The Devout Congress had appropriated the long arcade of shops in the northeast of the quarter that for centuries had sold temple offerings to the faithful. In these troubled times it now resembled a conveyor belt of tribunals. In the cold stores below they obtained their evidence, while magistrates heard the accusations and passed sentence above. The sentences weren’t carried out on site, but Shanatin guessed that was simply because it lacked the public arena High Priest Garash preferred.
Anything could lead to an arrest — and when you did the work of the Gods, those you arrested were never innocent, otherwise those guided by the spirits of the Gods had made an error, and how could that ever be? Shanatin recognised the looks in the eyes of the fanatics and their followers: some believed, some saw an opportunity. But the much-abused fat fool of the witchfinders was an expert on bullies. With no fear of retribution, the worst of humanity was brought to the surface. Shanatin wasn’t so certain of his standing with Azaer that he dared test the shadow’s loyalty to its followers, but he knew he was on the right side if he opposed such men.
‘Timonas’ll be here,’ he insisted, ‘and Perforren too.’
The chaplain returned to his vigil at the window and Shanatin relaxed a touch. The street was empty and quiet outside, and the strong stink of mud rose in the warm summer air. He squirmed as a trickle of sweat ran down his back, but stopped at a look from Fynner, flinched and edged closer to the window, realising Fynner would have struck him had they not been trying to keep quiet. Before a threat followed however, there came the sound of feet in the street below.
Glad of the distraction, Shanatin peered between the half-dozen remaining shutter slats. They had seen a few false alarms, but now the witchfinder felt a flicker of fear in his stomach as he recognised the brass plated cuirass and red sash that denoted a low-ranking officer of the Order. The man walked without haste, remaining as unobtrusive as possible, but his polished armour caught Alterr’s pale light and seemed to flash a warning to Shanatin.
‘A captain of the Order,’ Fynner whispered, voice laden with anticipation. ‘It must be Perforren — our prey is most obliging.’
‘Unless his dose has worn off,’ Shanatin muttered, to himself as much as anything, but Fynner was in an obliging mood and took the bait.
‘Worn off? I thought you said he’d have plenty from last time.’
‘Sure, if he’s only buying for hisself. If he’s got himself a friend in the same situation, they’ll both be needing their next dose soon. Message did say it was urgent, might be he needs more before he can pass any test.’
Fynner released Shanatin’s arm and thought hurriedly. They were waiting to catch Captain Perforren in the act of buying a potion that would suppress dormant magical abilities. Any officer hiding a capability for magery, as they believed their quarry was, would be in serious breach of the Order’s Codex of Ordinance, quite aside from the stricter regulations imposed by High Priest Garash’s Piety Congress. That Perforren was aide to Knight-Cardinal Certinse, supreme commander of the Knights of the Temples, made him a prize worth waiting for.
‘That’s why you brought the squad of witchfinders, ain’t it?’ Shanatin asked, not giving Fynner too long to think.
‘I brought them because this is under their jurisdiction,’ Fynner said angrily. ‘You implied Perforren would have no magic to command when we arrested him.’
‘Probably he doesn’t! He’s been hiding who he is all these years, not practising… I’m just sayin’, wouldn’t want to be the one to arrest a mage with nothing to lose.’
Chaplain Fynner stared at Shanatin’s fat, guileless face for a few seconds before realising the witchfinder was making sense; the troops could restrain Perforren and Timonas well enough themselves, so no need for himto be at the forefront if he resisted.
‘Well, then, where’s your man Timonas?’ he muttered, returning to the window.
Down below they saw the man they asssumed to be Perforren stop at a corner and check around it before he secreted himself into the shadow of a doorway. All fell silent again, and it was five minutes or more before any other sound broke the night. Rather than a second set of footsteps, Shanatin heard more distant noises, distorted into nothing recognisable by the city streets.
He didn’t know what sort of disturbance had caused it, but Luerce, first disciple of Ruhen’s Children, had been very clear in his instructions. Shanatin glanced at Fynner and was relieved to see the chaplain wasn’t looking to be in any hurry to leave their vantage point. They needed a witness to report back, and with any luck Fynner’s testimony would heat up Garash’s hair-trigger temper and push this internal struggle over the edge.
It wasn’t long before Sergeant Timonas of the witchfinders appeared from the other direction, in time to play his small part in matters. Shanatin watched the man anxiously; he knew Timonas was innocent in this, but the bastard deserved everything he got. He found himself holding his breath as Timonas approached the corner with far more caution than Perforren had, looking in all directions as though bewildered he was there at all.
‘Well?’
Shanatin looked over and realised Fynner was staring expectantly at him. Timonas wasn’t wearing his black and white uniform, of course; the man had more sense than that, having received an anonymous note that his life was in danger.
He nodded and gestured at the newcomer. ‘It’s him, for certain.’
Fynner reached up and, checking neither of the men was looking his way, drew the curtain away from the shuttered window. The lieutenant in charge of the squads was watching for his signal and in the next moment a door burst open a short way down the street Timonas had just walked along. The two men panicked at the crash, but in the next instant a second clatter came from down the next street and then a third from somewhere below where Shanatin stood.
‘Drop your weapons!’ someone yelled as Shanatin hunkered down at the window and watched events. Timonas was standing like an idiot — Shanatin could see his stupid thick jaw hanging open in astonishment as he turned, first one way, then the other, to watch the onrushing troops. By contrast Perforren was already moving with purpose, drawing a pair of swords.
Shanatin jammed his knuckle in his mouth as he tried to suppress a gasp of surprise, but the sound was echoed by Fynner anyway as Perforren broke into a sprint from a standing start, covering the ground to the nearest squad before the last man had even made it out of the building. One slender sword slashed open the first soldier’s throat, even as the second was piercing the side of another. Perforren kept moving, slipping between the spears of the next two, hopping left and right, almost with the grace of a Harlequin.
Both soldiers reeled away, to be immediately replaced by a fifth and sixth, but those too were no match for Perforren’s speed. He deflected one thrust and darted right around the shield of the other, kicking high into the man’s shoulder and knocking him into his comrade even as he chopped up into the elbow of a third soldier.
Gods, a Harlequin — dressed up and made to look like Perforren?
The remaining men of the squad, thrown back by the force of his attack, now fanned out to surround him, but Perforren stood his ground. He stopped a moment and his voice cut through the confusion, but he was not speaking any words Shanatin could recognise. Abruptly he slashed through the air between himself and the last troops and a blinding white light tore in an arc after the tip of his sword. The light whipped across each of the men and ripped through their armour like paper. They fell without a sound, a gaping wound stretching across the chest of each from which Shanatin glimpsed the white stubs of ribs.
Shanatin felt a hand drop onto his shoulder and almost shrieked before he realised it was Fynner, stunned by what was happening.
‘Merciful Gods, it’s true and more,’ Fynner mumbled in shock. ‘He’s a trained battle-mage!’
Loud, angry voices came suddenly from a side-street, and in the next moment another squad of Devoted troops burst into view. Fynner gasped: these men weren’t under his command. In the moonlight their unit markings were clear on their shoulders. He could easily make out the designation: C11, Knight-Cardinal Certinse’s own elite troops, the Tildek mounted infantry. Most had been co-opted into service by the Menin, but Certinse had been allowed a regiment of personal guards to remain with him.
‘It’s an ambush,’ Fynner gasped, leaning heavily on Shanatin as though all the strength had gone out of him. ‘They’re here to kill us all.’
The Tildek infantry charged straight for the witchfinders, howling furiously and giving them no time to steady themselves. The squad of witchfinders were not front-line troops and they quickly collapsed under the assault, half of them dropping in the initial rush. The elite troops swamped their foes, battering through them with rare savagery so that in seconds they were all on the ground, dead or dying.
