those who worshipped him? Or would he abandon them to Iril, the Maze of Blood? Life in Deepgate was often bleak, sometimes turbulent. The Church had long known that to pull the faithful through, it was necessary to give them something to hold on to.
Fogwill had been surprised at Sypes’s repudiation of the Codex in this matter, but at the time had put it down to the apparent decline of the old man’s mental faculties. Only later had he begun to suspect otherwise. The Presbyter was only senile when it suited him.
Sypes rubbed an ink-stained finger across his chin, leaving a dark blue smudge. Fogwill couldn’t help but wonder if this action too was deliberate.
“You can’t keep him hidden in that tower for ever,” Fogwill said.
The Presbyter gave him a weary nod. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t help worrying about the lad. One arrow, one knife, one poisoned cup: that’s all it would take.”
“It’s not too late to have him combat-trained,” Fogwill said. “The temple guard could do it…or even the Spine, I mean…” He had meant any of the Spine except Rachel Hael. The absurdity of her assignment had not escaped Fogwill. Sypes had chosen the worst assassin in Deepgate to oversee Dill’s training.
“I’m sure she can teach him the basics at least,” Sypes said.
“Well, quite,” Fogwill said. Whatever the angel learned from
her
was sure to be basic. She hadn’t even been tempered, for god’s sake. “With your permission,” he said. “I think it’s time we found him a wife.”
Sypes looked up, his eyes colder.
“The families have always been well compensated,” Fogwill continued. “Before, and afterwards.”
Sypes grunted. “The sort of woman
he
needs is the sort who’d marry him without any of this…” He waved his hands at everything and nothing.
“The girls have other motives I’m—”
“Rot! I remember Gaine’s wife on her wedding day, her frozen smile.” Sypes let out a long sigh and his gaze shifted to the hole in the observatory floor. “And now she’s down there, watching us.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared into the abyss. “The dead, Fogwill, what are they up to, hmmm? Hiding, sulking, plotting, scheming in their pit.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And up here I’m fading all the time. Like old ink on parchment. I’ll join them soon.” He punctuated this last word with a tap of his finger. “And I think they know it.”
Looking at him sitting there, with his stained skin and trembling fingers, Fogwill thought the old man was probably right.
“Nonsense,” he said instead. “You’re as strong as a courser.”
“The marriage,” Sypes said, “I’ll leave it in your hands. I’ve no stomach for such matters.” He picked up his blue-inked quill and plunked it in a bottle of red ink.
“A message, Your Grace.” A boy had appeared in the doorway, fidgeting with his scuffed cuffs.
“Gods,” Sypes said, “does no one knock?”
The boy grinned, handed the Presbyter a scroll, bowed briefly, and bolted, fast as a rat.
Sypes unrolled the message, held it out at arm’s length, squinting. “Good, good,” he said. “The
Adraki
has docked. Edward Hael’s body is here.”
“Wonderful news,” Fogwill said. Sypes had been worried about the general for days. “His son and daughter will be relieved.”
The Presbyter was still reading, frowning.
“The body?” Fogwill ventured.
Sypes ignored him. Finally, he set down the message and rose from his chair. He grabbed his walking stick and said, “Come with me.”
They left the observatory and plodded up the stairs that wound around the inside of the Acolyte’s Spiral. A gaggle of priests on their way to the missionary halls stood aside to let them pass. As they climbed, the floor disappeared far below. Sypes grumbled constantly, complaining about his heart, about dust, about everything. Halfway up, Fogwill unlocked a grate and they set off through the dim, aether-lit corridors
Fogwill had been surprised at Sypes’s repudiation of the Codex in this matter, but at the time had put it down to the apparent decline of the old man’s mental faculties. Only later had he begun to suspect otherwise. The Presbyter was only senile when it suited him.
Sypes rubbed an ink-stained finger across his chin, leaving a dark blue smudge. Fogwill couldn’t help but wonder if this action too was deliberate.
“You can’t keep him hidden in that tower for ever,” Fogwill said.
The Presbyter gave him a weary nod. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t help worrying about the lad. One arrow, one knife, one poisoned cup: that’s all it would take.”
“It’s not too late to have him combat-trained,” Fogwill said. “The temple guard could do it…or even the Spine, I mean…” He had meant any of the Spine except Rachel Hael. The absurdity of her assignment had not escaped Fogwill. Sypes had chosen the worst assassin in Deepgate to oversee Dill’s training.
“I’m sure she can teach him the basics at least,” Sypes said.
“Well, quite,” Fogwill said. Whatever the angel learned from
her
was sure to be basic. She hadn’t even been tempered, for god’s sake. “With your permission,” he said. “I think it’s time we found him a wife.”
Sypes looked up, his eyes colder.
“The families have always been well compensated,” Fogwill continued. “Before, and afterwards.”
Sypes grunted. “The sort of woman
he
needs is the sort who’d marry him without any of this…” He waved his hands at everything and nothing.
“The girls have other motives I’m—”
“Rot! I remember Gaine’s wife on her wedding day, her frozen smile.” Sypes let out a long sigh and his gaze shifted to the hole in the observatory floor. “And now she’s down there, watching us.” He rested his chin in his hand and stared into the abyss. “The dead, Fogwill, what are they up to, hmmm? Hiding, sulking, plotting, scheming in their pit.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And up here I’m fading all the time. Like old ink on parchment. I’ll join them soon.” He punctuated this last word with a tap of his finger. “And I think they know it.”
Looking at him sitting there, with his stained skin and trembling fingers, Fogwill thought the old man was probably right.
“Nonsense,” he said instead. “You’re as strong as a courser.”
“The marriage,” Sypes said, “I’ll leave it in your hands. I’ve no stomach for such matters.” He picked up his blue-inked quill and plunked it in a bottle of red ink.
“A message, Your Grace.” A boy had appeared in the doorway, fidgeting with his scuffed cuffs.
“Gods,” Sypes said, “does no one knock?”
The boy grinned, handed the Presbyter a scroll, bowed briefly, and bolted, fast as a rat.
Sypes unrolled the message, held it out at arm’s length, squinting. “Good, good,” he said. “The
Adraki
has docked. Edward Hael’s body is here.”
“Wonderful news,” Fogwill said. Sypes had been worried about the general for days. “His son and daughter will be relieved.”
The Presbyter was still reading, frowning.
“The body?” Fogwill ventured.
Sypes ignored him. Finally, he set down the message and rose from his chair. He grabbed his walking stick and said, “Come with me.”
They left the observatory and plodded up the stairs that wound around the inside of the Acolyte’s Spiral. A gaggle of priests on their way to the missionary halls stood aside to let them pass. As they climbed, the floor disappeared far below. Sypes grumbled constantly, complaining about his heart, about dust, about everything. Halfway up, Fogwill unlocked a grate and they set off through the dim, aether-lit corridors
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