How better to test the theories they pour into them?
Brindle nuzzled my hand and I sank it into his friendly fur, drawing in strength for a moment before he wiggled away, left my side at a brisk pace, and trotted around the edge of the room, sniffing everything in turn.
“And now you owe us the truth, Sir Coriand,” I said, not rushing to the books as Sir Owalan had, or poking at the sand with my sword as Hefertus was.
I was focused on one thing: discovering who among us had murdered the others. After all, that was the person to stop, wasn’t it? The rest could be reasoned with. The rest could be convinced not to make demons. But the murderer had to have known from the beginning what all of this was and had to have planned to use it for his own ends.
“And what truth is that, Beggar?” Sir Coriand asked, rolling his shoulders backward as if bracing for a fight. It was a strange thing to see in a man well past his prime, his hair long and hoary white. But his golem flanked him — Suture, a construct of rag and bone, and somehow the horrible machine looked protective, more bodyguard than beast.
“Did you push the Majester?”
“Of course.”
Sir Owalan’s head snapped up at that, but the High Saint didn’t even look over at him. I heard a low growl from the direction of Hefertus. Adalbrand eased himself against the base of one of the platforms, watching with a keen eye.
“Did you use his death as the sacrifice for the trial?”
“He no longer served me.”
“Did you —”
Sir Sorken interrupted me. “If you’re going to interrogate my friend, Beggar, I think it’s only fair that your friend comes up here with us in the sky. After all, we can’t have you fighting two against one.”
I glanced over at Adalbrand and shrugged. We didn’t both need to be down here. Would he go up in a rig if it meant discovering the truth?
He hesitated, frowned, but after a moment he shrugged, too.
“Very well. But I’ll examine a book before I ascend. I won’t write gibberish for no reason. And I do not scribe in Ancient Indul.”
“Doesn’t seem to make a difference what language you write in. I’ve written in three languages so far and they all work,” Sir Sorken said, as if the murder I was trying to discuss was hardly even interesting compared to the task set before him.
The golems shuffled gently around the ring, picking up fallen books and placing them neatly back in stacks. Two against one, indeed. It would be three against one if I tried anything. I would battle them all if I must. I would root out both demons and murderers. I had no doubt that the two were linked.
Ha! As if it is ever so easy. Ask your questions. Find your killer out. At least you’ll get one last taste of victory before I rip out your tongue.
It was strange how threats dulled when they were breathed at a constant stream. What would have given me chills only days ago felt insignificant now.
And so the city is taken. With a whisper here, a nudge there, and when no one is looking anymore, when all are drowsing, then we push and we bring down the walls, flood over them with axes and brands ready, and we pillage the city, put it to the flame, and slay every resident. So it will be with your very heart, sweetmeat.
Not if I can help it. And help it, I will, Sir Branson warned.
I did not have the space in my mind to spare for their argument. My mind was focused on Sir Coriand.
“The Inquisitor,” I demanded as Adalbrand wandered over to one of the desks and started flipping through the pages. I could tell that he was listening as he worked, his attention divided between me and the books. “Did you tell the Majester to kill him? Was yours the voice he thought he heard?”
“Did he claim to hear a voice?” Sir Coriand asked. “Here, let me help you, Sir Adalbrand. Any of these blank books will do, but you’ll need a friendly hand to hold the ropes of the harness for you.”
Adalbrand quirked an eyebrow at him. “Forgive me, Sir Engineer, but I fear your hand is not friendly. Did you not just confess to pushing the Majester from your platform? You are a murderer.”
Sir Coriand took a step back, wariness in his eyes.
“I did confess that,” he said carefully, and my eyes narrowed. He was not flustered or concerned that we had found him out. He was laying out his actions as if they were completely understandable. “And we are all murderers. We confessed it to Sir Kodelai before we entered this place. I suspect we would not have been allowed the trials had we not confessed to at least that. And now think, Poisoned Saint. Have you never killed a man in mercy? You take on ills so great that it almost seems you thwart the will of the God. Did you not save the Majester’s life, plucking him from the very gates of death and setting him back into this world?”
“I did,” Sir Adalbrand agreed, looking up only briefly before he returned to studying a book.
He drew a parchment from a pocket, smoothed it out, and folded it into the blank book before flipping through a stack of others. What he was looking for was not obvious to me, but he seemed to have a purpose to his brisk movements and rapid study. Hadn’t Sir Branson said that the Poisoned Saints were very well studied? Maybe he was used to combing through a great deal of text very quickly — even in another language.
He opened one of the books wide enough that I could see it from where I stood on the edge of the ring, sword at the ready. The book was filled on every page with diagrams that looked more like engineering theory than like written treatise.
