The Gutter Prayer, page 19
Picks up a newspaper left by another customer, and it’s there on the front page. THIS IS NOT THE LAST, scrawled in chalk across a brick wall in an alleyway.
Thing is, Jere recognises that wall, that alleyway. It’s around the corner from where he found Ongent’s son and that student of his last night.
And last night, there wasn’t anything written on that wall. Which means it was added after the attack, when the whole street was crawling with watch and Tallowmen.
Which means all this is an inside job.
The university offices are nearly empty at this hour of the morning, and the door to Ongent’s study is locked. Jere spends a few fruitless minutes searching the old stone corridors and musty stairs for a porter, then spots Ongent’s assistant, that pale girl, crossing the lawn outside. Her face is stained black and blue by bruises. He ducks down to a side door to meet her.
“Morning.”
She jumps, nervous as a stray cat. “What are you doing here? Is the professor here?”
“He’s still in custody, Miss …?”
“Duttin. Eladora Duttin.”
“Jere Taphson. Look, the professor wanted me to have a look at some book that’s in his office. Do you happen to have a key?”
She does. “I was just going there myself. I-I honestly don’t know where else to go. Desiderata Street is all closed off, and the professor’s in jail, and Miren went off to look for Carillon.” The last name carries a lot of venom.
“I’m looking for her, too.”
“She stole my bag. And nearly fifty sovereigns. I don’t know if you should look in an ale house or a ship or a … dancing-girl temple.” They come to the door of the study, and Eladora rams the key into the lock like she’s shivving someone in an alley. “She shows up, ruins things, and then vanishes. Twice now.”
“Twice?”
Eladora pales beneath the bruises. “Never mind me,” she says.
“You knew her already?”
“Which book?”
“Something about ash. Sacred and secret architecture?”
“Sacred and Secular Architecture in the Ashen Period. This place isn’t usually so messy.” She searches through the remains of Ongent’s thaumaturgical experiments.
He works it out. “You’re her cousin?”
Eladora snorts. “How did you know?”
“You come from money, but not too much. You knew Carillon Thay a long time ago, but she’s only been back in the city for a few weeks. You’re not her friend, but you grew up together. And she doesn’t have any living siblings.”
“She ran away when I was fourteen.”
Jere settles himself against the side of a desk as Eladora combs through the bookshelves. “Your mother is a Thay?”
“She never talks about that side of the family. She didn’t, even before the murders.” Eladora says it matter-of-factly; the tragedy is old. Tough scar tissue or merely scabbed over, wonders Jere.
“What do you think happened?” he asks.
“The thieves’ guild murdered them over unpaid debts.” The official story.
“You know,” says Jere, “I know a few people who were in the Brotherhood back then, and they all swear blind that it wasn’t them.”
“They’re thieves, Mr. Taphson. Why would you expect honesty from them?”
She finds a heavy book under papers on the couch and carries it over to him in triumph. Jere takes it from her and flips through it. Eladora squeaks in horror at the cavalier way he treats the book. Endless pages of dense text, interspersed with a few architectural diagrams, pieces of buildings diagrammed like cuts of meat. What possible relevance could this book have? Then he sees it, and opens the book wide.
Near the beginning, there’s an engraved copy of what Jere dimly recalls is a famous carving from one of the big Keeper churches. On one side, heroic knights and fiery-haloed saints fight their way through burning streets. On the other is a host of fanatics and madmen, eyes bulging, whipped into a frenzy by the screams of their hellish priests. In the vanguard of this unholy army, though, are horrible demons, depicted as mishmashes of limbs, crazed patchwork anatomies, all fangs and claws, or else as twisted human figures with leering faces. Around those demons is a mesh of fine lines, like a child’s scribble. Like threads. It kept changing shape, Ongent said.
“I’m not one for reading,” says Jere. He turns the book around so Eladora can see what he’s looking at. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s the Black Iron War. Year fourteen fifty-four of the city?” She recites from memory. “The blessed army came to cleanse the wicked city, and only blood could wash away the sins of the Black Iron Gods. The saints entered Guerdon girded in holy fire, and put a third of the people to the sword. The Black Iron Gods waxed fat on suffering, and lent power to their blood-sworn priests and from the deeps they called the Ravellers, eaters of form, who fell upon the armies of the blessed and caused great confusion, for those who fell rose again in semblance, though they were but hollow shells in thrall. Yet the saints were not dismayed, and came to the place called Mercy, and there they threw down the temples of Black Iron.”
She turns a few pages and shows him a sketch of a statue. It’s humanoid in shape, forged from some dark metal, and though its features are those of a beautiful woman, he feels an instinctive revulsion.
“The cult of the Black Iron Gods ruled Guerdon until the Keepers overthrew them. The city was very badly damaged in the war—whole districts destroyed by fire and siege. It laid the foundations for the modern city, though. They cleared away all the burnt parts, and tore down the twelve temples, and built the seven churches of the Keepers and some of the greatest civic buildings in their place. The post-Ashen Reconstruction is really a fascinating period, historically speaking. It rejuvenated Guerdon under Keeper rule, although De Reis argues that the Keeper theocrats were actually more of a hindrance to the city’s growth. Professor Ongent agrees with him, but most people still cling to Pilgrin’s History of Guerdon as—ha!—holy writ.”
He wrestles the book off her before she can start in on architectural styles.
“I’ve got to go. Thanks for this.”
“What about the professor? Miren said that you’d be able to sort everything out with the watch, get him released.”
“That’s where I’m going. To meet a man who knows magistrates.”
“I shall come with you,” declares Eladora. “And make it clear that the professor is an innocent victim in all this. Give me a moment to leave a note for Miren.” She grabs pen and paper from a drawer on the desk and starts writing. Even in haste, her penmanship is excellent.
Jere slips his newspaper into the book as a place-mark, and prowls around the room. He pokes at the fragments of skull from the professor’s experiment, at the other books on the desk. Looks out of the window. Down there, in the shadow of the archway, watchful eyes. A priest’s cassock, bald head, broken nose. A Keeper. As if one of the little figures from the engraving had come to life, although Jere can’t imagine that little man following behind some fire-girded saint, full of faith and vigour. No, Jere guesses that priest is as cold as a tomb.
Jere piles bone on circuit. Puts a book at a particular angle on the desk. Leaves loose papers in a pile that slopes towards that window.
“Miss Duttin? There’s someone watching this office. They may try to break in. I want you to take a good look around, and memorise the place of everything that you can. That way, if the professor does have guests we’ll know.”
Eladora’s fine penmanship disintegrates into a nervous scrawl. “Shouldn’t we call the university porters, or the watch?” Her voice quavers.
“No.” The door has sorcerous wards on the inside, no doubt drawn by the professor. Elegant curlicued lines of silver connect them to the lock. Jere moistens his forefinger with his tongue, touches the runes, feels them sizzle. They’re still live.
“What about my note? They’ll know I was here.”
“They know already. I wonder when they started watching.”
Eladora’s fingers brush against a heavy desk lamp. “We could wait for them, and …”
“I make it a habit not to contemplate assault on an empty stomach. And to not piss off powerful people unless I have to. Anyway, I might be wrong.” He’s not, but he wants to play this out rather than confronting the priest.
Eladora takes her note and folds it. “I’ll leave it with one of the clerks.” She picks up a bundle of papers from the desk—she didn’t come in with those, and Jere can make out Ongent’s crabbed handwriting on them—locks the door behind her and pockets the key, then drops off the letter with a sleepy-eyed young assistant lecturer, who stares blearily at it and promises to give it to Miren. Then they’re off, down side corridors and back doors, and then through morning crowds down into the train station. Jere watches to see if they’re being tailed, but it looks like the priest was working alone.
“Which stop?” asks Eladora.
“Venture Square.”
A palpable wall of irritation, stronger than any magical ward, surrounds Effro Kelkin. No petitioners today; no one dares approach his table in the back room of the coffee shop. His current assistant hovers near the door like a man caught in an open field during a wild thunderstorm, terrified that any movement could draw a bolt of lightning. Kelkin goes through assistants and secretaries like firewood.
Jere grins and shoos the boy out. “He’ll want to see me.”
Relieved, the boy flees into the main room of the crowded coffee house. Kelkin looks up, but his instinctive roar of invective dies on his lips when he sees Jere and Eladora.
“Morning, boss,” says Jere.
“Gods below.” Improbably, Kelkin’s attention focuses on Eladora. He frowns in thought, then snaps his fingers. “You’re Silva Thay’s girl. What did she name you? Something weedy. Elsinore, Elamira, El …”
“Eladora Duttin, sir.” Eladora curtsies in confusion. “But you are correct, my mother was Silva Thay before she married.” Her voice drops as she says the last sentence, as if unwilling to admit her relation to the infamous Thays in public. Unfortunately, the coffee shop’s loud and Kelkin’s half-deaf, or at least he pretends to be.
“Speak up. And yes, yes, Duttin. She married some pious yokel and went off to raise chickens. Delightful to meet you.” Of course, thinks Jere. The Thays were among Kelkin’s biggest supporters back in the day, when he was bringing in all his reforms and remaking the city. Breaking the church of the Keepers’ stranglehold on everything. Kelkin must have known Eladora—and Carillon Thay, for that matter—when they were babies. Now that it’s been pointed out, Jere kicks himself for taking so long to see it—Eladora and Carillon resemble each other enough to mark their kinship.
Kelkin points Eladora to a chair, shoves a plate of pastries in front of her. “Now sit there and be quiet. Taphson, bring me good news. Tell me that Stone Thief has cracked, and given you Heinreil.”
“Not yet.” Kelkin groans, but Jere presses on. “First, I need a favour. Eladora here is a student of Professor Ongent.”
“Who?”
Eladora pipes up helpfully from behind a scone. “He holds the Derling chair of history at the university, and lectures in ancient urban …”
Kelkin cuts her off. “So?”
“He owns the place on Desiderata Street that got attacked last night. The watch picked him up for throwing sorcery. Can you have a magistrate step in before they break out the thumbscrews?”
Kelkin makes a note. “I’ll look into it. The committee on public order is meeting this morning in emergency session to discuss Desiderata Street. I’ll talk to someone about your professor afterwards.”
“On that topic.” Jere slides the newspaper over to Kelkin, with the news story about the Desiderata Street attack face up.
“I do read the fucking headlines,” he snaps. “My dog can bring me the morning newspaper, Taphson, and he’s a damn sight cheaper than you are. He pisses on the floor less, too. Why am I employing you, again?”
“I was there last night,” says Jere mildly. “So was Eladora.” He taps the photograph, the wall with THIS IS NOT THE LAST written on it. “And that wasn’t there.”
“When were you there?”
“Right after the fight. Eladora was there the whole time, from when the attack began. There when the Tallowmen showed up, when the professor tried sorcery, when the creature fled or blew up and it all ended.”
“Desiderata Street,” says Kelkin carefully, “was cordoned off. No one was allowed in or out without the watch and the Tallowmen’s permission.”
“Yes. So whoever left this message did so with the collusion of one or the other group. Either the watch knew, or the candle boys did.”
Kelkin’s face is very dark now. His eyes like flints beneath his bushy eyebrows. His rage focused, like a swordsman who puts all his strength and fury into a single controlled thrust.
“You have no proof, though. Just your testimony.”
“Not yet, no. Look, boss, Heinreil and his thieves I can handle. I’ll get Heinreil before the magistrates one day. He’s a slippery bastard, but I know where I stand with him. Corruption on this scale in the watch, that’s something else. And the Tallowmen, the alchemists—danger money is only the start of it. I’ll need double the usual rate.” The money is important to Jere. One reason he and Kelkin work well together is that they both know the virtue as well as the value of payment. When Jere was a mercenary, he risked his life for coin. He’s willing to do the same here, but the deal has to be sanctified. The pay shows that Kelkin appreciates Jere’s courage and sacrifice. Professor Ongent may have only a fraction of Kelkin’s wealth, but he doesn’t value money in the same way. Ongent’s always been well off, Jere can tell, so he deals in favours and secrets and a veneer of friendship, and precious little coin. Kelkin offers an honest transaction. It’s a cynic’s oath.
Kelkin nods imperceptibly, then snorts with anger. He takes his irritation at Jere’s higher price out on Eladora.
“You shouldn’t have brought her along,” he snaps. He takes a swig of coffee; his hands are shaking. He’s more rattled than Jere’s ever seen him, and it’s about to get worse.
“You’re an expert on pre-Ashen history and holy wars, are you, boss?” Jere shows Kelkin the book from Ongent’s study and points to the illustration of the Raveller. “That’s the thing that attacked Desiderata Street last night—and carved up a few dozen Tallowmen on the way.”
Kelkin stares at the illustration, then closes his eyes. For a moment, he’s an old man. Kelkin’s mouth moves, his tongue licks grey lips, whispers something that might be a prayer. A strange sight on the lips of the man famed for breaking the church’s hold on Guerdon. He brushes his hand over the book, flips through it.
In the distance, bells ring out across the city. Ten o’clock in the morning. Parliament is open for business. On any other day Kelkin would be rushing out, stomping off in the direction of the squat drum on Castle Hill, trailing supplicants behind him like fallen leaves carried on the hurricane of his annoyance. Right now, though, he’s frozen in his chair like a terminal Stone Man.
“Are you certain?” he says at last. “Are you absolutely fucking certain that it was a servant of the Black Iron Gods?”
“Eladora here saw it.”
“Hmm?” Jere pokes Eladora. Stupid mooncalf girl.
“I didn’t see very much,” says Eladora, “but … but I think that’s what it was. The professor would know for certain. Once you get him out of custody, I’m certain he’d be able to help you.”
“How is your MOTHER?” roars Kelkin, rounding on Eladora with such unexpected fury that Jere instinctively half rises, hand going to his sword cane. “Is she well? Tell me, did she give you a RELIGIOUS EDUCATION?” So angry that spittle flies from his mouth.
Eladora’s stunned. She stammers, but can’t find words. She starts to weep with great racking sobs.
“Gods below, Effro. What was that?” asks Jere. He hands Eladora a napkin.
Kelkin grunts and tries to ignore the crying girl. “I misspoke, perhaps.”
“I think you did.”
“I’ll talk to a magistrate. Come by the house tomorrow night. No,” Kelkin corrects himself, “the night after. At nine. Keep working on that graffiti, the threat of more attacks. And Heinreil. Leave the professor to me for now. I must rush.”
He hurries out. His long-suffering secretary follows after, leaving Jere alone with Eladora. Her sobbing subsides to quiet shaking.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she manages, fanning herself with one hand. “It’s just, just … everything. The professor, and, that thing, and Miren, and … f-f- Carillon, and my mother, and … everything.”
Jere seizes on the one part he can trust to bear weight. “Kelkin will get the professor out. He’s a big man in parliament.”
Eladora scavenges another napkin. “I know very well who Effro Kelkin is, Mr. Taphson. I pay close attention to politics.” She wipes her face, dabs at her nose. The napkin comes away red with blood from her bruises and cuts. She folds it over in distaste. “And his stature is much diminished of late, so forgive me if I don’t share your f-f-faith in his influence.”
“Why did he ask about your mother?”
Eladora starts to tidy up Kelkin’s plate, lining up knife and fork, brushing the crumbs of his scones into a pile. “I have no idea. My mother is, ah, fervent in her faith. She’s a Safidist.”
The Safidists are an offshoot of the Keepers, Jere recalls. When he was a boy growing up in the city, there was only the church of the Keepers. Kelkin’s reforms opened the city to other faiths, and also allowed a hundred splinter sects of the Keepers to bother and harangue people on the street. These days, Jere’s main interest in religion is purely professional. He just cares about which ones are likely to inspire crimes, or start street fights, or murder people. Safidists don’t fall into any of those categories, unless you count accidental arson. He vaguely recalls a few incidents where Safidists set themselves on fire with phlogiston-infused swords. And they burn their dead, too, instead of handing them over to the priests like other Keepers do.
