Glass took her chair. The seat beside it lay empty. Kettle’s place. Sister Rail would have to take the notes this time. She exhaled and the air clouded. Every breath contrived to remind her of the shipheart’s absence, of her failure.
“First item on the agenda?” Glass looked along the table. Rose, Wheel, Tallow, Rail, Apple, Rock, and Sister Pan huddled in her furs, dark eyes aglitter.
“I have delivered the Grey reports for the last five years into Brother Pelter’s keeping, as requested.” Sister Apple looked as if she would rather have poisoned the man.
“Thank you.” Glass smiled. “And the ciphers?”
“And the ciphers.”
The reports were fakes. Apple had for years been producing a copy of each report, altering, excising, and sanitizing. The encryption she used differed from that employed on the true reports and the ciphers had been designed to be devilishly time consuming to apply. Glass wished Pelter and his subordinates much joy of it.
“Next?” Abbess Glass glanced towards Sister Wheel; she always had something to raise.
“Heresy.” Brother Pelter stepped up behind the abbess’s chair.
“Heresy, brother?”
“This whole convent is treading dangerously close to heresy, abbess. Your buildings may stand upon the edge of a cliff but your faith teeters at the brink of a far deeper chasm!”
“Indeed?” Glass steeled herself neither to rise nor look around. “These are grave charges, inquisitor. Perhaps you could elaborate?”
Pelter began to circle the table, staring at the back of each nun’s head. “It is more a matter of attitude and atmosphere at the moment. Something rotten in the state of Mercy.”
“Hearsay and heresy, though they may sound similar, are very different things, Brother Pelter.” Glass set her elbows to the table and steepled her fingers before her. “A crime is built of specifics. Have you any of those?”
Pelter paused his stride. “The worst example so far has been in Spirit class.”
“Spirit class? You amaze me!” Glass didn’t have to pretend surprise. The idea that Sister Wheel might fall short in any measure of piety or protocol stretched her belief.
“There have been some questionable choices in the selection of saints to be studied.” Brother Pelter looked grave.
“The novices make their own choice of saint for the Spirit essay.” Sister Wheel looked outraged. “There are no works by or concerning heretics in my library. The Ancestor’s library that is.” She thumped the table. “I defy you to find even one.”
“One of your novices is even now writing about Devid,” Pelter said.
“Devid?” Sister Wheel opened her mouth but no further words emerged.
“Perhaps you could enlighten us, sister?” Abbess Glass asked. “I’m not familiar with the man.”
“I . . .” Wheel’s frown became a scowl. “I’m not . . .”
“Few people have heard of him,” Pelter said. “Raised to the sainthood in the Onian period.”
“I’ve nothing from the dark ages in the library!” Wheel shook her head.
“And yet there are books in Sweet Mercy that do not reside in your library,” Pelter said.
A knock at the door forestalled any reply Sister Wheel might have to that. Sister Pail’s head appeared.
“There’s a novice who says she has important information for the table and that it can’t wait.”
Unexpectedly Sister Pan turned in her chair. “Tell her that it can wait and will wait.”
Abbess Glass nodded. It paid to listen when the old woman spoke. “Tell—”
“She has Watcher Erras with her, abbess,” Pail interrupted. “He wants Brother Pelter to hear her.”
Abbess Glass sighed. “Send her in.” Pelter would demand it. Better to give it to him and not lose face.
Sister Pail opened the door and Watcher Erras, a short man whose pot-belly strained his tunic, strode in. Joeli Namsis followed, looking demure, her gaze on the floor.
“Joeli? You had something urgent to tell us?” Glass fixed the girl with a hard stare.
Joeli nodded, biting her lip as if unsure.
“Well do tell us, novice.” Glass motioned with her hand.
Joeli hesitated, a show of reluctance. “A trip-thread in the undercaves has been triggered.”
“Intruders?” Glass closed the hand upon the table into a fist. But it wasn’t outsiders. Sister Pan had wanted this kept quiet. “I hope it’s intruders, Joeli, and that you have not interrupted the important business of the convent table to tell tales on fellow novices.” She knew Brother Pelter would make his move sooner or later but this was too soon for anything usable to be placed into his hands. The abbess put every ounce of her will into the stare with which she pinned the girl before her. More woman than girl, truth be told, and far too beautiful for her own good. Shut your mouth, novice. Shut your mouth and go away.
On almost any novice Glass’s stare might have had its desired effect but Joeli, full of earned grievance, natural spite, and the confidence that a rich family engenders, shrugged it off. “It’s only, abbess, that I remembered how strongly you emphasized that the undercaves were off-limits. After, you know, the shipheart was taken. You said—”
“I remember what I said!”
Joeli proved relentless. “You said that anyone wandering there without permission would be banished from the convent.”
“This sounds to be a serious act of defiance.” Brother Pelter crossed the room to stand before Joeli. “How do you come to know of such a crime, child?”
Abbess Glass paid no regard to their play-acting. Pelter had started his career as house-priest to the Namsis family. He would have known Joeli as a young girl and still have close contacts with her father.
Joeli turned her wide green eyes towards the inquisitor. “I helped Sister Pan place the trip-threads and several of them are attuned to me.” She paused as if waiting for a question. “So I know if anyone other than a sister crosses them, and who that person is.”
“Who was it?”
“A novice, brother. One of our order, Nona Grey.”
“And, Sister Pan.” Brother Pelter approached the nun. “Did you not know of this too?”
“I did,” Sister Pan replied testily.
“But you didn’t think fit to mention it at table?”
Abbess Glass beat Sister Pan to a reply, well aware that her Mistress Path had been quite capable of levelling buildings in her prime and might still be able to turn an impertinent monk inside out. “We were only on the first item of business, Brother Pelter! You yourself interrupted the order to talk of heresy before we reached the second.”
“There are no bad times to speak against heresy, abbess.” Pelter folded his arms. “And the novice that was wallowing in it with her ill-advised writings on the dark-age saint known as Devid was none other than this Nona Grey we have just heard about.” He resumed stalking around the table. Glass felt the jaws of the trap close around her. “And the punishment you prescribed for transgression was to be banished from the convent?”
“Nona is a three-blood! We can’t send her out into the world. That’s madness.” Glass drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “When I made that ruling it was a week after the theft. A novice had died down there. I said what was needed to keep others from getting themselves hurt.”
“I agree with you.” Brother Pelter nodded. He rounded the head of table, footsteps echoing in the cold air.
“I’m glad. Flexibility is what’s needed.” Glass forced herself to unclench her fist.
“I agree that we can’t allow the child out into the world. She’s too valuable. Others will seize her and turn her talents against the Church and against the emperor. Flexibility though? Flexibility is a toxin. The ally of heresy. It’s flexibility that allowed this child to get hold of unsuitable histories in the first place. Rules must be iron. Decisions must be kept to. Decrees obeyed.”
“We . . . I suppose we could strip her of the habit and keep her at the con
vent as a lay-worker. Perhaps a labourer in the vineyard,” Glass offered. All along the table her sisters watched with mixed expressions, outrage from Tallow, horror from Rose, satisfaction twisting Rail’s smile, confusion making something almost comical of Wheel’s face. “Or in the pigsties.”
“No.” The inquisitor held his hand up. “Banished. That was the word. You cannot be banished and yet remain. And you cannot banish someone who can become so deadly a weapon in an enemy’s hand.”
“An impasse,” croaked Sister Pan from her furs.
“No impasse, sister.” Brother Pelter smiled. “We drown the child then throw her body off the cliff.”
19
“GET YOUR COAT on!”
Nona looked up from the desk beside her bed. All around the dormitory novices stopped their preparations for sleeping or laid down their quills. Sister Kettle stood in the doorway, pale-faced, darkness smoking off her skin.
“Me?” Nona stood up, touching a hand to her chest.
“You.” Kettle stepped into the room, glancing left and right. “You have to come with me.” The points of a throwing star glimmered from the closed fist at her side. “Now!”
Nona glanced down at her feet. The slippers she had on were a gift from Ara, lined with blue-squirrel fur. She stepped out of them and reached for her shoes.
“What’s the matter?” Darla rose from her bed, towering over the approaching nun. She rolled her neck, clicking bones.
“Gather what you need for a journey.” Kettle knelt and started to rummage in Nona’s cupboard. “We’re leaving in two minutes.”
Zole raised her head from between her bed and Mally’s, abandoning her press-ups. “There is a problem.” Not a question. “I will help.”
“You have your own problem,” Kettle said, still stuffing Nona’s possessions into a hemp sack. “Tarkax is here to escort you to Sherzal’s palace.”
“No!” Nona had one arm into her range-coat and was struggling with the other. “Zole’s one of us now!”
Kettle stood, tying the sack closed. “Not if her mother disagrees. Church over parent is Scithrowl heresy. The abbess can’t afford to argue the case.”
“Can’t afford!” Nona realized she was shouting. “Can’t afford?”
“I have no mother,” Zole said. “And I wish to remain here.” She stood by her bed now, a solid six-foot of killing machine, hard-eyed and ready.
“You stay there then.” Kettle reached for Nona’s hand and began to pull her towards the door.
“Wait.” Darla stepped forward. “Where are you going?”
“Away.” Kettle swept the room with dark eyes and shadows swirled. “I wasn’t here.” She set a finger to her lips. Her gaze settled on Crocey and Elani beside Joeli’s empty bed. “There are worse things, novices, than the Inquisition. Consider that.” A tug of her hand and she had Nona stumbling towards the door.
Together they hurried down the stairs. Nona dug her heels in as they drew level with the door to Grey Class. “What’s going on? I don’t want to leave!”
“We can talk about it outside.” Kettle started towards the main door.
“Can’t I say goodbye?” Nona jerked her arm free. She couldn’t just go. “What about Ara and the others?”
“Ara and the others aren’t in trouble.” Kettle cocked her head as if hearing something. “Quick, come here!” She backed into the corner behind the main door, gathering shadows to her.
“Trouble?” Nona went to join Kettle and the nun drew her close, both arms tight around her as the darkness clotted.
“You were in the undercaves,” Kettle whispered. “Joeli had trip-threads there.”
“But . . .” A cold realization reached into Nona. “The shipheart wasn’t thread-guarded . . . It washes those magics away.”
“The shipheart isn’t there any more.”
Kettle put her hand to Nona’s mouth as the door opened. Four watchers marched in, boots loud on the stone floor, a freezing wind whipping around them. They carried on up the stairs, not bothering to close the door.
“Stay close.” Kettle tossed something out through the doorway. Nona heard it clatter on the flagstones off to the left. “Now.” Kettle moved with hunska swiftness, wearing darkness like a robe. They slipped from the doorway, veering to the right, then pressed themselves to the wall. With the sun having set and night having fallen most of the way the two of them presented little target. “Over by the scriptorium,” Kettle murmured. Nona saw a fifth watcher there, tight against the corner of the building. Her head turned towards the spot where Kettle’s noise-maker had landed.
That one at least you should kill. Keot rose with the pounding of her heart.
“Move slowly. Keep close,” Kettle instructed. “If I tell you to run then run. Get off the Rock. Don’t come back.”
“Don’t come back?” Nona felt lost. “I need to say goodbye . . . to Ara.”
Kettle pursed her lips in sympathy but shook her head. “They mean to kill you, Nona.”
Let them try! Keot attempted to force her blades into being.
“Can’t the abbess—”
“The abbess isn’t in charge here any more, Nona. You have to go. Hide. Make a life somewhere else. Change your name.” Kettle started to edge along the wall.
“Change my eyes?” Nona kept her place.
“If you stay here you will die.”
Kettle moved off, the shadows flowing with her. Nona followed.
They reached the pillar forest before Bitel began to ring atop the Ancestor’s dome, its voice harsh with accusation. Kettle led through the towering stonework, Nona close behind, eyes slitted against the wind-borne grit. The Corridor wind was re-establishing itself after the longest ice-wind Nona had ever known.
Neither spoke as they descended the long back and forth of the Seren Way, treacherous by day, foolish by dark. Nona slipped at the last turn, scattering loose rock over the fall. Kettle caught her hand. “Got you.”
Nona regained her feet and shook free. “And now you’re kicking me out?” The trail before them led down to level ground where field and forest stretched away from the Rock of Faith. The rising moon tinged it all with blood.
“They’re after me too, Nona. Everything is falling apart. The abbess can’t help us.”
“We can fight them!” Nona rounded on Kettle. “They’re just nine against us. I’ve killed more men than that by myself.”
“And I wish you hadn’t had to.” Kettle looked down. “We can’t fight them. They’re the Church.”
“We’re the Church!” Nona shouted. “The Inquisition is nothing.”
Kettle shook her head. “It’s all one. All joined. What do you think Abbess Glass did before she came to Sweet Mercy? She ran the Inquisition. High Inquisitor Shella Yammal. That was before her son died . . .”
“No! I don’t believe that.” Nona backed away.
“We can’t fight the Church.” Kettle followed her. “What else would we have left?”
“Each other?” Nona said, eyes hot and prickling.
“Nona. You will always be my sister.” Kettle reached out and caught Nona’s shoulder. “The convent could fall from the Rock. Every holy book could burn. That wouldn’t change.” She put her other hand to the side of Nona’s face, angling her eyes towards her. They were almost of a height now. “I’m going to try to make a shadow-bond between us.”
“It won’t work.” Nona had seen Kettle call to Apple through her bond. The Noi-Guin used them too. “I lost my shadow.”
“I’m going to try. And if you need me . . . you could call.”
“Let’s try.” Nona attempted a smile. She couldn’t twist her face right though.
Kettle took Nona’s hand and interlaced their fingers into a tight grip, dark eyes determined. She frowned with concentration. The night thickened around them, blackening away the sky, swallowing the stars, leaving only the red eye of the moon. Kettle squeezed, hard enough to make the bones creak in Nona’s hand. The darkness became a
physical thing, masking even the moon. Nona felt it washing over her but sensed no deeper connection.
“It’s not working,” Kettle moaned.
“Try!” Nona stared at the place she knew their hands were joined. She stared until her eyes burned and the Path sliced through the blackness, everywhere at once, infinite, complex, filling the space, defining the surfaces, shaping Kettle from nothing with a multitude of glowing veins, a light that no darkness could touch. Nona stared harder still, seeing past the Path’s brightness to the shining shroud of threads whispering through everything, strands freed from the unity of the Path.
“It’s not working . . .” Kettle tried to release Nona’s hand but Nona gripped back with all her strength.
A warmth rose around her. The focus approaching. They must have been locked in this embrace for hours! Anyone could find them. Inquisitors must be on their trail by now? Nona pushed away the sudden panic. The focus moon swept away Kettle’s shadows and the Grey Sister cried out as if scalded. Nona wouldn’t let her pull free. She remembered another focus, the heat bathing her and Hessa on the scriptorium steps on the night Hessa had thread-bound them both.
“It will work.” Nona seized the threads around her wrist and Kettle’s, without delicacy, taking all of them together, bundled in her left hand. She made a fist, and squeezed as hard as she could. And in that moment the focus moon blazed so bright it took the world away.
* * *
• • •
“WHAT HAVE YOU done?”
Nona opened her eyes to see Kettle kneeling over her, her face hidden in darkness.
“I . . . don’t know.” Nona struggled to sit. “I thread-bound us.”
“Only two quantals can thread-bind. You have to share the blood.” Kettle helped Nona to stand.
Nona put a hand to the cliff where the Rock rose from the plains. She felt too tall, as if her feet were twenty yards below her. “We do share a blood. We’re both hunska.”
Somewhere above them a scattering of rocks rattled down the slope.
“They’re coming! Go!” Kettle shoved Nona towards the Verity Road.