The first thing to focus on when the group of priests entered was anything but one specific priest. Anything at all, such as how strange it was for all of them to be forming an united front in forcing their way in here.
Each of the priests, fourteen in total, represented a different deity which was shocking. Most popular deities in the Anglean empire were of the same pantheon of course. The proper one, not those improper ones like the Keltish gods, the elven deities, or worse yet the archdevils and assorted most powerful devils of the hells.
Even still, disagreements were public, messy, and had often resulted in wars in the past. No longer any public fighting these days, with the Empress making clear that she would not tolerate any conflicts caused by disagreements between the faiths. Not even from her twin patron deities of Halspus or Maldeura.
Only one of those were represented here by a wild-haired Kelt, red-hair mixed with the white of encroaching old age, just as with eyes affixed on me, staring with hatred. Symbols on his robes included a spike of pure light being driven into a devil, bisecting it in twain. Halspus. Joy.
Next to him was a priestess of Zaviel who moved and looked like she was a young woman, around my age. If you ignored the massive number of lines, liver spots, and wrinkles flooding her skin, the white, wizened hair, and other signs of aging at odds with the ease she moved.
Zaviel was the god of the dead, and specifically the restful dead, keeping watch over their souls and protecting from the predations of necromancers and their ilk. A bit of a sore spot that necromancy could have licenses purchased to practice, although manipulation of the soul was for most cases forbidden and the licenses were rare.
Must still rankle that some held Imperial permission to mess with those Zaviel’s clergy were suppose to protect.
Most of the rest were a random assortment of deities that seemed odd to bring together. Daltaran, coins, merchants, and trade, whose thin, bookish representative seemed bored. Tildae, healing and purification, whose rotund priestess was already looking over the ruined temple, probably planning a purification. Gallock, the arts. Savareth, the ocean. Kersov, the wilds. Zavan, a recent transplant from the dwarf pantheon who allowed his worshippers among the empire, unlike the other dwarf deities. They’d gone underground with their followers, leaving the god of Tunnels and Mines alone. Their priestess was separate from the others, that foot of distance might as well be a mile. Baltaren, the night. Semiv, the god of watchmen and police, who was exchanging a pleasant nod with Walston. A second one, who was hanging back near the entrance, apologizing to the guards. There was a second Daltaran here as well, writing something in a ledger.
Near the back, a thin, smiling elven representative of Larreran was trying to get my attention. I ignored him. The goddess of thieves had been trying to make inroads with the Quarter even before the restrictions on it had been lifted, but that was hardly a sign of trust. And I wasn’t going to trade one life of crime for another.
That left Tarver’s representative.
Gregory Montague looked much the same as when I’d told him to leave my shop or I’d tear out his throat. His arms might be a little thicker, his shoulders a touch more broad.
It would be completely improper to inquire if he’d been working out. Also not something I was interested in. If anything, it only made him more of a threat.
Not that any of this assortment of priests lacked in threat value, considering the arsenal of divine firepower they represented, all of it capable of harming me on contact.
None so dangerous as the Priest of Halspus in front, who pointed an accusing finger at me.
“What are you planning to do with Father Reginald’s holy body, you Foulhorn?” The Priest of Halspus roared, light gathering in his hand.
Walston’s face tightened. She might not like me, but having someone under her charge threatened directly would irritate her more, I believed.
I was right as she snapped and guns were levelled from all sides, aimed directly at the Priest, whose eyes narrowed. Others in the entourage paled, clearly not expecting this escalation. The Zaviel priestess at his side closed her eyes, aged and lined face resigned as she began to cast something.
Mind you, those weren’t eager guns being aimed at the group of priests. Most of these Watch were probably devout worshippers of at least some of these deities, and defending my diabolic hide by shooting priests wouldn’t sit well with them.
Hells, even ignoring that, some of them would be thinking how much they wanted to get involved in a power struggle between the secular and the religous over a single Infernal.
Time to nip this in the bud as much as I could.
“I’m taking samples,” I answered. “Skin, hair, a few others that perhaps shouldn’t be mentioned in polite company. Alchemical analysis for later.”
“You are tainting his body with your profane presence,” The Priest accused, the light gathered in his hand not fading.
“There’s not too much left to taint,” I said. “But I have not used any diabolism on the body, as anyone here can attest. You can check it yourself if you wish, the body is quite inert now.”
This did not seem to calm him down, and the strangely aged priestess moved to his side.
Gregory Montague moved to the other, whispering something in his ear, which at least made the Priest shoot a venom filled glare at someone beside me as he muttered something back.
The aged priestess of Zaviel whispered something into his other ear, and he seemed to listen to that. The light in his hand dimmed, not going away, but no longer the magical equivalent of a hair trigger.
She stepped forward, a smile pulling all the wrinkles and sagging skin into something that still managed to be friendly. “We have perhaps gotten off on the wrong foot to start with. My apologies, as it wasn’t our intention to be so hostile.”
Strange talk for a group that had forced their way past the Watch to get here, but I turned back to my work, trying to fade into the background. My best chances of not causing another fuss was by fading into the background.
“I am Lilian Derrick, bishop in service to Zaviel, the god of the restful dead,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “Accompanying me is Bishop Matthew Gallespie of the faith of Halspus, Father Halpert Murroud-”
I tuned out the introductions of the others, just making a note of who went with each deity and matching faces to names. I did note that Montague was not a Father, but instead a ‘Special Envoy’ from the church of Tarver, whatever that meant. Higher or lower? He’d been introduced last, so probably lower.
As the introductions finished, Bishop Derrick did smile apologetically.
“We do apologize for the abruptness of our accusations, but you could see why we might be suspicious, what with the aftermath of a murder done with Diabolism being examined by an Infernal who..well, practices.”
I bit back a sigh. We’d done our best to hide that little fact after the shape-change incident, but if one had their ear close enough to the ground….well that or Montague had just told them, which was infuriating if that was the case.
“Miss Harrow is assisting me with this case,” Voltar said. “And unless I was misinformed, as this is a Diabolism attack in the city limits, it falls under the purview of the City Watch, who are employing me. Captain Waltson, do you concur with Father Gallespie?”
I kept to my own work, taking a little satisfaction in how infuriated the priest looked. Hair samples next, finding limp brown strands that had survived, trying to make sure I didn’t grab from the loose clumps of brown fur that had started poking through his irritated and red skin.
“I do not concur,” Walston rumbled. “The little hellspawn is a pain, but more help than hindrance.”
“She is spawned from the same forces that did in Father Reginald,” Bishop Gallaspie noted.
“There is no evidence that it was specifically an Infernal who did there murders yet, Bishop,” Voltar noted.
“Their magic. Their profane gifts. The thing that more easily enters this world because of them!”
“More importantly, this is a crime on property belonging to the Church of Tarver,” Bishop Derrick noted. “As is such, the church has a responsibility to investigate on our own the details of the crime.”
Waltson cleared her throat uncomfortably, seeming more than a little reluctant to speak up. “To be your pardon, your grace, while this is true all crimes related to Diabolism do fall under the purview of the Imperial government, no matter where they occur and who their victims may be.”
“And while the unified churches of the Imperial Pantheon understand, we cannot let the investigation be entirely in Imperial hands,” Bishop Derrick said. “We could perhaps pool our efforts?”
I couldn’t help but notice what wasn’t being mentioned. Namely why so many deities had members of their clergy here, or so soon. A response to a diabolic murder of a priest causing the various churches to close ranks and try to solve this matter? Certainly, that made sense.
Mere hours after it had occurred? Nonsense. Something was fishy.
“We would be happy to assist you,” Voltar said. “Although having fourteen people on your investigative team-”
“More,” Bishop Derrick said apologetically. “Some representatives for other deities were unable to come on such short notice.”
“More than fourteen then, makes for far too many cooks in the kitchen,” Voltar noted.
Gallaspie frowned, apparently deciding now was the time to raise his voice again. “Primarily, you would deal with either me or Bishop Derrick. Or young Montague, as it is Tarver’s priest who has been slain by diabolism most foul. Us three will be the voices on the other side.”
That got some angry looks and derisive expressions from his fellow clergy, but no one voiced their dissent.
“For now cooperation?” Derrick asked, and after a second, Voltar nodded.
“Was Father Reginald prone to any vices?” Voltar asked while I clipped a nail. Rather crumbly, already pieces were flaking off of it to the floor below.
“Vices? Reginald?” One of the other priests said. Daltaran if the miniature scales on his buttons were any indication. Business and commerce. A very wide array of deities indeed.
The comment caused a wave of wry amusement among the gathered priests.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Father Reginald was a devout follower of Tarver, Mr. Voltar,” Gregory Montague said with a sly grin on his face as Gallespie’s already stony expression hardened further. “If you mean the classical expressions from what is theorized about the Hells, any devout follower of our god would qualify at least for two, maybe three. He was fond of a good nap, so perhaps four that he might be found guilty of by some.”
By now Father Gallespie might as well be carved from granite, leaving no doubts to one of those ‘some’ being among us.
“Greed,” I said, Gregory’s expression becoming forced just a little at my interruption. “We want to know if he was greedy. In any definition of that term.”
Gallespie caught on first. “Ah. The form he has been corrupted into, you wish to know if that was the effect of his soul?”
That was not how that worked, but I was hardly going to correct him. He’d finally said a sentence to me without a slur or calling me some profane creature. Perhaps we could bond over a shared dislike for Gregory Montague? I doubted it.
“That or the killer chose it for him based on some personal message or belief,” I said. “The murder was done with a forced version of the rituals used to convert willing souls into devils. In this case, an unwilling host, and a very powerful caster aiming for death. We were wondering if this might be some kind of judgment?”
Gallaspie snorted. “A user of the profane pretending to wield it in service of the divine? Any divine? Judgment? Hah. Only a fool would think that would work.”
That seemed to unsettle the priest’s around him, while Derrick signed resignedly before putting on a patient but slightly forced smile.
“Bishop Gallaspie’s opinions are his own, but I see your point about how even the most deranged of killers may try to find logic and justifications for their actions. Father Reginald was not considered by me to be greedy, but I did not know him the best. Father Montague?”
Calling Gregory Montague father seemed like a bad joke to me, but I held my tongue as he cleared his throat.
“Father Reginald was well-respected, almost paradoxically. The man could be both the respected father figure of the church while being the life of the party. And a very skilled piano player. He could have had the pick of the litter when it came to postings among our churches, but he came here because he felt this place could use some livening up.”
Well, if one took a very dark view of what had happened, he certainly had livened things up.
“He just wanted to help his community, to do some good in the world, help some people find themselves.”
Montague sounded on the verge of tears, and I was forced to admit, crying over this man didn’t sound too unreasonable.
For Hell’s sake, I’d cried over Golvar weeks beforehand, I couldn’t throw stones.
“If we could,” Bishop Derrick asked calmly, “we would like to purify this church? Sanctifying is out of the question, but we can rid it of any leftover Diabolism.”
***
Purification meant going outside until it was over so I didn’t get burned by the divine magic. Wanting to get out of here before the purification began meant accidentally running into a still red in the eyes Gregory Montague.
“Miss Harrow,” he said, the words awkward in his mouth.
“Lord Montague,” I replied, and some small part of me took joy in that little wince that he quickly covered up.
Didn’t like being compared to daddy dearest, did you? Certainly happy to keep living in his manor.
“I want to talk about details of the case, as well as one private matter by ou-”
“Take it to Voltar,” I cut him off bluntly. “I have no desire to talk to you, no willingness, and would rather trade theories with Bishop Gallaspie.”
“He’ll think you did it,” Montague said. “Even thought you have hooves and those are clearly the imprints of four shoes or boots on the temple floor.”
“Hrrm? That doesn’t mean anything.”
Montague waited, clearly expecting me to explain that statement, but I said nothing and he stormed off in a huff.
The Flame and other groups had figured out shoes for hooves to fit into ages ago. Hells, there’d been a time where the citizens of Anglea widely believed Infernals could only have hooves, not normal feet, so if they only found foot or bootprints, clearly an Infernal could not have done this!
It only worked on the gullible, and as it had spread, it became less useful. These days, most use them as fashion accessories, although I never could. Made my legs hurt too much.
I settled in outside the church, shivering despite my warm jacket. Snow was starting to fall, not much but enough to add a chill to the air. I kept my warmth as best I could, and waited for them to finish, when my enhanced hearing picked up a conversation from two very distinct voices.
“-we didn’t pool together the resources to hire you to settle for ‘I can’t find him’, Mr. Voltar. Nor do I believe you actually can’t find him!”
Gregory Montague, irate and loud enough to be heard.
“Perhaps your brother doesn’t want to be found,” Voltar replied calmly. “Not after certain events that took place. His current state of being. And frankly while I have always been interested in crossing wits with a Drake, I fail to see why they would hide your brother’s presence unless he requested it himself.”
Silence on Gregory’s end for a while, and when he talked again, it was an entirely different subject he brought up.
“You’re going to need a new diabolism expert,” he told Voltar bluntly.
I held my breath, wanting nothing that could obscure what I heard next.
“Do I?” Voltar replied evenly. “Is there any objectionable reason for Miss Harrow? Do you wish to add your voice to Bishop Gallespie’s objections?”
“Do me the favor of not comparing me to that bigot,” Gregory Montague snapped. “Neither me, my god, or my superiors in Tarver’s church. My reasons are personal, and based on the fact that not only is working with Miss Harrow going to prove difficult, I am not going to be held responsible if she slips out from under your thumb and decides she needs to….bite someone’s eye out for information. Carve someone’s soul out for information, or gas an orphanage to try and catch a single person hiding in the building. Are you comfortable with that?”
I clenched my fist, nails biting into the my skin. That was….well the first was just a good option in the heat of combat and sometimes the threat of it he helped shake some compliance out of reluctant informants. Sometimes that meant getting teeth on the eyeball. The second, well it depended on the soul in question, and if they were alive or dead, and there were other factors at play.
The third I would never do. Not for any target. Although I suppose if Aunt Diwei, Lord Montague or Versalicci were the ones being chased, I might ask about the number of orphans in the building.
I wasn’t denying these were horrible actions, but sometimes horribleness was necessary. And I was not going to be judged by some silver-spooned dandy who’d barely worked a day in his life besides swooning ladies and gentlemen. Oh how hard a life must be, spent trying to charm everyone out of their skirts and pants.
I’d been so caught up debating that in my head, I nearly missed Voltar’s reply.
“Moral objections I think are not so easy to raise given some of the company in your own group. Honestly, when Bishop Gallaspie is one of the least objectionable members of the little group that’s been assembled. What on this planet, or I suppose above it, instructed you to make a group out of so many outcasts, power players, and a few competent individuals like Lillian Derrick?”
“They are all faithful, competent priests of their faiths,” Montague replied icily. “I may not agree with their views, or their faults, but I would trust them at my side in every case. More importantly, I would trust them not to bite into an infant if it meant getting what they wanted.”
My mind stopped. I was aware of course. Standing here, in this corridor, a good ways away from the little shit who had just insinuated I ate children.
How hard, to cover it up? Voltar was there, wait for later then. Could hardly slit his throat and stay in anyone’s good graces. Did he still live in his father’s mansion? Perhaps two birds with one stone, since while he’d not tried to kill me yet, I had no doubts Lord Montague intended to try someday.
Meanwhile, as I fumed and plotted, the conversation continued.
“It is a little amusing that when given the long breadth of crimes Malvia Harrow has committed in her time since birth, you have chosen to accuse her of the one crime I am quite sure she never would actually do.”
“You don’t deny the rest then?” Gregory Montague pressed as I forced myself still as much as the urge to sprint down the hallway and bite out his throat took over.
I bet noble tastes so refined compared to other throats, The Imp commented in my head. Later of course, which I bet you know from your restraining yourself, but once you catch him and kill him however you want, I know the exact way to put his assorted pieces on a spit and roast him over a flame.
The Imp practically salivating in my head over eating him actually dampened the roaring fire in my veins just a tad if only because, for both the Imp and Gregory-I did not eat people.
“Just because she doesn’t live up to your expectations doesn’t means she’s a monster, Lord Montague-”
“Enough of the lordships! First her and now you with that nonsense. Father has disowned me in all but name-”
“But you still keep the name, and you are nobility. And to be frank, when I speak of Bishop Gallaspie being one of the least odious priests you have along with you? The man has driven silver spikes into Infernals back when that was the fashion. Including those not yet adults. And to this day still advocates for the death of all Infernals in the quarter because of the chance one of them might breach the boundary between here and the Hells and raise a new gate. Of course, non-Infernals can do that too, so one wonders about his motives there.”
A pause, hesitation when Montague spoke again. “I was unaware of some of that, however, Bishop Gallaspie is only-”
“-a well-respected member of Halspus’ clergy who has attained high rank and also seems to dislike you personally. And yet you feel the need to defend him while questioning the inclusion of someone who has yet to cause an issue.”
“Her past actions-“
“Are not any indication of her being an issue now. Quite honestly, Malvia Harris is very easy to work with despite any objections to her methods or morals I might have. Any issues with her you might have are not ones I do, and so she will be employed in regards to this case. And that assumes I even have a choice in this. By tomorrow I could easily have a letter instructing me that she is to assigned to this until it is finished.”
“A letter from your brother?” Gregory said bitterly. “How convenient.”
“If you think I can manipulate my brother into making Imperial Intelligence dance to my tune, or that I would risk it if that is the case, is more a sign than anything else. Drop this Gregory. And, no one is asking you to like her, just to co-exist with her.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“She might not need to, considering you have your superiors, she has hers. But perhaps she’ll be willing at some future point. But I am not removing her from this case.”
Silence after that, then one set of footsteps heading away. I waited till they faded from my hearing, then went up the ladder.
Voltar leaned against a railing in the rafters of the small church, somehow enjoying the cold air blowing in from outside.
“So, Miss Harrow, did you overhear all of that conversation or just a significant chunk of it?”
I cocked my head to the side. “Now how did you know that?”
“Body language,” he replied. “You tend to tense and your foot-no I suppose hoofsteps are just slightly more delayed when you walk.”
“Hrrm, I’ll have to work on that. A significant chunk of it. ‘Easy to work with despite any objections to her methods and morals’, am I?”
“Am I wrong?” Voltar said. “Besides, I don’t believe I offered the worst insult to your character during that conversation.”
“A lesser offense,” I said mildly “is still an offense.”
“I’m not going to declare you some moral paragon because we work together,” Voltar replied. “You have done horrible things in the past. I think in the future you’ll do some thing I cannot stomach, and I’ll request that Intelligence not assign us to work together again. But for now? We can work together. You are rather insightful, sharp, and provide a perspective on issues that I appreciate.”
“Just not moral ones.”
“No, those as well, not just the ones people normally expect.”
I tensed, tried to think of a reply as I puzzled that out, and then gave up.
“I concede and take the compliment,” I said.
“Not all conversations are fights to be won, Malvia.”
I sighed. “I do not really want to discuss it anymore.”
Below us, the priests were leaving, marching out into the cold. Snow had started to fall, blanketing the carnage outside in a dense white sheet. The Watch had removed the chunks of animated statue by now. No one wanted to deal with the nightmarish possibility of Infernal corruption spreading into the snow.
The assorted clergy were busy talking amongst themselves in a single knot, while a carriage tried to make its way to them through the snowfall.
“Something stinks,” I said. “This many clerics of disparate deities coming together, even more we haven’t met, all organized and ready hours after the event they are responding to.”
“Yes, and with so many faces I personally hoped to never see again.”
“A very distrustful group of people,” I opined, watching some of them leave via carriage. A few of them stayed behind, presumably to keep watch for the moment daylight would come. And to record our comings and goings of course. Including Gregory, although the two leaders were leaving.
Either more important business to attend to, or possibly bones too old and weary to stay out here all night.
There were others inside the church itself, including Tildae’s priestess watching over the surviving adept who we still needed to talk to.
“Perhaps,” Voltar said. “You are biased against their profession, and especially against any group with a certain priest of Tarver in attendance.”
The drumming of my fingers stopped.
“Voltar, do you regularly inquire into people’s love lives?”
“Only when it is crucial to solving a case,” Voltar replied, earning a snort from Dawes.
The detective’s gaze swung toward his companion, who smiled without humor.
“You do have a tendency to poke and prod when it is unnecessary, Edmund. And perhaps be a bit blunt about it. And definitely not always for a case.”
“It is usually for the case,” Voltar said briskly.
“There’s a reason you aren’t invited to the wedding,” Dawes told him bluntly. “Quite frankly, I can’t blame her either. Seriously, you had Charlie go to Alattia to check her background? Alattia?”
I grinned, happy to have the subject of this conversation firmly moved off of me.
“Isn’t Alattia on the far side of two oceans and a pair of continents from us? What poor fool got sent there to check your fiancée’s background Doctor Dawes?”
“One of our oldest friends, who is still on his way back from having found out that she was completely innocent of what Voltar initially suspected.”
Voltar rolled his eyes. “Yes, because the logical deduction from artwork vanishing from wherever she visited four days after was a living, sentient curse designed to look exactly like her. We found the true culprit eventually, and-”
I let the bickering fade into pleasant background noise as we went to interview the adept.