Wicked Gentlemen (22 page)

"It's all right," Harper assured him. "People tend to ramble after they've been through an Inquisition confession. Talk all you want."

"Actually, I was hoping to hear you talk a little, Will. You never did say what you thought of Prodigals."

"You could pick another subject if you'd like," Harper offered.

"No. I want to know. I never could ask you before, but I want to know."

"The answer's not all that interesting." Harper peered down, but he still couldn't see to the end of their descent. The darkness below seemed infinite.

"Just tell me, and I'll decide if it's interesting or not," Edward said.

"Very well." Harper paused for a moment to think of how to put his thoughts into words. "The thing that I find absurd about condemning Prodigals as devils is that devils and angels are the same creatures. Prodigals were angels long before they were ever called devils. Lucifer, Satanel, Sariel, Azeal all of them. Each of the fallen angels was created even before the earth, and they were not made from mud but from the will and body of God himself. Even the most degraded and ruined Prodigal is still closer to divinity than are any of us born of Adam's flesh."

"Is it just my ignorance, or does this opinion of yours smack of heresy?" Edward said after a moment.

"Yes, it does smack a little. But it's not just my opinion; it's stated fact in the scriptures. Lucifer, whom God made Prince of the Air and the Stars, is the same Lucifer who fell to the Abyss. Sariel and Rimmon were archangels of the storms before they became lords in hell. If we accept that Prodigals were once devils, then we must also acknowledge that they were also the third of Heaven's Host who revolted against God. They were angels. You can't have one without the other."

"I hadn't thought about it before, but I suppose you're right." After a moment Edward added, "It's amazing you haven't been excommunicated."

"I think you're the first person I've told." Harper glanced down again. There was a dim glow far below them. The sounds of the steam pistons grew steadily louder.

"Tell me." Edward had to raise his voice a little. "Do you live by the principle that what people don't know can't hurt them?"

"No," Harper replied. "What people don't know can't hurt me."

"Even better," Edward said. "So, do you have any other secret theories?"

"A few," Harper admitted.

"Well, tell me then."

"They're too dull. You'll nod off and fall off the ladder."

"You said the last one was uninteresting, and it shocked me quite a bit."

"Really?" Harper looked up to see if Edward was joking. Then he realized that he had been around Belimai too much lately. Edward was never sarcastic.

"Of course." Edward stopped to rest his arm, and Harper waited for him. "It's not every day that a captain of the Inquisition tells me he believes Prodigals are more divine than the Sons of Adam. Even radical anatomists like Raddly don't say things like that."

"The same Raddly who vomited in the deacon's urn?" Harper asked.

"Yes. He was barred from practice last year. Not because of the urn. As far as I know, no one has ever found out about that. Raddly published a paper revealing no differences between the bodies of baptized and unbaptized children. He drew the very unpopular conclusion that spiritual states might not affect physical bodies."

"Really? Did he use Prodigal children in any of his studies?" Harper asked.

"Yes." Edward began climbing again. "He didn't even try to publish that. He just happened to mention it to me when we were talking about the Prodigal murders that took place this spring. From the description of the remains, Raddly surmised that the killer was extracting the Prodigals' Ignis glands."

"For what little it's worth, he was right. They took the glands and blood to use in potions. They were making a huge profit from it." Harper was glad Edward couldn't see his face in the darkness. It still enraged him to think that his own abbot had been involved, and he still hated his own part in supplying Peter Roffcale for the slaughter.

"Joan was one of the victims, wasn't she?" Edward's voice sounded tight. "I guessed that you couldn't tell me because I wasn't supposed to know she was a Prodigal."

"I'm sorry, Edward." Harper's voice barely carried above the hisses and gasps of the steam pistons. "If I could go back and change things, I would."

"I know. I just wish it could have brought us closer instead of driving you off. I could have used the company, you know."

"I'm sorry." Harper wondered if he could ever stop saying he was sorry. He wondered if there would ever come a time when he had said it enough that it would make any difference.

"Did you catch the men who did it?" Edward asked.

"Yes and no," Harper replied. "The men who were abducting and murdering Prodigals are dead now. They were killed while resisting arrest. The men who assisted them and hid their activities are still free."

"If I ever found out who they were, I think I would murder them with my own hands." Edward's words were soft, but the anger in his voice ran deep.

Harper said nothing.

The chill of the shaft gave way to a moist heat. Light shot up through the grated walkway below him. He jumped down to the walkway. Only a few feet below, the steam pistons and water pumps roared and hissed as gallon after gallon of ore and water rolled through them.

The dirt and acid in the air stung Harper's skin and eyes. The smell of refuse and the sweat of Prodigal bodies hung on Harper's clothes like a mist. Edward coughed and weakly clambered down the last rungs of the ladder. His eyes watered and his light skin was already an irritated red.

"Where are we?" Edward asked.

"Hells Below," Harper replied. "We're a little east of the ore furnaces. We'll need to go west."

"Does the entire place burn like this?" Edward rubbed his eyes.

"Yes. You'll get used to it. Once you're inside, it'll be a little better."

Harper studied Edward. His rough, gray cell clothes would have stood out horribly anywhere else, but in Hells Below many people had been held by the Inquisition. Few of them were wealthy enough to throw away the clothes they were issued on release. Harper's own appearance would be far more remarkable.

"We'll trade pants." Harper decided. "You can take my vest as well. It'll look like you've been out for a while that way."

Harper quickly stripped off his pants and vest, then handed them to Edward. Edward fumbled with the buttons of his pants with his uninjured hand. Harper removed the Inquisition insignias from the collar of his coat. He removed the priest's collar from his shirt as well.

Edward stepped out of his baggy, gray trousers with an awkward shyness. Harper found it hard not to steal a glance at Edward's bare waist and legs. At one time he had been very attracted to Edward. But that had been long before Edward became his brother-in-law. What remained of Harper's desire after Edward became his brother was a deep affection and slight curiosity. Harper kept his eyes to himself.

Harper snatched up Edward's discarded pants and busied himself tucking in his white shirt while Edward dressed.

"All part of my new, criminal life, I suppose," Edward said as he straightened Harper's vest over his shirt. "How do I look?"

Nervous, Harper thought, but he didn't say so. Instead he smiled.

"You should wear my clothes more often. You look good in black."

"So, what now?" Edward asked.

"Now you go to a safe house."

"A safe house?" Edward asked. "A safe house from the Inquisition? Are there really such things?"

"A few." Harper turned and strode quickly along the walk-way. Before Edward could question him further, Harper took a sharp turn and swung down the emergency stairs to the ground of Hells Below.

He led Edward through the narrow streets. Decaying houses and rumpled, dark shops jutted into the streets and hunched against each other like drunks.

"They're going to ask you what the Inquisition wants you for," Harper said quietly. "Don't tell them. Just say that you're a physician looking for work. There aren't any doctors down here. You're worth more than any reward. They'll sell their own kids before they'll turn you over to the Inqu—"

"Will, you're coming with me, aren't you?" Edward broke in. Oily droplets of condensation spattered down from the cavernous roof and drummed across the roofs of the crumbling houses. Harper and Edward walked under the cover of the over-hanging eaves.

"You'll be fine," Harper began.

"No. You don't understand." Edward glanced askance to see if anyone was near enough to overhear them.

Three Prodigal boys played with a nest of rats at the far end of the alley, but none of them took any note of either Harper or Edward.

"Will, it isn't going to be safe for you in the city. They made me sign a confession. I didn't want to, but—"

"I know. I went through the files and pulled it out."

"You did?" Edward looked a little startled. "How did you know?"

"That's just how the Inquisition works. They get confessions and then use them to bargain for trial testimonies."

 
"Are you angry?"

"Not with you. You did the smart thing. Hell, you did the only thing you could. If you hadn't given them that confession, they wouldn't have stopped torturing you. You wouldn't have been in any shape to escape when I came for you." Harper frowned. "I'm just sorry I didn't get you out sooner. I shouldn't have left you the way I did."

"You had someone else to look after." Edward shrugged. "Did you take care of him?"

"We need to take Wax Street." Harper pointed ahead.

"You could be less obvious about not answering, you know," Edward said as they continued on.

"You see that little chapel." Harper inclined his head toward the brick building. "That's where you're going. You'll want to talk to Bastard Jack."

"Not his real name, I hope," Edward commented.

"You never know with Prodigals. It doesn't matter. Just ask for him, and tell him that Nick Sariel recommended him to you."

"What if this Nick Sariel is there?"

"He's locked up at Brighton," Harper said. "Just drop his name if they ask. What's going to interest Jack is the fact that you're a physician. Once he knows that, he'll piss himself to make a friend of you. The only other thing you have to remember is not to mention me, not to anyone down here. Inquisition captains are never popular, and neither are their friends." Harper patted him on the shoulder, then stepped back. "You think you've got all that?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. Take care of yourself, Edward."

"Will—"

"Just say goodbye," Harper told him as coldly as he could.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Harper turned before Edward could say anything more and walked away. He didn't want to drag this out, and he didn't want to discuss it. The less time Edward spent in his company, the better chance he had. Harper knew Edward was watching his retreating back.

Only after he knew he was well out of Edward's sight did he turn back. He dashed back to the wooden fire escape that was nailed to the back of a rotting tenement. Two of the steps snapped under Harper's weight, but the rest of the ladder held. He climbed up onto the roof and looked across to Wax Street. Through the haze of falling condensation, Harper watched as Edward slowly approached the brick chapel and then disappeared inside.

Though there was no day or night in Hells Below, it felt suddenly much darker to Harper.

Chapter Nine

Silk Stocking

Harper wanted to think calmly. He wanted to feel that familiar, detached coldness enfold the burning rage inside him, but it wouldn't come. He didn't know why. Perhaps it had been seeing Edward hunched in that cell, too frightened to even look up. Or Joan, dressed like beggar and covered in filth, staring at him as if he might harm her. Perhaps it had been holding Belimai's shaking body in his arms and knowing that nothing could ever give Belimai his innocence back. Or perhaps it was simply remembering all those things and looking out over the desolation of Hells Below. The injustice seemed infinite. Fury welled up through Harper.

He had spent years gathering evidence and following the correct procedures of prosecution. All the while, Abbot Greeley and his friends committed brutal crimes whenever they pleased and had witnesses murdered at their leisure. Time after time, Harper had crushed his own anger and poured his strength into the belief that justice had to prevail.

But justice did not prevail. It struggled, floundered, then sank into oblivion.

Harper had been told as a child that God brought Justice to every man. Harper had believed that. Even as his innocence fell from his body, even as he uncovered mutilated women and gutted Prodigals, Harper had clung to that promise. Now he couldn't make himself believe it any longer. No wide-eyed saint or righteous angel was going to give Harper Justice. He didn't even want it any longer.

What he wanted now was vengeance. For that, he did not have to wait on heaven's judgment. Vengeance he could take with his own hands. It wasn't smart. Harper knew that, but he didn't care. His life was already in ruins.