t believe someone – screams and burns and blood. He reached for the cell lock, fingertips scraping the iron.
‘Ilan, what is the meaning of this?’ A new priest was behind Ilan, arms crossed, and Csilla had never been so glad to see a member of the Faith. Then she blinked, looking between the stranger and Ilan. It was this new man who wore the High Inquisitor’s robes, and Ilan was in the plainer garb of an ordinary justice priest.
‘This is the last of them?’ The stranger tilted his head. ‘Good. Question her and be done with it. No need to toy with her like a cat.’
Csilla pulled her hands to her chest as if that could spare them from the ropes. Ilan didn’t take his eyes from her, pinning her as surely as with iron.
‘I know this girl, and I know she hasn’t killed anyone.’
Csilla shivered at the slither in his voice; he called her innocent, but there was no exoneration there.
‘Then she has something to say about someone else?’ The man’s expression lightened. ‘Come, then, girl, out with it. Who should we be bringing in for iron shoes tonight?’
‘I – no one!’ Csilla stuttered. ‘I don’t know who the murderer is.’
‘You won’t give us a name, any person who might have information? It will be a blessing on your soul.’
She winced as he continued.
‘Surely you must have some little sin you wish to clear. And we have ways if you don’t wish to talk.’ He delivered the threat with no change to cadence, so smooth it almost slid right past her.
