‘Well done. Drop it.’
The dog’s tail wagged harder, and he dropped the hand. Ilan continued his ministrations as he inspected the pale bone, gristle, and what wrinkled skin was left. The wrist was jagged, mottled with dozens of small abrasions. This had been chewed off, not sliced, and there were no scraps of clothing to help identify who it was. There was only so much he could do with a lump of greying flesh.
He gave the dog another appraising look, glad the pup wasn’t trying to lick him.
‘Have there been any reports of missing persons on the road?’ He turned and looked at the gathered crowd, most of them not wanting to meet his eyes.
Everyone shook their heads in turn.
If it were a citizen of the Immaculate Union, it was their duty to find the body and ensure it had rites. The last thing they needed was someone using the body for a Shadow ritual. The flesh there would be a bounty for the damned. The deaths had breached the city’s borders, and they had to take responsibility.
‘Bring me something to wrap this,’ he said, and after flustered hesitation one of the men ran down to a baker and grabbed a bread bag. Ilan shook off what he could of the dusting of flour and wrapped the hand.
The dog was still wagging his tail, and Ilan offered him another bit of praise. He didn’t know how well he’d done.
?
‘Ilan. Does your . . . dog need a blessing?’
Prelate Abe raised an eyebrow as they approached the altar of the sanctuary hall. The dog trotted along at Ilan’s heels, though whether it was from having decided on a new master or worry over what would happen to his prize, he couldn’t say. The creature’s nails clipped on the marble tile of the floor as they passed by the dark benches of the nave, his footfalls echoing in the vaulted ceiling in quick staccato.
‘Sit,’ Ilan said as they reached the altar and its burning Eye, and the pup sank down on his haunches. At least he seemed trained and not inclined to pee on the pews.
‘He brought us something.’ Ilan unwrapped the hand, now smeared chalky and spectral. The curled fingers grimly beckoned to the Prelate.
‘Is this related to the murders?’ Abe gestured blessing over the hand, then another to be sure.
‘Unclear. I’d like to go look,’ Ilan continued. ‘Perhaps the dog will lead us back to the body.’
‘It’s beyond your jurisdiction,’ Sandor said, coming in from behind. As large as the sanctuary was, it became suffocating with his presence. ‘Is there any sign of dark magic on the bones?’
The dog tensed beside Ilan with a low whine.
‘No,’ Ilan answered. The hand was just a hand. But the fact that it wasjusta hand was a problem in itself.
Sandor huffed. ‘Then that body can sit until we’ve dealt with the latest one here. It’s dangerous out there now. You’ve seen how we’ve weakened. Every priest is needed in our walls.’
Ilan seethed, reaching down to touch the dog to diffuse his anger. ‘Every soul is sacred.’
‘Chase down one of the bard-priests. They’re the ones who handle such things.’ Sandor gestured to the hand. ‘It could even be a deserter, damned anyway. Burn the hand or throw it out – something will eat it.’
‘The Servants of the Road do holy work,’ Abe chided. Sandor at least looked abashed. One didn’t insult the other branches of clergy, even if their work was mostly travel and stories and the occasional rite. Not everyone was called to work in Silgard or serve the Incarnate.
‘And you yourself told me how busy they are,’ Ilan interjected. ‘What with us having to burn our own bodies.’
Sandor stiffened, though Ilan couldn’t read if it were anger or surprise.
‘Say rites over the hand and burn it if you must, and I’ll send word that if anyone sees anything suspicious, they should report it. It’s unfortunate, but we have to remember the greater danger.’
Leaving a soul was unfortunate? Caring for souls was the least of Asten’s commands. Suspicion crawled through him again, a dozen quiet notes that couldn’t be silenced. He thought of Csilla and her last terrible hope that hadn’t been extinguished. She was being offered bloody rebirth and salvation, and though the admission was a dank rot, he wanted her to have it. This was part of that.
Perhaps his own sheen had dulled. He reflexively reached for the glass in his pocket.
‘A dark thought cross your mind?’ Sandor asked as the glass lit in Ilan’s palm. He stared, looking for the judgement his lie of omission would bring.
The surface glowed pale, no smoke-shadows creeping through the opalescent sheen. If anything, it was brighter.
‘You look surprised by your own virtue.’ There was a cut to Sandor’s words.
