Chapter Text
"-see, you angle the blade like so, then twist-"
"Like this?" the Inquisitor asks, and...
...perfectly pulls off the move on her first try. Despite the fact that they are in a narrow ship-cabin which is rocking with the waves and doesn't really have enough space for it.
"Exactly." Temenos is barely even surprised anymore. It had taken him months to get it down himself, and he still fumbles it sometimes. He'd like to believe that all the practice had at least paid off in making him an excellent teacher, but in truth the credit lies elsewhere.
In what has to be some sort of cosmic irony, Inquisitor Throné Mistral of the Order of the Sacred Flame, raised - careful inquiry has gathered - in the bosom of the church by the Pontiff himself, has the greatest natural talent for Snake skills Temenos has ever seen. With some time to practice, she'd put Pirro to shame, would be the star of any nest she joined. It's downright absurd, and a few years ago Temenos would be eaten alive with jealousy right about now. He does still feels the twinges, watching her smash past obstacles that had stymied Temenos without even seeming to realise they're there... but there's something darkly amusing about watching a holy sister absorb the tricks of pick-pocketing, lockpicking, stealth and knifework as though she'd been born to it, and Temenos' life is bereft enough of humour that he needs to take all the opportunities for it he can find.
In truth, the most frustrating part of it is the lack of reciprocity. The whole reason Temenos had even started this initially had been in hopes of turning it into a trade: Snake tricks for light magic. And yet when he'd casually suggested it the Inquisitor had hesitated, eyes darting from side to side, and finally sighed.
"It's... the thing is, clerical magic isn't like the magic scholars use. Light magic is a blessing from Aelfric, it relies on faith and is cast through prayer, there's a whole... philosophy involved. It's not something I can just teach someone, not if they aren't already devout followers of the Flame. I'm really sorry."
At this point Temenos could, of course, have been honest. Could have admitted that he... might, possibly, be quite a bit more devout than she is assuming, in some strange sense of the word that involves less devotion to the gods (who Temenos has in truth mostly viewed with suspicion up until now) and more a desperate desire for light coupled with visions of the Sacred Flame and inexplicable magical shields when one is about to die. But his whole life so far, he has kept his strange affinity so well hidden he himself could barely bring himself to look at it head on. The idea of telling someone-
One of the things all snakelings learn young is that the more others know you want something, the more they will try to take it from you. The only desires you can afford to be open about are the ones you are strong enough to safeguard - and Temenos has always been so very, very weak.
And so he smiled, said that did indeed sound like there wasn't much point and he'd just been curious, and allowed the Inquisitor to change the subject.
She had been willing to share some stories from the scriptures, but - much to his annoyance - had shut down quickly when he asked questions about them. She seemed to think he was mocking her, and just as with the magic Temenos had not managed to figure out how to express his sincerity without giving away far more than he was comfortable with. And although he has kept a close eye on her, hoping to be able to observe her magic in action, it's been to no avail so far. The few times they were attacked on the way to the harbour she used a sword or a dagger against their enemies (leading to Temenos deciding to share some more skills for the latter), and the ferry trip has proved uneventful so far.
All in all, the plan to con a cleric into travelling with him and subtly squeeze them for information has not turned out one of his more successful. She did at least teach him some staff-work, Temenos rapidly learning that the staff felt better in his hands than a dagger ever had, but it's still not exactly the outcome he was hoping for. By all rights he should wash his hands of the whole thing, leave her when they reach Canalbrine, but...
Well, he likes her. He's been trying to keep a safe distance between them, figuring it cannot be a good idea to go and get attached to someone so diametrically opposed to everything the Blacksnakes stand for, but it's proved difficult. She's smart, disturbingly insightful and yet refreshingly nonjudgemental, clearly having worked out exactly what Temenos is on their first meeting but not chastising him and hesitating not a moment to travel with him all the same, meeting his eyes without fear (not, admittedly, that she knows there is anything to fear). In the evenings around the fire, the conversation flows more smoothly than it ever did in any of the nests Temenos was in - he and the Inquisitor even seem to have a similarly dry sense of humour.
And the way she absorbs Snake skills like a sponge is not just funny in its absurdity but also oddly satisfying to be part of. Temenos has never taught before, but if this is what it's like to be a teacher, to see a student grow and unfold and surpass you, he has a sudden new understanding of why people choose the profession.
Besides, if the Inquisitor herself has secretive business taking her to the western continent, mere days after the news had come of the Pontiff's tragic death, there is clearly something interesting going on. A mystery, even. And Temenos' biggest vice has always been curiosity.
"Passengers!" a voice calls. Temenos and the Inquisitor both startle, tucking away their daggers. "We're about to make port in Canalbrine! Please gather all your belongings and make sure you take everything with you! Any items left behind will be confiscated and sold!"
Temenos supposes that that's their cue. He hefts his pack, even as the Inquisitor bends and goes "C'mon, girl!"
He's still kicking himself for giving in to the very literal puppy dog eyes, back in New Delsta. A journey is no place for a dog. His journey is definitely no place for a dog. The idea of going to see Mother or Father - a meeting that has a high chance of ending with one of the participants dead - with this one dancing happily at his side is downright absurd, and not in the humorous way this time. But she had looked so sad, and the Inquisitor had looked hopeful, and he'd given way before he'd even realised.
Well. She- it is the Inquisitor's dog, obviously. Why would Temenos take a dog as a pet when he likes cats much more. He just happens to be travelling with both of them, that's all.
Now, the dog trots after the two of them, tail wagging so furiously Temenos almost thinks she's trying to cast wind magic. Temenos glances around, sees no one is watching, and reaches down to scratch her- its ears.
Definitely the Inquisitor's dog. Temenos is just being polite to his companion's pet.
Canalbrine looks much the same as ever - brightly painted houses, already peeling in the salt-laden sea air and yet judging by the fresh layers their owners have not given up the battle, water in every direction it is possible and some you'd think it wasn't, the harsh cries of the gulls layered above the busy hum of the crowds and the call of the market-sellers. The good news is that unless things have drastically changed since he was last here, there is no strong presence of any organised crime, certainly not the Blacksnakes. The Canalbrine city guard are very enthusiastic about their jobs and thus far, despite multiple efforts at establishing a nest, the locals are in far more danger of having their food stolen by a gull than their purse by a snake.
All to Temenos' favour, now. Mother will likely react poorly when she learns he survived, and he'd prefer to give her as little advance warning as he can.
He does note with a frown that the crowds are more hurried than usual, a tension in the air, knots of people murmuring frantically to each other, and the guard presence is definitely heightened from what he is used to.
The Inquisitor notices it too. She slows as they walk, glancing around with her brows furrowed. "Something's off. Should we have a look around, figure out what's going on?"
Observant and nosy. A woman after his own heart.
Alas, in this particular instance caution has to weigh heavier. "I'd head to the inn first. They'll have all the latest gossip, and if we poke around... well, Canalbrine's city guard is known to arrest first and ask questions later if they think anyone is acting suspicious. And they have a broad definition of 'suspicious'."
He called Canalbrine's city guard enthusiastic. This is not exactly the same thing as competent. From the perspective of someone trying to slip Snake business under their noses the two often look remarkably the same, but from the perspective of two ordinary, entirely above-board travellers there is a distinct difference.
"That makes sense. And I certainly won't mind being able to drop off my pack before wandering around town."
The innkeeper is happy to have their custom. She doesn't even complain about the dog, something Temenos had been quietly worried about. The reason for this quickly becomes clear: the innkeeper also has a young grandson who spends his time around the place, and the boy is very enthusiastic about dogs. He and the Inquisitor trade a glance, and after a quiet word with the woman and a few leaves to an ecstatic eight-year-old they have a dog-sitter for the rest of the day. Temenos doesn't know what the Inquisitor will be up to here (is, in fact, dying to find out) or what is going on in the city, but he's not willing to assume there's no risk of violence. Best keep the dog out of it.
The second question is at least easily answered, the innkeeper volunteering it after only a very gentle probe.
"Our apothecary's been killed. Murdered, up near the church." The Inquisitor lets out the expected gasp of horror. "Sacred Guard's closed the area off, say they're investigating. It's awful, isn't it? Don't know what we'll do without an apothecary, let me tell you."
"How terrible. May the Sacred Flame shelter you all in this difficult time," the Inquisitor says, the last sentence apparently a reflex - one she is going to have to learn to suppress if she really wants to travel anonymously, Temenos notes. "Ah... if I may ask, is this sort of thing... common, in Canalbrine?"
This, of course, deeply offends the patriotic innkeeper. Temenos and the Inquisitor are treated to a lengthy and emphatic explanation of how Canalbrine is a safe town, the most trouble it usually sees scuffles between drunkards or foreigners passing through who don't know how to behave (the woman may stare at them very pointedly at this point) which the guard quickly sorts out. A murder is not just not common, it is downright unheard of, she will have them know-
Temenos, fearing their lodging in jeopardy, opts to apologise. They just arrived from New Delsta, you see...
"Ah, New Delsta," the innkeeper says, in tones of deep understanding. The woman clearly believes New Delsta to be a city where you might trip over three upstanding citizens knifed to death on your morning stroll. (Well, to be fair. Depending on the direction of the stroll and how you define 'upstanding'...) "The people of Canalbrine are good solid pious Harborlands folk, I'll have you know. None of those Brightlands thieves, murderers, heretics, or- or plague-spreaders-"
This, of course, is the point where the door to the inn crashes open and a man rushes in.
"Vittoria! Do you know of any healers in town? There's- people are falling ill, and with no apothecary and the clerics all tied up at the church-"
The innkeeper blanches. The Inquisitor lets out an almost unnoticeable sigh, her shoulders slumping. Then she gets to her feet.
"I know some healing magic. Not that strong, but I guess better me than no one. Can you show me to the patients?"
Obviously, Temenos gets up to follow her. It is a serious moment - people are ill, possibly dying, and the cause is yet unknown - so he hides the excitement rising in him. Temenos obviously does not wish ill on the good solid pious folk of Canalbrine, would certainly never have asked for this, but...
Well. It looks as though he'll get his chance to get a closer look at the Inquisitor's healing spells after all.
The problem with clerical healing magic is that there are things it is good at, and things it is not. It is excellent with wounds of all sorts, closing skin without leaving so much as a scar behind. The same for sprains and breaks, provided the bone is carefully set in advance. Throné was taught that even some damage that builds up over time, like a miner's hands stiffening and wrists becoming unable to bear weight from the pickaxe's many blows, responds well to it, although she has never seen this in practice herself. Anything that involves restoring the body to how it should be from an injured state.
It is not, however, very good at dealing with illness or poison. The reason for this is hotly debated in the church - is it a matter of domains, Aelfric's blessing not touching what is Dohter's to cure? Is it a reminder to be humble, that not all things can be cured and mankind is still subject to nature's might? Is it that the gods' perspective is so lofty and distant that fine details such as something foreign in a man's veins escape their notice? (This take is considered rather heretical.) Throné has a decided lack of opinion on the matter, as she has always been more interested in the practicalities.
In this case, the practicalities mean that she is out of her area of competence in multiple ways. Not only are her spells embarrassingly weak, but she cannot even tackle the source of the problem. They are not useless - she can give much-needed strength to a fading patient, undo some of the more obvious damage the illness has caused - but without the aid of someone actually trained in medicine anyone she treats will only weaken again, and there is nothing she can do about the dangerously high fever she keeps seeing. This is exactly why the best healers in the Order have all cross-trained as apothecaries, but it isn't as if Throné has ever aspired to their number.
So all she can do is circle around the healing tent that has been set up in one of the town squares, lending what little strength she can to the afflicted only for them to weaken and the cycle to repeat again. Temenos shadows her the whole while, silent but with burning eyes, but Throné is too preoccupied to think about what it could mean. At least he passes her a dried plum when her spirit is running low, and when she has a moment to rest and looks around for him he is usually making himself useful doing small things for the patients, such as changing compresses or helping them drink. Once, he is simply sitting by an old woman, head bowed and lips moving silently, one of her hands clasped between his. The image strikes a chord in her, something unexpected and yet strangely familiar about it, but before she manages to place it she is called to the next patient and the moment is gone.
Time passes, and it could be minutes or days for all that she knows. The sick not only weaken, they also grow in number as more and more are brought to the tent. Although nobody dares say it, she knows the word plague is on all of their minds. Snatches of conversation between the other helpers also tells her that the timing is nothing short of disastrous: usually, Canalbrine has four apothecaries in residence, but three of them are away at some guild meeting in Conning Creek and the one left to cover for them was murdered just this morning. An outbreak now, of all times, is just appallingly bad luck.
(Bad luck, really? A little voice in her mind whispers. Not someone's dark hand at work behind the scenes? True, she does not yet know if the apothecary's murder is connected her own quest, but the coincidences piled on top of themselves to end in disaster remind her disturbingly of the way Father died.)
Then the gods must take pity on them, because a miracle occurs.
"Let me through!"
The woman is probably in her late twenties or early thirties, with blonde hair tied back in a bun and a look of steel in her blue eyes, and very definitely an apothecary. A member of Eir's apothecaries, in fact, which would usually be cause for suspicion. Not so long ago Eir's apothecaries had an excellent reputation... but lately that reputation has been stained by concerning reports from the Brightlands of blue-clad apothecaries who bring illness and death with their treatments rather than prevent it. In New Delsta, there were even murmurs of one having been implicated in a massacre in a noble manor. Whether it is a matter of evildoers copying them as cover, individual members gone rogue, or the whole group having dark intentions, a blue uniform on an apothecary is not currently a very promising sign.
But in the current situation Throné is not about to look a gift apothecary in the mouth, and the mistrustful murmurs she hears are quickly quieted by the locals who accompany the woman, all of them asserting that 'Castti' is 'a good sort, saved our Senah she did'. Within moments, Castti is doing the same rounds Throné has been doing over and over... except that her tool of choice is a tincture rather than clerical magic, and in her wake fevers break and the patients fall into deep, healing sleep.
"There. That should do it," she says when the last patient has been treated. "Someone should still keep an eye on them, of course, but the worst should be past. Most of them should be well enough to go home on their own once they wake, a few may need assistance but none should need intensive care after. Provided none of them drink any more unboiled water."
A ripple of relief runs through the helpers. "So it's the water?" someone asks.
"Yes. Something must have contaminated the spring," Castti answers, voice definitive. Throné cannot help a stab of jealousy at seeing how easily the woman controls the room, projecting an air of authority she wields as skillfully as a master swordsman his blade. "Please spread the word, so nobody else falls ill. Boiling will make it safe until the cause is found and the spring cleansed, I'm going to go up the river to do exactly that now. Now, if you'll excuse me-"
The woman leaves the tent as abruptly as she came. Without thinking about it, Throné follows her, which means she sees it when the woman staggers and catches herself on one of the bridge-posts.
Throné hurries to her side to steady her. "Ah- Castti, wasn't it? Are you all right?"
The woman blinks up at her. She looks rather pale, and the iron authority in those blue eyes just minutes ago has been replaced by a somewhat dazed look. "I- I'm sorry, I just need a moment-"
"No wonder, if you've been rushing about dealing with this all day," Temenos says, appearing beside Throné. "The spring will keep half an hour longer. Sit down and have something to eat, why don't you? You too." And now he's looking at Throné. "Don't think I didn't see you wavering on your feet earlier."
Which is how the three of them end up sitting side-by-side on one of low canalside walls a short distance away, far enough from the main streets they hopefully won't be disturbed, munching on some of the contents of Temenos' apparently bottomless bag of snacks. Throné is glad to see Castti's cheeks quickly regain colour after she finishes off two plums, a piece of bread and some salted fish. She herself feels much steadier with a little food in her as well.
"Thank you," the woman says ruefully. "I was so busy, I didn't even notice I was hungry until my legs started shaking."
"Please take care of yourself. You're Canalbrine's only apothecary right now, we need you." At this point Throné can suppress her curiosity no longer. "How did that happen, anyway? Everyone I spoke to said all the apothecaries are out of town except for... ah..."
"Master Nicolo, who was murdered this morning. I know." Castti's face falls. "I'm not from Canalbrine. I only arrived a few days ago, Master Nicolo was helping me... get back on my feet, I guess you could say. Aiding me with an issue I have. I was already worried when he went out last night and never came back, and then hearing the news this morning-" She bows her head.
Hmm. Interesting, that a member of a group with a dubious reputation shows up in Canalbrine and ends up staying with its apothecary just before that man is murdered. Suspicious, one could even say. Throné, who still wonders whether this death has any relation to Father's, immediately wants to know where the woman was during certain events in Flamechurch short weeks ago. She does not remember seeing her around, true, but there are back paths that can be used to avoid the village. She did not remember seeing Cubaryi either until the woman showed up at the cathedral.
Unfortunately, a cautious inquiry into the matter turns out to be fruitless, not because Castti refuses to answer but because she claims not to know. The nature of the issue the local apothecary was helping Castti with is, apparently, amnesia.
Over her head, Throné and Temenos trade glances saying is she seriously expecting us to buy this? It's straight out of a bad novel, in Throné's opinion. And yet...
The circumstances are suspicious, true, but Castti strikes her as genuine so far. Never to mention that by all appearances, she just drove herself into the ground saving half the town from illness and is about to go fix the problem at its root. It could all still be faked, true, especially given Throné's doubts about the timing, but the acting talent required would be immense.
Her thoughts are interrupted when someone approaches at a trot from one of the side bridges. The man brightens when he spots them. "Come see Hermes the dancer in the tavern this evening!" he calls out. "Tickets only ten silver leaves a head, kids half price- surely you want to pay your respects to the goddess of the city, travellers?"
A murder and a threatened plague turned water contamination, all in the same day, and this man thinks what is desperately needed here is a tavern performance? Throné can't even think of what to say to him, it's so ridiculous.
Castti, it turns out, can.
"You there, stop that right now! There's something much more important at hand. Go tell everyone - the water from the spring is contaminated, they must boil their drinking water until I or another apothecary tells them it's safe!"
The air of authority is back as though it never left. The ticket-seller halts in his tracks, some of tickets he was trying to sell falling from nerveless fingers.
"Ah- but-" He cringes under Castti's stare. "Yes, miss apothecary ma'am. Sorry to disturb you, miss apothecary ma'am. I'll do that right away, miss apothecary ma'am." And then he, not to put too fine a word on it, flees.
Castti huffs. "Really. As if we didn't have any problems in the world, to go swanning off to tavern dances."
Like Throné was saying. If this is actually all her doing, their apothecary has truly immense acting talent.
But that seems to remind Castti that she still has something to do, because she finishes the last of her jerky and starts making motions to rise. "Thank you very much for the food, ah-"
"Temenos," Temenos gracefully covers the belated introductions. "And this is Throné." Considering she hasn't managed to get him to stop calling her Inquisitor in private, the use of her bare name is deliberate. Throné reminds herself to thank him at some point for going along with her little masquerade.
"Castti. Or at least that's what was stitched on my clothes. If it turns out I borrowed a friend's, this could be very embarrassing later." Castti's face is rueful. She's really selling the amnesia story. "Anyway, I should get going. That spring needs to be cleansed sooner rather than later."
Throné wishes, briefly and fiercely, that Father had raised her just a little less responsible. She has her own business in Canalbrine, questions to ask and answers to find. A polluted spring is really none of her business and not her domain to boot.
But she knows exactly what Father would say. How disappointed he would be, if she let this pass. So much of Throné's life has been about trying to make Father proud, and she sees no reason to stop just because he is... gone.
"Do you need any help? With the spring? I'm a cleric. Not the most powerful," honesty makes her add, "but two is better than one if it turns out to be anything dangerous." Or three, but she isn't going to just volunteer Temenos without asking.
"A cleric!" Catti's face brightens. "That explains why all the patients in the last tent were still quite strong, even the elderly. I was wondering about that. Thank you very much for your aid with them, Sister."
Throné's face is hot. "I... I didn't do much, honestly." It's true. For as long as she can remember, Throné has sweated and drained her spirit to cast spells other clerics barely even think about. Her flagging faith in recent times has only made it worse. A novice could have done a better job.
But Castti shakes her head. "A mere pinch of dried pomegranate leaf can save a life, if it's administered at the right time to the right person. If you hadn't done your part, I don't know if I'd have been in time for all of them."
If Castti thanks her again, Throné is going to go up in flames from embarrassment right here and now.
Apparently sensing his companion is in danger of immolation, Temenos intervenes to change the subject. "I have to ask, Castti. If you have amnesia, how is it that you still remember how to be an apothecary?"
In truth Throné wants to hear the answer to this too, as she'd been wondering herself. She just hadn't quite been daring enough to ask. Luckily, Castti doesn't seem to take offence.
"I don't actually know," the woman says. "I seem to have forgotten my life, but not my craft. Lucky, I suppose you could say, that I haven't lost both - but given that I'd rather have lost neither, I don't feel all too lucky." Her eyes grow distant. A lost look passes over her face. Aelfric help her, Throné is actually beginning to buy the amnesia story.
Then Castti gives herself a brisk shake, her eyes clearing. "Anyway. Thank you very much for your offer of assistance, Sister. But I think I'll be all right." And then she rises and-
-Throné spots the very large axe that is hanging from her belt even as Castti rests a hand on the blade cover. The move seems unconscious, habitual even.
Throné and Temenos trade glances again, this time in silent agreement: no, Castti does not need their help. She can clearly handle herself. In fact, by the looks of that weapon, chances are she's a better fighter than Throné and Temenos put together.
Then the woman hesitates.
"Actually... I just remembered something. A man visited Master Nicolo last night, before he went out. I think he lives alone, and I didn't see him at all today. Could you check on him to make sure he hasn't fallen ill? If he has, there's another apothecary in town, Malaya - she's keeping an eye on everyone who's fallen ill while I check on the water source. She'll have medicine for him if it turns out necessary."
Not one but two strange apothecaries in town, ready to deal with this outbreak? Coincidences piled on top of coincidences, but by now the picture they form is chaotic and unclear.
"I think we can do that," Temenos answers, apparently happy to volunteer Throné the way she was deliberately avoiding with him. (Not that Throné was planning to refuse. It's just the principle of the thing.) "What's his name?"
"Lucian. I don't know where he lives, but if you ask around I'm sure someone will know. Thank you!"
And with that Castti is gone, leaving behind Throné frozen into speechlessness.
Lucian. A name she had almost forgotten throughout the events of the day. But, still, the name that had brought her to Canalbrine in the first place.
If Castti is telling the truth, that is two people now in recent weeks who met with Lucian immediately before they were murdered.
Which means he's just propelled himself to the top of her suspects list.
"Hm... you look like you're thinking quite hard, Inquisitor. As if something Castti just said surprised you."
Throné glances over. Temenos is looking at her, grey eyes intent, a grin spread on his face. It is wider than the little closed-mouthed smiles he deploys frequently, significantly more genuine as well if Throné were to bet. In fact, the main descriptor that comes to mind for it is smug.
Throné stares at Temenos, wondering exactly how high her chances are of shaking the man and starting her investigation alone. Temenos' unchanging grin tells her the answer: zero.
"You're interested in Lucian, then. I take it he's a figure of interest in the Pontiff's death?"
...what.
Throné reminds herself, very pointedly this time, to stop underestimating Temenos' intelligence. The frustrating thing is that she thought she was already doing that, and still she managed to underestimate the man's intelligence.
The dancing eyes and the widening grin make it clear that Temenos is waiting for her to ask how, in the name of all four Flames, he figured all of that out. Throné decides abruptly that she isn't going to give him the satisfaction.
She could try to pretend ignorance, of course. She doesn't think she'd be able to convince him, but if she kept at it he might take mercy and at least grant her plausible deniability.
Or...
Travelling with someone is a cramped business. They shared a tent in the wilds, washed side by side in a cold stream and changed in the open air. Even on the ferry they ended up in a group cabin to save leaves, Throné sleeping at the bottom of the bunk bed and Temenos above her. The lack of privacy brings a forced intimacy, catching glimpses of the other person in moments they might prefer not to show a stranger. For instance, Throné has learned that Temenos has a black tattoo in shape of a snake winding around his forearm which he hides with long sleeves and gloves, that there is something that gleams metal on his neck beneath his omnipresent scarves, that his arms and chest bear thin scars, and that he goes to lengths so she does not see his bare back.
But above all, Throné has noticed his little kindnesses.
A scratch to his dog's ears when he thinks no one is looking. Holding the hand of a scared old woman in a healer's tent so she will not be alone. Teaching Throné thieves' tricks when she cannot reciprocate, making sure to feed her and Castti, telling stories to a little boy on the ferry who is afraid of sea monsters until he is distracted enough to fall asleep.
Temenos tries to hide them, to save them for the moments when no one is looking or to pretend he is acting out of selfishness, becomes wary and defensive when he realises someone has caught on. It is clear as anything that he expects his kindness to be used against him. And yet he continues all the same.
A thief. A murderer, quite possibly. A member of a criminal organisation of the very darkest sort, definitely. And yet, nevertheless, a good man. Much though he would no doubt hate to be called one.
Now, that good man is watching her, waiting for her response. As the silence lengthens his grin shrinks a little, eyes dimming. For all that it was done in the most obnoxious manner possible, this is also an offer on Temenos' part, him opening his walls a crack to reach out to her. With every passing moment, she can feel him retreat again.
Throné inhales, feeling a little like a diver about to leap off a cliff. Then she reaches back to him.
"Yes. I'm here for Lucian. He was the last person who spoke to the Pontiff before his death, and for all that they're trying to paint that an accident I find the whole thing far too suspicious to believe. I wanted to ask him some questions... and now this."
Temenos' expression doesn't change. But some tension leaves the air, like dark clouds passing into the distance instead of breaking into thunder overhead. "Hmm... that does sound suspicious, doesn't it? And as it happens, you're in luck. Now you have an iron-clad excuse to drop in on him. And you have me." Temenos' grin shifts, turns predatory. His eyes gleam strangely, like some great cat's shining in the dark. "And I happen to be very good at asking questions."
That sounds... worrying. And yet the only thing she feels on hearing it is cold satisfaction.
Throné realises with a lurch that whatever dubious means Temenos is referring to, whatever darkness is hiding behind his words, she would have no qualms about using it and more to get her answers for Father's death. Throné has never thought of herself as ruthless before, and being confronted with the truth of it now is a little disturbing.
(Although not enough to make her change her mind.)
A quick inquiry around town proves that Lucian's house is one of the freestanding ones, its own little island in the canal. As they steer a little boat towards it, Throné can't help but think of the impracticality. Needing to get into a boat for literally anything outside your doorstop - your morning walk, your trip to the market, even fetching clean water. For all the charm of a house very literally on the canal, it sounds as though it would get old fast. That, in fact, the main reason anyone would continue to live like this would be if they truly valued their privacy.
Then they round the house to the dock on the other side, and Throné loses her line of thought because they are not alone: there is a figure already standing there.
A very familiar figure, looking at her and Temenos in distinct surprise.
"Crick?" she asks, disbelieving, and-
-hears Temenos ask it in echo with her.
Throné's eyes leave the knight to stare at Temenos. "Wait, you two know each other?"
"I'm fairly sure that's supposed to my line," Crick comments, fighting the urge to rub his eyes to make sure the sight before him is real.
In truth, it's not entirely surprising to see Inquisitor Throné here. After all, she is investigating the same thing he is, and they have the same clues. Lucian is the obvious place to start, even if it is quite a coincidence that the two of them show up at the exact same time.
No, the unbelievable element in all of this is Temenos.
Considering how brief the time they spent together was - not even a full day - the other man truly managed to root himself deep into Crick's memory. Many times, during free moments in Stormhail, Crick would find his mind wandering back to that one afternoon in New Delsta, remember the bewildering whirlwind tour he found himself on without quite knowing how, towed along helplessly in the wake of his self-assigned guide. Being introduced to the sights of New Delsta... or rather, the sights as seen through Temenos' eyes, every new place they stopped and thing they saw a glimpse behind the man's walls Crick still does not think Temenos quite intended.
When it ended, Crick was convinced of two things: Temenos was involved in something shady (nobody on the right side of the law treated locked doors as an invitation the way he did), and Temenos... shone. From his brilliant smile and quicksilver movements to the way he had fed the last of his crepe to a stray dog when he thought Crick wasn't looking, had tried to sneak the money Crick had given him for the food back into his pouch (Crick had noticed and fended him off), how he had rescued Crick in the first place and in the end delivered him to what might have been the only honest caravan master in the whole city - it was as though Crick had found a jewel buried in the muck and grime of New Delsta, a candle burning brightly in defiance of the darkness around.
But left as it was, with time the mud would rise to cover the jewel, the darkness stifle the little light until it dimmed away into nothing.
A noble flame burns within you.
Those words had changed his life, once. Looking Temenos in the face, he wondered if that was what the Inquisitor had seen looking at Crick. Something bright and hopeful yet so very fragile within him, a man with the potential to be far more... and yet on the path to becoming so much less. He thought it might be.
So he tried to pay it forward. Save Temenos the way Inquisitor Roi had once saved him. He wasn't sure if he'd done it right, knew he'd fumbled some of it, hadn't approached the topic nearly as smoothly as the Inquisitor had, but - he'd shared the words, the ones that had been the key back then. He'd prayed, looking into Temenos' unmoving face, that it would be enough. Wondered, so many times in the intervening years, whether it had been. Had resigned himself to never finding out, the way Crick himself had never met Inquisitor Roi again either.
Seeing Temenos here, now, is surreal. He looks almost out of place in the brightness of Canalbrine, as though a figure from a distant dream had suddenly stepped out into the light of day. Him being next to Inquisitor Throné only heightens the unreality of the scene. Like Crick just said - surely this is his line. How do those two even know each other?
For a moment, hope builds within him. Maybe his words had the intended effect. Maybe Temenos had left the shadows of New Delsta behind, had gone to Flamechurch instead, befriended the Inquisitor. Maybe it was simply bad luck Crick did not meet him there-
Except.
Except that Temenos is dressed much as he was back then, mottled dark clothing giving good freedom of movement without the rustle of cloth, purple scarf tight around his neck, a dagger at his side. Except that he and the Inquisitor stand just a little too far apart for them to have known each other for years. Except that Temenos is pulling out lockpicks as he eyes Lucian's door.
"We met in New Delsta, after I left Flamechurch," Throné says, answering Crick's question and shattering his hopes at the same time. "Both of us were going here, so we decided to travel together."
For a brief moment, Crick fiercely resents the restrictions of the Sacred Guard. He will never regret joining them, his life as a Sanctum Knight like a dream, but - if he had only been able to wait a few days after his reassignment, Crick and Throné could have travelled together, and she would have had no need to trust her life to dubious strangers. Crick does not want to think of Temenos like that, does not want to mistrust him, but he knows there is every reason to. And if there is one thing his early life has taught him, it's that even (especially) if you want to believe better of someone, they can still betray you.
But the Deputy's orders had been clear. Crick was to leave for Canalbrine at once, and in the Sacred Guard 'at once' does not mean 'whenever is convenient for you'. And so he had struck out immediately, leaving the Inquisitor to find her own way and fall into untrustworthy company.
Perhaps she is at least rubbing off on him, can maybe offer Temenos a guiding light the way her predecessor did to Crick, the way Crick tried to do to Temenos and failed-
"Hey, Throné?" Temenos says. "You give it a go." And hands her the lockpicks.
Crick can feel blood rise in his face. Inquisitor Throné is a good woman - fighting alongside her showed him that much - but one who has already shown Crick she does not always have the most solid grasp of how a sister of the Order ought to behave. He'd ended up thinking of her as a would-be comrade in arms instead, those last days in Flamechurch, but looking at her now he sees no trace of a girl who shared his dream to be a knight.
Is the influence going the other way? Is Temenos corrupting her? Crick does not want to believe it, not of either of them, but as Throné kneels down and begins picking the lock (picking! the lock!) he does not know how else to interpret it.
"Are you mad?" he hisses. "Inquisitor, you are a messenger of the gods-"
"Remind me, Crick," Temenos says, looking straight at him. Up close, it is clearer to see how he has changed in the last five years, his face narrower, something hard in his grey eyes. Something dark, one could say. Crick imagines a flame being suffocated, guttering and finally dying, and feels a great wash of grief. "Among the gods in question, wasn't there an... oh yes... Aeber was the name? Prince of Thieves, if I'm not mistaken? I feel one could very well argue that this, right now, is very much in line with what a messenger of his ought to stand for-"
"Must you mock me, Temenos?" The long-treasured name tastes like ash on his tongue. Isn't it enough that you have already dashed all my hopes for you, he wants to say.
Something flickers across the other man's face, too quick for Crick to make it out. The smile is gone, though. Crick feels strangely as though he were travelling over the Snows past the Wall in winter and just felt something shift beneath his feet, realised the top layer of snow that looked so solid and sturdy was far more fragile than he'd thought and about to give way beneath his weight.
"Perhaps I must," Temenos says, but Crick has had ample experience of his teasing and can tell his heart doesn't seem to be in this particular rejoinder. "More to the point, Throné and I actually have an unimpeachable reason to be here. Healer's orders, you see. You, on the other hand, my dear Godsblade - what were you planning to do, I wonder? Knock politely and then leave? Or... hmm..." His eyes go to Crick's sword, then to the door. "I wonder if a Godsblade, with one mighty swing-"
"-could cut through a door like a damned criminal? Absolutely not! I-"
For all that so much has changed, this part is still familiar - Temenos somehow stealing the solid ground from beneath Crick's feet, to leave him flailing and on the defensive. Crick stops, takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that he is older and wiser now, a full Godsblade instead of an untried youth. Surely he will be better able to account for himself.
"What do you mean, 'healer's orders'?" he asks, endeavouring to sound calm and unruffled. Two states that don't seem to last long in Temenos' vicinity, but he can at least try.
"We're doing a wellness check, to make sure the good scholar Lucian hasn't succumbed to the illness going round. You have heard the news, right? Sudden fevers? The spring contaminated?" And then Temenos reaches out and-
-flicks the tip of Crick's nose, as if he were a child-
"Do please boil all your drinking water until an apothecary tells you it's safe, dear Crick. I'd hate to see you struck down by fever - there are already more than enough ailing little lambs in Canalbrine, I think, considering the shepherds are all away. And we might still need that blade of yours, if the Inquisitor cannot get the lock open."
Crick was wrong. He may be older and wiser, a true Godsblade instead of a mere hopeful youth... and yet he cannot seem to keep his footing against Temenos.
"The Inquisitor," her voice comes, "was waiting for the two of you to finish, actually. And wonders whether either of you have considered the theatre, because you seem to have a gift. Now, if we may get back to our business..."
The reproach in her voice is hidden, but there. Crick feels himself shrink under it. For all that he believes them around the same age, Inquisitor Throné has a way of making him feel a clumsy ignorant youth and her the older wiser veteran sighing at his bumbling.
And she's right. They are all here for Lucian, and there is no time to lose. A man has already been murdered, mere days after Lucian returned to the city from Flamechurch. If he should be the culprit, Crick allowing himself to be distracted now could spell the difference between life and death.
Even if it is very hard to avoid, when Temenos is effectively nothing but a walking, talking person-shaped distraction. One who looks entirely unfazed by Throné's rebuke, as well.
"Very well done. Lead on, my dear Inquisitor."
And she opens the door.
A first glance inside proves two things: one, Lucian is very unlikely to be the culprit. Two, they are indeed too late to keep the count of victims from rising further.
Crick surges forward, then spins around to block the door before either of the other two can enter. "Right. We need to call the guard."
He put all the authority into his voice that he could, but to no avail. Throné and Temenos blink at him owlishly, looking more confused than abashed. The words but why? are practically written on both of their faces.
Throné recovers first. "Crick - you and I know perfectly well that this has to be connected to the Pontiff's murder. We need to be allowed to investigate. The guard doesn't have the full context, they won't know what they're looking at."
"Which," Temenos picks up the thread, "means that we will lose time, time spent arguing with the guard that we need access or trying to find clues after they've trampled all over it. Time the murderer could use to kill another victim." Temenos is entirely serious, with no trace of the so-common laughter in his grey eyes. "But you agree with me, don't you, Crick? After all, you were here as well, all on your own, without asking the guard's permission."
"Tch-"
One, just one, of these days Crick would like to win in an argument against Temenos.
Alas, it's not going to be today, because Crick can't actually argue with that. Temenos is right. Lucian had seemed too much of a danger, the city guard too unlikely to listen, and so Crick had convinced himself he needed to investigate on his own. He's still not entirely sure what he was planning on, when he knocked on the door and nobody answered - definitely wasn't expecting to find a dead body - but just by being here, Crick has already agreed to sidestep the law.
He will need to reflect on this, later. Pray to clear his mind, decide whether it was truly the best course of action or whether he has gone astray. Report his actions to the higher-ups, to face whatever judgement they have for him. But for now, he steps aside silently, biting his cheek so hard he can almost taste blood.
Temenos walks over to where Lucian lies without sparing him an extra glance. There he kneels down, carefully avoiding where blood has pooled, and reaches out to touch the man's neck. "Dead." His voice is even, dispassionate as he confirms what they all knew the instant they saw the scene. "And it was messily done. This is an amateur's work, not a professional's."
Crick opens his mouth, closes it again under Throné's gimlet stare. Instead, he grinds his teeth. The things that one sentence implies about the depths to which Temenos has sunk since Crick last saw him-
"How good to know we are dealing with an amateur serial killer." Throné's voice is very dry. "Or so I figure, given that two separate murderers choosing their victims not even a day apart seems a little unlikely... Crick, I assume you saw the apothecary's body. Was it similar?"
Crick steps closer to look at Lucian, suppressing the urge to wrinkle his nose at the stench of shit in the air. He is no investigator, but the cause of death seems clear - a slash that cuts deeply into the man's belly, glancing off the ribs and cutting into his bowels. He hates even thinking about those words again, but he sees what Temenos means when he called the killing amateur - it is a brutal, messy death that Lucian suffered. The look of terror frozen on his face says the same.
As for Throné's question...
"Yes. The body was very similar to this one."
Temenos had stayed kneeling beside Lucian, eyes closed, a hand on his breast. If he were anyone else, Crick would have said he was praying. Now he rises.
"But why kill him as well? Unless..."
And at that Temenos trails off. He whispers something too low for Crick to hear, then steps forward to pick up one of the books scattered on the floor, thumbs through the- is that a prayer handbook? He looks the most serious Crick has ever seen him, deep in concentration with an odd light in his eyes.
"Unless what, Temenos?"
No response.
"...Temenos?"
Still no response. The man seems to have fallen into a world all his own.
In the meantime, Throné has gone to the bookshelves, is now rifling through them. Crick wonders if he's supposed to be searching for clues himself, what clues would even mean here.
Lucian was murdered in his own home. Did he let in the killer? But Throné and Temenos have just proved that a locked door is not nearly as secure as he thought, and besides, Canalbrine is known to be a safe town. Lucian might not have locked his door, not if he was awake within.
But the door was locked when they arrived. Did the killer leave through the window? Unlikely - the only window is both small and closed. Meaning that the killer stole the key to lock it behind him.
Crick feels a spark of triumph at this deduction, but it fades quickly. It is not as if they can go to every person in the city and ask to inspect the keys in their possession to see if any of them fit Lucian's home, after all. And that's assuming the killer did not simply drop it in the canal as he left the scene. Really, they are no further than before.
"Hmm, this is interesting."
It's Throné's voice, and unlike Temenos she actually seems to notice when Crick comes up beside her. "Have you found something?" he asks.
"I think I might have. This is Lucian's notebook. He talks about visiting some ruins, the home of the... Kal? Yes, the Kal people. And talks about a saying of theirs. And soon, night shall fall."
Throné gives him a meaningful look at this. Unfortunately, Crick is still entirely lost. Night shall fall? What does that have to do with anything?
Honesty, he reminds himself. Brand the Thunderblade instructs them to be forthright and true, their souls as polished and clean as their swords. It is one of the church's teachings that has always spoken to Crick the deepest.
"I'm afraid I don't see the connection, Inquisitor."
"Oh- right. Between everything, I never did tell you, did I?" Throné reaches into a thin pouch on her belt (and Crick hasn't found the chance to ask about that - why isn't she wearing the habit of a sister in the faith which she was in Flamechurch?) to withdraw a scrap of paper. "Here - the Pontiff left it, in the secret compartment on the pulpit."
She does not hand it to him, but angles it so he can read it if he cranes his neck. And soon, night shall fall. The same words as in Lucian's notebook.
It is a clue of some sort, no doubt. But Crick finds himself distracted by his rising indignation.
"You- you found that, after we fought the varg." He remembers, now, her looking at a compartment in the pulpit, Crick asking whether she had found anything. But then the Deputy had arrived before she could answer, and he'd simply assumed it had been empty.
"That's evidence in the Pontiff's murder and you- you stole it!"
"Again with the accusations of stealing." Throné has turned to face him, her eyes cold as a midwinter blizzard. "That compartment was one only the two of us knew about. If he left something there, it was meant for me."
Crick knows that she and the Pontiff were close. If her reaction to the man's death hadn't been proof enough, the town gossip had been very clear: raised by him from infancy, they said. Might as well have been the Pontiff's own daughter. He sympathises with her grief, understands that their quest to bring his murderer to justice cuts much deeper for her than for him.
And yet this has to be a step too far. Did he really think she struck him as older and wiser, such a short while ago? Because right now he thinks her childish. So the Pontiff left it somewhere she would find it, surely he meant for her to share it with those who would investigate his death, not simply keep it to herself!
Especially because the Deputy had asked her if she'd noticed anything at the scene. And she'd said-
"You lied to Deputy Cubaryi, back then," he breathes. "You told her you didn't spot anything."
"I did." Throné takes a deep breath, lets it out again, then looks him squarely in the face. "I suppose there's no avoiding the topic, is there. Crick... I don't trust your comrades in the Sacred Guard."
Maybe the statement shouldn't have come as a surprise. After all, he'd been there when she spoke with the Deputy, wished to sink into the earth at the venom in each of their voices. It was clear there was no love lost between them. And Crick does listen to barracks gossip sometimes - he knows the Deputy's opinion of the Inquisition is by far the most widespread among the Guard, that his own respect for the institution is the minority. Throné's interactions with his brethren cannot have been pleasant.
So maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it comes as one anyway. Personal dislike is one thing. Eight gods know that Crick has fellows in arms in Stormhail who he finds deeply distasteful. But he has never once doubted that when it comes down to it, they are on the same side, standing shoulder by shoulder to be shield and blade for the weak in this cruel world. They are sworn to the gods themselves! He would never withhold crucial evidence thinking his fellow Godsblades would... what, misuse it? Frivolously ignore it, just to score a point against the Inquisition?
And yet Throné does not budge, lips pressed into a firm line, fingertips gripping the scrap of paper in her hand so tightly they are bloodless. It is clear she believes herself justified, and Crick wonders how such a terrible misconception could have taken hold.
"Throné." He fights to keep his voice even. Wants to raise it, wants to protest loudly against this- this slander of the organisation he has devoted his life to, but he can tell it would only serve to strengthen her opposition. "That's- that's absurd. The Sacred Guard are sworn to protect you. Even if you don't get along with the Deputy, we're all on the same side here!"
"You're being incredibly naive, Crick."
Keeping his temper is becoming harder and harder. It's not the first time he's been accused of such a thing, and he hates it every time. Naive. As if Crick had lived his life wrapped in wool, as if he had no idea of the cruelty of the world. As if he did not choose the Sacred Guard with his eyes wide open.
"Naive? I'll have you know-"
Crick isn't sure what was going to be at the end of that sentence, but has a feeling it would have been something he'd regret. Thankfully, he doesn't have to find out, because at this point Temenos interrupts them.
"If the two of you can stand to be troubled with the matter at hand," he cuts in coolly, "I've worked out who the murderer's next victim is going to be. Maybe we should do something about that?"