Scar Night Read Free Page B

soot stains deeper into his crumpled nightshirt and padded over to open the door.
    Presbyter Sypes stood wheezing on the landing. A black cassock engulfed the old priest, and melted down the spiral stairwell behind him. Only his head and hands were visible: the head shaking like a bone loose in its socket; the hands grinding his walking stick into the stones. “Nine hundred and eleven steps,” he said. “I counted.”
    For a moment Dill just stared at him. Then he stammered, “Your Grace, I didn’t expect…I mean, I thought…”
    “No doubt,” the Presbyter growled. “I seem to have been climbing up here since breakfast.” He hobbled into the cell, dragging his robes, scowling. “So this is where all the temple candles get to. Place looks like the Sanctum itself. Your clothes”—he handed Dill a rumpled bundle tied with string—“but you’ll need to fold them again. I dropped them, twice.”
    “Please, sit down, Your Grace.” Dill scraped a stool closer to the fire.
    The Presbyter eyed the tiny stool. “A terminal manoeuvre, I suspect. My bones are still climbing steps. No, I’ll rest here by the window until they realize I’ve finally arrived.” He gathered the folds of his cassock and perched on the window ledge, folding his hands over the silver pommel of his walking stick.
    “Well,” he said.
    Dill fumbled with the bundle against his chest.
    “I said, well?”
    Dill hesitated. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said, lowering his eyes.
    “Are you really?”
    Dill nodded.
    “Not nervous?”
    Dill shook his head.
    “Really?” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Good.”
    A long moment of silence passed between them. Coals shifted in the fire. Dill glanced back up. His sword was still there, glinting in the candlelight.
    “Callis’s own sword,” the Presbyter observed.
    Dill gave the weapon another brief look. His head dropped even lower as he turned back.
    The Presbyter’s gaze travelled round the cell, lingering on the cracked tiles, Dill’s stool, the candle-chest, snail-bucket, and sleeping mat. There was little else to snag anyone’s attention. His hands twisted on the top of the walking stick. “Well—”
    “Thank you,” Dill interrupted, “for bringing my clothes.”
    Presbyter Sypes coughed. “I was coming up anyway, on my way to the observatory. Thought I’d wish you luck for the big day.”
    Dill’s cell wasn’t on the way to the observatory. It wasn’t on the way to anywhere.
    “Thank you, Your Grace.”
    “Not nervous?”
    “No.”
    The Presbyter chewed his lips, struggling with something. Finally he said, “Been up on the roof again, have you?”
    Dill flinched. “I…”
    “Certain priests have nothing better to do than spy and snipe.” The Presbyter’s entire face wrinkled. “I won’t name names.” The wrinkles deepened. “It was Borelock, that bloodless pickthank. Skulking in the shadows like a damn Shettie saboteur, watching everything, as if it were any of his business. At least he came to
me
this time….” His voice trailed off.
    “Still,” the old man added eventually, “can’t say I approve. Parts of the temple roof are rotten through.” He rapped his stick against the window ledge. “Dangerous. Don’t want you falling off and breaking your neck.”
    Dill stole a glance at the Presbyter but saw no trace of insincerity there. “It won’t happen again,” he said, and right then he meant it. The whip scars on his back tightened, reminding him that Borelock hadn’t always taken his discoveries to the Presbyter.
    Presbyter Sypes was examining the window ledge, as if he expected the stone to crumble at any moment. “Just be careful,” he said. “The temple is no place for foolish mistakes. Dangerous, you understand?”
    A gust of wind shook the window glass in its lead surrounds, howled in the chimney. The fire crackled, wavered. Candles guttered. Dill felt the night outside crowding in on them, a pressure behind the windows, pushing,