reached to dip his quill in ink, focused once more on the page, and then resumed scratching his words into the journal.
Sypes set down his feather and creaked himself forward to peer into the eyepiece of the aurolethiscope, and for a sinful moment Fogwill wondered if the sound had come from the chair or from his master’s aged bones.
The aurolethiscope occupied most of the space in the observatory. Sypes cranked a handle and the brass machine began to turn like the innards of an enormous clock. Wheels and cogs clicked and whirred at various speeds. The lens column rotated smoothly, raising itself a fraction above the hole in the floor as the Presbyter adjusted focus. Reflections from the lantern winked on the spinning, polished surfaces and gave the machine the look of burnished gold.
Fogwill stood before his master, short, round, and splendid in his ceremonial robe. His pate was smooth and hard as a nut, his face softly plump and dusted with his favourite poppy talcum from Clune. Jewelled rings glinted on his fingers: fat rubies mounted in gold, subtle seastones in silver, and amber sandglass to match his smiling eyes. “Are the soul-lights bright this morning?” he asked.
The Presbyter squinted into the eyepiece. “Nothing for days now. I suspect my eyesight is failing.”
“Perhaps the dead grow less restless.”
Sypes sank back into his chair. He looked like he’d been hunched at the aurolethiscope all night. “Or more wary,” he said. He scribbled another sentence into the journal, then banged it shut.
Dust settled in time.
“You asked to see me,” Fogwill said.
Sypes turned with a succession of creaks. “I don’t think so.”
Fogwill steepled his fingers under his chin, trying to decide if the old man was baiting him. He produced a scroll from his sleeve. “I received a message.”
“Yes, yes.” Sypes looked irritated. “Is everything in order for the Sending?”
Fogwill rolled up the scroll and replaced it in his sleeve. “Preparations are almost complete. The Sanctum has been scrubbed and blessed, I’ve arranged for fresh candles—”
“Not perfumed?”
The Adjunct’s face slipped a little, before he caught it.
“I see,” Sypes said. “Must we always suffer these brothel odours?”
“Perfume masks the smell of rot.”
Sypes hunched forward and sniffed. “Clearly.”
Fogwill shuffled back a step, but kept his expression patient. There
was
an odd odour in here, now that he thought about it. He glanced at the hearth. A thick ream of parchment smouldered on the coals, blue smoke curling around its singed edges.
“Poetry,” the Presbyter said, catching Fogwill’s glance. “An Applecross butcher’s contribution to the Codex: one hundred ways to skin a cat.”
“A humorous piece?” Fogwill asked.
Certainly a long one, for poetry
.
“Not for the cat,” Sypes grumbled. “God forbid any more of the commoners learn how to write.” With a dramatically despondent shake of his head, he leaned back. The chair, or the Presbyter’s bones, protested softly. “How is Dill?”
“On his way to meet the soulcage.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
Fogwill shrugged.
“Humph.” Sypes’s lips quivered. “The lad’s what now—ten?”
“Sixteen,” Fogwill said.
As you well know
. Dill was already a full year older than the age Codex law dictated he become Soul Warden, and the populace knew it. In the years following Gaine’s death, Borelock had been required to perform the angel’s duties and, although competent enough, his presence did little to inspire the faithful. Dill was more than just a servant of the Church, more than a symbol. He was a link to the past, to the founding of the same Church. As the living descendant of Ulcis’s own Herald, he and his line had become the thread which linked man to god. But outside the temple, gossip was rife. Had Callis’s line died with Dill’s father? If the bloodline had been severed, would Ulcis still honour his promise to
Sypes set down his feather and creaked himself forward to peer into the eyepiece of the aurolethiscope, and for a sinful moment Fogwill wondered if the sound had come from the chair or from his master’s aged bones.
The aurolethiscope occupied most of the space in the observatory. Sypes cranked a handle and the brass machine began to turn like the innards of an enormous clock. Wheels and cogs clicked and whirred at various speeds. The lens column rotated smoothly, raising itself a fraction above the hole in the floor as the Presbyter adjusted focus. Reflections from the lantern winked on the spinning, polished surfaces and gave the machine the look of burnished gold.
Fogwill stood before his master, short, round, and splendid in his ceremonial robe. His pate was smooth and hard as a nut, his face softly plump and dusted with his favourite poppy talcum from Clune. Jewelled rings glinted on his fingers: fat rubies mounted in gold, subtle seastones in silver, and amber sandglass to match his smiling eyes. “Are the soul-lights bright this morning?” he asked.
The Presbyter squinted into the eyepiece. “Nothing for days now. I suspect my eyesight is failing.”
“Perhaps the dead grow less restless.”
Sypes sank back into his chair. He looked like he’d been hunched at the aurolethiscope all night. “Or more wary,” he said. He scribbled another sentence into the journal, then banged it shut.
Dust settled in time.
“You asked to see me,” Fogwill said.
Sypes turned with a succession of creaks. “I don’t think so.”
Fogwill steepled his fingers under his chin, trying to decide if the old man was baiting him. He produced a scroll from his sleeve. “I received a message.”
“Yes, yes.” Sypes looked irritated. “Is everything in order for the Sending?”
Fogwill rolled up the scroll and replaced it in his sleeve. “Preparations are almost complete. The Sanctum has been scrubbed and blessed, I’ve arranged for fresh candles—”
“Not perfumed?”
The Adjunct’s face slipped a little, before he caught it.
“I see,” Sypes said. “Must we always suffer these brothel odours?”
“Perfume masks the smell of rot.”
Sypes hunched forward and sniffed. “Clearly.”
Fogwill shuffled back a step, but kept his expression patient. There
was
an odd odour in here, now that he thought about it. He glanced at the hearth. A thick ream of parchment smouldered on the coals, blue smoke curling around its singed edges.
“Poetry,” the Presbyter said, catching Fogwill’s glance. “An Applecross butcher’s contribution to the Codex: one hundred ways to skin a cat.”
“A humorous piece?” Fogwill asked.
Certainly a long one, for poetry
.
“Not for the cat,” Sypes grumbled. “God forbid any more of the commoners learn how to write.” With a dramatically despondent shake of his head, he leaned back. The chair, or the Presbyter’s bones, protested softly. “How is Dill?”
“On his way to meet the soulcage.”
“Do you think he’s ready?”
Fogwill shrugged.
“Humph.” Sypes’s lips quivered. “The lad’s what now—ten?”
“Sixteen,” Fogwill said.
As you well know
. Dill was already a full year older than the age Codex law dictated he become Soul Warden, and the populace knew it. In the years following Gaine’s death, Borelock had been required to perform the angel’s duties and, although competent enough, his presence did little to inspire the faithful. Dill was more than just a servant of the Church, more than a symbol. He was a link to the past, to the founding of the same Church. As the living descendant of Ulcis’s own Herald, he and his line had become the thread which linked man to god. But outside the temple, gossip was rife. Had Callis’s line died with Dill’s father? If the bloodline had been severed, would Ulcis still honour his promise to
Similar Books
