Quaestor Jones had been warned to expect a new guest aboard his caravan. The warning had come straight from the Permanent Way, with the official seals of the Clocktower. Shortly afterwards, a small spacecraft—a single-seat shuttle of Ultra manufacture shaped like a cockleshell—came sliding over the procession of caravan vehicles.
The ruby-hulled vehicle loitered on a spike of expertly balanced thrust, hovering unnervingly while the caravan continued on its way. Then it lowered, depositing itself on the main landing pad. The hull opened and a vacuum-suited figure stepped from the vehicle’s hatch. The figure hesitated, reaching back into the cockpit for a walking stick and a small white case. Cameras tracked him from different viewpoints as he made his way down into the caravan, opening normally impassable doors with Clock-tower keys, shutting them neatly behind him. He walked very slowly, taking his time, giving the quaestor the opportunity to exercise his imagination. Now and then he tapped his cane against some component of the caravan, or paused to run a gloved hand along the top of a wall, inspecting his fingers as if for dust.
“I don’t like this, Peppermint,” the quaestor told the creature perched on his desk. “It’s never good when they send someone out, especially when they only give you an hour’s warning. It means they want to surprise you. It means they think you’re up to something.”
The creature busied itself with the small pile of seeds the quaestor had tipped on to the table. There was something engrossing about just watching it eat and then clean itself. Its faceted black eyes—in the right light they were actually a very dark, lustrous purple—shone like rare minerals.
“Who can it be, who can it be… ” the quaestor said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Here, have some more seeds. A stick. Who do we know who walks with a stick?”
The creature looked up at him, as if on the verge of having an opinion. Then it went back to its nibbling, its tail coiled around a paperweight.
“This isn’t good, Peppermint. I can feel it.”
The quaestor prided himself on running a tight ship, as far as caravans went. He did what the church asked of him, but in every other respect he kept his nose out of cathedral business. His caravan always returned to the Way on time to meet its rendezvous, and he rarely came back without a respectable haul of pilgrims, migrant workers and scuttler artefacts. He took care of his passengers and clients without in any way seeking their friendship or gratitude. He needed neither: he had his responsibilities, and he had Peppermint, and that was all that mattered.
Things had not been as good lately as in the past, but that went for all the caravans, and if they were going to single anyone out for punishment, there were others who had far worse records than the quaestor. Besides, the church must have been largely satisfied with his work for them over the last few years, or else they would not have allowed his caravan to grow so large and to travel such important trade routes. He had a good relationship with the cathedral officials he dealt with, and—though none of them would ever have admitted it—a reputation for fairness when it came to dealing with traders like Crozet. So what was the purpose of this surprise visit?
He hoped it had nothing to do with blood. It was well known that the closer you got to cathedral business, the more likely you were to come into contact with the agents of the Office of Bloodwork, that clerical body which promulgated the literal blood of Quaiche. Bloodwork was an organ of the Clocktower, he knew that. But this far from the Way, Quaiche’s blood ran thin and diluted. It was hard to live in the country, beyond the iron sanctuary of the cathedrals. You needed to think about icefalls and geysers. You needed detachment and clarity of mind, not the chemical piety of an indoctrinal virus. But what if there had been a change of policy, a broadening of the reach of Bloodwork?
“It’s that Crozet,” he said, “always brings bad luck. Shouldn’t have let him aboard this late in the run. Should’ve sent him back with his tail between his legs. He’s a lazy good-for-nothing, that one.”
Peppermint looked up at him. The little mouthparts said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
“Yes, thank you, Peppermint.” The quaestor opened his desk drawer. “Now why don’t you climb in there until we’ve seen our visitor? And keep your trap shut.”
He reached out for the creature, ready to fold it gently into a form that would fit within the drawer. But the door to his office was already opening, the stranger’s passkey working even here.
The suited figure walked in, stopped and closed the door behind him. He rested the cane against the side of the table and placed the white case on the ground. Then he reached up and unlatched his helmet seal. The helmet was a rococo affair, with bas-relief gargoyles worked around the visor. He slid it over his head and set it down on the end of the table.
Rather to his surprise, the quaestor did not recognise the man. He had been expecting one of the usual church officials he dealt with, but this was truly a stranger.
“Might I have a wee word, Quaestor?” the man asked, gesturing towards the seat on his side of the desk.
“Yes, yes,” Quaestor Jones said hastily. “Please sit down. How was your, um…?”
“My journey from the Way?” The man blinked, as if momentarily narcotised by the utter dullness of the quaestor’s question. “Unremarkable.” Then he looked at the creature that the quaestor had not had time to hide. “Yours, is it?”
“My Pep… my Petnermint. My Peppermint. Pet. Mine.”
“A genetic toy, isn’t it? Let me have a guess: one part stick insect, one part chameleon, one part something mammalian?”
“There’s cat in him,” the quaestor said. “Definitely cat. Isn’t there, Peppermint?” He pushed some of the seeds towards the visitor. “Would you like to, um…?”
Again to the quaestor’s surprise—and he wasn’t quite sure why he had asked in the first place—the stranger took a pinch of the seeds and offered his hand up to Peppermint’s head. He did it very gently. The creature’s mandibles began to eat the seeds, one by one.
“Charming,” the man said, leaving his hand where it was. “I’d get one for myself, but I hear they’re very hard to come by.”
“Devils to keep healthy,” the quaestor said.
“I’m sure they are. Well, to business.”
“Business,” the quaestor said, nodding.
The man had a long, thin face with a very flat nose and a strong jaw. He had a shock of white hair sticking straight up from his brow, stiff as a brush and mathematically planar on top, as if sliced off with a laser. Under the room’s lights it shone with a faint blue aura. He wore a high-collared side-buttoned tunic marked with the Clocktower insignia: that odd, mummylike spacesuit radiating light through cracks in its shell. But there was something about him that made the quaestor doubt that he was a cleric. He didn’t have the smell of someone with Quaiche blood in them. Some high-ranking technical official, then.
“Don’t you want to know my name?” the man asked.
“Not unless you want to tell me.”
“You’re curious, though?”
“I was told to expect a visitor. That’s all I need to know.”
The man smiled. “That’s a very good policy. You can call me Grelier.”
The quaestor inclined his head. There had been a Grelier involved in Hela’s affairs since the very earliest days of the settlement, after the witnessing of the first vanishing. He presumed the Grelier family had continued to play a role in the church ever since, down through the generations. “It’s a pleasure to have you aboard the caravan, Mr. Grelier.”
“I won’t be here long. Just wanted, as I said, a wee word.” He stopped feeding Peppermint, dropping the remaining seeds on the floor. Then he bent down and retrieved the white case, setting it on his lap. Peppermint started cleaning itself, making prayerlike motions. “Has anyone come aboard lately, Quaestor?”