Tinsin Khan …
Tinsin Khan he could never remember. He’d even looked her up, afterward. Tinsin Khan, green, of the Floating City, Blood Forest, in service to the satrap’s steward. No memory of her. Something had broken in him when the luxiats had washed the blood from his face and put him in new garments, as if it were commonplace. Had broken his very memory, of which he was so proud.
And now, though he could call up their colors and stories and sins and attitudes if he tried, he saw each one of the drafters differently; he pushed them back, away. They became only a name and a sin to be shrived.
Illi Alexander. Gossip.
Loida Moss. Poisoner.
Tinsin. Rebellious.
Tahlia. Envy.
Bell Sparrow. Seductress.
Li-Li Solaens. Wight.
Xenia Delaen. Wight.
Myla Loros. Wight.
Pelagia Breeze. Spy.
Meghida Talor. Hatred.
Tahirith Khan. Greed.
Edna Wood. Sloth.
Tasmituv. Lust. Was it possible for a woman dying a virgin to have lust be her principal sin? Yes, Gavin learned.
But he soon settled back into the torpor. Jaleh Smith. Incitement to murder.
Nairi Many Waters. Lust.
Lemta. Hatred.
But then even the sins were starting to sound the same. ‘My husband never understood me,’ ‘If only I’d had as much as my neighbor,’ ‘It wasn’t fair that…’ Gavin could paint on a face of full attention, empathy, the same stock phrases, the same words in the same prayers. He could sound so sincere, but he heard his own voice as from down a tunnel. Even with his excellent memory, the penitents became only a name and a single detail. As if it weren’t worth the space to hold a sin for each, unless it was a really good one.
Titrit. A fatty.
A part of him was horrified at himself. A fatty? No, she’d been … a blue. A pious and earnest woman. Fearful but resolute. Quavering voice that made her fat little jowls shake, and utterly … utterly boring.
Alé Aribar. Tried to seduce him to escape. Wasn’t even close to attractive enough to make it tempting.
Dianthe Knoll. Perfect golden hair.
Titaia Cox. Odd warts, all over. Washed his hands twice afterwards.
Hêbê Ali. Claimed a hundred affairs. Ugly as sin.
Melite Melaens. Big hands. Big, big hands.
Agata Mason. How did she get any work done with breasts that big?
Leilah Tree. The grimacer.
Nurit Hex. Birthmark on her face.
Beulah Blue. No eyebrows.
Livnah Smith. Buck teeth.
Naamiy. Kept clearing her throat. Orholam’s balls, would she never stop clearing her throat?
Ora Orestes. Seemed nice. Gray hair. Looked like a grandmother.
Penina Duraens. A coward.
Minu. A drunk.
Ercilia. Wight.
Gilberta Gonzala. Cursed more than any soldier or sailor he’d ever known.
Neva. So skinny she must have some eating illness.
Xenia. Ugly.
Sar-Ra Hesh. Deserter.
Bili Oak. Stumpy.
Khordad Ali. Gorgeous, with a flat affect. Smelled of shit constantly due to what had been done to her when she’d been captured in the war.
Titaia Brown. Farmer.
Elpida. Smelled of fresh sex.
Dianthe … something. Weeper.
Hagnes. Weeper.
Hêbê Brown. Chatterer.
Podarge. Odd name.
Parvin Nyssani. Gavin twisted his wrist when the knife hit a rib.
Ada Gil. Made a funny little ‘eep’ when he stabbed her.
Livnah Elo. Wet herself copiously as she died. Dammit, they were supposed to take them to the toilets a few minutes beforehand to avoid that.
Naamiy Patel. Vomited blood.
Ora Jon. Attacked, badly.
Yiska. Rambler.
Ameretet Ali. Amazing beauty. Tried to seduce him. Gavin actually thought about it until he realized she was simply afraid, and that she would do anything for a few more minutes of life. Even cheat on her husband as her last act, instead of going to Orholam clean.
Ihsan. Mediocre drafter, mediocre looks, mediocre sins.
Ercilia. Died proudly.
Evi Black. Nice name?
Dulcina Dulceana. He didn’t want to remember Dulcina, but he couldn’t forget her. By the time he got to her, he’d been killing for almost nine hours. The drafter in the room was standing, leaning at ease against the kneeler. She was only perhaps sixteen years old. A dark-haired beauty with halos stretched to bursting with red and orange and yellow and green. She smiled at him, a full and innocent smile, neither seductive nor afraid, simply happy to see him. He was instantly smitten.
“Greetings, daughter. May the light always shine upon you. Dulcina, if you would like to—”
“Shh,” she said, touching her lips with a finger. “I’ve already confessed.”
“Then would you like me to lead us in some prayers or songs?”
She shook her head. “My High Lord Prism, you’ve been doing Orholam’s work all day, and will do so all night and through the morrow. Let me give you a gift. The only gift I have. The gift of my five minutes. You may speak or we can be silent. You can Free me first if you prefer solitude, or at the end if you prefer company. As you will.”