for worship. And then he just sauntered up to the dais, that Pathian mongrel.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Course I did,” the matron said. “It was that Larskpur; we see him at community functions all the time. People feel they have to invite a Pathian priest, as if to not show favoritism, though nobody wants them around.”
Behind her, the underpriest nodded. “Little wretch of a man, barely fit his robes,” he said. “Nothing ornate. Really just a smock. They don’t even dress up to worship.”
“He started talking to the crowd,” the matron continued. “Like he was going to give the mistdawn sermon! Only it was vile stuff he spouted.”
“Such as what?” Marasi asked.
“Blasphemy,” the matron said. “But it shouldn’t matter. Look here, constable. Why are you even talking to us? A thousand people saw him. Why are you treating us like we did something wrong? You should be off arresting that monster.”
“We have people hunting for him,” Marasi said, and rested her hand on the shoulder of one of the children; the little girl whimpered and clamped on to her arm. “And I promise you, we’ll catch and punish the one who did this. But every detail you can remember will help us put him away.”
The matron and the underpriest glanced at each other. But it was one of the others—a lanky altarman in his twenties—who spoke. “Larskpur said,” the man whispered, “that the Survivor was a false god. That Kelsier had tried, and failed, to help humankind. That his death hadn’t been about protecting us or Ascending, but about stupidity and bravado.”
“It’s what they’ve always thought,” the matron said, “but don’t say. Those Pathians … they claim to accept everyone, but if you push you can see the truth. They mock the Survivor.”
“They want chaos,” the underpriest repeated. “They hate that so many people look to the Survivor. They hate that we have standards. They have no meetings, no churches, no commandments.… The Path isn’t a religion, it’s a platitude.”
“It stunned us, I’ll tell you that,” the matron said. “I thought at first that Father Bin must have invited Larskpur to speak. Why else would he be so bold as to step up to the pulpit? I was so horrified by what he said that I didn’t notice the blood at first.”
“I did,” the underpriest said. “I thought he was wearing gloves. I stared at those fingers, waving, bright red. And then I noticed the drops that he was flicking across the floor and the pulpit as he gestured.”
They all were quiet for a moment. “There isn’t anything more to say,” the matron finally said. “Larskpur gestured one last time, and the back draping fell down. There he was, our blessed father, nailed there in a terrible parody of the Survivor’s Statemark. Poor Father Bin had been … hanging the whole time. Might have been still alive, bleeding and dying while we all listened to that blasphemy.”
Marasi doubted that. Though the priest had obviously struggled at first, the spikes would have ended that quickly. “Thank you,” she said to the distraught group. “You’ve been very helpful.” She carefully pried the little girl’s hands from her arm and passed her to the matron.
Marasi stood, walking to Aradel and Reddi, who stood on the other side of the room.
“What do you think?” Marasi asked softly.
“About the information,” Reddi said, “or your interrogation techniques?”
“Either.”
“That wasn’t how I’d have done it,” the short constable said. “But I suppose that you did put them at ease.”
“They didn’t offer much,” Aradel said, rubbing at his chin.
“What did you expect?” Marasi asked. “Captain, this had to be the same person who killed Winsting.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Aradel said. “What would be the motive?”
“Can you explain this any other way?” Marasi said, gesturing toward the room with the dead priest. “A Pathian? Murdering? Sir, their priests are some of least aggressive people on the planet. I’ve seen toddlers more dangerous.”
Aradel continued rubbing his chin. “Reddi,” he said, “go get those conventicalists something to drink. They could use a warm mug right now, I’d suspect.”
“Sir?” Reddi said, taken aback.
“You been spending so much time at the gun range you’ve gone deaf?” Aradel said. “Be about it, Captain. I need to talk to Constable Colms.”
Reddi’s glare at Marasi could have boiled water, but he moved off to do as ordered.
“Sir,” Marasi said, watching him go, “I can’t help noticing that you’re determined to see the rest of the constables hate me.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Just giving the boy a nudge. He’s useless