Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (8 page)

‘You look much as you always do, Falcio,’ Jillard replied. ‘Beaten, bloody, and confused by the world.’

Damn – why does he always sound so much cleverer than I do?
‘While I’m gratified at your concern for my wellbeing, I’m rather busy at the—’

‘I rather thought you might want to have a little chat about this.’ The Duke took a cloth bundle from inside his coat. He unwrapped it, letting the cloth drift down to the ground, and revealed a rough, curved piece of black and grey metal: the mask that Birgid had worn. ‘Remarkable the things people leave lying around during a crisis,’ he said reflectively.

I glared at Kest, who returned what passes for a sheepish expression from him, which is to say, no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘I was a bit occupied trying to keep you from bleeding out on the courtroom floor at the time.’

I would have expected Jillard to take the opportunity to make some further comment on our ineptitude, but instead his stare was deadly serious. ‘Do you have any idea what I’m holding, First Cantor?’

Why is it that whenever people use my title it sounds like they’re impugning my intellect?
‘Normally I’d say it was stolen evidence, your Grace.’

Jillard ignored my fatuous comment and handed me the mask. He waited in silence as I looked it over. The surface was rough, beaten into shape by the hard strikes of a hammer, lacking any notable signs of artistry or craft. And yet the clasping mechanism on the side was finely and carefully designed.

Someone cared a lot more about how well the mask closed and held than how it looked.

I turned the mask over in my hand. The left side was partially broken off – at first I thought that was where Kest’s blade had come down, then I realised the clasps he’d smashed were on the other side. I handed it to him and asked, ‘How did this happen?’

Kest leaned in to examine the bent and jagged break. ‘This wasn’t from a single blow,’ he said. ‘Look at all the dozens of small dents. I suspect she struck her head against some sort of stone surface, repeatedly, trying to get it off.’

That image put a knot in my gut, so I focused my attention on the mask itself. On closer examination it wasn’t completely without design: the lines carved into its surface made the shape of terrified eyes, though there were no holes there: anyone wearing this would be blind to the world. Similar carvings formed the shape of a mouth, opened wide in a mad, endless scream. Three tiny slits no more than an inch high had been punched through there, and when I examined the back, I saw a small funnel had been welded into it. So anyone wearing the mask would have had that funnel jammed into their mouth. They’d be unable to speak, or to prevent themselves from swallowing anything that was poured into the slits.

I glanced at Jillard. ‘This looks like something a sadist would devise. Perhaps you could tell me what it is?’

‘It’s called a mask of infamy,’ the Duke replied. There was no sign that he had caught my insult.

‘A tool for torture?’

This time Jillard hesitated before answering, ‘Yes and no. Some form of torture is usually involved, but the primary use of the mask is to ensure anonymity.’

‘You mean, so people don’t know who’s wearing it?’ Brasti asked.

‘No,’ I said, my eyes still on the Duke, ‘the victim can’t see or hear with the mask on – it’s designed so that they’d never know who tortured them, isn’t it? But why would—?’

‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ Jillard said. His voice was full of arrogant annoyance, and yet there was something else not far underneath. Concern. Worry. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on any more than I did. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the funnel welded inside the mask. ‘This isn’t part of any mask of infamy I’ve ever seen.’

‘Maybe it’s there so they can poison the victim?’ Brasti suggested. ‘Or to make sure they can’t talk?’

‘Putting a blade through the wearer’s heart would be surer and require less effort,’ Kest pointed out. ‘Why go to the extra trouble?’

I turned the mask over in my hands, looking at the primitive, almost ritualistic carvings, then at the more carefully constructed clasps on the sides. The absence of holes for the eyes meant that Birgid’s tormentor thought there might be some chance of her escaping. No doubt a Saint with powers like hers would be hard to keep captive.
So why not just kill her, if that was the desired end?
I thought back to the cuts on her skin. Were they part of the torture? They weren’t very deep, nor would they be the best way to inflict pain. Again and again I found myself staring at that obscene iron funnel welded to the inside of the mask.
What had they forced her to drink? And to what end?

Jillard gave a not-quite-polite cough, making me realise I’d been standing there in silence for some time. ‘The Ducal Council has asked that I convey to you their outrage at this horrendous crime.’

‘Well, we can’t have the Dukes being outraged, can we?’ Brasti mocked.

‘In fact, no, you can’t,’ Jillard replied. ‘You are hereby informed that under the terms of the Council’s agreement with the Greatcoats, you will herewith enforce the Laws of Tristia by finding the guilty parties and bringing them to trial without delay.’

‘Birgid is one of the most powerful Saints in Tristia,’ Kest said. ‘We have no idea what kind of person would be capable of this act. How exactly does the Council propose we go about finding the culprits, let alone arresting them?’

The Duke smiled. ‘Oh, we don’t really. In fact, we rather think there’s a decent chance that whoever did this will finally be able to put an end to what remains of the Greatcoats.’

I sighed, though it felt more like the air was draining out of me. I was tired, and weeks from being fully recovered from my injuries.
I don’t want this
, I thought.
My job is
to see the King’s daughter on the throne, to find the rest of the Greatcoats and bring some semblance of the law back to this damnable country. Gods and Saints are well beyond my jurisdiction.

I should have handed the mask back to Jillard and told him and the Ducal Council to find some other fool to saddle with this problem, but my dream of Aline and Paelis came back to me. ‘
Step by step, Falcio, it’s all being taken away from us.
’ Was that simply a hallucination that came with losing too much blood too fast, or had my fevered mind put something more together?

What does it mean, that someone is able to do this to a Saint?

‘Terrific,’ Brasti said, shattering my concentration.

‘What?’

I turned to see him strapping his bow over his shoulder. ‘If you could see your face right now you wouldn’t ask.’ He started off down the path between buildings that led back to the cathedral, then called back, ‘Let’s go and see how merciful Saint Birgid feels when we try to wake her up, shall we?’

‘Why are there six doors?’ I asked, walking the perimeter of the building. I’ve learned not to make a habit of running into buildings without checking the entrances and exits first.

‘Technically, this is a cathedral, not a sanctuary,’ Kest replied. ‘Supplicants go through the door dedicated to the deity whose intervention they seek.’

Brasti stopped to lean against the stone buttocks of the broken statue dedicated to Purgeize, God of War. Or they might have belonged to Coin. I’ve never made an extensive study of the subject of Gods’ buttocks. ‘What difference does it make when the doors all go into the same cathedral?’ he asked.

I chose the door behind the statue of Love, or Phenia as she’s sometimes called in the south. I didn’t expect her to be particularly helpful to our cause, but she was by and large the least offensive of the available options for worship.

I passed through the inner arch of the door to find the tiny cathedral in surprisingly good condition, given the crumbling state of the exterior. The domed roof rising some thirty feet above the building was largely intact, and a circular window at the top directed light into the upper chamber, spreading out onto the six coloured walls of the hexagonally shaped building.

‘What are the bells for?’ Brasti asked, pointing to the six-inch-high brass fixtures that were attached to each wall.

‘The cleric rings them in preparation for prayer. Each particular God has a different set of bells,’ Kest replied. He walked over to one of the walls and pointed to a bare oval patch underneath the bell. ‘There should be a large cameo here, depicting the relevant God.’

I glanced around the room. All the cameos had been removed, though I couldn’t tell if it’d been theft or vandalism. I turned my attention to the centre of the cavernous room and the opening in the floor, ringed by a wooden banister, that led down the winding stone stairs of the passari deo: the dark passage that led to the main chapel some twenty feet below.

Why is it that religious people build these grand palaces to the Gods and then feel the need to burrow underground in order to pray to them?

Brasti kicked a broken wooden candleholder, sending it skidding across the floor and into the
passari
. We heard it clatter down the stairs. ‘You’d think the clerics would do a better job of keeping their house in order.’

‘I doubt anyone has lived here in some time,’ Kest said. He brushed his fingers across the dusty surface of one of the walls. ‘I came to a place like this during my Saint’s Fever, but it felt . . . different.’

‘Different how?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure I can put it into words. I think perhaps this place has been . . .
disturbed
somehow.’

‘The word you’re looking for is “desecrated”,’ said a voice from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Who’s there?’ I called down, my hand on the hilt of my rapier.

The three of us waited as a man in his later years, stoop-backed and barefoot, ascended the stone steps. ‘Probably best not to stab an unarmed member of the faith,’ he said. ‘Or if you absolutely must, at least wait until I’ve emptied this.’ He lifted up a pail. ‘If you do decide to kill me, please be so kind as to bring a fresh pail of water to the Lady downstairs so she can continue ministering to our guest.’

‘You seem a little old to be wearing the grey,
Quaesti
,’ Kest said politely.

The monk set down the pail and pulled at his plain grey robe as if he’d only just noticed it for the first time. ‘Alas, none of the Gods have called to me yet. I keep hoping to hear the summons of Coin as I’ve always looked good in green. “Obladias,” he’ll say, “get yourself some fine silk robes in seven shades of green and come and live a life of wealth and prosperity in my name.”’ The old man shrugged. ‘Black would be fine, too, though Death seems a harsh master. Really, I’d be happy with anyone except Craft at this point.’ Obladias winked at us. ‘Orange robes would look terrible with my complexion. Now blue, there’s a fine—’

‘You said this cathedral was desecrated?’ Kest interrupted.

‘Technically it’s only the sanctuary that can be desecrated,’ the monk replied, looking towards the black hole of the passari. ‘Someone shattered the prayer-stones down there, years ago. The rest of this place is just an old building, really.’

‘You don’t sound upset by all the destruction,’ I said.

Obladias smiled wearily. ‘You get used to it, son. I knew a man once – a good man, a
religious
man. Then one day his family gets sick.’ He shook his head. ‘Worst thing you ever saw. The children . . . well, I won’t grow your sorrows with the details, but this fella, he prayed to the Gods to stop it, over and over. In the end he was praying to Death himself, just to ease his family’s suffering.’

I held the old man’s gaze for a moment, wondering if perhaps the story was his own. ‘And did the Gods answer?’

The monk shrugged. ‘Only in the way that they always do – by telling us to find our own answers.’ He turned and looked around the dusty chapel. ‘I suppose it’s not hard to imagine why people get angry at the Gods. Oh, speaking of which’ – he looked up at the sky peeking through the glass in the dome – ‘ah, hells, I’m late.’ He walked over to the red wall and gently pulled on the rope attached to the small bell there. It let out a clanging sound like that of two swords striking each other. ‘All these little rituals we perform, it’s hard to imagine the Gods pay attention to them any more.’

I was fairly sure they didn’t, but thought it impolite to say so. ‘Forgive me, Venerati Obladias, but we’ve come to—’

‘I’m not a preacher any more, son. Just Obladias is fine. I assume you intend to go down into the sanctuary and see Saint Birgid. Oh, and your lady friend, too, of course.’

The reference to my lady friend struck me. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Of course I do. Can’t go within two miles of a tavern without hearing somebody singing a song about you. They’re never sure of the name, though. Is it “Falsio val Mond” or “Falcio dal Vond”? I’ve heard both.’ Before I could answer he turned to Kest. ‘And you were the Saint of Swords for a little while, weren’t you?’

Kest nodded.

Obladias wagged a finger. ‘You know the Gods don’t think highly of apostates, son. Most people would do anything to be more powerful. Why in the world would you throw away a gift like that?’

Kest held up the stump of his right hand. ‘It was an accident.’

The monk looked astonished for a moment, then he broke out laughing. ‘Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. Hadn’t heard you had a sense of humour.’

‘And what have you heard about me?’ Brasti asked.

‘You?’ Obladias caught Brasti’s painfully obvious yearning. ‘Um, of course I’ve heard about you.’ The monk looked him over, hesitating, then caught sight of the bow strapped across Brasti’s back. ‘Archer, right? No doubt a very fine one. ‘He’s a great bowman, that . . . Um, sorry, what was your name, again?’

Brasti turned to me. ‘I’m really starting to hate this country.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We need to talk to Birgid.’

The old monk was still standing in front of the passari. ‘I’m not sure I can allow that, son. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big admirer of yours, but this is a holy place and the three of you, well, you’re not exactly what I’d call men of Faith.’