Grey Sister

The carriage rumbled to a halt, jolting Glass from her inspection of imaginary maps. She frowned, wondering if the road ahead were blocked. The driver rapped four times on the roof and the guard beside the abbess leaned forward to open the door.

“Abbess Glass, how wonderful to see you.” Lord Thuran Tacsis clambered in as Brother Pelter vacated the opposite seat to squeeze beside Glass.

Thuran shared little in appearance with his sons, being neither golden and handsome as Raymel had been, nor dark and lean as Lano was. A portly man of no great height, he would barely reach his elder son’s ribs. A florid face, that seemed unlikely ever to have been handsome, gave over to a thick grey beard. He was smiling as he took his seat. A second man climbed in behind Thuran, a man in his forties with a thick head of dark blond hair and a luxurious blue robe. Taking his place beside Thuran, he fixed the abbess with glacial eyes.

“Joen Namsis.” Glass made a politer nod than decorum demanded. “You’re a long way from home.” Joeli’s father kept estates close to the coast and was rarely seen in Verity’s social circles save at the grandest of Tacsis flings.

“On my way to another engagement I received word that my daughter had been severely injured whilst in your care, abbess. High Priest Nevis suggested that I visit Joeli before deciding whether to remove her from the convent.”

Glass nodded. “A broken knee. A nasty injury. And not one sustained during training.” She offered her most sincere smile. The girl’s class mistress, Sister Spire, reported several of Joeli’s friends injured on the same day, and Nona covered in bruises. The truth of the matter was pretty clear, and Nona must have been heavily outnumbered for Joeli not to report the incident, painting herself as victim. “Imagine, all that time practising punching and kicking and stabbing and slashing . . . and then poor Joeli hurts herself falling down the dormitory stairs.” The carriage lurched back into motion and Glass peered through the slats. “Though if you’re wanting to visit your daughter at the convent you’ll find we’re going the wrong way.”

“We’re only riding a short distance with you, abbess.” Thuran Tacsis spoke up now, still full of apparent good humour. Glass didn’t allow the mask to fool her. She knew the Tacsis lord as a cunning operator. He wielded considerable power at court on account of the family’s wealth, but he had also inherited and possibly improved upon many of the skills his distant ancestors had relied on to make that fortune in the first place. “Joen must get to the convent and see his daughter. I’ve asked him to draw up plans for the running of the place in the emperor’s name. In anticipation of Crucical taking Sweet Mercy from the Church, as he surely will once your guilt has been established.”

“It never hurts to be prepared.” Glass nodded. She wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction he was so obviously trying to squeeze from her distress. “And will you be visiting the convent, Lord Tacsis?”

“I have other business to attend to.” His smile broadened. “You should have let that child hang, abbess. It would have been a quick and easy death. Less than she deserved after leaving Raymel for dead.”

“On that we disagree.” Glass kept her tone light.

“I hope your chains are more comfortable than the last time you faced trial, abbess. I heard that they put you in an iron yoke and burned the flesh from your palm.”

“It was me that demanded the candle and held my hand to it.” Glass met Thuran’s eyes.

“And again you kept the girl from an easy death. Drowning is not so bad, I’m told. Takes no longer than a bad hanging and hurts less. The assassin’s knife would have been quick too.”

“I didn’t believe she deserved death, easy or hard.”

“No. You had her trained to kill instead.” A flicker of anger now. “And she killed my son!”

Glass kept her mouth shut, her gaze darting to the inquisitor and finding him peering through the window slats, studiously ignoring the conversation.

“And in the end, oh delicious irony,” Thuran forced the humour back onto his face, “it is your own order that she breaks and which sees her driven from your protection.” He raised a hand to stroke his chin. “Imagine if she were captured out there somewhere in the Corridor . . . Do you think she would meet an easy death then, dear abbess?”

“I would think anyone who tried to capture that girl would be taking their life in their hands.” Glass fixed Thuran with a hard stare, backed by a confidence she didn’t feel.

“Imagine if she were captured,” Thuran repeated, his voice soft now. “Do you think they would invite me to watch her die?”

“The emperor forbid you—”

“The emperor will never know.” He lurched forward, roaring his words, flecks of spittle peppering Glass’s cheeks. “Do you think you’re going to tell him? Do you think it’s Crucical’s palace the inquisitor here is taking you to?” Thuran’s face was now red and twisted, the rage he’d been holding back all this time let free in a sudden rush. “Did you think you’d won again with your forgotten laws and petty little rules? Did you, abbess? Did you?”

“I cannot be tried at the Tower—”

“You’ll be tried in a palace, you sorry hag! You’ll be tried in a palace, found guilty in a palace, and burned in a palace! Just not Crucical’s. Pelter here is taking you to Sherzal! How do you like that? And while you’re getting your just desserts I will be making sure that a certain young novice of your acquaintance is wishing with all her black heart that you’d let her hang or drown or even that Raymel had taken his pleasure, because she won’t die easy, abbess, she really won’t!”

Glass bent her head to hide the emotion she couldn’t keep from her face. She stared at her hands and at the silver chain wrapped around her wrists but what she saw in her mind were dominos falling, endless lines of dominos, one toppling the next, lines splitting, splitting again, everything in motion, the complexity doubling and redoubling, the clatter swelling into a roar, the speed increasing, everything out of control.

It seemed so long ago when Judge Irvone had pronounced, “This is a poor decision, abbess,” and she had replied, “Even so.” And had with two words toppled the first domino.

30

NONA SLIPPED FROM Kettle’s mind into her own dreams, and from those into a fitful state halfway between sleep and waking. Gradually her eyes found focus on a single point of brightness and her body made sense of itself. She realized that the cold beneath her cheek was that of a flagstone and raised her head. She uncoiled slowly, groaning to herself.

A single small candle had been placed on the ground just beyond the sweep of the door. Already it had burned down to less than a thumb’s length. Its only purpose appeared to be to illuminate the knife set before it on the floor. Nona squinted then sat back against the wall. A single object had answered most of her questions. A throwing knife of modest size, its pommel a plain iron ball, the grip bound from pommel to hilt with a thin strip of leather. The Noi-Guin had left the weapon. The same Noi-Guin who had failed to take Nona’s life on her second night at Sweet Mercy, the Noi-Guin who had stabbed Kettle in the wilds while hunting Nona two years later and been hurt in turn, the Noi-Guin who had tried to re-enter Sweet Mercy by the caves; the Noi-Guin the holothour had driven away.