Four and Twenty Blackbirds (15 page)

"Well done, Kayne, very well and efficiently done, and thank you." She stood up, and Tal Rufen did likewise, again making the genuflection when she extended her hand. "That will be the last time you need salute me in that fashion, unless we are in the presence of others, Inquisitor," she told him. "I do not stand on formality in private with my associates."

He stood up, and gave her a half salute. "Thank you, High Bishop," he said, with more feeling than he had yet shown under any circumstance. "Thank you for—"

He was at a loss for words, but she already knew what he would have said if he could have. "Thank
you
for competence and courage," she replied. "Thank you for being ethical, even at a cost. Both of you. Those traits are too rare, and should be cherished. Now, if you would?"

Kayne took the hint, and so did he. The new Inquisitor followed her secretary out the door, and she resumed her chair, wondering what box of troubles she had just opened even as she turned her eyes towards her page.

Ardis could no more have settled down to a book now than she could have renounced the miter and gone back to being a simple Priest. She rose from her desk, but rather than pace as she might have done when she was younger, she turned with a soft sigh of heavy woolen robes and went directly to the small altar in the corner of her office. She genuflected, then knelt there, and clasped her hands on the rail before her.

Put your body in the attitude of meditation, and your spirit will follow.
That was the precept, and she had generally found it to be a true one. This time was no exception; as she stared at the Eternal Flame upon the altar, she found her mind slipping into the proper state where she could examine what she had just done without any emotion intruding. Now she played Justiciar for her own actions, answerable to her own conscience and the will of God.

Had she been too hasty in coming to a decision? Had she been so desperate for a way to shift the burden of Gwydain's request from her shoulders to someone else's that she had grasped at the first opportunity to be shed of that responsibility that presented itself?

The answer to the second question was
no.
Decidedly not. Murder was a dreadful thing, Tal Rufen was accustomed to solving dreadful crimes, and he
wanted
—in fact already had assumed—that burden. If he was forever after this night unable to solve these murders and stop the fiend responsible, he should be honored for that. That he had not been aware of the murders of Gypsies and Free Bards meant nothing; there was no point in launching a belated second investigation when Tal Rufen was already well along on his. All she had done was to make it possible for him to continue the work he was already doing—and it just so happened that her problem and his were the same.

I would make a very poor constable, just as I would make a very poor carpenter. Rather than solving this set of crimes—or building a house—it is far better that I give those whose business it is all of the means at my disposal to do what they are suited for. What was the point of having authority if you did not delegate it appropriately? What was the point of having rank if you did not exercise it in order to smooth the way for someone accomplishing something important?

No, she was not shirking her responsibility. If Tal Rufen got himself into trouble with Captain Fenris or Duke Arden she would bear the brunt of the blame. Not that this was likely, but she had known when she ordered Kayne to write up those papers that she would be answerable not only to the secular authorities, but to the Conclave of Bishops if anything went drastically wrong. That, too, was justice.

And now that she knelt here, she felt a deep certainty that none of this—Gwydain's letter, Tal's appearance, and all the rest of it—was a coincidence. When circumstances conspired to involve a Priest in some situation or other, it was her experience that it was never coincidental. When they moved to involve a Justiciar, that was doubly so, and when the Justiciar happened to be a mage as well, the odds against it being a coincidence were insignificant. Tal Rufen had been guided to her, just as she had been guided to the decision to make him a Special Inquisitor. Only a Justiciar could create an Inquisitor, and only the High Bishop, who was also a Justiciar, could create a Special Inquisitor. Tal Rufen was, in effect, a constable who was answerable to no secular authority for his actions, if he but knew it. If he left Kingsford now, with those papers in his hand, he could go anywhere and do anything he pleased.

But he won't; he's driven by this, as surely as the one behind this is driven in turn by his needs. The Hunter and the Hunted, and which was which?

Or perhaps—the Hunted, and the Haunted. Tal has his ghosts to exorcise, and I suspect, so does our unknown enemy. 
 

Blessed God—the burden of the Justiciar, who would and must always see all sides to a problem. And what kind of life must it have taken to drive this man to feed his hungers on such a dreadful feast of blood? 

And that
she
was now involved, with her link to the Gypsies and her experience with renegade clergy? What did that say about this situation?

She sighed and closed her eyes, bowing her head over her hands.
Let it not be that I have been blind to the faults of those who are my friends,
she prayed. It wasn't likely—there wasn't anyone in this Abbey that she could think of who had been in Haldene a month ago, let alone in all the other towns and villages Tal mentioned, but that was, she felt, her besetting sin. She was hard on herself, implacable with strangers, but with her friends—

Soft. Too forgiving. 
 

She remained kneeling for the rest of the time left to her before dinner, praying. First, that she had not forgiven too much, been too compassionate. It was so hard to balance justice with compassion . . . .

Second, for the souls of all those unfortunates that she and Gwydain had not known about, as well as those that they had.

And third, for Tal Rufen. His way had been hard, and it was likely to be harder still, for even if he found and caught the person behind all of this, he would still have to come to terms with the fact that he had not caught this evil creature earlier, and forgive himself for all of those who had perished.

And so shall I,
was her last, grave thought before the bell rang for dinner.
And so shall I. . . .
 

Tal had never seen the uniform of a Church Guard before, and he was a bit taken aback by its jaunty splendor. He had expected something a great deal more sober—something all in dull black, perhaps, or dark gray. This bold scarlet trimmed and edged with black piping was more like the uniform he would expect to see on the Grand Duke's guards than anything the Guard of the clergy should wear.

He felt much the better for a hot bath and the bit of food the High Bishop had given him. His headache was almost gone, and he was finally warm again. With a good meal inside of him, he would feel better still.

After his bath and a change into the only clean clothing he had left, he had returned to his tiny room to find the Bishop's secretary and his new uniforms waiting for him.

"We don't have many Guards at the Abbey," Kayne observed as he picked up the wool tunic and sniffed at the scent of cedar that still clung to its folds. "We have the uniforms, of course, to fit just about anyone, but most of them have been in storage for as long as I've been here. That's lucky for you; that uniform has probably never been worn, but we novices get nothing but handed-down robes until we become full Priests." She chuckled. "I suppose that's to get us used to sharing with sweet Sister Poverty!"

She handed him his papers; he took them, still feeling altogether dazed by the High Bishop's swift and decisive actions. He hadn't quite believed that she had been serious, even though he had made free of her hospitality, tucked his belongings into the tiny cell of a room that Kayne had shown him, and used the Abbey's hot water and soap with abandon. Now though—with this uniform and two more like it waiting on the narrow, but comfortable bed—he had to believe it.

I'm a Church Guard. A Special Inquisitor. I've been assigned to the hunt. 

The official papers only confirmed the reality. He looked them over carefully, but they simply reiterated what the High Bishop had told him.

"And here's your first quarter pay," Kayne added, handing him a black leather pouch that
chinked
softly as it went from her hand to his. "Ardis didn't tell you how much it is—she wouldn't of course, she never thinks about things like money—but I'm told it's not bad. Not as much as a specially licensed and bonded Bodyguard, but not bad. Ten silver a week for twelve weeks; enough, supposedly, to make you unbribable."

Since that sum was more than he had made per week after all his years on the force at Haldene, he hardly knew what to say except—"It is."

And with no personal expenses to speak of—it's
quite
good.
Food, lodging, uniforms—the Church supplied all of these. What would he
do
with ten silver pieces a week?

She nodded briskly. "Good. Anything else you need to know?"

He held the tunic up a little. "This. It's not what I expected—" He flushed. "Actually, it seems a bit . . . gaudy. I thought I'd be wearing black or something."

Kayne laughed, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "That's because you've never been in an Abbey of the Justiciars before. You should see all of us in our ecclesiastical best—you'd think the room was on fire."

"Ah." He'd noted the red robe that Ardis wore, and the rust-colored one of the novices, but it hadn't occurred to him that these were their equivalent of working clothes. "So on an occasion like a High Holy Day, we Guards wouldn't stand out at all, would we?"

"In fact, you'll blend in," she assured him, "And if you wore, say, black—like the Guards of the Healing Orders—you'd stand out like crows against a sunset."

At that moment, a bell sounded somewhere, and Kayne cocked her head to one side. "That's the bell for dinner, and I believe I hear one of the other Guards coming to show you the way." No sooner had the words passed her lips than a shadow blocked the door, and a discreet tap on the frame proved that she was right.

She turned, as the biggest man that Tal had ever seen eased himself into the room. "Well, this is an honor, indeed! Tal Rufen, this is the Captain of our Guards, Herris Othorp."

The huge, black-haired man who was clearly several years Tal's junior gravely offered a ham of a hand to Tal to shake. Tal took it, and was pleased and relieved when the handclasp was firm without being a test of dominance. It seemed that Herris Othorp saw no reason to prove he was a better, stronger man than those under his command.

What a pleasant change! 
 

"I am pleased to welcome the new Special Inquisitor," Othorp rumbled, actually
sounding
pleased. "I have told the High Bishop more than once that her office requires at least one. No one among the Guards has had any experience in investigation; I wouldn't have the faintest idea of where to start if I were assigned to a case."

"Don't be too pleased," Tal warned. "Maybe I have experience, but I'm not sure I'm any good!"

At that, Othorp laughed, a deep bass rumble. Tal decided that this man was going to be, not only easy to work with but a definite ally. "I think we should let God and Time judge that, and go to our dinner."

"And on that note, I shall take leave of both of you," Kayne said, and turned with that swift agility that Tal had noted in the High Bishop's office, and left them.

Othorp waited expectantly, and after a moment, Tal realized that the Captain was waiting for Tal to assume one of his new uniforms. Feeling a little self-conscious, Tal shed his old, worn canvas trews and knitted woolen tunic, and did so. When he belted the new tunic and pulled it straight, the Captain beamed with as much pride as if he had tailored the uniform himself.

"You make a fine show, Inquisitor, and that's a fact," Othorp told him. "When you aren't out investigating, I'd like to have you up in the front ranks at our major ceremonies, if you've no objection. It's a pity, but half the old fellows here are just that—old fellows, one short step from collecting their pensions. They look sad, that's the truth of it. What used to be their chest has gone south, you might say, and I'm afraid they think more of their dinners than they do of why they need to be in shape."

"And why do they need to be in shape?" Tal asked curiously as he preceded the Captain out the door and into the hallway. "Other than for ceremonial occasions, that is?" He coughed. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying this, but it would seem to me that an Abbey full of Justiciars would be the last place a troublemaker would care to go. Constables in general reckon a position like Church Guard is a soft berth."

Othorp's face darkened, but not with anger; he was very clearly worried. "You'd think that, wouldn't you." He made it a statement, not a question. "Think about it, though. Someone has a suspect, they want the truth out of him—they bring him to Justiciar Arran to see if Arran can use his magic to call it out. City constables have evidence, have a group of suspects, they call in the High Bishop or one of the other mages to link the two. And when it's Judgment time for misuse of magic, murder, rape, serious crimes, who is the one who sets the penalties if the Duke and his two Judges don't have the time or don't feel qualified to make a Judgment? Justiciars, that's who. And the more serious the crime, the more likely it is that it'll be passed here across the river." He shook his head as he walked.

Tal suddenly felt very stupid. "That's a lot of enemies," he said slowly. "The bad lads tend to put the blame on anybody but themselves for what happens to them."

"And not all of them wind up doing the rope-dance. Some of them even see out their time and get turned loose." Othorp sighed heavily. "And do you think I can get
one
of them to believe that they might be the chosen target of some very bad people and take care about their movements?" He shook his head. "
That's
why I wish we could just retire our old men when they get too fat to run, but they're sentimental around here, though you wouldn't think it. They won't hear of sending a man off to pasture on half-pay and replacing him with someone younger."