Archbishop of Assassins

“I hope Crann is not declaring war upon the Church of Red Knives?” Patrick Murphy’s jovial mask fell away. He toyed with the gold seal ring on his wedding finger. The archbishop's spine straightened. From the look of a scholar, he had the pose of a resting warrior.

            “If your assassins had succeeded in their missions it might have.” Fabian Castel told the seated cultist. The knight’s voice was the honeyed accent of the cream of Crann. Murphy’s face reflected in many of the glittering faces of Castel’s armour.

            “Red acolytes rarely fail, young sir.” The man in red, brown, and grey robes had cold pride in his eyes as he said it.

            “Then we must both count ourselves lucky for two rare failures on the part of your acolytes.” Though he was choosing his words and swallowing his anger, the distaste in Fabian’s voice was the growl of a dog at any perceived threat to its master.

            The archbishop stood and stretched. Fabian’s hand slid down his hip to the sword in his belt. Danielle, by the knight’s side, did the same. Badru, Carl and Lupita tensed as well.

            “You insult them. My children followed their pilgrimages to conclusion. Both were entirely successful. Know that I don’t lightly let children leave the church to go to their deaths. Acolytes of this church are my kin.” Sorrow in the deep lines of Patrick’s face reminded Danielle of the mourners in Crann after recent battles.

            “What are you trying to say? Both assassins were meant to fail? Or that you sent two children so inexperienced that their deaths were inevitable?” Fabian’s brow creased with a frown as he asked.

            “They did as the God of Dire Necessity commanded them. They fulfilled the prayers of a donor to the church. Queen Malin and yourselves must be thankful that the God of Dire Necessity did not require her death.”

            “Enough of the riddles assassin. Spit out your story,” Fabian said. His face was red with the heat of rage.

            “We were paid to rile up your people and sow suspicion. The donor gave a queen’s ransom to the church for the lives of my two children. Know that I would have taken half to kill your queen and have them back alive.”

            “You’re a wonderful father,” Danielle said, unable to stop herself. She doubted he meant children in the literal sense but who knew. She was no stranger to parental betrayal. “A saint among saints for sure. “If you truly loved them, you would have killed the donor and kept the money.”

            “That is not our way. My order survives by treading the fine line between guild and zealous fervour. We trust our god. We trust in the value of each life. If the God of Dire Necessity wills it our best assassin will fail in their pilgrimage and the target will live. That is the way. If we refused the will of donors the Church of Red Knives would crumble to nothing.

            The good we do would be undone. Those who come to us for food would starve. Wounded who are healed by our doctors would die. The order maintained by our presence in Carraig would fall into chaos until the vacuum was filled by the usual gangs with their turf wars and shake downs.” He spoke with as much charisma and passion as Danielle had ever known. Her heart was swayed by his words, but not her head.

            “You expect us to believe that Empire of the Holy Proclamation did not hire your assassins to kill the Queen and the next in line after her daughters, and that your assassins went to their deaths knowingly? Do you think we’re fools? We did not come down with snowflakes in the last blizzard.” Lupita’s passion matched that of the deadly preacher. Her dreadlocks bounced as she shook her head.

            “The gold given to us in tribute has not yet been taken to the bank. I can show you what you do not want to see.” Murphy’s tone was that to disarm them as he held up his hands. The temperature in the small room had risen with the rage of each Cranner who felt themselves being played for a fool. He looked between them all, shook his head and sighed.

            The Archbishop of the Church of Red Knives walked around the table. He did not walk with the bent gait of other men approaching his age. His back was spear straight. Though his joints clicked as he moved, he took the pain with the merest grunt.

            The quintet from Crann parted to let the man in red, brown, and grey past them. He opened the door and gestured for them to follow, done talking. Seeing the fingers on his hand again, Danielle noted that there was still muscle on them where most would be skin on bone.

Unlocking a door next to his office with a key from around his neck, Patrick Murphy led them into what seemed to be a classroom and locked the door behind them.

            “Pull up the carpet please,” said the old preacher. “My knees are in agony.”

            Badru the loup garou bent and pulled away a faded rug that depicted a dragon and a temple of a design that Danielle had never seen before. Beneath the rug was a metal hatch with a keyhole.

            Patrick passed the ginger haired loup garou a key and pointed to the lock.

“Fucking hells!” Lupita jumped, looking at something behind them.

            Danielle saw an impassive grey acolyte with an open robe revealing armour as the man kept a hand on the pommel of his sword. None of them had seen the warrior as they entered the room. Looking around, they saw two more.

            “You think to ambush us?” Fabian drew his beautiful sword. The acolytes looked to their master and staid their hands.

            “They are here for my safety, not your death. Put your sword away, boy. The best warriors in the world guard this church. You could have died a million times before making it to my door. You live by my mercy. If you don’t want answers then you can leave freely now, but you will never have another chance to see the proof of treachery within the church vault.”

            Fabian sheathed his sword. Patrick nodded to two men and a woman in grey, the three raised their hands and pressed the palms together.

            “Good. Down we go them. More doors. More locks. Fucking stairs.” The polished tones of the archbishop’s voice were morphing into a common accent with a gravelly edge.

            Four more doors, each more imposing than the last, gave way to keys held by Murphy. Endless stairs between led them down into the depths of the world.

            Finally, the last door, with four grey guards. Torchlight gave them a haunting quality. None was any warmer than the stone walls that dripped with green algae.

            “Archbishop,” said a soft voice beyond the bolted door with no keyhole.

            “Yes, my love. Open the door please.”

            “Who are the intruders?”

            “Guests,” said the man in the tricolour robe.

            “Is that wise?”

            “No. It is vengeance for our children.”

            “Very well.”

            The scraping sound of bolts sliding back echoed painfully in the tight space. The door swung with an equally awful metallic creak that made even the guards grimace.

            “At least have them leave their weapons outside,” said a woman with long black hair to the shoulders of her brown robe. Near as old as the archbishop, she was beautiful and wore each wrinkle better than most ladies wore their jewels. Her eyes were sparkling onyx as she appraised them all, unimpressed.

            “They are no threat. They harbour no greed,” Patrick said in the voice of a Carraig commoner.

            “That was not my point, and you know it,” she pointed her finger at him. Murphy only smiled with love as clear as Danielle’s for Lupita.

The vault of the Church of Red Knives was not nearly as impressive as its security suggested. Pigeonholes labelled with the days in the king’s tongue had pouches of various states sitting within. A tiny note was clipped to each.

            Names.

            Targets.

            Danielle understood the security. That room was where the God of Dire Necessity decided the fate of those donors prayed dead.

            “So, you’re the God of Red Knives?” Danielle asked the woman who held the archbishops gaze in a vice.

            “No. I’m the accountant. Sister Siobhan.”

            “You’re beautiful,” said Carl in a gasp. Though she agreed, Miss Longbow elbowed the blonde boy in the arm.

            “Thank you, young man.” The curl in her lip set Danielle’s heart fluttering. Her mouth felt dry. “Anyway. You’re from Crann I hear.” She gave Patrick a baleful glance. “And you expect me to show them the coin left by their compatriots.”

            “Yes, my dear, if you please.”

            “And if I don’t?” The question was a verbal ear twist in scathing monotone.

            “Then I ask that you show them anyway. That gold cost us two children. I have a shot at revenge if they believe me.” The sight of a man that age using puppy dog eyes on the assassin accountant raised a thousand questions in Danielle’s mind.

            “You’re a fool, my love.” She sighed and reached to a pigeonhole that told Miss Longbow that the assassins sent to Crann had been paid for two days before they died.

            “I can only hope to learn from my mistakes Siobhan. I want vengeance.” The love for his woman turned to a killer’s merciless promise as he spoke. His withered face went from puppy dog to deadly. She wanted to fight or flee until his face relaxed back to impassivity.

            Siobhan handed Sir Castel the leather purse and watched him peer inside.

            “They’re Crann gold,” said Fabian, picking out a gold disk with a square hole in it. According to the numerals on the surface it had been minted eight years before. The face of the dead king sat to the left of the square hole, the Crann Oak on the right. “That doesn’t mean these were paid recently.”

            “We have no reason to lie to you, young man.” Archbishop Patrick’s voice came from deep down as the neutral mask fell away again. “That’s twenty gold pieces. The donors gave us fifty purses like that.”

            “FIFTY?” Carl said in astonishment. All of them jumped as the booming call echoed off the walls. Grey acolytes with drawn swords were in the vault in a moment. Archbishop Murphy waved them away.

            “Yes.” Siobhan took the purse from Sir Castel’s hand. Smirking she offered her palm to Carl, leading the young boy to a chest beneath the pigeonholes. With a key from her neck, she unlocked the chest and revealed forty-nine identical leather purses.

            “By the gods,” said the boy. He looked for permission then opened the pouches of gold one by one. “They’re all the same. A thousand gold pieces!” The boy’s blue eyes were the size of dinner plates. His mouth was open wide.

            “A thousand of your gold coins to send two assassins, two of our children, to die. And for three doses of poison.” When he talked of his killers, Patrick was mournful. When he talked of the doses of death, he was all business.

            “Poison?” Lupita asked.

            “Yes,” Murphy nodded.

            “Why?” Carl asked.

            “We do not ask, child. It is not our place to ask. The God of Dire Necessity serves those who make their donations. The donations help the injured and the starving, who we need as much as they need us.” Siobhan’s voice was honeyed whiskey, sweet, strong, and enticing. Danielle felt she could lose herself in that voice.

            “This is all just a story. It has to be.” Fabian was shaking his head.

            “They’re telling the truth.” Badru spoke, making them jump. Most had forgotten he was there. “I can smell Crann on those coins, on the purses. I can smell Leonor as it is now. If I can only smell them more closely, I will know the scent and we can find those who paid-”

            “Donated,” Murphy said, interrupting the loup garou. “We accept donations, we do not take payment.” Sir Castel’s frustrated sigh told them all he was tired of the double talk.

            “Smell away, nosey man.” Siobhan stepped aside to let the ginger man near the chest of gold but watched him with a hawk’s eyes.

            “I have the scent,” said the redhead, royal perfumer as he straightened. “Whoever brought that chest, I will know them when I smell them again.”

            “We can help further,” said the assassin accountant, “find the barman in the Red Knives’ Orchard Inn. The donors stayed there for the night before returning to Crann. He can describe them to you, draw them even.”

            “Why can’t you just tell us?” Fabian growled.

            “Because we have a god to obey and a reputation to uphold. The barman will be told he’s free to share the information.” Siobhan clicked her fingers. A grey guard entered the vault again. “You heard me?” The man nodded. “Go now, send down a replacement.” The man nodded and left without another word.

            With a motherly smile on her face the matriarch of murderers took Carl’s hand again. Her other hand moved from his shoulder to his ribs, nodding as he winced. “You need a doctor, boy. For a silver piece we can heal you up as good as new.”

            “Would you be the one healing me?” Though he held his ribs with a pained look his flirtations bled into his voice and the smile on his pubescent face.

            “If only.” She winked. Danielle felt her heart skip a beat. “Don’t be jealous my love, you’re the only one for me.”

            Archbishop Murphy’s nostrils had flared. His eyes had narrowed. His clenched fist relaxed. The lovable mask descended again.

            They were led from the vault by Patrick Murphy to the entrance hall of the church. A brown robed acolyte assured them he would find the best doctor to treat Carl’s broken ribs.

            “We have more and better doctors than even the Empire of the Holy Proclamation I assure you.” Despite herself Danielle believed the man, mostly because she had seen the trusting faces of the public outside.

            The blonde boy waved goodbye.

            They left him there, promising to return for him in the morning. They were all exhausted. The pain of Miss Longbow’s bites had been sapping her strength all day. She wanted a warm bed and deep sleep.

            The sun hung lower in the blue sky over Carraig City as they left the church. Rory, their guide, waited for them near the steps and waved with the hand that wasn’t holding a bottle of beer. He was swaying as he stood but in a fine mood if the show of brown teeth was anything to go by.

            “Take us to Red Knives’ Orchard Inn please Rory.”

            “There are cheaper places than that to lay your head.” The drunk took a swig of his beer and watched them.

            “We have business there.” Fabian’s voice was firm but friendly, a balance not many could strike so well.

            “Your coin, not mine I guess.” The local shrugged and waved at them to follow. After two right turns and a left down shadowy alleys they entered a small courtyard that saw the light of the sun upon a whitewashed wattle and daub building three storeys high. It was entirely at odds with the ramshackle decrepitude around it.

            “This is the place. One silver please.” Rory O’Neil’s filthy hand opened and closed around another hexagon with a circular hole in the middle. “Do you need anything else this fine day?” He burped and looked confused for a moment; the acid odour of vomit met Danielle’s nose as he wafted it away.

            “I doubt we will require your services again, thank you.”

            “I’m always about, just give me a shout.” He winked, bowed, overbalanced, and had to catch himself mid fall. “May we meet again kind sirs.” He spun his hand flamboyantly and stumbled away, cradling his beer.

            The well-oiled hinges of the door to the inn made no sound. The bell above the door rang melodically. A man at the bar of the quiet pub looked at them and nodded. They were in the right place.