Babylon Steel (42 page)

“You think maybe they...” he glanced at Mirril and Pippit and broke off. “Ma’am, you go home. May need to talk to you again. You get your customers to pick up their own orders, for now; or hire someone to do your running. Someone not to be messed with, okay?”

Mirril said something but I didn’t hear it, because another of those soft explosions had just gone off behind my eyes. “
Soap
,”I said. “And clean hands. Really, really clean. I was thinking of asking him to do our floors, looked like he’d had practice. And he’s allowed to talk to women. They’re not.”

“What?” the Chief said, but Mirril was looking at me with a sort of dawning horror.

“It’s not a priest. It’s the administrator. That smooth-oiling little shit Denarven.”

Mirril stood up, convulsively, knocking her chair over, and clutched a bemused Pippit to her.

“Mum, what?”

“He knows where she lives.” She was staring through the Chief at some horrible imagining. “He came to the shop. I should have remembered. The
soap.
He’s the man who does business for them. Sweet All protect and preserve us, it’s
him.
The man who came with the order... he knows where we
live...
”

“Hold it, hold it,” the Chief said. “Tell. Slow.”

We did. Well, I told him why the soap had struck a chord. And Mirril babbled, poor woman. I couldn’t blame her. Any anger I’d felt towards her had long drained away.

When she wound down, or just exhausted herself, the Chief said, “Roflet. Want Bothley, and probably Jennan. Couple more.”

“Jennan’s off duty, Chief.”

“You pick, then. Want polite, but tough. They’re coming to temple with me. You, take Mirril and her daughter home and stay with ’em.”

Roflet opened his mouth, and the Chief held up that big paw again. “We’re short staffed, it’s Twomoon, whole city’s going mad, don’t want to hear it. Want someone who can deal if this twistfart shows up. You got the duty. Babylon, know you want to get back to your crew, right now want you with me. You warned them, yes?”

“Yes. Place is locked up like a chastity belt. But why do you want me with you?”

“Want the Vessels thrown. You throw ’em.”

“Chief?” Roflet said. “Are you sure?”

“About what?” he growled.

And it really was a growl. Roflet put himself between the Chief and the doorway, which was actually fairly brave.

“One, you’re taking a civilian. Two, you’re
very
close to Change and very angry, Chief.”

Bitternut reached out, lifted all six-foot-something of Roflet in his two hands, and moved him to one side. Then he left.

I followed. When Roflet grabbed my arm I was so tight-wound I was within an ace of hitting him.

“
Don’t let him kill anyone,
” he said. “He kills, when he’s in Change, he’s finished. You understand me? He’s the best we’ve got. You’d better look to him.”

“I understand,” I said, shaking him off.

“And try not to get yourself killed, either. That’d look bad for him.”

T
HE CARRIAGE DREW
up at the temple precinct in a scatter of gravel. The guards at the top of the steps lowered their spears, saw the uniforms, raised their spears again, and looked confused. The older one nodded to the younger, who went inside.

“Babylon. Keep shut.”

“Yes, Chief.” He was getting more monosyllabic by the minute, and I began to wonder if Roflet had been right. I might want to tear out throats myself, but I didn’t want the Chief to. It would end him. And not just his career.

“The Purest sees all,” said the guard, fixing his gaze firmly on the middle distance so as not to meet any of the eyes in front of him. “Abase yourself before the gaze of the Purest.”

“Abase... no,” the Chief said. He had straightened up, and it was only the flicker of a muscle in his jaw that told me how hard he was working to keep himself under control. “Chief of the City Militia, see. Abasing’s not what I do. Only to laws of this city. Temple being in the city. How about you send out someone to talk to me?
Could
come in, but it’d be rude. Prefer to treat our citizens with respect.”

There was a flicker of movement at the arrow-slit window in the wall above us, where someone was listening.

The younger guard returned, and took up his post. From within the temple the prow of one of those vile masks emerged, like the ghost of a bird.

The priest was young, by his bearing. There were eyeholes in his mask, through which he glared as though we were rubbish that had blown into their nice clean precinct.

“Follow me,” he said. He tried to inject chilly disdain into his voice, but something, maybe the mask, gave it a hollow ring.

We were led to the same little room where I had first seen Denarven; which ended up pretty crowded what with me, the Chief and the three other militia boys, all of them large. Denarven wasn’t there. Instead, there were another two masked priests, one with the bowed neck and bent shoulders of an old man.

His mask had no eyeholes.

His left hand rested on the younger priest’s right shoulder like an ancient root. The tips of his skinny fingers were faintly purple, the rest of his skin had a yellowish tint, except where veins ridged it like seams of porphyry. His fingers moved in a rapid drumming. His right hand was held out, palm up, at waist level, trembling like a leaf in some faint constant breeze.

“This is the Father of the Inner Temple. He asks why you have come to disturb our meditations,” the young priest said.

“He speak for himself?” the Chief said.

I realised that the young priest was drumming with his fingers on the palm of the old man’s right hand as the Chief spoke.

“The Father of the Inner Temple has not spoken aloud to anyone other than the Purest in many years, and in return the Purest has blessed him with deafness. He is no longer distracted from the Glory by the chatterings of a crude and corrupt world. We believe that before long he will also be blessed with blindness, as the Purest’s highest favour. This one” – the young priest gestured at himself – “is the Father’s chosen mouthpiece.”

“Hmm. But he’s dealing with us.”

“He believes that the Purest wishes it.”

“Wonder why the Vessels have decided to be so very cooperative just recently. Twomoons, is it?”

Drumming.

“The Father says we take no note of how many stones are in the sky. All celestial objects are under the gaze of the Purest. The Purest does not wish his followers to be distracted from their duties towards Him. He wishes us to co-operate in order that all may return to contemplation of His greatness.”

“Good. Cooperation I like. Your man at the gate, very cooperative. Didn’t ask why we were here, didn’t fob us off with some low-grade acolyte. Brought us straight to the Father here. Even though” – he gestured at me – “talking to women, not done, is it? Send ’em to the administrator. So why not this time?”

“We wish to act as good citizens.”

“Chief?” I said.

“What?”

“They won’t talk to me, but could you ask them something for me?”

“Ask.”

“When they came and stood outside the Lantern, to put customers off, I understood. Didn’t like it, but understood the motive. But then they stopped. And paid us money for the inconvenience. And they didn’t try the same trick anywhere else. So why not? What happened?”

There was no response. Of course. They didn’t speak to women. Chief Bitternut growled the question again, his shortening patience in every roughened syllable.

“We were advised that it would not be in our best interest to act in this way,” the Mouthpiece said.

“Who advised you?” Bitternut said.

The old priest’s head trembled, the mask like a bird’s skull strung up and shivering in the breeze; his fingers drummed.

The Mouthpiece said, “Administrator Denarven.”

The Chief and I looked at each other.

“He warned them off,” I said. “He didn’t want them hanging about. He was afraid they’d spot him. He’d already targeted the place.” And more pieces began to fall together.
When a great temple falls, it starts with a crack.
“You can pretend not to hear me,” I said. “But I know you do. I saw two of your priests in Buckler Row, just after a girl was found, murdered. They said they were out ‘spreading the light of the Purest.’ Me, I call it hunting.
You already knew.
You might not have known who, not yet, but you
knew
one of your own was involved. But you wouldn’t go to the militia. You had to stay
pure.”

Even with faces hidden, you can tell a lot from bodies. I saw the old man’s shoulders hunch a fraction. I’d been right.

The Chief got it, too. Perhaps, at that stage, he could actually smell it. He leaned forward, and the Mouthpiece winced back, almost dislodging the old priest’s hand from his shoulder.

“Tell me. How long you known you hiding a murderer?” the Chief said, his voice very soft.

“That is a terrible accusation, to make in our own precinct!”

“Precinct stands inside Scalentine. People of Scalentine my...” – his lip curved up from his teeth – “my pack. Maybe it happened before. Before you came to Scalentine. Did you run, thinking you’d leave the stink behind? Can smell it. Smell it through all that scouring.”

“If murder has been committed, do you think that knowing, we would do nothing?”

The Chief gave a hard, bitter smile that showed more teeth than maybe it should. “Maybe. Nature of the crime. A purification? Is that what you think? Not supposed to go near women, are you? Not supposed to look at them, think of them, certainly not touch them. But he touched her. Hands on her neck, crushed. There was more. You want to know? Or you know already? No purity in it, Father. What was done to her? Corrupt to the bone. Now
where is he?
”

The Father raised his masked, trembling head; seeking, maybe, to hear the voice of his god. Whether he did or not, I don’t know. But his fingers drummed on the young man’s shoulder, and the Mouthpiece spoke.

“We still do not know for certain that he has done this thing. This city is alive with sin; we are here to do the work of the Purest, to bring light into the darkness. There were many more likely possibilities than that one so closely connected to us was involved.”

“Closely connected?” The Chief said. “He’s one of you.”

“
He
is not a priest. He was a child of corruption, you understand?”

Child of corruption? So his mother, perhaps, had been a whore – or just unlucky.

“He could never be a priest,” the Mouthpiece said. “He asked. He asked, often. He believed a life of contemplation might help him with certain... troubles of the mind, that he had. But it was not possible. I meditated long upon it and the Purest showed me the way. We permitted him to enter the temple as an administrator. He is efficient. Adept. Careful. He does for us what we cannot do without risk to our souls; he deals with the corrupting world.”

The Chief said, “Where is he?”

“We are responsible for him.”

The Chief’s voice was thickening by the minute, but his next words carried an edge like a Gillalune blade. “Maybe you are.”

There was a silence.

“We cannot tell you where he is. We do not know.”

The Chief’s shoulders were hunching in a disturbing way. “All right,” he said. “Search temple. Babylon, you’re first.”

“No!” The mouthpiece yelped. The Father’s fingers blurred with speed. “He is not there. He was out, ordering bread, fruit, something.”

I wondered for a moment if Denarven was aware how little they knew or cared what he did for them every day, in their unworldliness, too busy contemplating glory to notice where supper came from. Out ordering bread... how many bakers were there, in Scalentine?

Then I remembered something else and an awful weakening feeling shot up through me. “Cruel... she was wearing my cloak, with the hood up; in those heels, she’s nearly as tall as me. Chief, he thought it was
me.
It was because of me. I came to the temple. You were right. I blundered in... I drew his attention... he’ll go there. He’ll go to the Lantern.”

“Then so will we,” Bitternut growled. “As for you...” he looked at the priests. “Ask forgiveness of your god, if you dare.”

O
F COURSE, THERE
was Previous, and Flower, and the Twins... I kept telling myself this as the coach belted along rocking madly from side to side. I was squashed between one of the officers and Bitternut. I could feel the muscles of the Chief’s arm twitch and shudder. Some of it was the Change.

I glanced upwards. The sky was a deepening blue, and the moons were showing above the rooftops, fat and glowing frosty. Time had become an enemy, creeping into camp while the guard’s attention was elsewhere. But I had to deal with Denarven first. This was here. This was now. This was my
crew.

“Chief?”

He didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure he still could. We pulled into a side street near the Lantern, jumped down, and tethered the horses – they were of that stolid militia breed that can cope with weres and almost anything else, mainly due to having dough for brains.

“I see Previous,” I said, looking out of the side street. “Looks all right so far. Chief? Why don’t you leave these three with me, and head back?”

He glared at me. His eyes were bright green now, with long pupils. He didn’t move.

Roflet had been right, damn him.

I thought as fast as I could. “Why don’t I go in?” I said. “If he’s watching, he’ll be expecting me, not you. Yes?” I was beginning to hope for more than one reason that Denarven was a long way away.

One of the millies said, “Is there a back entrance? He might be sneaking around out there.”

“Yes. Down that alley there, right and right, a blue-painted gate. Why don’t you and the Chief go have a look? That still leaves these two big lads to keep an eye on the front, right?”

“Chief?” the officer said. “This way?”

Bitternut made a sound I had to take for assent, having no choice, but at least he started to follow the man.

“All right,” I said to the other two. “I’m going inside. We’re going to make some noise inside in a bit, see if we can draw him out. Or in. You just watch out for anyone making for the door, all right?”