Scar Night Page 0,41

“What do you want?” he snapped, then glanced back at the Presbyter. Dill’s eyes reddened.

Rachel’s relief at finding the angel had been spared the whip was diminishing quickly.

The Presbyter eyed her warily. “Adept Hael here is quite correct. Back then, Devon was apprentice to the Arch Chemist Elizabeth Lade, his future wife, in the Poison Kitchens.”

“Devon is married?” Dill looked surprised.

“Was,” Sypes said, turning back to him. “The poor woman. Few survive to old age in that particular field of work—the fumes in there.”

Rachel bristled at Sypes’s dismissive manner. She bit back a retort.

“Elizabeth was more concerned with the development of narcotics,” Sypes went on. “We were looking for alternative ways to counter the threat posed by the Heshette without resorting to out-and-out genocide. Addiction to soporific chemicals was being considered.” He shrugged. “But the possibilities were never fully explored. After his wife’s death, Devon returned the focus of his research to straightforward poisons and the like, for military application. He had a certain…zeal for such work.”

“Gases to blister the skin and cause blindness,” Rachel said.

Sypes nodded hesitantly.

“Powders to spoil Heshette water and cripple their children,” she added.

Now the old man seemed flustered. “They…”

“Frightening weapons.”

“Certainly…”

“Unholy weapons.”

Dill scowled at her.

The Presbyter shifted uncomfortably. He remained silent for a long moment, and then met her gaze, and spoke sharply. “Necessary weapons.”

“Efficient,” she said coldly.

Sypes growled, “I believe pain interests Devon more than efficacy of slaughter.”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed on him. Unlike her brother and his officers, the Presbyter did not hide behind euphemisms. She realized that Sypes’s animosity was not directed at her. Evidently the old man felt some responsibility for setting Devon loose on the Heshette.

Sypes returned his attention to Dill. “Towards the end, he helped design our warships as a way to aid the deployment of poisons. The tribes were—”

“Debased?” Rachel ventured.

“Decimated,” Sypes snapped. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. “We had no choice: we lived in wicked times.”

Rachel folded her arms. Were these times any less wicked? Was the guilt easier to live with than the threat from Deepgate’s foes? “So we prevailed,” she said.

Dill kept his back firmly towards Rachel. “Did the archons always protect the temple?” he asked.

“Up until that battle they did,” Sypes said, still eyeing the assassin warily. “Things are different now. Swords and symbols have less importance in the world today. Instead of swordsmanship, you are taught ceremony, Codex law…”

And too little of that. What did the old man expect her to teach the angel? His duties as Soul Warden? Sanctum etiquette? The way he should lace up his boots? There were other things, Rachel decided, that Dill might find more interesting, or at least more enlightening.

Presbyter Sypes smiled weakly. “…and history, when you can bear it.”

“But if the tribes attacked us again…”

Rachel snorted. “The battlefield is no place for you.” She realized too late how harsh her words sounded. He wants to fight. God help him, he actually wants to go out there. She bit her lip.

Sypes shot her a warning look. “There is no danger of another attack. Our forces are too strong for the heathens. The tribes are scattered once more, the Heshette and their confounded shamans all but destroyed.” The old man looked weary now.

Dill lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured.

“You should go with Adept Hael now,” Sypes said. “I’m sure she can show you how to use that sword of yours.”

Rachel nodded. And more .

In the corridor outside the schoolroom, Dill turned on her. “Are you always so rude ?”

For once, she didn’t have a reply. If she had an apology for him, it was now firmly stuck in her throat.

He stormed off, the point of his blunt sword scuffing the floor.

“Wait.” Rachel followed.

He ignored her.

She grabbed his arm, suddenly angry again. “How old are you?”

He glowered at her.

“You’re sixteen, aren’t you—a man now?”

“So?”

“So I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t need a lesson from you.” He tried to pull away, but she held him firmly. His wings shuddered. Cool air rushed over her face.

“I don’t care what you think,” she said. “I’m going to teach you anyway. Forget swordplay. Now you’re a man, there’s something far more important you need to learn.”

“What?” He was turning red again: eyes and face.

She stifled a grin. “Just come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere private.”

He was now so red she could almost feel heat radiating from him. He shook his head.

But Rachel led him away anyway, feeling deliciously cruel.

9

Crowds at Sinners’ Well

Hundreds had gathered to watch the