Scar Night Page 0,21

the aurolethiscope all night. “Or more wary,” he said. He scribbled another sentence into the journal, then banged it shut.

Dust settled in time.

“You asked to see me,” Fogwill said.

Sypes turned with a succession of creaks. “I don’t think so.”

Fogwill steepled his fingers under his chin, trying to decide if the old man was baiting him. He produced a scroll from his sleeve. “I received a message.”

“Yes, yes.” Sypes looked irritated. “Is everything in order for the Sending?”

Fogwill rolled up the scroll and replaced it in his sleeve. “Preparations are almost complete. The Sanctum has been scrubbed and blessed, I’ve arranged for fresh candles—”

“Not perfumed?”

The Adjunct’s face slipped a little, before he caught it.

“I see,” Sypes said. “Must we always suffer these brothel odours?”

“Perfume masks the smell of rot.”

Sypes hunched forward and sniffed. “Clearly.”

Fogwill shuffled back a step, but kept his expression patient. There was an odd odour in here, now that he thought about it. He glanced at the hearth. A thick ream of parchment smouldered on the coals, blue smoke curling around its singed edges.

“Poetry,” the Presbyter said, catching Fogwill’s glance. “An Applecross butcher’s contribution to the Codex: one hundred ways to skin a cat.”

“A humorous piece?” Fogwill asked. Certainly a long one, for poetry .

“Not for the cat,” Sypes grumbled. “God forbid any more of the commoners learn how to write.” With a dramatically despondent shake of his head, he leaned back. The chair, or the Presbyter’s bones, protested softly. “How is Dill?”

“On his way to meet the soulcage.”

“Do you think he’s ready?”

Fogwill shrugged.

“Humph.” Sypes’s lips quivered. “The lad’s what now—ten?”

“Sixteen,” Fogwill said. As you well know . Dill was already a full year older than the age Codex law dictated he become Soul Warden, and the populace knew it. In the years following Gaine’s death, Borelock had been required to perform the angel’s duties and, although competent enough, his presence did little to inspire the faithful. Dill was more than just a servant of the Church, more than a symbol. He was a link to the past, to the founding of the same Church. As the living descendant of Ulcis’s own Herald, he and his line had become the thread which linked man to god. But outside the temple, gossip was rife. Had Callis’s line died with Dill’s father? If the bloodline had been severed, would Ulcis still honour his promise to those who worshipped him? Or would he abandon them to Iril, the Maze of Blood? Life in Deepgate was often bleak, sometimes turbulent. The Church had long known that to pull the faithful through, it was necessary to give them something to hold on to.

Fogwill had been surprised at Sypes’s repudiation of the Codex in this matter, but at the time had put it down to the apparent decline of the old man’s mental faculties. Only later had he begun to suspect otherwise. The Presbyter was only senile when it suited him.

Sypes rubbed an ink-stained finger across his chin, leaving a dark blue smudge. Fogwill couldn’t help but wonder if this action too was deliberate.

“You can’t keep him hidden in that tower for ever,” Fogwill said.

The Presbyter gave him a weary nod. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t help worrying about the lad. One arrow, one knife, one poisoned cup: that’s all it would take.”

“It’s not too late to have him combat-trained,” Fogwill said. “The temple guard could do it…or even the Spine, I mean…” He had meant any of the Spine except Rachel Hael. The absurdity of her assignment had not escaped Fogwill. Sypes had chosen the worst assassin in Deepgate to oversee Dill’s training.

“I’m sure she can teach him the basics at least,” Sypes said.

“Well, quite,” Fogwill said. Whatever the angel learned from her was sure to be basic. She hadn’t even been tempered, for god’s sake. “With your permission,” he said. “I think it’s time we found him a wife.”

Sypes looked up, his eyes colder.

“The families have always been well compensated,” Fogwill continued. “Before, and afterwards.”

Sypes grunted. “The sort of woman he needs is the sort who’d marry him without any of this…” He waved his hands at everything and nothing.

“The girls have other motives I’m—”

“Rot! I remember Gaine’s wife on her wedding day, her frozen smile.” Sypes let out a long sigh and his gaze shifted to the hole in the observatory floor. “And now she’s down there, watching us.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared into the abyss. “The dead, Fogwill, what are they up to,