Page 47 of The Lost Reliquary
The cleric shakes his head. “In the city they are very… discreet.”
Not helpful. I try my next idea. “Would you have a map of the city I could consult?”
He brightens. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, follow me.”
The cleric leads me deeper into the little church, into the rooms at the back. One appears to be an office, small but nicely appointed, though it’s clearly been used by many as opposed to few. There’s a door, half cracked, that opens up into a bedroom of a similar situation.
“These are Prior Fedic’s chambers,” the cleric explains. “I keep them dusted, but otherwise everything is as he left it.” He goes to a bookcase filled with ledgers and scrolls, and chooses one. “It’s a bit out of date, but—”
“This is fine.” I unroll the map on a desk, using a pair of dried-out inkwells to weight it down. “Might I peruse it in privacy?”
The cleric blinks at me for a moment, unable to fathom that I’ve asked politely instead of barking an order. Maybe Fedic wasn’t a pleasant boss. Then again, who would be, shoved off into this sad little corner of the Devoted Lands?
“Yes, of course,” he says finally, with a final duck of his head before leaving me blessedly alone. I start to examine the map, but my attention is drawn to a stack of letters at the corner of the desk. There are dozens of them, tied into bundles, but it’s their seals that pique my interest: the fiery-red wax of the Cathedral. Dispatches from the Priors and Clerics of the Blood who manage the more mundane affairs of the Devoted Lands bear that seal. I slip one letter out of its binding and open it. Inside is a message, short and direct.
Your report has been received. Proceed as previously.
I take out another letter, and another. All have some variation of that simple, dismissive message. They might as well have not written back at all, because what they are saying is clear enough:You’re no longer of use to the ranks of the Chosen; have fun trying to not die whilebeing miserably far from the Goddess. It’s enough to almost make me feel sorry for Fedic.
But there’s nothing I can do for him, so back to the map. It’s a simple thing, black ink scratched on parchment, though better detailed than I expected. I trace a finger through the streets, starting at where the shrine and church sit, following the avenues through the same market squares and residences I’d expect to see in any town. As I do, I play a game: If I were going to dismember and render a human body, where would I do it? There’s a nagging sensation in the back of my mind, since I know any building in the city might do, and that there’s no way for me to search them all. But there’s another thought too: one that says that if I didn’t want to be caught doing the worst form of heresy, I wouldn’t do it in the city at all. My finger travels around the outskirts of Sethane until I find something of interest.
“Cleric!”
It’s almost amusing how quickly he reappears. Probably waiting no more than a step outside in case I needed something else. Which, now, I do. I tap my finger on the parchment, on an area filled with buildings and chimneys, though they have been scratched out. “What’s this?”
He looks. “The remains of the old refineries, Chosen One. Only a few still operate, but when the mines were more active…”
“So, no one uses them?”
He shakes his head, pointing at a spot between them and the bounds of the city. “The city dumps its waste here. Beyond that… all ruins.”
Ruins and trash. Not the sort of area anyone would frequent. Unless they had something to hide.
“Do you require anything else of me, Chosen One?”
I stare at him, summoning what I hope is something akin to the rock-hard, no-nonsense expression that Prior Petronilla used to affix me with. “Only your discretion. You are to speak to no one about why I was here, or what I asked you about. Do you understand?”
His chin drops to his chest in an instant. “Of course, Chosen One. I am only at your service, as representative of our most divine and holy Goddess, Tempestra-Innara.”
With his head down, he doesn’t see my eyes roll.
Twenty-two
There is divinity in every bone, every pad of fatted flesh, every drop of blood. One must only know how to extract it.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
DESPITE THE PRESS OFtime, I wait until evening falls to make my way to the outer edge of Sethane. A single rutted road winds down and away from the city, strewn with debris. Eventually, I catch a whiff of something foul in the air and reach a wide, rectangular pit. There’s enough starlight to see shattered crockery, splintered furniture, and what appears to be a dead ox, ribs exposed by scavengers and rot. I trace a path around the dumping ground, having had my fill of pits lately. Of more interest are the remains of the buildings a short distance past it. Right away, I see that the cleric was telling the truth: There is little left here but broken walls tracing the shapes of what structures used to stand, along with the occasional intact chimney, cold and lifeless as tombs.
Which makes it an excellent place for privacy. I creep through the ruins, shadow silent, listening for any other signs of life. Unlike Novena, there are the usual skitters of rats, the call of an owl on its night hunt. But nothing else. Frustration begins to bloom, the aching fear that I’m wrong, that I’ve lost the Renderers, Nolan, and any chance of tracking down the heretics, when the wind suddenly shifts. I hear something:a nicker, faint, but nearby. I follow it, making my way around the remains of some sort of outbuilding. It appears to be caved in, but I find a hole in the stone, catching the faint smell of horses from it. Cautious, I slip through into utter darkness, but a quiet whinny greets me. And it sounds familiar.
Risking the light, I call the flame, just enough of it to illuminate the chamber I’ve found myself in. The first thing I spot is a horse.
“Mortimer!” Buttons is there too, and a few other mounts, along with the Renderers’ wagon. There’s a section of wood roofing covering another gap beyond it. It’s arranged well enough that I would never have thought to search within, if not for Mortimer’s tip-off.
“Good horse,” I whisper again, giving him a pat. But there’s no time for a proper reunion. As cunning as this makeshift stable is, there’s no sign of the Renderers, or Nolan.
But they must be close.
