The Penitent Damned (4 page)

But no one was listening. Alex's head lolled back, and she slipped into an inky sea of darkness, as though the waves of her own power had washed over her.

· · ·

The Duke's finger tapped slowly on the careful loops and curls of Andreas' handwritten report. He frowned as he read, and looked up.

"What have you done about the building?" he said.

Andreas inclined his head. "Construction failure. There was an attempt at refurbishment several months ago, which obviously has gone disastrously wrong. Everyone knows those old Newtown buildings are falling to pieces."

"Move against the builder," Orlanko ordered. "Negligence on
that
scale cannot be seen to go unpunished."

"I have taken the liberty of doing so already," Andreas said. "As it happens, the gentleman in question owns a considerable quantity of Crown debt, issued in lieu of payment on a previous project. Now that he is under arrest and his property forfeit, the question of repayment will of course not arise."

Orlanko didn't smile often, but at this the corner of his mouth at least twitched upward.

"Ah, Andreas. You are a master of killing two birds with one stone."

"I do my best, Your Grace."

"And the thief?"

"On her way north by now, with Father Volstock."

"Excellent. That will go a long way towards keeping the Pontifex happy." Orlanko leaned back in his chair. "Well done, Andreas. You may go."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

The assassin slipped out. Orlanko pushed his report aside, revealing another file, and turned to the room's other occupant. The
ignahta
was still swathed in gray from head to foot, but Orlanko had insisted the monk-like hood be pushed back. The Last Duke did not want his allies keeping secrets from him.

"You've done well," he said.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"You're certain that your identity has not been compromised?"

The
ignahta
nodded. "Certain."

That was the best thing about these Penitent Damned, Orlanko had decided. A conventional agent would always require some tools to get the job done. No matter how carefully hidden—the pistol at the back of the waistband, the dagger strapped to the thigh, the bottle of poison disguised as perfume—there was always a chance of discovery, especially if the opposition was alert. Whereas the Black Priest's supernatural killers could be anyone, anywhere, and no one would ever be the wiser.

"Very good." He leaned back, finger tapping idly on the file. The tag, carefully attached by some meticulous clerk, read
Vhalnich
. "Very good. Now. I have another assignment for you …"