“Very well, then,” Raed said, tucking his father’s missive into his pocket. “Luckily Aachon and I have discussed this before. We have a way to both get us back into the Empire and strike at an abomination.”
Tangyre’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds most impressive.”
“My Prince always is.” Aachon folded his arms so they bulged. He could not have looked more imposing even if he’d been made of stone.
Raed rolled his eyes. “Forgive my first mate, Tang. He hates slavers almost as much as I do.”
“Perfectly understandable”—Captain Greene pressed her lips together—“a pet peeve of mine as well. I already suspect that this is going to be a most satisfactory outing.”
FOUR
A Warning from Beyond
“Your husband is now properly dead.” Merrick found it amusing how unaware his partner was that her tone was far from reassuring. She sounded so merry that the widow had to be wondering if something dire had happened inside.
The younger Deacon could understand Sorcha’s mood, though; he too had been glad to come face-to-face with a genuine geist. The strange message it bore, however, was unnerving. The three months of quiet were well and truly over—he didn’t need to be Deacon Reeceson, with his wild talent of prescience, to know that.
The Arch Abbot had kept them occupied with as many menial tasks as he could find since the incident in the ossuary. They had guarded endless empty corridors, escorted wagon trains of porcelain, and entertained every vapid courtier in the palace. With Rictun’s eye so firmly set on them, leaving Vermillion was going to be as problematic as getting in had been when they had been hunted fugitives.
“So what’s the situation, then?” The light, firm voice at his side made Merrick wince.
Turning, he saw that Deacon Kolya Petav had once again followed them on assignment. Though still pale and thin after months of recovery from the geist attack outside the Imperial Palace, Sorcha’s husband was stubbornly sticking to his rights as a partner. Kolya, as in all the other times, had not an ounce of guilt on his face.
Merrick blinked, unable to quite believe it. He knew if he was in Kolya’s place he would not dare Sorcha’s rage; instead he probably would have been curled up somewhere sucking his thumb like an infant in swaddling clothes.
Two months ago Sorcha had gone to the Civic Court, spoken the ritual words three times, and signed the writ before the worthies as required. The final death knell for her and Kolya’s marriage would be accepted in another full spin of the seasons. By comparison, breaking the Bond of partnership was almost impossible—at least when one of the party would not accept it.
Deacon Petav was definitely not giving up on that particular side of his relationship with Sorcha. Instead of accepting his soon to be former wife’s petition, he had gone before the Presbyterial Council and put up a strong argument for his rights. Why he had done that was still a mystery.
This was the second time he had turned up while Merrick and Sorcha were on duty. Now he stood before them like a statue wrapped in the emerald cloak of the Sensitive. Previously his wife had ignored him, but Merrick wondered if this time, after recent revelations, she would be so restrained. Deacon Chambers feared a scene—something the Order could well do without these days. As Sorcha finished her discussion with the widow, Merrick scrambled to try to prevent that possibility.
“Deacon Petav”—he dared to put a hand under his fellow Sensitive’s elbow—“we have dealt with the geist, so there is no real call for you to be here.” He thought his voice was both deferential and low.
Kolya looked down at Merrick, the only sign of any emotion being a slight hardening around his eyes. “Are you trying to hurry me along?” He might not have said the word “boy,” but it was implied. “I have the same right to be here as you.”
Merrick could feel himself beginning to bristle and remembered Sorcha’s description of why her marriage had died. It was like struggling against a void, looking for love and affection but finding none. He had nothing but admiration for Deacon Petav as a Sensitive, yet as a man Merrick thought he was a fool.
“But Sorcha . . . ” he hissed to Kolya.
“Sorcha is confused,” his fellow Sensitive replied mildly. “She imagines life is a fairy story. When she realizes that it’s not, she’ll come round.”
This was so contrary to what Merrick knew of his partner that he stood there for a moment, completely unable to come up with an answer.
Kolya took his silence for something it was not. “She is such a child—sneaking out of the Abbey to avoid me.”
Now Merrick could feel his awkwardness turning into anger. He was searching for words that would not communicate that when Sorcha turned.
Merrick knew her natural inclination was to rage, but even Deacon Faris realized how precarious the public’s faith in the Order was at the moment. Her brow darkened like a storm front, and her mouth opened to let something fly. Then, in a display of control, her jaw snapped shut. So as the Merchant Quarter continued on its business, she stalked away past the two Sensitives—not acknowledging either of their presences.
Unfortunately for her, Kolya was taller and easily kept pace. “You should keep me informed when you go out like this, Sorcha.” His voice remained low, and it was not tinged with anything like accusation. He said it as conversationally as if he were asking her to pass the salt.
Merrick had already been caught in the middle of several of these “discussions,” and now, as then, he felt as useful as . . .
“Tits on a bull?” Sorcha shot a grim look at him over her shoulder, before turning back to her original partner. “Can’t you see you’re not wanted here, Kolya? Be a man, and let it go.”
Her old partner shrugged. “Arch Abbot Rictun has not decided what will happen in our . . . unique position. I have primacy over Deacon Chambers, after all.”
Sorcha’s back stiffened. Rictun was an old adversary of hers—though Merrick was not certain of the reason for it. If the younger Deacon had been given a choice, he would have picked a partner without these issues, but in his own way he was just as stubborn as Kolya. The Bond and the history between Merrick and Sorcha were strong, and he would struggle for them as his partner did.
“This is not the place,” Sorcha hissed, “but I can tell you that I only wish you had fought for our marriage as you are fighting for our partnership.”
With an outraged snort, Sorcha set a cracking pace through the city and soon got them out of the Quarter. Merrick trailed behind as they climbed over the gleaming Bridge of Gilt, which as its name suggested had been gilded by a rich trader seeking favor. It was the most impressive and, Merrick thought, most ridiculous of Vermillion’s many bridges. Tall gold cupids cavorted on a series of plinths along its length, and even the oak boards under their feet were decorated with insets of brass. The broad deck was also lined with many small shops that stood cheek by jowl right up to the very end where it landed on the Imperial Island. By law there was no trade in this part of the city, but the merchants played it as close as they could. The three passed through the granite gates and into the gleaming center of the Empire, walking briskly past the homes of the aristocracy, up the hill toward the Mother Abbey. Only the Imperial Palace stood higher on the man-made mount in the middle of the lagoon. Merrick’s wide-eyed view of the beauty of the place had changed—he now knew that not everything was as it seemed. He loved the Order, believed in the good work it did, but Arch Abbot Hastler’s failed attempt to bring the Murashev into the world had revealed a hidden side to it that he had never imagined.
As he contemplated that, Merrick had been left behind by Sorcha and Kolya, who were striding along at great speed. Deacon Petav’s soft voice was hard to make out over the rumble of carriages passing them—Sorcha’s was not.