‘Bring out every one of the heretic’s flock,’ Ilan ordered, and the men obeyed as if he still had the right to order them. Within moments the brawlers had been ushered to the street. Red swelling was already visible on split lips and punched-in eyes, and one man’s sleeve had been torn half away.
Mihály came up last, bleary-eyed and shivering. His lip was bruised, and the imprint of a hand stained his cheek.
Csilla ran to him.
‘Are you alright?’ She glanced behind at the agitated crowd, fuming with accusations as the priests tied them for questioning.
‘I think so,’ he said through chattering teeth. Csilla slid her arm around his back and braced her shoulder against his ribs, though his weight was almost enough to knock her over. The people were watching the priests with even more suspicion than the eyes they turned on each other.
Ilan approached. Csilla opened her mouth to say something, but there was no recognition on his face. It was a cold, judgemental mask, and for a heartbeat she worried it wasn’t acting. Maybe he’d seen all he needed to, and was ready to take them to the rack.
‘Izir. You’ve been warned multiple times about your heresy.’
‘He wasn’t preaching heresy,’ Csilla spoke for both of them, Mihály still shivering against her. ‘He was praying, proper prayers, and trying to soothe them.’ Csilla looked over Mihály again, gentle apologies in her touch. He hadn’t wanted this. ‘He tried to help.’
‘Tried to help how?’ Sandor came from behind and pushed Ilan aside, taking charge and no doubt ready to take credit.
‘Nothing but the honest word,’ Mihály managed. ‘The people are scared.’ His words were muffled by the blood in his mouth,and when he cringed she could see a tooth sitting crooked in his gum.
Csilla’s heart clenched. He hadn’t even tried to defend himself. Guilt stabbed for every moment she’d doubted him. He loved the people, just as she did.
Sandor looked him over with a disbelieving glare, but it was clear he lacked the will to say it to the Izir’s face.
‘Bring everyone in for questioning.’ He looked back at Mihály. ‘Your kind only answers to a higher jurisdiction. You can go. But we may want answers later.’
‘It’s not their fault,’ Mihály said, stepping forward and dragging Csilla with him. ‘I don’t want them hurt. They’re innocent.’ He directed the last statement to Ilan, who gave the smallest nod of acknowledgement that the plan had failed. They hadn’t turned up anything worse than people bested by fear.
But he didn’t step in to defend them.
Sandor pushed one of the staggering witnesses out of the way.
‘That’s not for you to decide. Bring them all in.’
‘But they didn’t do—’
‘But they may know something,’ Ilan cut her off, and an unfamiliar anger sparked in her belly as Sandor gestured to the crowd, approving.
This was always just an exchange of information, of tools. It wasn’t like he agreed to be kind.
There was none of the consideration she’d seen from him before as he watched the arms of the gathered be looped with hemp rope, lip curled, no longer looking at her at all.
Relief and sorrow collided in her. There was still a chance one of these people knew something that could help. It might all be over, but every one of these people was going to pay for the crime of wanting answers. For wanting peace.
She turned back to Mihály, but he spoke before she could.
‘Go back to Madame Varga’s,’ Mihály said, gaze darting towards the mausoleums, his breath fast.
Csilla looked up at his swelling lip.
‘No. You need care, not a ghost.’ She reached up to try to check the damage, and he slapped her hand away so hard it stung.
Their faces mirrored each other in shock, and she turned away before he could offer an apology. He’d rather run away to a ghost than face the problems with her, even though she had her own bruises from trying to help him.
Csilla pressed close against the wall as the group marched towards the cathedral at Sandor’s barked order. But Sandor wasn’t going with them. He watched them, hands broad on his hips, a picture of the Church’s authority. But as they moved on, he turned heel and walked in the other direction.
In the shadowed overhangs, Csilla followed.
20
