— I believe that the level of corruption in their ranks has reached a dangerous level. We need to act covertly.
— I suggest using an unspoken resource.
— Seconded. — Me, too.
— Seconded.
— Utilizing an unspoken resource is a good time.
— So, I'll give the High Priest a suggestion for the use of an unspoken resource. — summarized Uginoch. — And I recommend you, Metropolitan Priest Shiroh, to personally go to the troubled territories and follow the process of the Inquisition. No local official will be able to refuse you a visit.
Shiroh tried to nod understandingly and even say something in conclusion, but he didn't have the energy to do so. The only thing he was thinking about was what would help him keep his place.
***
A wide gray stone. Dust and dim light all around. And turns that don't end.
This is the way to the cells of the Inquisition, where suspects, convicts, and anyone else who had anything to do with breaking the rules of Silan Zhah await their time.
Tomorous senseless footsteps and the same face. This is Metropolitan Priest Guzoh
(120th degree) of the Sacred Seim. In his phase, the Inquisition dealt with the middle ranks of the Empire — laborers mostly. Strangely enough, heretics and sorcerers were the least among them in percentage terms. This consequence came primarily from the fact that the peculiarities of their labor did not allow for a "week of repentance".
"Penitential Week" was a period declared after the arrival of the inquisitor, for voluntary confession of heresy. During it, informers also came forward, pointing out a particular plague. The informer had two options: repentance and accusation. More often the first option was chosen, because in case the plague was acquitted (and this could happen if he had connections, including with the church, for example, if he himself had previously successfully denounced), the denouncer himself was subjected to investigation.
Guzoh had moved closer to the cameras and could now hear the moans coming from there. The large number of turns was necessary for this very reason — to drown out the sound.
A black-robed guard, impressive even for a plague, stood at the entrance. His eyes were devoid of anything that could be called emotion, and his ears no longer discriminated between painful cries and the sound of footsteps; to him, everything was the same and differed only in volume. He bowed slowly and dryly.
Behind him were two rows of cells, where they sat long and hard before what they were about to undergo. After that was the torture chamber itself.
No one looked at the one who entered that room — all three of them: the inquisitor, the suspect and the notary lived in "their" worlds.
The Inquisitor, an old plague Katankhr, had not been able to be in this room for a long time. The acrid stench all around, the same questions that not many answered at all and even fewer answered positively. But though he dreamed of being an inquisitor for the Week of Repentance, this job seemed just as important to him.
Suspect Tishinhr, a worker at the arms factory, realized that no matter what he did, the life he had before his denunciation would never be the same again. He didn't understand why plagues like him were allowed to say where the truth was and where it wasn't, why they called
themselves "saints" and why one had to agree with them. He believed in the Zhah, prayed every day, asking for strength from the Black Stone, and believed that it was up to the chum himself to do the work of faith. Tishinhr knew. That if he confessed, they would let him live, but he could not do that: he would be caught a second time and the result would be the same.
Notary Uninhr, a longtime law school graduate, saw the whole arrangement. If a suspect confessed, the least he could face was public shame followed by "forgiveness". The so-called "pardon" among the church bureaucracy consisted in the fact that on specified days, which were usually about a hundred a year, for three to seven years the plague was required to attend church and participate in special processions, seeking reconciliation with the ecclesiastical authority.
And if he doesn't confess, he will continue to be tortured and burned at the stake tomorrow.
The suspect was lifted up a meter, then released and caught near the ground. The ropes tied to his paws dug into his skin. Inside, everything jumped. Consciousness blurred. And began to feel a little nauseous.
Guzoh looked around: blackness and emptiness, the acrid smell of malice and fear, two torches illuminating the chamber so that only a few glints reflected in his eyes.
"And that's us, the Inquisition," Guzoch thought. — Only the devil is not afraid of us…"
Prefect
Many things have changed at the mine, including the way of eating. Within a month, a canteen with 50 seats was built. It had only been in operation for three days, and not everyone had time to get used to it; a table, a bench, a special room — it all looked not so much strange as questionable.
Nekrasova sat down in her usual place, in the middle of the room by the wall, and stared at her plate, where pasta and some chicken were floating in a yellowish broth.
Lena Bagrationova sat down next to her. She was also in a bad mood, but seeing the combination of muscle tension on Nastya's face, she thought that he was doing even worse.
"Nastya, what's wrong?" — Lena had a knack for getting the right demeanor at the right moments and pitching perfectly ordinary questions with the right tone. Now it was silly for her to be as sour as she really was.
"No, nothing," Nastya turned away slightly, and at the same time with that she confused all her sad thoughts, only her mood remained.
— I can see that. You're not wearing your face.
— You know, on you, too.
After these words Lena inwardly gathered herself definitively and put this result on her face — it turned out to be very good.
— Not really.
Nastya looked at her, wanting to check it out: lively eyes added by freckles, red hair tied in a braid — and indeed, there was a face.
— All right. You're wearing, uh.
— There you go!
— What am I seeing?
— That things aren't as bad as they seem.
— Yeah. It's worse than that.
— Oh, come on, man! As if punishing yourself with something will make anyone feel better.
Nastya turned away, "It's my fault." — In what?
They fought over me.
— I know.
— You know?
— Yeah. What's the big deal? They fought over you, but what could you do?
— I don't know. But since they're me.
— Nast, just because they both love you doesn't mean they will listen to you…..
— What if I did?
— How could there be a "suddenly"? Didn't you tell them that— Told you… But I really don't like them… Both of them.
— Here we go. What else did you tell them?
— That… no matter what they do, I can't love any of them. I told them that to each of them individually.
— So what are you blaming yourself for?
— I don't know…
She really didn't know what to blame herself for. And Lena didn't know, but she felt that if she were in her place, she'd blame herself just as much. It's part of life. And not everything in life is logical.
In the far corner sat the prefect and his deputy. Both were hoping for good things, but at the moment they could only wait, preparing for bad things to happen.
Kostya Rich approached their table, concerned and anxious, "Gavi, I…" "Have a seat," Horus interrupted him without raising his eyes.
Kostya sat down and clenched his hands under the table, "Gavi, I don't know how to say it. It's impossible! I can't imagine what it's about… I knew that their relationship wasn't okay, but to go to this extent…"