I’d reached again into my pocket as I spoke, so I pulled out the silver comb and thumped it down on his desk.

And I watched him. I watched those eyes for any flicker of recognition. I watched that face for any hint of fear.

All I saw was a man wondering how best to get rid of me without pissing off the rich folks who’d employed me.

Which didn’t really mean much. I’ve met people who can lie with utter conviction, people who simply don’t live in their faces. He might have buried Allie Sands himself. Remorse just isn’t found in some hearts.

“And this is?” he said.

“This is a silver comb. One of two-dozen silver combs, of Lot 49, bound for Rannit via Gant. They were in the big crate that housed the smaller crate that housed the sealed lead box. They’ve started showing up in Rannit. My employer has deduced that since the combs have made their way up from the bottom of the Brown, that perhaps his box has too.”

The Hand frowned. “I still fail to see why you’ve brought this to me. The Arm cleanses items polluted by willful apostates. We do not deal in submarine treasure hunts.”

“This comb has been Cleansed. Which means that somehow it wound up, at least temporarily, in the hands of the Church. Which means the Church knows who owned it, what their name is and probably where they are right now.”

“Impossible,” he said. A hint of annoyance crept into his voice, and his face took on a trace of blush. “That object has never been Cleansed.”

It was my turn to frown. “My sources say it has.”

“And who, sir, are your sources?”

He had seen the seal, but I guess he hadn’t recognized it, and his panicked underlings hadn’t told him I’d dropped Hisvin’s name. My, my, there’d be some hellfire and brimstone discipline handed out, after I was gone.

“Encorla Hisvin. Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

He paled. The man paled, and he gulped down air. I smiled a big wide smile.

“You have heard the name. How nice. Now then, why do you say this object has never been Cleansed?”

He put his hand down on his mask-stick, but he didn’t dare raise it.

“I am trained in the art of the Cleansing, sir, and I tell you that, had it been Cleansed, I would see plain the mark of the Church upon it, and I do not.”

Evis hadn’t mentioned any of this.

“Is this mark a physical mark?”

“It is not. It is a lingering holy affluence, visible only to one trained in my Art. And it is not there.”

“How long does this holiness linger?” I asked, watching him and letting him know I was doing so. “A month? Three months? How long?”

“For all eternity.”

I couldn’t resist a snort. “Let’s pretend I’m about to report back to my employer. Let’s pretend he wants to know how long this mystical invisible holy mark will last. Specifically.”

The Hand shook his head. “It is a permanent part of the object cleansed. As long as the item remains, so will the mark. As a reminder of the fate of those who tempt the wrath of the Church.”

I nodded. “I’ll be sure to mention that.” He blanched further. “So what you’re telling me is this.” I picked up the comb, held it in his face. “You’re saying that this was never Cleansed. You saying that since it was never Cleansed, that my employer can’t match it against a list of seized items. And since he can’t do that, he can’t use the names on that list to go a hunting for his little lead box. Is that what you’re telling me, Hand of the Holy?”

I made sure I raised my voice. Not just for the Hand’s benefit, but for those I heard tip-toeing about just outside his door. Word would spread, it would. Fast and furious.

“That’s what I’m telling you,” he said, after a deep breath. “It is the truth.”

Then he rallied. “Is that all you came to show me?”

“It is.” I put the comb back in my pocket, arranged my papers, put them away as well. “And if that’s all you’ve got to say, I’ll wish you a good day.”

I rose, and he rose, and a faint pitter-patter of feet hurrying away sounded from beyond the door. When the Hand made no move to show me out, I turned and got my hat off the rack and opened the door myself.

“One thing I forgot to mention. My employer isn’t out for blood. Not yet. In fact, if he gets his box back, he’ll be more inclined to pay those who assisted than to chase down those who hindered.”

“I cannot assist. Nor have I hindered. How dare you stand on holy ground and threaten a Hand of the Holy.”

“I haven’t threatened anyone.” I put on my hat and stepped through the door. “I’m just looking for combs, and a small lead box. Thank you for your time, Father Foon. Good day.”

I left. He was staring at the door when I closed it behind me.

Scurrying footsteps and closing doors preceded me all the way to the street. I stepped out into the light, squinted up at the faraway sun and let it chase a chill away.

“Shall we go?” said Halbert, from the curb. He knew the plan for the day, knew we’d be heading to four more Church mainholds, and a few other places besides.

I tipped my hat and climbed aboard.

Four more church mainholds.

My visit to Clathis might as well have been a replay of Wherthmore, aside from the pawing and fawning I was subjected to after only a single mention of Encorla Hisvin’s name. I was led from office to office and treated to denial after denial by every mask in the structure. I gather Hisvin had made some offhand comment critical of Clathis some years ago and the reverberations of terror had yet to die down.

Enrolt proved a much more resilient bastion of faith. I was actually made to wait, cooling my newly shoed heels while I was peeped at, discussed and finally ushered into a dusty alcove. I watched mice play beneath the tattered crimson curtains until I tired of waiting and marched myself right past a startled pair of white-masked priests and into the biggest office I could find.

I slammed the heavy door behind me.

That woke him up, at last.

“Encorla Hisvin isn’t pleased,” I said, by way of greeting and introductions. “When Encorla starts asking for names, shall I give him yours?”

The priest-who by the size of the mask he groped for may have been The Priest-gobbled and blanched.

I pulled back his company chair, spun it around and sat.

“My name is Markhat,” I said, holding up my hand for silence. “I work for Encorla Hisvin. I’ve been here for an hour getting the run-around about this.”

I held out the silver comb.

“How dare you-”

“I don’t dare, Father, but Hisvin does. Want to call the Corpsemaster on his manners?”

The name sunk in. All the way in.

The priest reached out, took the comb.

I laid out the whole spiel, crates and lead boxes and sunken barges and all.

And got not a hint of guilt for my troubles.

What I did get was the usual parade of denials and badly concealed indignation. And another denial that the comb had been Cleansed, though Father Gillop was less than impressed by Father Foon’s estimate of a Cleansing’s longevity.

“It might last ten years, perhaps fifteen. But no more.”

Which did nothing to help me at all. Convinced I’d sowed as much terror as I could at Enrolt, I bade the red-faced Father Gillop a heartfelt farewell and ambled happily outside.

Halbert was there, brushing his ponies. But before he saw me, the street began to clear, Watchmen’s whistles rose above the din of street noise and I heard the first of the screams.

I turned.

Charging down the street was a monstrous black carriage.

No horses. Just a carriage.

People dived and ran. Dogs barked, but dared not nip at the wheels. Along both sides of the street, horses reared, cabmen cursed and grabbed and dodged.

Crows wheeled and swung above the carriage. Something like a cloud rode above it, around it.