* * *
The priest was in the nave of his little church, located not much more than a block away. The elderly cleric was hunched on one of the pews, his head bowed, clutching a cross in his hands and trembling like a leaf. Clearly enough, reaction to the horrifying event which had transpired not long past was now setting in.
Dorma did not begrudge the man his uncontrolled shivering. From what he could determine, at the moment of crisis the priest had done all he could--and done so with a courage which would not have shamed any of the Church's great martyrs. The fact that, afterward, a humble parish priest had fallen into quiet hysteria was quite understandable. He was not, after all, a great condottiere like Carlo Sforza, accustomed to scenes of horrendous carnage and brutality.
Dorma stepped up to the priest, stooped, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Please, Father, can you tell me what happened?"
The priest raised his head and stared at Petro. His brown eyes were blurry with moisture.
"It's very difficult, Lord Dorma," he whispered shakily.
The fact that the priest knew the identity of his questioner did not surprise Dorma. Even though, to the best of his knowledge, he had never met the priest. In fact, he did not even think about it. Everybody in Venice knew who Petro Dorma was--his appearance and official position, at least, if not the full range of his powers and his membership on the Council of Ten.
"I'm sure it is, Father, and I apologize for disturbing you at such a moment. But I really must learn as much as I can about what happened."
The priest's nod was as shaky as his whispering voice. "Yes, yes, of course. It's just--I can't remember much. It was dark and--very confusing. And . . . and I was very frightened. Confused myself."
Dorma gave the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You handled yourself as well as any man could have, under the circumstances. Just tell me what you can, Father."
Visibly trying to bring himself under control, the priest took several deep and slow breaths. Then:
"It was very late at night. Near dawn, in fact. I had been spending the night with Luigi--the linen merchant--sitting up with him and . . . talking, mostly. I was worried about him. Since the death of his wife, he has been very unhappy. I've been concerned that he might even be starting to think of suicide."
The priest paused for another deep breath. "We heard a noise. Downstairs, in the shop. Nothing loud. In fact, I didn't hear it at all. But Luigi had a shopkeeper's sensitivity to such things, of course. So he excused himself and went down the stairs, carrying a candle."
Again, the priest paused. For much longer, this time. Clearly, now that his tale was approaching the moment of horror, he was reluctant to continue.
Petro made no effort to hurry him along. He took advantage of the delay to review in his mind everything he had seen in the shop. And was struck again--as he had been at the scene of the financier's murder--at yet another contradictory fact. The same creature that slew in such an incredibly excessive manner was also quite capable of delicate work. The financier's mansion had been entered in so sure and subtle a manner that the Schiopettieri were still uncertain as to the murderer's exact route of entry. And if the entry to the linen seller's shop was obvious, the lock on the front door had been skillfully picked, not broken. Dorma suspected that the only reason the shopkeeper had heard anything was because he had been wide awake and, as often happened with elderly merchants, had become extraordinarily sensitive to the risk of burglary.
The priest was ready to continue. "Then I heard a scream," he rushed on. "Luigi's voice. I raced down the stairs. Through the kitchen. By the time I got to the front room . . ." He gasped, a moment. "It was horrible. Luigi was being held by--something. I couldn't see it clearly. He must have dropped the candle, so there was no light in the shop. Only what little light came through the open door from outside. Not much, because sunrise was--only still coming. Everything was dark, dark. Horrible."
"Was it a man?"
"I don't think so, Lord Dorma. If it was, it was a huge and misshapen one. But--no! It couldn't have been a man! I saw a tail--I swear! I remember that! And--then, when it must have heard me entering--I was probably shouting myself, I don't remember clearly--but I know I was holding up my cross and calling on the Virgin--"
The priest's voice was starting to rise hysterically. Dorma calmed him with gentle pressure on the shoulders, kneading the old cleric's thin bones and flesh with his hands. After a moment, the priest continued, his voice now dull and leaden.
"It flung poor Luigi at me and fled from the shop. I saw--something like suckers on its arm. Like an octopus, except it was more like a man's arm--huge one--than a tentacle. Then it was gone, racing out the door. I saw the tip of a tail. Like a reptile's, of some kind. No more." He shuddered. "Please, Lord Dorma. No more."
Dorma nodded, gave the priest's shoulders a last little reassuring squeeze, and straightened up. "Enough, Father. Get some rest."
On the way out of the church, he had a few words with the Schiopettieri captain. "See to it that a guard is maintained here at night, for the next few weeks. I don't expect there'll be any . . . trouble. The fiend doesn't seem to have returned to any of its other crimes. But--"
Ernesto nodded. "The priest is the only eyewitness. And the only one who interrupted the--whatever it is--before it finished. I'll see to it, Lord Dorma."
* * *
Later that day, after hearing Lord Dorma's report, the Metropolitan of Venice summoned the special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan of Rome to a private audience, in a secluded room in the cathedral.
Metropolitan Michael was becoming more than a little impatient with the envoy, so he did not preface his first words with the usual phrases of polite greeting.
"How much longer?" he demanded. "By the Saints, man, you should at least meet with Petro Dorma. He could be of great assistance to you."
The envoy shook his head firmly. Metropolitan Michael almost hissed with displeasure. The Grand Metropolitan's envoy did everything firmly, it seemed. He even managed to limp firmly, somehow.
"And why not?"
The envoy frowned. Firmly, of course. "I still do not know the identity of the evil, Your Eminence. The source of it, yes. It comes from Lithuania, like most of the world's demonry. But I still haven't determined the channels, or the conduits--not all of them, at least--nor, most important of all, its ultimate purpose. For all I know, Petro Dorma himself is entwined in these plots."
The Metropolitan threw up his hands with exasperation. "That's absurd! You might as well consider me a suspect!"
The Grand Metropolitan's envoy studied the Metropolitan calmly, saying nothing in response. As if he were examining him. After a moment, realizing the man was immovable, Michael sighed.
Even the man's eyebrows annoyed him. They, too, were firm. It, rather. Like a solid bar of rusty iron above implacable eyes.
Chapter 29 ==========
Eventually, the punishment ceased. The monster lay on its side, its flanks heaving, still trying to beg for mercy. The effort was pointless, since Chernobog had crushed its throat. But the monster knew from experience that so long as it was in the strange, gray-mist casket-world, its wounds would heal quickly. Any wounds, even mortal ones--and it wanted to be pleading for forgiveness as soon as any word at all could issue from its throat. Else Chernobog might renew the chastisement.