The Black Hawks. David Wragg

legs forward. The alley bent around toward the back of the plaza, and from there he’d have a direct line toward the crumbling rooftop where he’d seen the beggar. He just needed to find steps or a ladder, or—

      Gaze still fixed on the bright sky overhead as he rounded the bend at full speed, he didn’t see the figures in the alley’s gloom. He crashed into them, sending one tumbling, crunching into dirt himself for the second time that morning. At least the robed man beneath him cushioned his fall. He was mumbling the world’s fastest apology, already looking around for his target roof, when his cushion’s companion whimpered, a small, pitiful sound in the claustrophobic stillness.

      Eyes adjusting to the alley’s shade, Chel looked from one to the other. The man he’d downed was back on his feet, clad in a dark, stained robe, a short, thick stick in his hand and a snarl on his face. Huddled against the far wall was the whimperer, a wild-haired woman, her face mud- and blood-darkened.

      Chel swallowed, shifting back toward the pair. ‘What’s going on?’

      The man’s snarl widened. His head was shaved but for a dark tuft at its crest. Chel had seen hair like that around the port and assumed it was a fashion of sorts. ‘Church business. Fuck off.’

      ‘What kind of church business involves beating a woman in an alley?’

      ‘The kind you don’t get involved in.’

      Chel set his jaw. He felt the fluttery canter of his heartbeat against his ribcage. ‘I’m from the palace. I won’t let you hurt her.’

      The man’s snarl became a grim smile. ‘That, boy, would be a matter of opinion.’ Chel braced for his swing, but instead the man bared his teeth and whistled through a dark gap at their centre. Chel heard the approaching thud of footsteps from the distant alley-mouth, the rhythmic jingling. He turned to see two more robed figures advancing, heads shaved but for the tuft, sticks in hand. They passed through a musty shaft of morning light and their robes glowed a deep red, their steel necklaces gleaming.

      Chel rubbed at his thudding temple. ‘Oh, shit.’

      ***

      The three robed men marched Chel and the bleeding woman out of the alley and shoved them into the sudden bright emptiness of the plaza, the sun’s glare harsh against the whitewashed stone. Chel kept his feet, the woman collapsed to the dust beside him. She was draped in filthy rags, her visible skin scarred and blotchy, odd pale welts curled down her arms like vines.

      ‘Shepherd’s mercy, what is it now?’

      A figure strode into view from behind a dark-wood cart that stood at the plaza’s rough centre, its sides and rear caged with iron. She was slight and sharp-featured, her silver hair cropped close to the skull, and was swathed in robes of white and rich vermilion. A long, hook-headed staff tapped the stones in time with her steps. Chel recognized her immediately. He’d seen her at the winter palace, being treated by the servants with a deference that bordered on fear: Sister Vashenda of the Order of the Rose. No wonder the plaza had emptied so fast. Chel grimaced. A set-to with the Church on a hangover was about as far away from ideal as anything he could imagine.

      ‘One of the heretics, Sister,’ one of the tufts grunted. ‘Fell short on her repentance.’

      A sigh. ‘And the other?’

      ‘Interfered. Says he’s from the palace.’

      Her head tilted. ‘Does he now?’ She waved her free hand, urgent, exasperated. ‘Go, find the rest, get them to the croft. Clean this place up.’

      The tufts departed, leaving Chel and the two women in the otherwise empty plaza, except for the cart. From the look of it, there were people inside, peering gloom-eyed from behind the cage bars. Chel swallowed.

      Sister Vashenda was staring directly at him. ‘Brother Hurkel,’ she called toward the cart. ‘Would you join us, please?’

      The cart moved, shifting on its axle, then settled as its front lowered to the ground. The hulking figure that lumbered into view was clad in a rust-coloured tunic, a milk-skinned beast of a man with a shock of blond hair crowning a too-small head the colour of beetroot. An intricate steel necklace jangled at his beefy chest, and at his belt his stubby fingers rested on a short, heavy ball mace. Its head was stained dark.

      ‘Yes, Sister?’ the giant rumbled.

      ‘Brother Hurkel, do you know this young man? He claims to be from the palace.’

      ‘I do not, Sister. Perhaps he has hit his head. Perhaps he wishes to.’

      Chel stood his ground. A sickly fire burned anew in his innards. ‘I’m a sworn man in the service of a lord under the grand duke’s aegis. I’m protected as his guest and servant.’

      The sister walked toward him, her face curious, as if he were the most interesting turd she’d stepped in that day. She looked him up and down. Behind her, Hurkel had advanced, drowning them in his shadow. ‘Do I know you, sand-flower?’ Vashenda asked, eyes narrowed. ‘Are you Sokol’s brood?’

      ‘By marriage, not blood,’ he snapped, then cursed himself.

      She offered a smile that contained not a jot of amity. Her teeth were so white. ‘Between chosen people, a word of advice, perhaps?’ She stepped close, a silver flower gleaming at her chest, bright in his eyes. ‘Sand-flower or not, a lucky traveller keeps from the Rose’s path,’ she whispered, then clacked her teeth so hard in his ear he shied away, certain she’d bitten off his earlobe.

      ‘Brother Hurkel,’ she said, stepping away from him. ‘How high does Lord Sokol rank?’

      The beast-man waggled a slab hand, palm-down, his bottom lip protruding. ‘Middling, if friendly with his grace the grand duke.’

      ‘Of little consequence, then. Sand-flower, are you, perhaps, in need of some spiritual re-education at the croft? I doubt Lord Sokol will miss a “relative by marriage” for a few days, especially for the betterment of his eternal soul. Hmm?’

      She was shaking her head slowly at him. Chel felt himself shaking his along with her.

      ‘Good. Depart.’ A brief, bright smile. She turned back to the rag-clad preacher, who had remained on her knees. ‘Now, what have we here?’

      The meat-pile growled. ‘Heresy, Sister. Godlessness. Abomination.’ His thick fingers tightened around his mace. Chel heard its wooden haft creak.

      The box-preacher’s head was up; Chel saw a fierce gaze, clear and defiant, that bore into the robed figures looming over her. When she spoke, her voice was cracked but strong. ‘Your godless church is the abomination! Lo Vassad sits atop a festering dung-heap of corruption. Your type act not for the people, but for avarice, venality – how plush are your robes, false prelate.’

      Sister Vashenda cocked her head and raised an eyebrow to her colleague, a hand to her mouth in mock-horror. ‘Truly are evil days upon us, that such profanity be uttered before the Shepherd’s humble servants. That the poor townspeople should have been so assailed.’ She crouched in front of the kneeling box-preacher, lifting her chin with a finger, and trotted out her words with tired practice. ‘Very well. Will you repent of your madness and ill-speech, and be welcomed back to the good Shepherd’s mercy?’

      ‘I will never bow to you, idolater. I have heard the voice of truth, felt the touch of the real Mother of the earth.’ She rubbed at the odd scars on her arms, livid whorls shining in what sunlight escaped Hurkel. ‘I have been chosen by the storm.’

      Vashenda sighed. ‘I will never understand you people.’

      ‘You are dirt in the Mother’s eyes! You are—’

      ‘Yes, yes, dirt and damnation and such, very good.’ Vashenda stepped away with a wave of her hand. ‘Brother Hurkel, the heretic is yours. Have your fun, in God’s name.’

      A grin split Hurkel’s beetroot face. He began to advance, the mace gripped in his meaty fist.

      Vashenda’s