Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 (9 page)

‘Do you intend to block our way?’ I asked.

Obladias sighed and stepped aside. ‘Don’t see as how I could.’

The three of us walked past him and started down the stairs, but we’d only got about a third of the way when I heard the sound of several pairs of heavy-heeled boots entering the building.

‘Shit,’ Brasti said, ‘that’s a lot of people.’

The last place you want to be if you’re about to be attacked is stuck halfway down a stairwell. Being below ground is never a good idea, and on a staircase there’s nowhere to move. ‘Hurry,’ I said, running back up the stairs, but I was too late: two men in grey robes that did precious little to hide the armour underneath were standing in each of the six entrances. They were all armed, half with pikes, the rest carrying pistols.

‘Falcio . . .’ Kest warned.

‘I know,’ I said. I don’t think any of us had ever seen six pistols all in the same place before. I turned to the old monk. ‘You summoned them when you rang the bell. All that talk was just to delay us.’

‘I said that I admired you, Trattari,’ the old man said. ‘I never said I
liked
you.’

As if on cue, a thirteenth man entered the building. He was about my age and height, with short blond hair and a close-trimmed beard. He wore a long leather coat of office that might have been confused for a greatcoat were it not coloured a heavy, drab grey like stormclouds waiting to loose thunder and lightning upon an unsuspecting world. The only break in the grey came from six metal disks sewn in a semi-circle around the front of his coat, each one bearing the hue of one of the six Gods of Tristia.

‘My name is Quentis Maren,’ he said, stepping into the centre of the room, ‘First Interrogator of the Cogneri.’

A cold chill shuddered in my bones. I hadn’t intended to speak, but I’m pretty sure I heard myself say, ‘
Son of a bitch
.’

‘Someone want to tell me what a “Cogneri” is before I kill my first one?’ Brasti asked, aiming his bow at the man.

‘It’s the old word for the Order of Ecclesiastical Examiners,’ I said. ‘This man is an Inquisitor.’

In theory, Tristia is governed by two sets of laws: those of its citizens and those of its Gods. The former are established primarily by Kings and Dukes; the latter by – well, people from a very long time ago who claimed to know the Gods’ opinions on such matters. Most people live under the King’s Laws, which are enforced by the Greatcoats or local constabularies, but the clergy adhere to the rules and precepts of the
Canon Dei
. And who exactly enforces the Gods’ Laws, you might ask? That would be the Inquisitors.

‘You appear to be out of your jurisdiction, Quentis Maren,’ I said.

Three against thirteen is terrible odds, but I’m usually pretty good at figuring out ways of improving our chances in situations like this. I just needed a little time.
And maybe a small cannon.

The Inquisitor narrowed his eyes just a bit, as if he wasn’t sure if I was trying to be funny. ‘Really, First Cantor? A Saint has been attacked, nearly killed. Churches are being desecrated. The faithful fear for their lives. I would say this is very much within our jurisdiction.’

‘He has a point,’ Brasti whispered.

‘Shut up,’ I said.

There had never been any love lost between the Inquisitors and the Greatcoats. Neither of us recognised the other’s authority, the laws of Gods and those of men being largely incompatible. But for all the stories of zealous tenacity and liberal use of torture in questioning prisoners, the Cogneri had all but disappeared from Tristia. In all my years as a magistrate I’d encountered them only three times, and those men had been ageing brutes who did their dirty work with weapons like heavy sticks and rusted crossbows.

Quentis Maren, on the other hand, was young, and he had the look of a careful man. A thin, short-hafted steel mace was attached to a loop on the left side of his coat. On the other sat a holster roughly twelve inches long, with the butt of a pistol sticking out of it.

A sword – a really good sword – costs roughly what you might earn in an entire year working as a farmhand. A shitty matchlock pistol of the kind that rarely hits its target and takes for ever to load costs about five times that. Quentis and his men were carrying wheellock pistols – the ones that didn’t require you to prepare them by lighting a match attached to a clamp on top of the weapon; in other words, this was something that you could get ready to fire
before
you came into the building to surprise the nasty Gods-forsaken Greatcoats.

How much did a good wheellock pistol cost? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had that much money.

So who pays your bills, Cogneri?

‘Falcio . . .’ Kest said quietly.

I hate it when he says my name that way. It’s almost always followed by a recitation of just how bad our odds are.

‘The former Saint of Swords is about to tell you that you can’t win this fight,’ Quentis Maren said, his eyes on Kest. ‘He’ll say that your archer, fast as he is, will take out only two of my men, most likely pistoleers, given his well-known disdain for swords and spears. Then of course my pikemen, who’ve been instructed to go for the archer first, will kill him. Kest will try to protect you, doing his best to knock aside the pikes while hoping his coat protects him from the pistol balls. However with our greater numbers and the lack of anywhere for you to run to in this room, he’ll kill only four of my men before dying himself.’

‘Three,’ Kest said.

‘Really?’ Quentis Maren asked. ‘I would have thought—’

Kest held up the stump of his right hand.

‘Ah, of course you’re quite right. Three of mine go to the Gods then.’

None of the guards looked much perturbed by the thought.

‘What will I do?’ I asked, simultaneously repelled and intrigued by the way this man knew so much about us.

‘You’ll try to kill me, of course. You resent authority. You hate religion. You’ll decide that since the fight’s over you might as well kill the big bad Inquisitor and go to your death enjoying that small measure of satisfaction.’

‘It doesn’t sound like this works out all that well for you, either,’ I said.

Quentin Maren shrugged. ‘My coat isn’t
quite
as well designed as yours, I admit. But I think the chainmail vest I’m wearing underneath will compensate against your rapier.’

‘Not if I fire an arrow through the centre of your forehead,’ Brasti said. ‘Then you’ll be dead
and
embarrassed.’

‘True,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘You’re far too fast for me to get out of the way. Of course, my pistoleers are prepared for that eventuality. You’ll kill me, but your friends will be dead before I hit the ground.’

I worked through the permutations of our present situation in my mind, frustrated as much by the fog and exhaustion caused by my injuries as I was by Quentis having planned this so perfectly.
I could stab him in the neck and pull him to me, use him as a shield while I drew the fire of his pistoleers. Brasti could take out two of the pikemen and we could make for that exit if Kest could . . . No, damn it, the timing is all wrong.

There’s a trick to winning fights like these. Most people try to think about each piece, each fighter and their weapon, and where they are and how fast they can move. That doesn’t tend to work; you need to see the
whole
board at once and envision the movements of all the combatants at the same time to find the one path that could lead to victory.

So where is it, damn it? Why can’t I think straight?

‘I know it isn’t your usual approach,’ Quentis said, ‘but I’d suggest you consider surrender.’

There was a certain logic to that idea.
Except that the last time I surrendered to someone they tortured me until there was almost nothing left of me.
Even if I’d had a hundred years to recuperate from the Lament, I’d still never be able to survive torture like that again. And even if I had a thousand years, I’d still never accept it.

I didn’t say anything to Kest and Brasti, I didn’t even bother to glance at them. I knew they were watching me and I knew they’d understand what was going to happen next.
There’s always luck
, I thought,
and red, bloody rage.

‘Stop!’ called a voice from the passari deo.

The fact that I didn’t recognise her voice instantly was the first sign that something was terribly wrong. I turned to see Ethalia coming up the stairs behind us, though at first glance I would have sworn she was a stranger.

Everything about Ethalia is in the eyes: the warmth, the calm, that immediate feeling of shared serenity, but all that was gone, replaced by dark rings of exhaustion. Her cheeks were hollow, her forehead lined. ‘You have to leave, Falcio,’ she said, in a voice that was neither angry nor sad, merely cold.

‘I came to . . .’ There was something profound to say here, but for the life of me I couldn’t find it. Instead, what I said was, ‘I have to find out what happened to Birgid.’

‘She hasn’t woken since she collapsed.’ Ethalia held up her hands. ‘I’m trying to hold onto her with every salve, every prayer I know, but what little ability I have is dependent on the compassion in my heart.’ She looked up at me. ‘Falcio, I can feel your rage all the way into the sanctuary. So can Birgid. You’re killing her.’

You’re killing her.

‘Listen, sweetheart,’ Brasti said, ‘I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but the bad men here are pointing weapons at us.’

Ethalia came to the top of the stairs and surveyed the men in front of her. Quentis Maren gave a short bow. ‘Forgive us, my Lady, but we have a responsibility to—’

‘If you came to kill Birgid then you must pass through me first.’

That took him back a step. ‘We came to
protect
her.’

Ethalia nodded, as if she had taken him at his word. ‘Then leave, all of you. Her life hangs by the last strand of a spider’s web. Let me try and save it with what little strength I have inside me.’

Quentis glanced at Obladias, standing there in his plain grey robes with his plain face and plain manners. After a moment, the old man bowed his head.

If you’re nothing but an unchosen monk then I’m the Duke of Rijou
, I thought, but I didn’t have the strength to think that through any further.

‘Very well,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘The safety of the Saint of Mercy comes first.’

I hesitated for a second. Could we have won this fight? Maybe. My head was starting to clear and I noticed now the patch of oil that had spread from the broken lantern that Brasti had kicked when we’d entered the cathedral. One of Quentis’ men was standing right in it, the bottom of his long robe practically touching the oil. I had a sliver of amberlight in a tiny pocket on the inside of the right cuff of my coat. If I’d managed to get it out without anyone noticing and threw it hard enough at the patch of oil I might create a distraction that would shift the odds, if only a little.

‘Falcio,’ Ethalia said from behind me. ‘Please.’

I locked eyes with Quentis, wanting him to know that this wouldn’t have been a sure thing for him. ‘Marked,’ I said.

He gave the smallest hint of a bow. It was a contract, of sorts, with terms and durations and clauses, and it would come to steel soon enough. There would be a victor and a vanquished. There would be blood. Just not today. Whatever it was the Inquisitors wanted from us, it wasn’t as important to them as Saint Birgid’s life.

Quentis and his men left, followed by Brasti and Kest, leaving me standing there alone with Ethalia at the top of the stairs that led down to the sanctuary below. I felt a momentary spiteful urge to ignore my agreement with the Inquisitor and go down to see if I could wake the Saint and get her to give me something, anything that might help me understand what had happened to her. But one look at Ethalia told me that if I tried to interfere with Birgid’s recovery, Quentis would be the least of my problems.

I really need to find a new job. One that doesn’t involve swords
. Some small part of me wondered whether I should ask her to marry me then, which should tell you just how little I understand the concept of romance. I reached out a hand to touch Ethalia’s cheek, but she pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, Falcio. I can’t let you . . . I can only heal her if I remain . . .’

I’m not sure what she was going to say next because Brasti ran back into the building, bringing with him the sound of distant shouts. ‘Falcio, you’ve got to come.
Now
.’

‘Have the Inquisitors—?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s the pilgrims. One of the guards by the gates said he saw a figure trying to get through the crowds. A cleric got the mob to grab him and they’ve beaten him senseless and tied him to a post. Falcio, the guard said the man they caught was wearing a Greatcoat.’

I started to run after Brasti, then stopped, just for a moment, to say goodbye to Ethalia – but she had already started down the stairs to the sanctuary.

More than two hundred people were now standing outside the gates of the martyrium, although, despite their numbers, the grassy field didn’t look nearly as crowded as I’d expected. For the most part, they were milling about in small groups, sticking close to their possessions, their improvised tents and horse-carts. The road that led to the martyrium was clear, so obviously no blockade was being attempted. No one was throwing stones or shouting slogans; no one was harrying the guards Quentis had brought with him. The pilgrims were simply going about the business of living and listening to whichever cleric or farmboy-turned-mystic had led them here . . . all except for one group on the far side of the field, who appeared to be busily preparing a bonfire.

‘I see him over there,’ Brasti said, pointing out past the gate. ‘He’s right at the edge of the forest. There’s a crowd in front of him so I can’t make out his face, but I can see his hands tied above his head to the post.’

‘Well, okay then,’ I said, and did up the bottom six buttons of my coat, leaving the top six open. I wanted as much protection as I could get, but I still needed to be able to reach inside for my throwing knives.