Free Secrets of the Fire Sea by Stephen Hunt Page A

comment or dry remark, Father Blackwater was a Jagonese priest through and through. Which was precisely why the Rational Synod would never confirm him to the archbishop’s post he obviously thought he deserved.
    Hannah entered and took the seat where she had sat opposite Alice Gray so many times over the years. Meeting an ursk wearing the robes of a priest would not have seemed as alien to her.
    ‘I have mixed blessings to report,’ said the father. ‘As I feared, the senate will not allow me to oppose your draft ballot.I am not regarded as having the seniority to even speak on the floor on your behalf.’
    Her heart sank. ‘Then I am finished.’
    ‘Not yet, my dear,’ said the priest. ‘On the other side of the equation, we have found this—’ he flourished an envelope ‘—among the personal effects of the late archbishop. It stipulates that in the event of her demise preceding your majority, you receive her grant of authority to sit our entrance exam early.’
    Her waiver! Alice had granted her dispensation after all. Hannah was overwhelmed, the grief over losing her guardian momentarily lifted. But…Hannah did the calculation in her head, working out the date of the next church board examination. ‘I’ll already be drafted into the guild’s service by then, father!’
    ‘We can’t nullify the guild’s draft order,’ said Father Blackwater, ‘but Vardan Flail can’t nullify a written waiver from the archbishop that precedes your ballot notification, either. Her letter was written weeks before your name was ever posted on the draft ballot.’
    Weeks before? It was as Alice Gray’s clerk had said: almost as if she had been preparing for her own death. How many run-ins had there been between Vardan Flail and Alice in the previous months that Hannah hadn’t been around to witness, before Hannah’s name was ‘coincidently’ teased out at ‘random’ for entry into the lists of the Guild of Valvemen?
    Father Blackwater pointed to the chess set waiting lonely on the table in the corner of the chancellery, and Hannah remembered the gentle snorts that Alice would make while planning her next move. ‘Stalemate, Hannah. You will unfortunately be in service with the guild for a while, but the guild cannot forbid you to take our tests, and if you pass, you will be free of the curse of the draft for the rest of your life. You will be part of the church.’
    He said the words with satisfaction, as if there could be no higher honour. A couple of days ago Hannah would have agreed with him; that life had seemed almost inevitable to her. But with the death of Alice Gray, the cathedral’s bright stained glass seemed so much dimmer, the formulae and lessons of the Circlist teachings mere parroting of the echo of great thinking done by minds long since dead. In their stead grew the cold hard seed of something else planted in a ground far more fertile than the volcanic basalt outside the capital’s battlements. Vengeance, vengeance and the fell craving for it.
    To Hannah’s surprise, vengeance could be like one of the mathematical puzzles of synthetic morality. You could lose yourself considering it, studying its shape. Vengeance could become as much an obsession as some of the paradoxes that had driven church priests insane when pondered for too long. There was a beauty in vengeance’s pursuit and gratification to be gained in solving the riddle of the murder. Gratification that would climax in Vardan Flail being led by a hooded executioner across Snapman’s Bridge and made to stand on the trapdoor while the crowds gathered on each side of the black canal.
    It took a heinous crime to earn a death sentence that wasn’t commuted to banishment or life indenture by the senate judiciary, but Hannah was determined to see that Vardan Flail was one of the few that received it. And if she had to serve that twisted monster in the guild’s own vaults, then that would just take her a step or two closer to realizing her