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Kettle had been at the bottom of quite a heap of bodies. First those that had been holding her down, then those around her who had been blown forward over their kneeling friends. In two places holes an inch or so across had been burned through her robes, the flesh beneath scorched.
“She looks dead,” Clera said, failing to sound particularly sorry about it.
“She’s not dead.” Nona’s whole body convulsed, nearly pitching her forward onto her face. “I would know.”
Clera squatted again and held her hand against Kettle’s neck. “She’s not breathing . . . and . . . there’s no pulse. That’s pretty dead. Sorry, Nona.” She turned towards the Noi-Guin. “I wish you’d left bigger pieces. I really wanted my own black-skin.”
“She’s not dead.” Nona arrived at Kettle’s side. The nun did look extremely pale. Some of the Lightless corpses looked more lively.
She’s dead. Keot voiced his opinion.
“She’s not dead!” Nona reached out to grab Kettle, intending to shake her awake if need be. But just before her hands made contact fat streamers of lightning arced from each finger, running into Kettle. The nun convulsed, arms, legs, and head jerking up with considerable violence. A heartbeat later she fell back, limp, and in the next moment drew a huge gasping breath as if she had been underwater for far too long.
“Kettle!” Nona touched her shoulder, tentatively at first, then finding no further shocking occurred, gripped it hard. “Kettle?”
Kettle rolled over, choking. Nona noticed that the dark material of the nun’s leggings glistened with blood.
“Tear some strips of cloth, Clera: she’s got a knife wound in her thigh.” Nona returned her attention to Kettle. “Clera’s going to get you out of here. I’m going to get Zole.”
“You’re what?” Clera stopped tearing.
“We can’t just leave her here!”
“What’s Zole even doing— Wait, I don’t want to know. You can’t go after her. Neither of you can walk. Even if you were fighting fit it would be insanity.”
“Well I’m going.” Nona edged to the wall and used it to get to her feet.
You’re insane. Leave her! Keot sounded weak. Not only was he quieter than before, but the voice in her head cracked and trembled.
“We can’t leave her!” Nona snarled, angrier at the truth than at Keot or Clera. A tug at her ankle drew her gaze to the floor. Kettle had reached out to grasp her.
“Zole can hide in the walls. Go where we can’t follow.” Kettle’s voice still vibrated with the shock that had brought her back to life.
“That’s right!” Clera sounded surprised but she jumped on the idea. “If Yisht taught her rock-working she can hide anywhere. We’d turn up and instead of finding her we’d just find half the Tetragode hunting the halls and thirsty for blood.”
Nona wanted to shout, to curse, to grab the front of Clera’s tunic and shake her for her cowardice. But it was true. Zole had made the diversion that had saved them. Whatever it had cost her would be a price wasted if they now staggered into the arms of the Noi-Guin.
“Nona?” Clera had started to bind Kettle’s leg wound. “We fix Kettle, then we go.”
Nona looked away to where the tunnel turned. Beyond it some of the Lightless brought down with the grey mustard were still bubbling out their pain.
“All right.” She bit her lip, frowning. “We go.”
39
ABBESS GLASS
THE LIGHT OF the focus moon found chinks even in Sherzal’s shutters. Moonbeams lanced through, painting brilliant red spots on the far wall of Glass’s small room. Outside the slopes creaked, ice melting, water steaming, even the rocks themselves giving voice in the heat. Glass rose with a sigh. Sera and Melkir would be coming any moment now to escort her to the trial.
When, decades before, she had first been tasked to speak in public Glass had found herself seized by a fear that made no sense. Why did words she would say to any single person without hesitation become so hard to force from her lips when all those single persons were seated side by side? She had, of course, conquered her nerves in time, but even now, after a thousand sermons, a certain anxiety gripped her stomach before every performance. And Glass had, in all her long years, never performed before a crowd so high, mighty, rich, and hostile as the one she faced at midnight.
In such trials, the judges would, on rare occasions, find the accused innocent and they would be free to leave, reputation unblemished. If it was decided there was a case to answer, the accusing inquisitor would be granted licence to put the prisoner to question, using either light, moderate, or severe methods. Light methods included beating and sleep deprivation and were reserved for those deemed probably innocent. Very few prisoners subjected to severe methods during questioning ever failed to confess to the charges against them. Of course a guilty verdict was more often reached, in which case proceedings would simply move swiftly to the execution of the sentence.
The knock came sooner than Glass expected, before the focus had fully waned. At least they did knock though. The two guards treated her with a respect wholly lacking in Brother Pelter.
“Coming.” She rose. Fading spots of moonlight slid across her, and she let one play in her palm. Based on Glass’s analysis of the reports from dozens of Grey missions, Sherzal’s ambition was to hold the moon itself in her palm. Did Sherzal’s belief stem from the fake Argatha prophecy or from the older tales that might have inspired it? What was clear was that the woman had set her mind to gathering shiphearts. Trusted documents held in the most secret of Church vaults hinted that the Arks could command the moon. Other more dubious writings claimed it as fact and offered instruction in the practice. They too were placed in vaults. In the whole circle of the Corridor there were only three Arks, and the emperor made his home in one of them. Glass suspected that very little discussion had passed between Crucical and his sister on this matter . . . a conversation long overdue.
The lengthy walk to the banqueting hall passed in silence, led by a different butler from the one who had guided them earlier. Brother Pelter followed the man, then Glass, with the two guards bringing up the rear, clanking. Glass turned to inspect Sera and Melkir over her shoulder, both of them resplendent in the full regalia of Inquisition enforcers. A momentary pang of sympathy ran through her. The pair’s duties today would likely prove more onerous than either of them suspected. She hoped them up to the task and fast in their loyalty to the office they held. All had important roles to play today, be they abbess, inquisitor, or humble guard. Especially the three senior inquisitors, who had gone ahead to oversee the setting up of the courtroom in the middle reception chamber adjoining the banqueting hall.
Soon they began to hear the sounds of distant revelry. Sherzal’s extravagantly costumed house servants waited by each door they passed. Glass’s nerves began to sing as tension rose through her. She became acutely aware that she had worn the same habit for the best part of the last week, not even removing it to sleep. Opportunities to bathe had been severely limited. She missed the convent, every part of it, but the bathhouse most of all. Perhaps Pelter had planned that she should arrive stinking and that the high and mighty should wrinkle their powdered noses at the evident rankness of her offence.
