The Queen of Lies by Michael J. Bode Page A

well-manicured garden filled with circular paths. The structure itself was three stories of marble and glass, adorned with bas-relief suns. Above the main entryway stood the god himself, depicted as a man in his youth holding a baby in his arms. Heath knew the statue wasn’t Ohan’s true form, but he felt justified in admiring it for different reasons.
    Sword was getting a lot of strange looks due to the long weapon slung across his back. The church frowned upon carrying weapons into the sanctuary, but there was no concealing a bastard sword. “I should probably go to confession while I’m here,” Sword said.
    “You couldn’t afford absolution. Murder starts at a hundred ducats for self-defense, and it only goes up from there.” Heath checked the springblades under his sleeves to ensure the mechanisms were ready.
    “That’s it? It’s a little steep, and I’d rather spend it on something practical…like drugs.”
    “If you get that body addicted to anything, I’m not healing you,” Heath warned. During one of his incarnations, Sword had figured out that if Heath removed the toxins from his body, he could start his initial high all over. Thankfully that body had died quickly.
    “This one’s in the early stages already,” Sword scratched his arm. “I feel kinda itchy.”
    The templars in white, lacquered armor guarding the vestibule made no effort to stop Heath as he and Sword made their way into the sanctuary.
    A long luxurious carpet of gold led from the vestibule to the altar, behind which was a massive stained-glass mural of Ohan creating the world from light. All laughable bullshit, of course, but undeniably the work of master artisans. The pews were relatively full of people praying for protection. The dream killings were good for business, Heath noted, as a young cleric hauled a donation cask to the undercroft.
    Heath and Sword followed. In contrast to the white marble and gilded finery of the temple above, the lower level was stark and gray like a dungeon. Narrow corridors and locked doors led them past the morgue, where junior clerics anointed the corpses of the recent dead before shipping them off to the holy incinerator.
    Daphne’s office was a moderate-size cell dominated by a large desk carved from a single piece of lacquered timber. Atop it lay papers and books along with the obligatory statue of Saint Lathan, better known in some circles as the patron saint of not asking questions that can get you killed .
    “The prodigal brother returns.” Daphne smiled warmly as she looked up from her paperwork. She was a middle-aged woman who took very good care of herself. She had dark skin and wore a floor-length white cloak trimmed with spotted fur. It had two long slits for her arms but otherwise completely covered her body. Long gloves covered her arms past the elbows.
    “Daphne,” Heath said, “this is Sword, whom you’ve met before.”
    “The Patrean suits you,” she said to him very politely.
    Heath took a deep breath. He’d been dreading this moment since he’d started the investigation, but there was no way around using his connections. “I need information on the clerk who died from the dream killing. Was she a mage?”
    “I’m doing wonderfully. Thank you so much for asking.” Daphne stonewalled with her characteristic fake grin and deadpan gaze. “And how have you been enjoying your sabbatical? I hear you’ve been quite busy running up your debt with Cordovis. What’s it up to—ten thousand ducats?”
    “I don’t owe Cordovis shit,” Heath said.
    “Then let me at least pay it off so he stops grousing about it.” Daphne indicated a sheet of parchment on her desk. “The donations this month have been exceptionally generous, and I’d be happy to do it. Just take the money.”
    “I’ll take it if he doesn’t want it.” Sword offered. “I mean…whatever you can spare.”
    “I’m not here for your ducats. I’m working an independent investigation on the harrowings,