‘Where was the body found?’
He pulled back the millet-stained tablecloth that had been draped over the old man, not even bothering to feign surprise at the marks on his wrinkled and pocked skin, another line in the cruel prayer. The corpse’s mouth was open in a frozen gape, revealing holes where rotted teeth had fallen, and from the body came a stench of fetid rot. The man’s eyeballs had already begun to shrink, the skin around them purpling and falling loose. He reached to tug the veiny eyelids down out of respect and habit.
The young priest who had pulled the cart was explaining, still half-panting with exertion.
‘By the southern wall. He was at home. A mercy worker found the body when they were taking treatments.’
‘Are they here? Where is his family?’
‘No family that we could locate, and the one who found him went with the High Inquisitor. I don’t know...’
‘I know him.’ Csilla’s voice was clear as she stepped forward, far more steady than it had any right to be. Her hazel eyes were watery, but her mouth resigned, and Ilan gestured for the priests to move back and let her through.
‘Svoboda Elmere.’ She walked close to the cart and brushed the wisps of white hair on his forehead, on skin that was still warm. ‘He didn’t have any family here.’
The small, sad smile on her face pinched something inside him.
‘Did he...’ If he was one of the Izir’s, at least it was confirmation.
‘Yes.’ Csilla tenderly put the cloth back around the corpse, smoothing it with the care of a mother putting down a baby. ‘I’d promised him...’
The other priests looked at her, confused, but it seemed they hadn’t made the connection between the mercy girl everyone tried to ignore and this noble daughter dressed in wool and fur, and one put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Step back, girl. You can’t help him. We’ll take him to those who can, now.’
Csilla’s eyes widened, a struck expression as she was guided away from the body. He almost wanted to tell them to let her stay, but they still had parts to play. She was a wealthy woman of Silgard who let the Faith deal with the rawness of life and death. He was the Church’s impeccable servant, with no connection to heresy.
Any worry for Csilla was chased away by the thrum of footfalls. A young inquisitorial priest, just sworn at the end of the year, ran through the gate, her breath heaving.
‘Is the High Inquisitor here?’ Her dark eyes darted between faces, landing nowhere like a fly unsure of its footing.
Ilan raised his hand. ‘No. But we have the body. Sandor is with the mercy priest who found it.’ Or so Ilan was told.
‘Oh, you’ve got the body then, that’s—’ The woman glanced at the man and drew back. ‘But he’s got both his hands?’
There was an intake of breath that had to be Csilla, and the hair on the back of Ilan’s neck prickled.
‘Should he not?’ The bodies had never been mutilated in that way before. ‘Why are you here?’
Her throat bobbed in a heavy swallow. ‘Because I found something worse.’
‘Worse than a body?’ Two bodies, perhaps? Either the killer was growing bolder, or they had accomplices.
The woman swallowed, grim. ‘Depends. What do you think of part of one?’
He spared a last glance at Csilla, who was still looking only at the dead man in the cart, her fingers worrying at the cape knot at her throat. Then he turned and followed the priest to see what new trouble had arisen.
?
A ribby, fawn-coloured dog trotted back and forth in the circle of horrified onlookers just inside the western gate, a bloated hand covered in dirt and blackening bite marks in its mouth.
‘Why did they let it in?’ one said, his face paling as the dog shook his prize and a jaundiced nail fell from a sausage-swollen finger.
‘It must have startled the guard.’ Another was repeatedly touching his mark, oily fingerprints marring the metal.
The hand was unsightly but hardly more than the other bodies they had been dealing with. Ilan pushed his way in front, to thedog whose wary look didn’t stop him from a slow wag of his tail and coming to sit.
Ilan put a gentle hand out to allow a sniff of introduction, then rubbed the dog’s floppy ears. They were still puppy-soft, and the dog’s tail thumped in the dirt, rump wiggling with pleasure that at least someone was acknowledging his good deed. He must have belonged to one of the pilgrims or refugees and run off after game. Or perhaps he was the loyal friend of whoever owned the hand.
