Read Online Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 by Sebastien De Castell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sebastien De Castell
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and revealed a rough, curved piece of black and grey metal: the mask that Birgid had worn. ‘Remarkable the things people leave lying around during a crisis,’ he said reflectively.
I glared at Kest, who returned what passes for a sheepish expression from him, which is to say, no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘I was a bit occupied trying to keep you from bleeding out on the courtroom floor at the time.’
I would have expected Jillard to take the opportunity to make some further comment on our ineptitude, but instead his stare was deadly serious. ‘Do you have any idea what I’m holding, First Cantor?’
Why is it that whenever people use my title it sounds like they’re impugning my intellect? ‘Normally I’d say it was stolen evidence, your Grace.’
Jillard ignored my fatuous comment and handed me the mask. He waited in silence as I looked it over. The surface was rough, beaten into shape by the hard strikes of a hammer, lacking any notable signs of artistry or craft. And yet the clasping mechanism on the side was finely and carefully designed.
Someone cared a lot more about how well the mask closed and held than how it looked.
I turned the mask over in my hand. The left side was partially broken off – at first I thought that was where Kest’s blade had come down, then I realised the clasps he’d smashed were on the other side. I handed it to him and asked, ‘How did this happen?’
Kest leaned in to examine the bent and jagged break. ‘This wasn’t from a single blow,’ he said. ‘Look at all the dozens of small dents. I suspect she struck her head against some sort of stone surface, repeatedly, trying to get it off.’
That image put a knot in my gut, so I focused my attention on the mask itself. On closer examination it wasn’t completely without design: the lines carved into its surface made the shape of terrified eyes, though there were no holes there: anyone wearing this would be blind to the world. Similar carvings formed the shape of a mouth, opened wide in a mad, endless scream. Three tiny slits no more than an inch high had been punched through there, and when I examined the back, I saw a small funnel had been welded into it. So anyone wearing the mask would have had that funnel jammed into their mouth. They’d be unable to speak, or to prevent themselves from swallowing anything that was poured into the slits.
I glanced at Jillard. ‘This looks like something a sadist would devise. Perhaps you could tell me what it is?’
‘It’s called a mask of infamy,’ the Duke replied. There was no sign that he had caught my insult.
‘A tool for torture?’
This time Jillard hesitated before answering, ‘Yes and no. Some form of torture is usually involved, but the primary use of the mask is to ensure anonymity.’
‘You mean, so people don’t know who’s wearing it?’ Brasti asked.
‘No,’ I said, my eyes still on the Duke, ‘the victim can’t see or hear with the mask on – it’s designed so that they’d never know who tortured them, isn’t it? But why would—?’
‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ Jillard said. His voice was full of arrogant annoyance, and yet there was something else not far underneath. Concern. Worry. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on any more than I did. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the funnel welded inside the mask. ‘This isn’t part of any mask of infamy I’ve ever seen.’
‘Maybe it’s there so they can poison the victim?’ Brasti suggested. ‘Or to make sure they can’t talk?’
‘Putting a blade through the wearer’s heart would be surer and require less effort,’ Kest pointed out. ‘Why go to the extra trouble?’
I turned the mask over in my hands, looking at the primitive, almost ritualistic carvings, then at the more carefully constructed clasps on the sides. The absence of holes for the eyes meant that Birgid’s tormentor thought there might be some chance of her escaping. No doubt a Saint with
I glared at Kest, who returned what passes for a sheepish expression from him, which is to say, no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. ‘I was a bit occupied trying to keep you from bleeding out on the courtroom floor at the time.’
I would have expected Jillard to take the opportunity to make some further comment on our ineptitude, but instead his stare was deadly serious. ‘Do you have any idea what I’m holding, First Cantor?’
Why is it that whenever people use my title it sounds like they’re impugning my intellect? ‘Normally I’d say it was stolen evidence, your Grace.’
Jillard ignored my fatuous comment and handed me the mask. He waited in silence as I looked it over. The surface was rough, beaten into shape by the hard strikes of a hammer, lacking any notable signs of artistry or craft. And yet the clasping mechanism on the side was finely and carefully designed.
Someone cared a lot more about how well the mask closed and held than how it looked.
I turned the mask over in my hand. The left side was partially broken off – at first I thought that was where Kest’s blade had come down, then I realised the clasps he’d smashed were on the other side. I handed it to him and asked, ‘How did this happen?’
Kest leaned in to examine the bent and jagged break. ‘This wasn’t from a single blow,’ he said. ‘Look at all the dozens of small dents. I suspect she struck her head against some sort of stone surface, repeatedly, trying to get it off.’
That image put a knot in my gut, so I focused my attention on the mask itself. On closer examination it wasn’t completely without design: the lines carved into its surface made the shape of terrified eyes, though there were no holes there: anyone wearing this would be blind to the world. Similar carvings formed the shape of a mouth, opened wide in a mad, endless scream. Three tiny slits no more than an inch high had been punched through there, and when I examined the back, I saw a small funnel had been welded into it. So anyone wearing the mask would have had that funnel jammed into their mouth. They’d be unable to speak, or to prevent themselves from swallowing anything that was poured into the slits.
I glanced at Jillard. ‘This looks like something a sadist would devise. Perhaps you could tell me what it is?’
‘It’s called a mask of infamy,’ the Duke replied. There was no sign that he had caught my insult.
‘A tool for torture?’
This time Jillard hesitated before answering, ‘Yes and no. Some form of torture is usually involved, but the primary use of the mask is to ensure anonymity.’
‘You mean, so people don’t know who’s wearing it?’ Brasti asked.
‘No,’ I said, my eyes still on the Duke, ‘the victim can’t see or hear with the mask on – it’s designed so that they’d never know who tortured them, isn’t it? But why would—?’
‘You’re asking the wrong question,’ Jillard said. His voice was full of arrogant annoyance, and yet there was something else not far underneath. Concern. Worry. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on any more than I did. ‘This,’ he said, pointing to the funnel welded inside the mask. ‘This isn’t part of any mask of infamy I’ve ever seen.’
‘Maybe it’s there so they can poison the victim?’ Brasti suggested. ‘Or to make sure they can’t talk?’
‘Putting a blade through the wearer’s heart would be surer and require less effort,’ Kest pointed out. ‘Why go to the extra trouble?’
I turned the mask over in my hands, looking at the primitive, almost ritualistic carvings, then at the more carefully constructed clasps on the sides. The absence of holes for the eyes meant that Birgid’s tormentor thought there might be some chance of her escaping. No doubt a Saint with
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