Evis nodded. “During the War, the House had dealings with a group of monks, high in the mountains of Chinlong.”
“They make that powder that keeps wounds from going septic. Sin-see, or something like that.”
“Cincee,” said Evis. “A most effective substance.” He reached down, donned his dark glasses again. “But did you know these monks are halfdead?”
I sat back. I hadn’t.
“I have walked among them. I have spoken with a man four hundred years old. He laughed and he walked with a stick, but he was of his right mind. I will be that man, Mister Markhat. And I shall not be alone.”
“You drink no blood.”
“We drink no human blood.”
“Do the other Houses know?”
“They do not. They would see it as a sign of weakness. They would attack, and we would waste valuable resources defending ourselves. Better to wait. Better to bide our time. Because, Mister Markhat, time is what we have.”
“Unless Martha Hoobin crawls out of the ground a month from now and kills everyone in a nursery school.”
“Just so,” said Evis. He sighed. “I will not deny your logic. But is it not possible, Mister Markhat, that I find the fate of these young women as awful as do you?”
I thought of Sara praying, and Victor crying.
“Maybe you do. Sorry. I fear I was brusque.”
Evis laughed. “Forgiven.” He rose, strolled to a wine rack, and motioned at the bottles and then at me.
“No thanks.” I rose too. It seemed like a time for pacing, since we were all old friends now.
“So how do we find Martha, before the new moon?”
Evis sighed. “I had hoped the warehouse would provide us with a name. It did not. It has been vacant for six years. A man named Amralot bought it and keeps it empty because he owns the facility next door and he doesn’t want the competition. We are assured he knew nothing of what took place there, or of Allie Sands.”
I frowned, walked over to the nearest row of books, realized the titles weren’t in Kingdom, and moved on.
“I had a thought, last night,” I said. “It may be offensive. Depends on how you feel about the Church.”
Evis laughed. “How I feel about the Church is irrelevant, considering how the Church feels about me.”
“They’re still trying to find mention of a hotter part of Hell just so they’ll have somewhere to wish you. And that’s on Mercy Day.”
Evis nodded. “Go on.”
I halted. “Doesn’t this once-a-month new-moon midnight feast business strike you as a ritual? I’m wondering, Mr. Prestley. Are there any former priests in the ranks? Not necessarily in Avalante-but elsewhere maybe?”
“Bravo, Mr. Markhat. Are you still determined to refuse my House’s offer?”
I was taken aback, despite myself. “Angels and devils. You mean I’m right?”
Evis nodded. “I fear so. It was your comb that provided the clue.”
“My comb.”
Evis crossed to his desk, rummaged in a drawer, produced the comb. “It was indeed devoid of any traces of handling. Utterly. Completely.”
“Impossibly,” I added.
Evis beamed, behind his shaded glasses. “My word exactly.”
“So someone hexed it.”
Evis smiled, and forgot to lift his hand. “Not just anyone, Mr. Markhat. Our inquiries are sure on this point. This comb was recently subjected to a ritual cleansing, a cleansing so thorough it is, in essence, a new object. A cleansing so powerful it lingers for some thirty days. A cleansing unique in its utter eradication of all the marks of handling, or ownership.”
I nodded. Something was coming back to me-something about excommunication, about the property of the despised.
Evis saw it and nodded. “Indeed. As…what we are, we have some intimate knowledge of the Church and its rituals of cleansing. When the condemned is cast out, the Church seizes his property. In our case, the property is considered unclean. And so, rather than pollute its coffers, the Church permits an arcane ritual to take place. The Rite of Cleansing.”
“Must be more to this Rite than a few mumbles of Church-words and a wave of the censer,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Evis. “It is a powerful act of magic, performed in utter secrecy, by one of the few walks of sorcerers the Church will permit on sacred ground.” He put the comb down. “This comb was subjected to this ritual. I believe the others were too.”
“How many of these Cleansing sorcerers are around? There can’t be many.”
Evis stepped closer. “There are only seven in all of the Church.” One is away in Galt, and has been for two years. One is old and feeble and hasn’t risen from his bed in nearly as long. The rest-well, I have the names of all the rest.”
“Five names. Only five.”
“Three are an hour’s walk from here.”
“You think one of them did more than hex the combs?”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not,” said Evis. “But even if they were not party to the fates of Miss Sand and the others-even so, they sold or allowed to be sold Church property, property that had been seized and Cleansed. That, or they are performing their art for clients other than priests. Either way, Mr. Markhat, they know the ones we wish to know. They have seen them. They have dealt with them. They may well collect the young women, as well.”
“You don’t know that.”
Evis sighed. “No, I do not. But we are out of time, Mr. Markhat. Miss Hoobin is next, unless we prevail.”
“So why not drag all five of our Church wand-wavers in here and start pulling off toes until one of them talks?”
“That was my initial strategy,” said Evis. His expression was deadly serious. “The House, though, refused to entertain any such notion. A call to arms by the Church-well, you see our dilemma. We cannot approach any of these men directly.”
I sat. “All right.” I’d been kicking a notion around since dozing off last night. I’d crafted my plan around hunting a halfdead former priest, and maybe I’d been wrong about that. But since I’d been right that the Church was involved, my notion hadn’t suffered. If anything, I had fewer calls to make.
I took a deep breath. Evis was right. Miss Hoobin was facing her last few hours above the bricks, unless Evis and I found her. “I have an idea. But it needs something to work.”
Evis whirled his chair around and plopped down into it. “What is this thing?”
“A name. A special name. We need to scare our comb-hexing friends, and Markhat won’t work, and Avalante might not. I need cold-sweating, pants-soiling, pale-faced terror, and I need it right now.”
Evis frowned. “Castor Sims?”
Sims was a Senator, noted for his fondness of the gallows.
“Scarier.”
“Violin Otal.”
“He’s dead.”
“He was indeed,” said Evis, flashing a toothy grin. “But he won’t be for long, much to the dismay of the persons who killed him.”
I shook my head. “Forget Senators and generals and remember what’s at stake here. Let’s keep the fires in the cook stoves, shall we? Give me a name. Someone who owes the House. All they’ve got to do is look grim and nod yes when asked if they’ve hired a finder named Markhat. That’s it. Now give me a name, Evis. Give me a name or I can’t make this work.”
Evis lipped his lips.
“Encorla Hisvin. That is as high as the House may reach.”
I grinned. Hisvin the Black. The Corpsemaster. I understand the Trolls had added him to their pantheon of devils, during the War. Parts of the Serge out West were still burning, where he’d swept his spells across the rocky
