believed, he could see and hear everything that happened at the desks below, the administrative heart of the Devout Congress.
Outside the hall’s wide barred windows, and blocking Shanatin’s path, was a company of soldiers, dressed like regular Knights of the Temples infantry, except they were armed where most of the other soldiers in the city had turned their weapons in to the Menin. A few eyed him suspiciously, the rest didn’t bother.
‘You lost?’ a soldier called out. Shanatin shook his head and approached the man, a sergeant with pox scars on his face.
‘I need to speak to Cardinal Eleil,’ Shanatin said in a quiet voice.
‘The cardinal?’ The sergeant snorted. ‘Gen’rally speakin’, he don’t bother with any damn stray that wanders in.’
Cardinal Eleil, once head of the Serian in the Circle City, the Devoted’s intelligence-gathering arm, was now High Priest Garash’s deputy on the Devout Congress. While Garash was the driving force behind this moral vigilance within the Knights of the Temples, it was Eleil who administrated and instituted Garash’s reforms.
‘It’s important,’ Shanatin insisted, dropping his eyes to look at the sergeant’s scuffed boots. The man looked like a bully to Shanatin; he just had to hope he looked cowed already.
The sergeant was silent a moment. ‘Better be,’ he muttered before walking past Shanatin and jerking open the main door. ‘Hey, you - where’s Chaplain Fynner?’ he asked someone inside.
Shanatin didn’t hear a reply, but the sergeant stepped back and a few seconds later a tall, white-haired man in the dark red robes of a chaplain came out.
‘What is it?’ Fynner asked in a deep, rich voice.
‘Witchfinder’s askin’ for the cardinal, Father,’ the sergeant explained, pointing at Shanatin. ‘Says it’s important.’
The chaplain frowned at Shanatin, who wilted under the look.
‘Very well,’ said Fynner with resignation, ‘come with me.’
Shanatin followed him into the large, chilly hall. It was still bright inside; orange-tinted sunlight streamed in through the windows lining the wall above the door and lamps were lit below. There appeared to be no one looking down over the room, but a dozen or so priests of various ranks were busy at the lower desks.
Once the door had shut behind Shanatin, Fynner rounded on him. ‘So, Witchfinder, you’ll have to convince me before you see anyone,’ Fynner said sternly.
‘Yes, Father,’ Shanatin mutter respectfully. ‘I ... I overheard somethin’ I shouldn’t of a few days back. I been keepin’ my eyes open since then and I don’t think he’s the only one.’
‘The only what?’
Shanatin hesitated. ‘Mage; a mage off the books.’
‘You are talking about an officer of the Order? That is a serious charge, young man; a very serious charge for an enlisted to make.’
‘I know, sir, important officer too.’
Fynner looked around the room. The other priests seemed to be busy with their work and oblivious to what was going on, but still he beckoned for Shanatin to follow him to one end of the hall, where they went through a door. Without a further word Fynner took him up a short flight of stairs, past a sentry and into the private quarters of the cardinal.
‘Cardinal Eleil is eating,’ he explained at last when they reached one doorway, ‘which may be for the best; this is sensitive information after all.’
Shanatin nodded, looking relieved. Fynner knocked and entered without waiting for a response, ushering Shanatin inside and shutting the door behind him.
‘Fynner?’ inquired the cardinal, seated alone at the head of a polished mahogany table and with a laden fork raised.
Shanatin felt his mouth start to water as the aroma of roast pork filled his nostrils. He could see roasted apples and potatoes on the plate, all liberally doused in thick nut-brown gravy. For a moment all thoughts of his mission were forgotten - until Chaplain Fynner cleared his throat pointedly and Shanatin realised he was staring open-mouthed at the food.
‘My apologies, Cardinal Eleil, but this man has just brought a matter to my attention that I felt sure you would want to hear.’
‘Well?’
Cardinal Eleil was older than Shanatin had assumed; his face wrinkled and weathered, his hair perfectly white, which indicated he was probably pure Litse blood.
‘Ah, your Grace,’ Shanatin stuttered, giving an awkward bow.
The error put a slight smile on the cardinal’s face, as Shanatin had hoped. He inclined his head to acknowledge Shanatin’s respect and took a swig of wine while the witchfinder started to speak.
‘I was comin’ back from ... ah, meetin’ a friend, four nights back - past midnight. I was out past curfew so I was sneakin’ back