Page 23 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Greatcoat Piccolo Caeda reporting for duty, my Cantor!’

Estevar couldn’t keep himself from laughing, until Imperious found all this sudden amusement unsettling and gave a low, anxious neigh. Careful to avoid the stitches that marched from the top of the mule’s head to just above his muzzle, Estevar stroked his cheek reassuringly.

‘And now, Greatcoat Piccolo,’ he said to Caeda, who grinned even wider, hearing him address her thus, ‘which of the many factions threatening this abbey do you propose we interrogate first?’

She tapped a fingertip against the delicate cleft in her chin. ‘Well, of the three main ones. . .’

Three factions, Estevar thought, recalling the debate between Brother Agneta and the two Trumpeters earlier.Would it have been so difficult for the girl to have confirmed that simple fact half an hour ago?

‘The Bone-Rattlers– that’s what everyone calls the traditionalists who were closest to Abbot Venia. They wear those silly dice around their necks to choose which deities to worship at any given time, even though most of those gods are probably still dead and the ones reborn too feeble to matter. Don’t expect them to be of much use; they scurry around in the dark like mice, hiding from everyone else. On the other hand, they’ll probably be the most agreeable to your presence, since your connection to Abbot Venia will lead them to assume you’ll take their side.’

Brother Agneta had not appeared to share that reasoning, he noted. ‘No doubt this will set the other two factions against us?’ he asked. ‘And they are?’

Caeda nodded agreement. ‘The Trumpeters–that’s a type of flower that grows on the island in summer. Poisonous, of course, which suits those yellow-robed goons marching around the abbey in perfectly formed squads. They believe the six old gods are gone for good and that the abbey needs a new deator to speak for whichever one comes to take their place. In the meantime, they’re keen to practise their smiting of heretics– which is anyonenotwearing a yellow robe.’

Certainly, Sister Parietta and her comrade Jaffen had been eager for an opportunity to smite Brother Agneta, along with taking Estevar himself prisoner. He wondered why it had been so important to the inquisitor to keep him out of their clutches, given she’d left him for dead in the courtyard minutes later. Perhaps Agneta feared whoever led these ‘Trumpeters’ might have persuaded him to join their cause?

‘And what of the Hounds?’ he asked Caeda. ‘Do their drunken attempts to channel the spiritual energies of Isola Sombra into themselves make them as feared as the Trumpeters? Or does their devotion to ritualistic self-indulgence lead to ridicule?’

She tilted her head, looking much like a cat. ‘Who said anything about the Hounds being self-indulgent?’

‘Perhaps I was mistaken. I assumed that if one faction, the Bone-Rattlers,were devoted to the old gods, and another, the Trumpeters, portrayed themselves as the apostles of some new one– both outwardly theological perspectives–then the third faction had likely abandoned formal religion altogether and chosen a path of occult hedonism.’

Caeda frowned. ‘Forgive me, Cantor, but that sounds more like speculation than deduction.’

‘Induction, actually,’ he told her. ‘Deduction reveals what must be true when all else is eliminated, whereasinduction enables us to develop hypotheses based on known facts.’

‘In other words, induction is just another name for speculation,’ she insisted.

‘Speculation bound by—’ He stopped himself. ‘Forgive me, Piccolo. I have a bad habit of lecturing others about my methods whether asked or not.’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘If I’m to be a proper Greatcoat, then I suppose I’ll need to learn a few investigative techniques, don’t you think?’

He couldn’t help but smile at her use of mockery to mask her eagerness. Estevar had had manyactualmagistrates-in-training foisted on him. They were often keen to ride into the fray, delivering justice at the end of a sword. Rarely were they as interested in the less heroic yet far more intricate and vital process of uncovering the facts of a case. This made a nice change.

‘Imagine a village,’ he began, ‘peaceful, until one day a messenger comes to warn of an invading army marching towards them.’

‘A bedtime story?’ Caeda asked, gesturing to the door at the top of the sloping passageway. ‘Deadly schemes and monstrous intrigues await beyond that door, oh wise Cantor. Do you really want to pass the time telling me bedtime stories?’

‘Hush, Piccolo. You asked that I explain my reasoning; allow me to do so in the fashion I believe most conducive to your training.’

‘All right. I’m imagining a village. It’s very peaceful– except for the whole invading army thing.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, let us begin with the premise that, when presented with such a dilemma, most people fall into three camps.’ Estevar put up a hand before she could interrupt. ‘There are more than three ways to react to such dire tidings, of course, but if I asked you to describe the three most common ones, how would you answer?’

Caeda shrugged. ‘Some would cower, hoping that either the messenger was lying or that someone would come to save them. Others would take up arms, vying for control and believing that onlytheywere brave enough or smart enough to save the village.’

‘Excellent,’ he said approvingly. ‘And the third. . . shall we say,faction? What would you expect them to do?’

‘Probably decide that death was inevitable and start drinking and fu—’ Her mouth split into a wide grin. ‘That’s exactly what the Hounds– well, “Wolves” is what they call themselves–have been doing ever since the storm destroyed the statuary and someone killed the abbot. They think that if the gods really are returning to Isola Sombra, it’s only to dish out some righteous vengeance, so they holed up inside the Venerance Tower–that’s where noble guests stay, where the best food and booze is kept–and started performing these occult rituals their leader found in some book in the abbot’s private library. He claims it’s ceremonial magic to imbue himself and his followers with godly powers, but his so-called rites mostly involve drunken orgies.’ She poked Estevar in the chest to accentuate her words. ‘So. Very. Clever! Oh, you are going to be excellent fun, my Cantor.’

‘I saw the markings on Abbot Venia’s body,’ Estevar said, stepping back and combing his fingers through the beaded braids of his beard as a way to avoid any further poking, ‘and the knights who came here days ago had similar inflictions. These “Wolves” must have sharp teeth indeed to have captured and then had their way with a dozen of the Margrave of Someil’s finest chevaliers before sending them home in a stupor.’

Caeda’s smile disappeared. In a whisper, she said, ‘Make no mistake, my Cantor, the Wolvesaredangerous. I wonder, will you brave their lair? You know how it is with wild dogs; if they sense even a hint of fear’– she clacked her teeth together menacingly– ‘their fangs will soon find your throat.’

Estevar had rarely known actual fear during his tenure among the Greatcoats. When he arrived in a town or village, there would usually be constables or soldiers whose assistance he could conscript on behalf of the king. When that failed, twelve ordinary citizens could be formed into a jury, paid with the gold coins hidden as leather-covered buttons on his coat to help ensure his verdict held once the trial was over. Now he was alone on an island, far from his fellow Greatcoats and even further from the king’s influence. All he had was this mysterious young woman whose origins and intentions remained unclear to him. He felt like an imposter, standing there with no coat, wearing another man’s ill-fitting clothes, a rapier belted to his side that he could barely draw without tearing out the stitches resulting from his last duel– the one that had nearly killed him.

Caeda stared up at him. She looked concerned, though whether for his future or her own, he couldn’t be sure. Favouring her with a broad smile, he resorted to the bluster that had carried him through so many other perils. ‘Well, my Piccolo, you recall how one commands a hound, don’t you?’

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