Page 56 of Crucible of Chaos

Caeda had asked why they weren’t rushing off to arrest her as the obvious suspect, but Estevar had spent enough time with the relentlessly pragmatic Cogneri to recognise that such a reckless and unpredictable gambit wouldn’t suit her. A far more likely explanation was that she’d witnessed with growing concern the affliction of her brethren and was now awaiting their recovery before she set about imposing her own vision of the abbey’s future. This interpretation better explained why she’d reverted to her old profession of Inquisitor, approaching every dilemma with the same methodical, merciless conviction with which she’d once interrogated apostates.

Since it was unlikely Venia had ever confided his heretical plans to Brother Agneta, Estevar was in need of a different guide to help him trace the abbot’s steps during his final hours.

‘In an abbey which housed three hundred monks,’ he’d explained to Caeda before they’d snuck into the chapter house, ‘there must be more than one who doesn’t drink.’

Her own experiences, she’d countered, suggested that such a hypothesis relied on an unreasonably high regard for monks.

‘Ah, but this is not a question of virtue,’Estevar had pointed out.‘There are any number of ailments that make alcohol untenable for the liver, so we can reliably infer that one or two others among the brethren at least remain in their right minds and have chosen to lurk in the shadows, biding their time, perhaps even haunting the footsteps of a Greatcoat whose intentions they cannot divine.’

While the fretful spy had kept his distance since the advent of the demons, Estevar was sure the fellow would resume his watchful pursuit, especially if the interloping magistrate were to invade so sacred a place as the abbey’s chapter house.

At least, that was my theory.

‘No one’s coming,’ Caeda whispered, blowing a strand of hair from her forehead.

Estevar’s legs had grown numb and his back felt as if it might seize at any moment. He massaged his thighs to wakefulness, all the while fearing he’d overestimated his quarry’s eagerness.

‘Come on,’ she said, beginning to rise. ‘Let’s g—’

Estevar grabbed her arm and pulled her back down, still unnerved at how solid–howalive–she felt. Ignoring her outraged glare, he held a finger to his lips.

The quiet creak he’d heard seconds before was soon followed by the slow, barely audible padding of bare feet on the oak floor, approaching from one of the chapter house’s six doors.

Those doors had been the problem with trying to capture their spy. Tristian holy buildings always had six entrances, one for each of the gods. Worshippers arrived and departed through whichever one was affiliated with the god to whom they were most devoted. A common boast among clerics who sought converts to their own faiths was to declare to their colleagues, ‘They may have walked in through your god’s door, but they left through mine.’

Hiding behind one of the entrances would have been no different than rolling dice, for if Estevar guessed wrong, his prey would race back out of the door they’d come in, fleeing before he and Caeda could catch them. The lectern, however, was set on a circular wooden dais several feet above the chapter house floor. A wooden railing ran all around it to protect the preacher from accidentally falling during a particularly impassioned sermon. The sole gate onto the dais had been constructed to swing closed and latch on its own, delaying anyone who entered from running back down the stairs.

Come now, my little mouse, Estevar urged silently, listening to the quiet patter of those tentative footsteps.You saw us enter this holy place, defiling it with our presence. But where are we lurking among the endless rows of pews? Where better to spot us from than atop this sanctified perch?

Sure enough, a few minutes later he heard the soft squeak of the gate’s hinges, followed by the gentleclackof the latch falling shut. Estevar counted three more breaths before he made a grab for the intruder. The stubble-headed young monk was quick, though, and without even a cry of surprise, spun on his heel and took two steps towards the gate before leaping up to jump over the railing.

Alas, my friend, Estevar thought, reaching out to grab hold of a handful of grey woollen hem,here is why coats are superior to robes: coats don’t fall all the way to the ankles, thus providing a helpful tether.

The garment tore free from Estevar’s grip, but not before blunting the monk’s momentum and causing his ankle to catch on the railing. The young man’s arms flapped wildly as he fell forward, ending in a rather hard landing and a great deal of groaning.

‘I’d take a moment to catch your breath if I were you,’ Estevar advised, opening the gate and ushering Caeda through in a leisurely fashion before descending the stairs behind her. The grimacing monk was attempting to simultaneously cradle one arm while rubbing the opposite knee. ‘Please allow us to ensure you’ve not broken any bones before you escort us on a brief tour of this abbey’s less-visited attractions.’

CHAPTER 32

THE GOOSE CHASE

In spite of his newly bruised knee and sprained elbow, Brother Syme limped with impressive speed up the rough-hewn wooden stairs of the suitably named Tower of Humility, resentfully mumbling ‘ouch’ with every step. That was only to be expected, as apart from the injuries he’d suffered tumbling over the railing of the dais in the chapter house, Syme was also afflicted with a bad case of gout.

‘Which means he can’t drink wine, can he?’ Caeda whispered as they climbed the stairs behind the spy who’d been dogging Estevar’s footsteps since his arrival at the abbey.

‘Further confirmation of our hypothesis,’ Estevar agreed. There could be no more doubt that the already fractured brethren of Isola Sombra had been driven to the brink of madness by the poisoned wine.Neither can there be any doubt as to who committed the deed, Estevar reminded himself.

He’d already crossed Brother Agneta off the list of likely perpetrators. There were few depths to which the Cogneri would not sink to achieve their ends, but Estevar had long ago trained himself to set aside his biases in these matters. However dark their predilections, the inquisitors were, in their own fashion, as devoted as the Greatcoats to the laws they enforced. True, religious doctrines did make for an unforgiving brand of justice, but to poison the sinful along with the innocent would not, he was certain, have suited Brother Agneta’s nature.

Mother Leogado possessed both the strategic abilities to plan such a gambit in a way that would favour her followers, and she was quite capable of justifying such an act as a necessary evil in service to the abbey. However, her manic carving of her little figurines had absolved her of the crime. That obsession had been at such odds with her demeanour that it was obvious, in retrospect, that she too was under the wine’s toxic influence.

No doubt Strigan would have happily perpetrated the crime, and he was quite stupid enough to have accidentally imbibed the tainted wine himself. Furthermore, his arrogance and delusions of grandeur might easily have convinced him that the hallucinogenic properties would enhance the occult rituals in which he and his followers were engaged. But the act required careful planning and flawless execution–hardly characteristics of the self-styled Wolf-King of Isola Sombra.

And then, of course, there was another possessed of both motive and means.

Was it you, Venia? Did you seek to bring your monks closer to the gods by setting free their minds from worldly concerns, only to drive them to lunacy and mayhem?

He banished that suspicion along with the others. Recalling all that had transpired since his arrival at the causeway, Estevar was certain he’d deduced the culprit responsible.

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