Wax found himself pulling out Vindication.
He’d leveled the gun before he registered what had set him off. Cries of alarm, but not pain. A servant hastened out of the governor’s mansion, passing pillars on the front lit stark white, like a line of femurs.
“My lord governor!” the woman cried. “We’ve had a telenote through the wire; something has happened. You’re going to need to prepare a response!”
“What is it?” Wax demanded as the governor climbed from the carriage.
The servant hesitated, eyes widening at Wax’s gun. She wore a sharp black suit, skirt to the ankles, red scarf at the neck. A steward, or perhaps one of the governor’s advisors.
“I’m a constable,” Wax said. “What is the emergency?”
“A murder,” she said.
Harmony, no … “Not Lord Harms. Please tell me!” Had he left the man to be killed, in his haste to get to the governor?
“Lord who?” the woman asked. “It wasn’t a nobleman at all, constable.” She glanced at Drim, who nodded—Wax could be trusted. She looked back to Wax. “It was Father Bin. The priest.”
* * *
Marasi stared up at the corpse, which had been nailed to the wall like an old drapery. One spike through each eye. Blood painted the man’s cheeks and had soaked into the white ceremonial robes, forming a crimson vest. Almost like a Terris V. Blood stained the wall on either side of the corpse as well, smeared there by thrashing arms and fingers. Marasi shivered. The priest had been alive as this happened.
Though constables poked and prodded at the large nave of the church, Marasi felt alone, standing before that corpse and its steel eyes. Just her and the body, a disturbingly reverent scene. It reminded her of something out of the Historica, though she couldn’t remember what.
Captain Aradel stepped up beside her. “I’ve had word of your sister,” he said. “We’ve got her in one of our most secure safehouses.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What do you make of it?” he asked, nodding toward the body.
“It’s ghastly, sir. What exactly happened?”
“The conventicalists aren’t being very helpful,” he said. “I’m not sure if they’re in shock, or if they see our intrusion here as offensive.”
He gestured for her to go before him and they passed Wayne, who sat in one of the pews chewing gum and looking up at the body. Marasi and Aradel exited the domed nave and entered a small foyer where a row of ashen-faced people sat on some benches. They were conventicalists—those who worked in a Survivorist church aside from the priest.
A grey-haired woman sat at their head, wearing the formal dress of a church matron. She wiped her eyes, and several youths huddled against her, eyes down. Constable Reddi stood nearby; the lean man tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted Aradel. Normally, this wasn’t the sort of thing a constable-general would be involved in, but Aradel had been a detective for many years.
“Will you be handling the interrogation yourself, sir?” Reddi asked. The conventicalists stiffened visibly at the word “interrogation.” Marasi could have smacked him for his tone.
“No,” Aradel.
“Very good, sir,” Reddi said, pulling his bow tie tight and taking out his clipboard. He stepped up to the conventicalists.
“Actually,” Aradel said, “I was thinking we’d let Lieutenant Colms try.”
Marasi felt a sharp spike of panic, which she smothered immediately. She wasn’t afraid of a simple interrogation, particularly with amiable witnesses. But the way Aradel said it, so seriously, made her suddenly feel as if it were some type of test. Wonderful.
She took a deep breath and pushed past Reddi, who had lowered his clipboard and was eyeing her. The assembled group of eight people sat with slumped shoulders. How to best approach them? They’d described to a sketch artist what had happened, but details could separate Ruin from Preservation.
Marasi settled down on the bench between two of them. “My condolences on your loss,” she said softly. “My apologies too. The constabulary has failed you this day.”
“It’s not your fault,” the matron said, pulling one of the children tight. “Who could have anticipated … Holy Survivor, I knew those Pathians were a miscreant bunch. I always knew it. No rules? No precepts to guide their lives?”
“Chaos,” a shaven-headed man said from the bench behind. “They want nothing but chaos.”
“What happened?” Marasi said. “I’ve read the report, of course, but … rusts … I can’t imagine…”
“We were waiting for evening celebration,” the matron said. “The mists had put in quite the appearance! Must have been almost a thousand people in the dome