‘I leaned slowly back in my chair.
‘And then, I fell off it laughing.’
VI
PROMISES, PROMISES
‘THE GRAIL OF San Michon,’ Jean-Fran?ois murmured.
‘Oui,’ Gabriel replied.
‘The cup that caught the blood of your Redeemer as he died.’
‘So the Testaments say.’
‘Pretend you are more of an expert on scripture than I, Silversaint. Explain.’
Gabriel shrugged. ‘Well, after his acolytes betrayed him, the Almighty’s one begotten son was captured by priests of the Old Gods. At the end of seven nights of torture, the priests strung him up on a chariot wheel. They flayed his skin away to appease Brother Wind, burned the flesh beneath to please Father Flame, cut his throat to feed Mother Earth. And at the end, they tossed his body into the Eternal Waters. But his last faithful follower, the hunter Michon, was so aggrieved at seeing her master’s blood lost in the dust, that she caught it up in a silver chalice. That cup became the first relic of the One Faith. And Michon, the first Martyr.’ Gabriel sniffed. ‘Bugger of a job, really.’
‘Children’s tales,’ the vampire mused.
The Last Silversaint leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head. ‘As you like it.’
‘This Sauvage woman must have been a simpleton.’
‘She was one of the shrewdest bitches I ever met, truth told.’
‘And yet she put stock in peasant superstition?’
‘Twenty-seven years ago, leeches were considered peasant superstition by most. And your Empress Undying must put stock in it too. Else, I’d already be dead.’
Jean-Fran?ois looked Gabriel over with glittering eyes.
‘The night is young, Chevalier.’
‘Promises, promises.’
‘You first scoffed at the tale, same as I.’
‘That I did.’
The vampire brushed the edges of his quill with one sharp fingernail. ‘How did Sister Chloe react, then, when you laughed in her face?’
‘Well, she wasn’t turning cartwheels. But I was too shitfaced to care by then. Chloe looked down on me with something between pity and anger as I rolled on the floorboards of the Perfect Husband, laughing as if she were jester to Emperor Alexandre himself.
‘The old Sūdhaemi priest made his way over, hands tucked in his sleeves. His skin was wrinkled as a walnut’s, dusk dark. He wore the sigil of the Redeemer’s wheel about his neck; a perfect circle forged of pure silver. Worth a fortune those nights.
‘“Is everything well, Sister Chloe?” he asked, looking at me with bemusement.
‘“Oh, it’s more than well, Father,” I chuckled, wiping away the tears. “Our Chloe here has found the answer, don’t you know?”
‘“Mind your tongue, Gabriel,” she murmured.
‘“She’s found the end to the endless fucking night, no less!”
‘“Shut your mouth!” she commanded, kicking my shin.
‘The chatter around the commonroom had stopped, and every patron in the pub was busy with the spectacle of me making a complete twat of myself. The serving lass looked mournfully at the mess I’d made. The lad Dior was staring at me with pure contempt through his cigarelle smoke, though the young soothsinger raised his cup and grinned.
‘It was at that moment the taverne door opened, admitting a blast of freezing sleet and a doughy, middle-aged Elidaeni man. His face was flushed, his powdered wig askew. Sausage fingers were adorned with silver rings, and he clutched a crook staff. His red robes were embroidered with scripture, and the sigil of the wheel hung about his neck. He was surrounded by militiamen from the gate.
‘Glaring about, the man’s gaze settled on the publican.
‘“Mme Petra,” he said. “Are visits to your establishment from honoured gentry so frequent no one thinks to fetch me when a silversaint arrives in it?”
‘“We were afeared of disturbing you at prayer, Bishop Du Lac,” the woman replied, eyes downturned. “Apologies.”
‘I looked this priest over. Noted the way the mood had fallen in the commonroom at his entrance. Even though he was Elidaeni born, he clearly had the run of the town. In the nights of famine and suffering after daysdeath, there wasn’t a single game in the empire that prospered like the Holy Church. When hell had opened its gates, it was only natural commonfolk turned to the priesthood for guidance. But I’ve met believers in my time, coldblood. And I’ve met politicians. And I’d have bet my troth ring that this bastard was the latter. Too well fed, too well dressed, and too fucking sure of his welcome in the world. So, I tossed the hair from my eyes. Raised one unsteady finger at his robe.
‘“I just love your dress.”
‘“You’d do well to mind your tongue, monsieur,” the man warned, “lest I have you whipped through the streets like a disobedient hound.”
‘“Well that’s not very polite.”
‘He looked me over – sprawled on the boards with vodka in hand, unshaven jaw, bare, dirty feet. “And you hardly look a man deserving of politeness.”
‘Leaning on his silvered crook, the man puffed up like a peacock.
‘“I am Alfonse Du Lac, Bishop of Dhahaeth. I am informed a member of the Ordo Argent is come among us.” He looked about each patron in turn. “Pray, where is the good frère? I desire a word or three, none of which can wait.”
‘The serving lass nodded to me. “That’s him, Your Grace.”
‘The bishop’s mouth fell open. “It … is?”
‘The man glanced at Chloe beside me, who simply shrugged. My stomach burbled a sternly worded complaint as I swayed to my feet. The suspicion I shouldn’t have downed an entire bottle of peasant-still vodka was slowly rising, along with the threat of second dinner.
‘To his credit, the bishop recovered quick, crossing the commonroom and shaking my hand so vigorously his wig began slipping. “It is my honour, Holy Brother.”
‘“As you like it,” I growled, dragging my hand free.
‘Du Lac straightened his wig, altogether flustered. “Your pardon, I beg you. Had I known you were en route, I would have met you at the gate. Long months have I beseeched High Pontifex Gascoigne to send us aid against the marauding Dead. I thought perhaps His Holiness might send a few troops. If I had known he would send a bona fide silversaint—”
‘My stomach burbled ominously. I held it still with one hand as the rest of me swayed with the building around us. “Should’ve never eaten that spudloaf …”
‘Chloe held my arm to steady me. “Gabe, you should sit down.”
‘“Frère, please,” the bishop begged. “I’d speak with you alone, if I may.”
‘I squinted at the powdered curls atop the man’s head. “I think your cat’s dead.”
‘“Gabriel, you should drink some water,” Chloe warned.
‘“Pardon me.” The bishop glared at Chloe, cheeks flushing. “I am conducting official parish business here. Who exactly are you, madame?”
‘“Well, first and foremost, I’m not a dame. I’m a demoiselle.”