The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [104]
Malleus Maleficarum. Malleus was “hammer,” so the title was The Hammer of Malefactresses. Thumbing through the dog-eared volume, Omorose very quickly deduced that in this instance “malefactress” meant “witch.” Flipping back through it, she saw an inscription on the very first page, and as she read the cramped Latin a dry, rattling chuckle rolled out of her throat.
My dear Ashton, Inquisitor Before Man and God,
What father but He Above may know my grief at being unable to intervene beyond bestowing my own humble wisdom upon so loyal a son? Hearken to the Clarion Call, heed this text, add to it with thy observations, and with brands aloft we shall rid this world of every witch that pollutes it with her licentious evil. Fear not, for I shall be thy hammer, just as thou shall be mine.
With Respect,
Heinrich Institoris Kramer, Inquisitor Before God
The woman stepped out into the warm evening, bringing the odor of honey and lavender to Kahlert’s flaring nostrils. Her saya dress appeared even more lovely than it had before, and not so exotic in style, and by the light of the many candles he had lit she did not look nearly so dark as she had first seemed. The dust of the road, no doubt, now washed free. At that moment the servant cleaning the bath chamber was nearly overcome by the fumes of the water and the foul gray, green, and black residue on the towels. As the help uniformly hated Kahlert, no mention was made to him regarding this unpleasant discovery—if she was a bruja then it would serve him right.
“You appear radiant,” said Kahlert, striking a clumsy bow. Most of what he knew about etiquette came from his romances, and were thus out of date and from the wrong regions besides.
“Thank you, Inquisitor Kahlert,” said Omorose, bowing herself. “Why did you not mention that you were a witch hunter?”
She smiled to herself at his stupefied expression, his reddening cheeks, his nervous babbling of excuses, and with a wave of her delicate hand she quieted him. Then she poured wine from a silver decanter on the table into his glass, refusing to let herself lick her lips at the sight and smells of the dinner. Then she poured herself a glass and leaned back in her chair, the lights of Granada shining beneath them as though they were dining above the stars.
“Inquisitor,” said Omorose, cutting off whatever nonsense he was saying, “I was chased here by a witch who is trying to destroy me. I was a pious girl in my youth, but not so very long ago found myself at the mercy of a sorceress, and only narrowly did I escape her clutches. As long as she exists I am in mortal danger.”
Kahlert dropped his glass and it broke at his feet. Whatever he had expected, this was not it, although it certainly explained a few things. He had known witchcraft was involved, and he was overjoyed that his guest was innocent. Then he realized she had taken his shaking hands, and looking at her pale cheeks, her eyes blue as his own, he could not imagine how he had thought her a Moor.
“Ashton,” said Omorose, choosing her words as carefully as he chose his tools when interrogating supposed malefactresses. “I wish that I could tell you tales of this witch and her actions, but due to my condition, the condition she has afflicted me with, I cannot without risking myself. I must furthermore beg—beg with all my heart—that no matter what, you never ask me any questions about myself, about my past and what has befallen me. If you do, the witch will surely triumph. I will tell you what little I can without risking myself, but if ever you ask even a single question of me I may fail, and the witch, the necromancer, will be victorious.”
Kahlert clung to her words like a romantic hero clinging to a precipice, knowing at long last his true test was at hand.
“Ashton,” Omorose breathed, the fear in her voice genuine—if he asked but one question … “Ashton,