Текст книги "Hold The Dark"

Автор книги: Frank Tuttle

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter Ten

“Will that be all today, sir?” asked Halbert.

“It will.”

Halbert nodded and snapped his reigns. I leaned back into my comfy seat and let out a long and ragged sigh.

I’d tracked them down, one and all, and a more distasteful two day’s work I’d seldom seen. It’s not that I don’t like priests-nay nay, it’s that they don’t like me. I’d nearly had to break down the doors at Ellsback. Word about the pesky finder and his mysterious combs had gotten around as fast as Encorla’s fancy black carriage. Priests had fled the mainhold like ants from an overturned nest, the first afternoon I’d gone around. I’d been forced to resort to an early-morning visit and a half-day wait to finally catch a single black mask come skulking down an unlit hall.

And the black mask of Ellsback, in perfect unison with all his peers, sang a song of innocence and ignorance.

Evis and I had refined our plan somewhat, after reconvening at House Avalante for blood and sandwiches. Evis had clad a dozen or so of his day-walking staff in new grey coats and new grey hats and ordered them to hang around the various churches, following priests who entered or left as vagrant whims took them.

“An abundance of Markhats,” Evis had said, with a toothy grin. Then he’d surprised me by quoting scripture. “Guilt flees while innocence rests,” he said. “Let us see if priests fall prey to the same follies as lesser sinners.”

I’d just shrugged. Let the guilty wonder how the clever finder Markhat gets about so quickly. Even better, let them wonder how many grey-clad men Hisvin has working on the combs.

Halbert bellowed suddenly at a cabman, and I looked out long enough to see the Velvet’s red-flagged roof peek up above the rest.

I smiled, waved though I knew she could not see. The temptation to knock on the carriage roof and tell Halbert to stop at the Velvet was strong, but I resisted. No need for Evis to know more than he had to. Time enough for wooing when work was done.

I’d told Darla just that, more than once, in those three days. We’d managed to have lunch again, once. She’d chided me for failing to shower her with wine and roses. I’d responded with observations that spinster bookkeepers ought to be appreciative of good Pinford ham sandwiches and ice-chilled bottles of Bottits.

She’d laughed and tossed a pickle at me. And then we’d kissed, and kissed again, until the waiter at the Sidewalk Cafe had issued a discreet cough so he could refill our glasses.

We’d held hands, like school kids, and we’d walked in circles around the Velvet, waving at Hooga as we passed. He’d looked the other way when I picked a fireflower for Darla. She kissed me again, and showed me a hidden alcove where the Velvet’s gardeners hid to take naps.

About that, I will say no more.

I grinned at the memory and eased further back into the well-cushioned seats of Evis’s carriage.

At that moment, we rattled past the Velvet. I pushed the window-curtain open wide just to see if Darla was out on the street, or at the Sidewalk Cafe.

She was nowhere in sight. Sharp-eyed Hooga, still on his stoop, dipped his eyes as I passed. I thought of ogre-hash and Martha Hoobin and felt a small pang of guilt.

I let the curtain fall and sighed. Three days, done and gone. Three days of stalking and talking, but if I’d managed to terrify any Hands of the Holy, I’d also failed to see any evidence of such terror. My final four Cleansing priests had shown the same measure of disinterest before they’d heard Hisvin’s name, and similar levels of apprehension afterwards. All had denied ever seeing or Cleansing the combs. All had denied the combs bore the invisible but unmistakable mark of a Cleansing.

That lack of the elusive holy mark was proving worrisome. Evis had seemed so certain about the Cleansing-but what if Evis’s wand waver was simply wrong?

I scowled at passers-by, in fine old rich coot style, and mulled that over. If the combs had no link to the Church, then Martha Hoobin was dead, plain and simple.

I shoved the thought aside. “Can’t be wrong,” I muttered. Evis could afford the best wand-waving money could buy. If he said the combs had received a Church-style Cleansing, then they had done just that.

Priest or acolyte, sorcerer or sweeping man-someone wearing the black robes of the Church had arranged for a box or two of middling good trinkets to be wiped clean of their provenance, just so someone like Mama couldn’t fix their back-street Sight upon a comb and start mumbling things about cassocks and red masks.

Maybe an apprentice did a quick and dirty version of the Cleansing, omitting the much-vaunted holy affluence. Or maybe one of the Hands I’d just spoken to did so, in the unlikely prospect that someone like me came calling.

Evis and I were betting that the combs themselves were a casual acquisition. They’d been seized at an excommunication, bought at an estate sale or picked up for a few gold jerks in the shadows down at the docks. In any case, we were betting that our man knew little, if anything, about the combs and their history.

But he’d be wondering now, if we were right. Wondering and pacing and ruing the day he bought the awful things. Oh, he’d check my story, starting with my association with Encorla Hisvin. That confirmed, if he bothered, he’d learn that Gantish cargo barges sink all the bloody time, and that half of them are named “Embalo”, which is Gantish for “unsinkable”, and that tracing the mere existence of such a vessel might take weeks, if indeed it could be done at all.

I leaned back. Like all the best lies, mine was a careful blend of half-truth and outright misdirection. It would hold, for a short time.

Time enough for panic to take root and bloom. Time enough to let the name Encorla Hisvin rise up and crash down and squeeze them like a vise.

Evis and I were betting fear would be sufficient to scare the truth out of our mark, priest or not. After all, that was the best course, when piloting past a creature like Encorla Hisvin. He didn’t want the combs, specifically. Since all he wanted to know was where they came from, why not tell him?

Tell him where, and when, and by whom. Better to tell him, than to have him find out, because he might then discover other things-things about the warehouse on Gentry, for instance. Things about dead prostitutes, shallow graves and new moons. Things even Hisvin the Corpsemaster might not choose to ignore.

That was my master plan. Because it didn’t matter to us where the combs came from. All that mattered was who had them.

I pulled off my hat, smoothed down my hair and spent a moment hoping my own life never hung by such a thin and twisted thread.

By the time Halbert pulled the carriage to a gentle halt at my curb, Darla was gone. She’d left me a sandwich and a big red Crump Valley apple, and Mama was shoving them both at me before I was halfway to my door.

“Boy,” she said, eyeing Halbert, who doffed his hat to her as if she were a queen before setting the ponies to a trot. “Miss Tomas left you this. Where you been? She waited half the day.”

“Miss Tomas?” I asked, fumbling with my lock.

“Miss Darla, then.” She followed me inside, put the sandwich and the apple down carefully on my desk. “Though you ought to call her Miss Tomas all polite-like. Manners wouldn’t hurt you none.”

I sidled around Mama, pulled off my shoes, hung up my hat and my coat.

“Look, Mama, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. Say what you want to say and get it over with. It’s bad manners to overstay one’s welcome.”

Mama pulled back a chair and sat. I didn’t like the way she was eyeing me. I could tell she was deciding what and how much of a thing to tell me, and what parts to leave out.

I picked up the sandwich. Mama cleared her throat.

“Ethel Hoobin says he’ll have the men you need, when you need them. I got a hex brewin’ next door. You tear it anywhere in town, and I’ll know it.”

I swallowed. “Good. What else?”

She glared. “I still don’t feel right about this, boy. I tell you, something ain’t right.”

“I won’t argue that.”

She sighed. “Miss Darla had news for you.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Said she found a man in the Park that remembered seeing Martha Hoobin.”

I put down Darla’s sandwich. It was good, better than anything Eddie ever made. But the way Mama refused to meet my eyes was putting me off my food.

“And?”

“Said the man remembered seein’ Martha with a man.” She looked up at me. “Tall, thin man. Don’t know no name. But he was there, with Martha. More than once.”

The Park. I’d been there. I’d asked. No one had seen.

But I’m not Darla, don’t have, won’t ever have, those big brown eyes.

“Who-” I began.

“She told me to tell you to talk to a man named Young Varney. Said she told him you’d be around askin’.” Mama shook her head. “Boy, I tell you plain I feel death, just outside your door, right this minute.”

“Mine?”

“Who else’s?” she spat back. “Ain’t there no other way you can do this?”

“No. No other way. Not now. And anyway, Mama, you said yourself your Sight is fuzzy these days. I still think you’re just putting your head too close to the hex-pot you’ve got brewing next door.”

“Maybe.” She sighed. “Anyways, I reckon it won’t do no good to ask you if you’ll take something I’ll give you, when you go out.”

“If I take it, will you go on home?”

“I’ll go,” she replied.

What the hell, I thought. When you’re mixing and mingling with vampires after dark, a clove of garlic discreetly tucked away in one’s breast pocket might not be a bad idea.

“Here,” she said, rising. She put her hand out on my desk, closed but palm-up, and opened it.

She held a tiny silver image of the Angel Malan, wings outspread, hands upraised and clasped to a fine-wrought silver chain.

“Miss Darla wanted you to have it. I ain’t gonna lie to you. I hexed it, and I hexed it hard.” She looked up at me, and I don’t know what she saw, but her pinprick eyes welled up with tears. “And I reckon it won’t do you a damned bit of good, you pig-headed young fool.”

She dropped the necklace, turned and raced stomp-stomping away.

I watched her go, open-mouthed, as my door banged shut and hers banged in swift reply.

“Thank you, Miss Darla.” I picked up the Angel Malan, let him swing before my eyes. “Guardian of soldiers, defender of the weary.” I remembered a line of Church, in old Father Molo’s voice. “He walks before you, in the dark,” he’d mumbled. Malan hadn’t been his patron. “Clears the way, makes wide the path.”

I slipped the necklace in my pocket, finished my sandwich and hurried to the Park.

I went by Darla’s, but she wasn’t home. So I told the cabbie to head for the Park, and he obliged, though with far less aplomb than Halbert.

Long shadows fell across us as we rode. I tried not to mull over Mama’s ramblings, but I found myself handling my Malan unconsciously and chided myself for it. Death comes to us all. Mama’s right about that. But I didn’t for a minute believe she knew the place, or the hour.

Still, I was taking precautions. My army knife was tucked in a belt-sheath under my jacket. My old Army-issue flash-papers were in the breast pocket. And as I was heading to talk to a man who sold birdseed to ladies of leisure, I felt I was adequately armed.

The Park was beginning to empty out. Couples streamed past, hand in hand. Some were flanked by hooting, scrambling children, their knees soiled green from a hard afternoon of tearing up the Regent’s turf. I dodged and wove and finally made out the stooped figure of a thin, white-haired man pushing a rickety two-wheeled cart, just cresting the next hill.

I huffed and puffed and caught up with him halfway down on the other side.

“Ho there,” I said. “Hold up.”

He turned and scowled and let go of his cart.

He was sixty or better, with a thick head of long white hair, skin the approximate color and texture of an oft-used saddle, and bright clean false teeth made for a much bigger mouth.

“Bit late for bird-seed.” His false teeth clattered and clicked when he spoke.

“I’m not wanting any,” I replied, and without missing a beat he turned, hefted his cart and was on his way.

“Two bags,” I shouted. “Two bags then.”

He stopped again. I caught up to him, saw him stifle the ghost of a snow-white grin.

I held out a pair of copper jerks.

“You the finder?”

“I’m the finder.”

He squinted at me, laughed, opened the top of his cart and pulled out two fist-sized paper bags stuffed full of broken corn swept from the loading ramp of one of the mills that line the Brown.

“Way she talked, I thought you was a good-lookin’ man. Reckon your lady-love needs spectacles?”

I took the bags. “Ha ha. I take it you are Mr. Varney?”

“I am.” He mopped his bald brow and put his elbows on his cart. “Your lady said you wanted to talk about that pretty little New People seamstress.”

“You knew her?”

“Naw, can’t say I did.” He paused long enough to nod at a lady who passed. “She bought some feed, ’bout once a week. Kept to herself mostly. Except when that thin fella started nosing around.”

I made myself breathe, made myself nod agreeably. The last thing I needed to do was scare the old man with the intensity of my stare.

“Been about a month, I reckon. He first started coming round, hauntin’ that bench, right over there,” he said, pointing to a stone bench set center in a white gravel circle not thirty feet away. “Cheap young crow. Bought a bag, never fed no birds ’til he saw her a comin’. He’d sit right there, all sour and glares, ’til she topped the hill. Oh, then he changed, right enough. Then he was all smiles and how-do-you-do’s.” Young Varney spat. “Crow-nosed prick.”

“You didn’t like him much,” I said, when he went silent. “Did she?”

He laughed. “Oh, she weren’t stupid. She’d speak to him, kind enough, at first. But it didn’t take long, ’til she’d figured Mister Fancy Pants out. Then she took to doing her readin’ on the other side of the Park, she did.” He shook his head. “Course, that didn’t stop Mister Fancy Pants.”

“He followed her?

Young Varney nodded. “He was a persistent fella, give him that. She even hid behind them oaks one day. But he always found her, no matter what. ’Til she just stopped comin’.”

I nodded. “He did too, didn’t he? Stopped coming.”

He scratched his head. “Yeah, I ain’t seen him since.”

I took a deep breath. “This is important. Did my lady friend tell you why I’m here?”

“She said that nice lady was gone, and that you think that fancy young man is the one what took her.”

“Someone took her,” I replied. “And yes, I think it was him.”

He shook his head. “Well, mister, I wish I could tell you more about him. I don’t know his name. He was tall, thin and dark-headed. Can’t recall much else.”

“Was he young?”

Young Varney squinted, back across time, I suppose. “Younger than you. Twenty and five? These old eyes-hell, I wasn’t paying much attention to him, no how.”

“I understand.” Another pair of ladies passed, and Young Varney’s eyes moved with them, and I decided on a different tack. “Tell me about the young lady then. What can you recall about her?”

“Oh, she was a daisy. Soft-spoken, smiled all the time.” He cackled. “She had a accent. Drawled her words. Couldn’t understand her, at first. Kind of pretty, after I got the hang of it. And them clothes! Angel Bolo, she wore some duds. Ain’t none of these ladies dressed as fine as that young un’. No, sir.” He smiled. “I reckon you think I’m a sad old fool.”

I laughed. “Put the right dress in front of a man, and we’re all sad old fools. Go on.”

He mopped his head again and pondered. “Well, she always had a book with her. A book or a sewin’ case-that’s how I knowed she was a seamstress. Sometimes she’d read. Sometimes she’d sew.” His face darkened. “Until that there man showed up.”

“What then?”

“Well, she quit sewin’ then. Sometimes she’d read to him, out of her book. I couldn’t make no sense out of it. Reckon he could though. Lord, how they’d argue some days!”

“Argue? About what?”

“Oh, angels and heavens and whatnot,” said Young Varney. I decided then and there that not one, but two, men had been trailing around Miss Hoobin those days in the Park. “She’d be all patient and kind, and he’d get all red-faced and start waving them great long arms.” The old man lifted an eyebrow in disdain. “I knew then he didn’t have no sense. I don’t care what she read in that there book-any man with sense would just be smilin’ and noddin’, and that’s a damned bare fact.”

I felt cold. Angels and heaven and whatnot. Martha Hoobin had been reading Balptist verse to the same man who’d put Allie Sands under the cobbles.

“She’s in trouble, ain’t she?”

I didn’t think he’d seen.

“She is. Think hard. I’ve got to find this man, Mr. Varney. I’ve got to find him soon.”

He fell silent. “When your lady came around, I tried to remember. Tried to think of something. I couldn’t. He was just a tall man. He wasn’t wearin’ no church robes, wasn’t wearing one of them big rings them bastards-” he spat toward the Hill “-wear. He wasn’t talkin’ funny or giving out foreign money. He was just a man.” He looked down at the ground. “But I been thinkin’, and I reckon there’s one thing I didn’t remember then that I do recall now. Don’t know if it means anything.”

I wanted to shake him by the shoulders, but I didn’t. “Tell me,” I said, with my best warming smile. “Her name is Martha. She’s a nice lady.”

He nodded. “It ain’t nothin’ he done, you understand,” he said, his eyes wandering briefly to follow a pert young nanny as she strolled past with a gaggle of shrieking tots in tow. “But it’s something I reckon he didn’t do. He’d meet up with your Miss Martha pretty near every sunny day, but he weren’t never here on Wrack Days. Not a one.”

I must have frowned.

“Damn, boy, you ain’t a Church man, are you?” laughed Young Varney. “Wrack Days. Wrack Days. Every other Tuesday. Them Wherthmore bastards have a extra sermon in the morning and can’t cast a shadow the rest of the day.” He cackled. “Don’t nobody pay no mind to Wrack Days no more but them Wherthmore masks.”

Masks. Priests or acolytes. Anybody up in the ranks enough to rate a title, even if it’s not much more than “Hey, you.”

My blood went cold. Acolytes might just have access to the rituals and artifacts of the Cleansings.

“You’re sure about this?”

“He weren’t wearin’ no robe,” said Varney. “Weren’t carrying no mask. But I reckon he a Church man, all the same. “

“And you think he’s Wherthmore.”

Varney shrugged. “I don’t think nothin’. Don’t go there myself. Stuck-up bastards. But they still hold them Wrack Days, and I don’t reckon nobody else does.” He shrugged. “Hell, it might be happenstance. I said it might not mean nothin’.”

I let out my breath and found a smile. “It’s a good guess,” I said, digging in my pocket for another pair of coins. “I owe you this. You’ve told me more in the last few minutes than any half a dozen people over the last two days.”

“I ain’t askin’ to be paid,” he said, stiffening.

“I know that. I thank you. My lady friend thanks you. And I hope one day soon the young lady with the book and the sewing kit can come up here and thank you herself, but until then, take this. Never let it be said the finder Markhat takes up a working man’s time without offering something in return.”

“Well, reckon that’s all right.” He took the coins, made them jingle in his pocket. Then he grinned up at me. “You keep them bags of feed, you hear? Your lady said she’s gonna bring you up here, after you’ve done found that seamstress. Said she’s gonna sit you down on that there bench and teach you robins from red-birds and trick you into marryin’ her.”

I laughed. “She’d say that. Thanks for your time.”

He picked up his cart. A tall blonde lady was passing by on the gravel walk at the bottom of the hill, and Young Varney set off after her with a single short “fare thee well”.

I turned and went back the way I’d come.

I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to join my brothers at Wherthmore in early evening worship.

I sat on a pew, hat off, head down and watched the faithful come and go.

Evis’s men-I’d spotted one on the street, another haunting the so-called Sin Room that lay, dark and hot, two doors down from the sanctuary proper-had scattered at my approach, leaving only the one true Markhat keeping vigil at the altar.

The Big Bell pealed out two hours as I sat. Three red-masked priests had approached me, and three red-masked priests had retreated in confusion when I told them I was waiting for a personal visit from the Angel Malan himself. After that, they were content to leave me alone, though they did keep a careful watch on me from behind various pillars and through sundry folds of curtains.

By then, I was feeling a bit sheepish myself. I hadn’t come to Wherthmore with any clear idea of what to do. I had, I suppose, been hoping that a tall, beak-nosed man in fancy black pants would show up, silver comb in one hand, bag of bird-feed in the other.

But he didn’t. A few of the faithful shambled up to the prayer-box, knelt and dropped coins before ambling away. Priests came and went and peeped. Just after each time the Big Bell rang, someone behind the curtains struck a gong and read a verse of Church. Young Varney wasn’t there to translate, though, so most of it marched righteously past me.

I sighed. Night was falling soon. Which meant Evis could be out and about, but unless he’d developed startling new evidence in the last few hours, he and his pale friends had no better idea where to go than I.

I almost broke down and prayed. What good a prayer, though, when you only know half a dozen words?

I was about to stand. About to stand, walk out and buy a bottle of wine and take it to Darla.

At that very moment, a shadow fell over me, and I turned to meet the scowl of Father Foon.

“Must you continue to defile this holy place?” he said, so soft I could barely hear.

I glanced about, watched every other red mask and black robe in the building fade like noon-struck ghosts.

“I came seeking guidance.” I stood. “When did you add that to your secret list of sins?”

He took a step back. I hadn’t lowered my voice. I wasn’t going to.

“How dare you-”

“Heard that before. Wasn’t impressed then. Not impressed now.” I stepped out of the pew. “You’re big on prayer. Fine. Let’s pray together, shall we? Oh Mighty Hosts,” I intoned, in a near shout that rang throughout the empty chamber. “Take from me the wrath of Encorla Hisvin, who has been known to cook his victims from the neck down so quickly they didn’t know they were dead until they smelled the roasted meat. Spare me the pain of being skinned and boiled alive because I lied about a box of silver combs-”

“Silence!” he shouted. “Silence, or I swear I shall cast your name to the devils!”

“I’m not one of your flock. I neither covet your heavens nor fear your hells. Cast away. See if I care.”

“Blasphemy!”

“Stuff it. I’ve heard that all my life. Heard it from mean-spirited old goats who would drop a dozen souls to catch a single copper. Heard it and heard it and heard it. Well, I’m not listening anymore, Father or Hand or whatever your title is. I’m not listening, and my boss isn’t listening. You can yell blasphemy at him all day, if you want. See how much sweat it raises.”

And then I saw it. Not just anger, but maybe, just maybe, the smallest hint of fear.

I saw it, and I pounced.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll be at a place on Regent, at midnight tomorrow night. A place that breaks Curfew. Ask around, for the name.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“I’ll be there at midnight,” I repeated. “I’ll have one beer. Maybe two. And if someone hasn’t come in and sat down and told me all about the damned combs, I’m leaving. Leaving, and going to see Mister Hisvin, and he can take matters from there. If it means dragging you and every red mask and every apprentice and every floor-sweeper in all five churches down to see him, I guess that’s what he’ll do. So this is the last time it’ll be me asking, Father. The last time I can offer a promise that Hisvin won’t lift a finger against the man who has the combs.”

“Get out.”

“I’ll do that.” I looked up at the soot-encrusted stained glass windows, at the angels within them struggling and failing to shine through the growing dark. “No reason to stay. Not in a place like this.”

He opened his mouth again, but I was on the move, so he shut it and stepped aside. “Midnight,” I said. “Or else.”

“I shall pray for you, my son,” he growled.

I stopped, turned on my heel.

“If you ever call me that again,” I said, soft this time, “I’ll lay you out, flat and cold, mask and robe and all. You hear me?”

I didn’t wait. I put my back to him, marched out and slammed the doors as I went.

People got out of the way outside. Even the cabbie I hailed made with quick “yessirs” and “nosirs” and stayed out of my way.

I leaned back against the hard plank seat and gulped in air. Where the Hell had that come from?

I’d cussed in a Church. I’d threatened a priest-a body of priests-in public.

I mopped sweat and looked at the sun and realized I’d never make a winery and Darla’s and get back to my office in time to wait in case anyone dropped by with a full confession. So I headed for home, the Angel Malan cold in my pocket, the word blasphemy ringing in my ears.

Blasphemy. Maybe so, I decided.

It is, after all, the single word of Church that everyone knows.

I sat and brooded. Mama Hog came and Curfew came and Mama Hog went. I listened for traffic on the street, and when it came I slipped my knife halfway out of its sheath and made sure my jacket wouldn’t get in the way.

A carriage pulled to the curb, and I heard Halbert’s low voice say something, and Evis answered, and the carriage pulled away.

I relaxed, crossed to the door, met him.

“Good evening,” I said. “Come on in.”

He smiled at me.

“Why, Mister Markhat, one would think you’re glad to see me.”

I stepped back. It’s been a bad day when vampires drop by and you’re pleased with the distraction.

“I’ve been consorting with priests. It’s good to speak to persons who aren’t likely to consign me to Hell, for a change.”

“I’ve heard about your conversation with the good Father Foon,” said Evis. He motioned to my chair. “May I sit?”

“Please do.” I found my chair, and Evis pulled out his dark glasses. “So you know I dropped by Wherthmore.”

“One of my men remained,” he said. I lifted an eyebrow. I hadn’t seen him. Perhaps Ronnie Sacks wasn’t the cream of the Avalante crop after all. “He conveyed your exchange to me. Most interesting. May I inquire as to the source of this sudden interest in Wherthmore?”

I took in a breath. I trusted Evis, to a point. I realized that I even liked him, fussy black receipt books and fangs and all. But I was not going to mention Darla’s name. Not to him, not to anyone.

“I met a man in the Park.” I sketched out Young Varney’s tale, omitting his name and occupation and Darla’s discovery of his keen eye for well-dressed young ladies. “So I figured I’d go to Wherthmore, see what I could shake up.” I shrugged. Let them think my outburst was part of some carefully planned stratagem. I didn’t know how else to explain it anyway.

“Fascinating,” said Evis. He forgot where he was, bared his lips and rested a long black fingernail on the middle of his chin. “Brilliant, even. If the comb-cleanser is indeed of Wherthmore, he will hear. He will know.”

“If he’s there.”

Evis shrugged. “I think it likely he is. The staff at Wherthmore is larger than the other four churches combined. Too, the artifacts necessary for the Cleansing are currently housed at Wherthmore, and have been for the last two years.”

I frowned. “I hadn’t known that. Wish I had.”

“We found this out only today,” he replied. He looked up at me and remembered to close his mouth. “Statistically, your outburst was well chosen. The number of staff and proximity to the required artifacts suggest Wherthmore is indeed the base for the Cleansing of the combs. Especially since, if you say, the Cleansing itself is incomplete-even an apprentice based at Wherthmore would find it much easier to slip in and use the artifacts than anyone based at another Church.” He cocked his head. “Still, Mr. Markhat. Abusing priests in that manner-why, you’re likely to find yourself right beside me, in the Pit, one day.”

I sighed. “Maybe. But I am more concerned right now that our rogue priest is making plans to pay us a visit.”

Evis shook his head. “No, I doubt that the man you have described and the Cleanser are the same man. Indeed, my men have spent the better part of two days observing the staff of the various Arms of Inquisition, and I can tell you that priests and apprentices alike tend to be balding, corpulent men of an age far removed from our man in the Park.”

I shook my head. “You’re sure of that?”

“The artifacts I mentioned are potent ones indeed. Hair loss is common among the Hands. Our amorous Park fancier has hair.”

I frowned. Evis bit back a smile.

“Do not despair,” he said. “This Thin Man, as you call him, undoubtedly takes his orders from a priest, or from halfdead, or both. If we assume it is the Thin Man’s job to choose and entice the women, then he is the man we most want to meet, is he not?”

“How do you know he’s the low man in the outfit?”

“He does the out and about tasks. He is most exposed to scrutiny. And whether he knows it or not, he is the man his superiors will sacrifice, should attention be drawn to their activities.” Evis shrugged. “Call it a guess, if you will. But even though we may have brought terror to the priest and the halfdead, it is this Thin Man who will be sent to meet you. Because he is expendable. And, I suspect, because he is a fool.”

I leaned back. I wasn’t comforted. “How many persons do you figure are involved in this group?”

Evis shrugged. “Logistics suggest ten to twenty. Mostly halfdead.”

“Is that all?”

Evis laughed. “I certainly hope so. Because, once we find them out, it shall fall to Avalante to kill them. Priest and halfdead and all.”

“The Church won’t appreciate that.”

“They’d appreciate being implicated in a vampire blood-cult even less,” said Evis. He shrugged, sighed and regarded me with a woeful expression. “I wish we had more time. I fear we rely far too heavily on surmise and assumption.”