I must have frowned.

“Damn, boy, you ain’t a Church man, are you?” laughed Young Varney. “Wrack Days. Wrack Days. Every other Tuesday. Them Wherthmore bastards have a extra sermon in the morning and can’t cast a shadow the rest of the day.” He cackled. “Don’t nobody pay no mind to Wrack Days no more but them Wherthmore masks.”

Masks. Priests or acolytes. Anybody up in the ranks enough to rate a title, even if it’s not much more than “Hey, you.”

My blood went cold. Acolytes might just have access to the rituals and artifacts of the Cleansings.

“You’re sure about this?”

“He weren’t wearin’ no robe,” said Varney. “Weren’t carrying no mask. But I reckon he a Church man, all the same. “

“And you think he’s Wherthmore.”

Varney shrugged. “I don’t think nothin’. Don’t go there myself. Stuck-up bastards. But they still hold them Wrack Days, and I don’t reckon nobody else does.” He shrugged. “Hell, it might be happenstance. I said it might not mean nothin’.”

I let out my breath and found a smile. “It’s a good guess,” I said, digging in my pocket for another pair of coins. “I owe you this. You’ve told me more in the last few minutes than any half a dozen people over the last two days.”

“I ain’t askin’ to be paid,” he said, stiffening.

“I know that. I thank you. My lady friend thanks you. And I hope one day soon the young lady with the book and the sewing kit can come up here and thank you herself, but until then, take this. Never let it be said the finder Markhat takes up a working man’s time without offering something in return.”

“Well, reckon that’s all right.” He took the coins, made them jingle in his pocket. Then he grinned up at me. “You keep them bags of feed, you hear? Your lady said she’s gonna bring you up here, after you’ve done found that seamstress. Said she’s gonna sit you down on that there bench and teach you robins from red-birds and trick you into marryin’ her.”

I laughed. “She’d say that. Thanks for your time.”

He picked up his cart. A tall blonde lady was passing by on the gravel walk at the bottom of the hill, and Young Varney set off after her with a single short “fare thee well”.

I turned and went back the way I’d come.

I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to join my brothers at Wherthmore in early evening worship.

I sat on a pew, hat off, head down and watched the faithful come and go.

Evis’s men-I’d spotted one on the street, another haunting the so-called Sin Room that lay, dark and hot, two doors down from the sanctuary proper-had scattered at my approach, leaving only the one true Markhat keeping vigil at the altar.

The Big Bell pealed out two hours as I sat. Three red-masked priests had approached me, and three red-masked priests had retreated in confusion when I told them I was waiting for a personal visit from the Angel Malan himself. After that, they were content to leave me alone, though they did keep a careful watch on me from behind various pillars and through sundry folds of curtains.

By then, I was feeling a bit sheepish myself. I hadn’t come to Wherthmore with any clear idea of what to do. I had, I suppose, been hoping that a tall, beak-nosed man in fancy black pants would show up, silver comb in one hand, bag of bird-feed in the other.

But he didn’t. A few of the faithful shambled up to the prayer-box, knelt and dropped coins before ambling away. Priests came and went and peeped. Just after each time the Big Bell rang, someone behind the curtains struck a gong and read a verse of Church. Young Varney wasn’t there to translate, though, so most of it marched righteously past me.

I sighed. Night was falling soon. Which meant Evis could be out and about, but unless he’d developed startling new evidence in the last few hours, he and his pale friends had no better idea where to go than I.

I almost broke down and prayed. What good a prayer, though, when you only know half a dozen words?

I was about to stand. About to stand, walk out and buy a bottle of wine and take it to Darla.

At that very moment, a shadow fell over me, and I turned to meet the scowl of Father Foon.

“Must you continue to defile this holy place?” he said, so soft I could barely hear.

I glanced about, watched every other red mask and black robe in the building fade like noon-struck ghosts.

“I came seeking guidance.” I stood. “When did you add that to your secret list of sins?”

He took a step back. I hadn’t lowered my voice. I wasn’t going to.

“How dare you-”

“Heard that before. Wasn’t impressed then. Not impressed now.” I stepped out of the pew. “You’re big on prayer. Fine. Let’s pray together, shall we? Oh Mighty Hosts,” I intoned, in a near shout that rang throughout the empty chamber. “Take from me the wrath of Encorla Hisvin, who has been known to cook his victims from the neck down so quickly they didn’t know they were dead until they smelled the roasted meat. Spare me the pain of being skinned and boiled alive because I lied about a box of silver combs-”

“Silence!” he shouted. “Silence, or I swear I shall cast your name to the devils!”

“I’m not one of your flock. I neither covet your heavens nor fear your hells. Cast away. See if I care.”

“Blasphemy!”

“Stuff it. I’ve heard that all my life. Heard it from mean-spirited old goats who would drop a dozen souls to catch a single copper. Heard it and heard it and heard it. Well, I’m not listening anymore, Father or Hand or whatever your title is. I’m not listening, and my boss isn’t listening. You can yell blasphemy at him all day, if you want. See how much sweat it raises.”

And then I saw it. Not just anger, but maybe, just maybe, the smallest hint of fear.

I saw it, and I pounced.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll be at a place on Regent, at midnight tomorrow night. A place that breaks Curfew. Ask around, for the name.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“I’ll be there at midnight,” I repeated. “I’ll have one beer. Maybe two. And if someone hasn’t come in and sat down and told me all about the damned combs, I’m leaving. Leaving, and going to see Mister Hisvin, and he can take matters from there. If it means dragging you and every red mask and every apprentice and every floor-sweeper in all five churches down to see him, I guess that’s what he’ll do. So this is the last time it’ll be me asking, Father. The last time I can offer a promise that Hisvin won’t lift a finger against the man who has the combs.”

“Get out.”

“I’ll do that.” I looked up at the soot-encrusted stained glass windows, at the angels within them struggling and failing to shine through the growing dark. “No reason to stay. Not in a place like this.”

He opened his mouth again, but I was on the move, so he shut it and stepped aside. “Midnight,” I said. “Or else.”

“I shall pray for you, my son,” he growled.

I stopped, turned on my heel.

“If you ever call me that again,” I said, soft this time, “I’ll lay you out, flat and cold, mask and robe and all. You hear me?”

I didn’t wait. I put my back to him, marched out and slammed the doors as I went.

People got out of the way outside. Even the cabbie I hailed made with quick “yessirs” and “nosirs” and stayed out of my way.

I leaned back against the hard plank seat and gulped in air. Where the Hell had that come from?

I’d cussed in a Church. I’d threatened a priest-a body of priests-in public.

I mopped sweat and looked at the sun and realized I’d never make a winery and Darla’s and get back to my office in time to wait in case anyone dropped by with a full confession. So I headed for home, the Angel Malan cold in my pocket, the word blasphemy ringing in my ears.

Blasphemy. Maybe so, I decided.

It is, after all, the single word of Church that everyone knows.

I sat and brooded. Mama Hog came and Curfew came and Mama Hog went. I listened for traffic on the street, and when it came I slipped my knife halfway out of its sheath and made sure my jacket wouldn’t get in the way.