‘“Initiate de Coste,” he murmured. “When the master of the house arrives, I want you ready to use the gifts of your blood. If tempers flare, keep them dampened. If good cheer is required, provide it.”
‘“By the Blood, Master.”
‘“Initiate de León …” Greyhand glanced at me then. My heart sinking as I realized a frailblood had nothing special to offer here. “Don’t touch anything.”
‘The parlour door opened, and a portly man entered with sparse ceremony. He was in his early forties, well fed and well heeled, an ornate green alderman’s sash across his chest. But despite the noble fashion of the time, he wore no wig. His hair was dishevelled, tied back in a thin, greying tail. He had the eyes of a man who had forgotten what sleep tastes like, his shoulders bent by some hidden weight.
‘Behind him came another gent, a little younger. He wore black vestments and a stiff red collar, signifying the cut throat of the Redeemer. Thick dark hair was cut in a short bowl, and the sigil of the wheel hung about his neck. Skyefall’s parish priest, I guessed.
‘Our master removed his gloves, offered his hand. “M. de Blanchet, I am Frère Greyhand, brother of the Silver Order of San Michon.”
‘As the alderman took his grip, Greyhand pressed his tattooed palm atop the man’s hand. Touching him with the silver, I realized. Testing him for corruption.
‘“The pleasure is mine, Frère,” the alderman said, his voice thin as paper.
‘“These are my apprentices,” Greyhand nodded. “De Coste and de León. We are here by imperial command to investigate rumour of a malady among the godly people of Skyefall.”
‘“Thank the Mothermaid,” the priest breathed.
‘“It is true, then? This town is afflicted?”
‘“This town is accursed, Frère,” the alderman spat. “A curse that has already plucked the brightest flowers from our garden. And now, threatens all we have left in this world.”
‘The priest placed a comforting hand on the alderman’s shoulder. “M. de Blanchet’s wife, Claudette, is taken ill with the sickness. And his son …”
‘De Blanchet broke, as if his face were splitting at the seams. “My dear Claude …”
‘“Have strength, M. de Blanchet,” the priest counselled.
‘“Have I not shown the strength of titans, Lafitte?” he snapped, pushing the priest’s hand away. “The strength a father must conjure to put his only son in the ground?”
‘De Blanchet slumped on a velvet longue, head low. Greyhand turned on the young priest, cold green eyes flickering to the silver wheel about his neck. “Your name is Lafitte?”
‘“Oui, Frère. By grace of God and High Pontifex Benét, I am priest of Skyefall.”
‘“How long has your parish suffered this malady, Father?”
‘“Young Claude passed just before the feast of San Guillaume. Almost two months ago.” Lafitte made the sign of the wheel. “Precious child. He was only ten years old.”
‘“He was first to die?”
‘“But not the last. At least a dozen of the town’s finest have fallen since. And I hear rumour from the poorer quarter. A wasting sickness sweeping the riverside.” The young priest pressed his lips thin. “I hear other whispers also. Of folk gone missing in the night. Of witchery and shadows. I fear this town is accursed, good Frère.”
‘“And now Mme de Blanchet is afflicted?”
‘“As if heaven has not tested me enough,” the alderman whispered.
‘“Take us to her,” Greyhand ordered.
‘De Blanchet and Père Lafitte led us up a winding stairwell in the estate’s heart, and though I tried to pay heed only to Greyhand, the opulence of that place struck me hard. Famine had cut the Nordlund to ribbons in the years after daysdeath. Whole communities had been destroyed, cities flooded with farmers and vintners and the like – folks whose livelihoods had wilted and rotted when the sun failed. It was only Empress Isabella’s request for her husband to open the imperial granaries that had saved the people in those years before we found our new normal. Through it all, this man had lived like a lord, surrounded by objets d’art and polished mahogany and grand rows of unread books.
‘But for all his wealth, it hadn’t been enough to save his son.
‘We arrived at double doors, and de Blanchet hesitated. “My wife is not … properly attired for company.”
‘“We are servants of God, M. de Blanchet,” Aaron replied. “Have no fear.”
‘I heard the inflection in de Coste’s voice, saw a predator’s gleam in his pale blue eyes – the gift of the Blood Ilon. The Ilon were known as the Whispers among kith society, and their ability to influence the emotions of others was unparalleled. Aaron had inherited the same from his vampire father, and as he spoke, de Blanchet’s face slackened. With a murmur of assent, the alderman pushed through the doorway, and with a nod to de Coste, Greyhand followed, with me on his heels.
‘A roaring fireplace cast a ruddy glow in the room. Glass doors opened onto a stone balcony, but the curtains were almost closed. Marble mantelpiece. Gold trim. I smelled sweat, sickness and dried herbs. And resting on a mountain of pillows in a magnificent four-poster bed, was a woman who looked on the verge of death.
‘Her skin was waxed paper, thin breast rising and falling swift as a wounded bird’s. Though the boudoir was uncomfortably warm, her nightshift was laced to her chin, blankets piled atop her. She shivered in her sleep.
‘Greyhand crossed the room, pressed the sevenstar upon his palm to her sallow brow. The woman moaned loudly, but her eyes remained closed.
‘“How long has she been such?”
‘“Seven nights,” de Blanchet replied. “I have tried every tincture. Every cure. And yet, each day my Claudette worsens, as did our Claude. I fear my wife soon shall follow our son to the grave.” The alderman looked skywards, his shaking hands in fists. “What sin is mine that you would pass this measure unto me?”
‘Greyhand lit a posy of dried silverbell and placed it on the mantelpiece, murmuring a prayer and watching it burn. Reaching into his bandolier, he dashed handfuls of metallic powder on the floor around the bed, studying the patterns.
‘“What is that, Frère?” the priest asked.
‘“Metal shavings. Faekin leave footprints no cold iron will touch. Tell me, M. de Blanchet, have you noticed the shade of your fires tilting towards blue near midnight? Milk souring in the morn perhaps, or cocks crowing as the sun sets?”
‘“… No, Frère.”
‘“An abundance of lowborn beasts about the manor? Black cats, rats, or suchlike?”
‘“Nothing of the sort.”
‘Greyhand pursed his lips. I knew he was eliminating possibilities – witchery or the fae or servants of the fallen. “You will forgive me, monsieur. But I must examine your wife. I fear this may be uncomfortable to watch. I understand if you wish to wait outside.”
‘“I will do no such thing,” the alderman replied, standing taller.