“It is,” said Veltanezh, “but there were particular reasons I wanted to tend to the marquise myself. One of them being to demonstrate to my newest prelate the proper way to do it.”

“Yes,” said Ulzhavar. “I can certainly see that. But then you probably do remember. Were the marquise’s hands clenched?”

“Yes,” Veltanezh said promptly. “It was quite a job straightening her fingers.”

“There you are,” Ulzhavar said to me. “It’s at least a promising start.”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you think the sextons are done by now?”

“We can find out,” Veltanezh said, and led us back through the elaborate maze of Ulmavonee to the morgue, where the two sextons had brought the body in on a plank and set it on the table. The smell was thick and vile. Beside me, Tomasaran made a choked noise, and I murmured, “Breathe shallowly and steadily. You won’t get used to it, exactly, but it will get a little easier.”

“Othala,” one of the sextons said to Veltanezh, sounding relieved. “We weren’t sure if this is what you wanted.”

“Yes,” Ulzhavar said. “This is exactly what we need. Thank you.”

They bowed and left. Veltanezh said, “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“Well,” Ulzhavar said. “Either we unwrap her or I cut through the windings. Do you have a preference?”

“Cut through the windings,” Veltanezh said. “We’ll rewrap her with clean windings when you’re done.”

“That’s much easier for me,” Ulzhavar said. “All right. All I need now is some time to work.”

“Of course,” said Veltanezh, and left, probably nearly as grateful as the sextons.

“Celehar, will you help me?” Ulzhavar said. “I need to cut the windings, but I don’t want to cut the body.”

“What do you need me to do?” I said, coming up beside him. Whatever she had looked like in life, the marquise was unrecognizable now, and the smell was very much like being punched in the face.

“Lift the winding so I can get the scissors between it and the body,” Ulzhavar said. I did, and he began the slow, unpleasant process of baring the marquise’s torso so that he could open it with one of the sharp knives in his satchel. Step by step, Tomasaran came closer as we worked; by the time Ulzhavar was ready to use the knife, she was standing at the head of the table watching, grim-faced but steady.

“All right?” Ulzhavar said, glancing between us. I nodded. Tomasaran said, “Yes, dach’othala.”

“All right,” said Ulzhavar, and made the cut.

We all smelled it immediately, incongruous and strong, sweet as attar of roses. The combination with the scent of death nearly made me gag; Tomasaran covered her face with both hands, and Ulzhavar actually took a step back. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s hezhelta.”