Scrivener’s Tale

The tailor turned and gave a soft, terrified shriek. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to bring any trouble,’ he begged.

Cassien took a deep breath. The man was confessing before he’d even exchanged a word. ‘Who have you told?’

‘No-one important, I promise.’

‘Who?’ Cassien’s arms were relaxed at his side although Zeek’s gaze kept flicking to them in case he suddenly moved to draw the weapons that the tailor had just seen him strap on.

‘You were sworn to secrecy.’

‘Yes,’ the man whispered, trembling.

‘You were paid handsomely for that secrecy, as I understand it.’

‘I was. More than I dared dream of.’

‘So why, Master Zeek?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen so much money at once. I drank too much. I went to the brothel and probably said more than I should. But she was just a whore. What can she do?’

‘What did you tell her?’

Zeek began to moan. ‘I can’t remember. But it wasn’t the local brothel. It was the one at Orkyld, when I picked up your weapons. She probably can’t even remember the fat, blathering drunk who fell asleep on top of her,’ he wept.

Cassien moved closer to the tailor and felt sympathy for him as he shied away. ‘She may not mean to but she could pass on information to any number of others. There are men who would want these weapons.’

‘You look like you can defend yourself,’ Zeek bleated.

‘Yes, I can. It’s not that. It’s the knowledge being out there that I have them. You have marked me by your loose mouth. What is her name?’

‘Name?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? I was drunk.’

‘Think. It will help your case.’

Encouraged by the titbit of pity, Zeek strained to remember, closing his eyes. He shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, please, I’m sorry.’

‘Try harder. Any clue?’

Zeek reached hard. ‘Pila? … No. Petal?’ He held his head. ‘I can’t recall. Something like that. I’m nervous, forgive me.’

‘Describe her,’ Cassien suggested.

‘Flame-haired, arresting eyes. Very popular.’ He sighed. ‘I was her tenth that day, she said. I know she won’t remember me or my ramblings.’

Cassien nodded.

‘I will give you the money, whatever remains,’ the tailor tried.

He knew it was hopeless. Not only was this man unreliable and untrustworthy, he was also a coward and he would beg on his knees to anyone who came around asking questions about Fynch or his so-called nephew, or the weapons.

‘You see that out there, Master Zeek,’ he said gently, pointing to the window.

Zeek frowned in spite of his fear and obediently looked … and it was in that moment of distraction that Cassien acted. In a heartbeat he had wrapped the man up into a hold favoured by the Brotherhood known simply as ‘the Tomb’. It was an effective death-hold that depressed a pressure point in the man’s neck rendering him unconscious. As soon as Zeek went limp in his arms Cassien laid him gently on the ground.

‘I’m sorry, Tailor Zeek,’ he murmured and then silently recited the Prayer of Sending that all the Brothers accorded their victims. It was short, committing Zeek to Shar’s safekeeping and acknowledging himself as the killer but on Shar’s authority to protect the Crown.

‘Search your heart until you see it as pure, Brother Cassien,’ Josse had said in parting on the day Cassien had been taken to the forest. ‘You cannot undertake the work of the Brotherhood until you have no conscience about it.’

‘How can we take a life coldly and absolve ourselves of any crime, any responsibility, any remorse?’ he’d queried, feeling angry. He recalled his mood well because Brother Josse had snapped at him.

‘You don’t absolve yourself. Shar does! But that’s not the point. You take responsibility for the killing because you are safekeeping the Crown and for no other reason. It is the law that guides us.’

‘Outside of the priory we’d be put on trial as murderers. Why are we any different?’ he’d argued.

Josse had regained his patience. His voice had been gentle when he spoke again. ‘Cassien, our work is on behalf of the royals alone. The ancient royal house of Morgravia that absorbed Briavel and the Razor Kingdom to form its new imperial throne decades ago was the seat of the dragon. You understand this, don’t you?’ Cassien had nodded. Of course he knew it. The sovereigns of Morgravia — and only those of royal blood — were linked with the dragon as their motif, the spiritual power that guided their reign. ‘The imperial throne answers only to Shar. Do you understand that too?’

‘Of course,’ he’d replied, trying not to sound exasperated.

‘Then the work of the Brotherhood, which is exclusively on behalf of the imperial throne, answers to no-one other than the imperial ruler. We are above all other courts or claims. It is not our collective conscience that should be troubled.’

Josse had made it sound reasonable. Since then — in the short space of not a decade — the empire’s structure had crumbled. The three realms that had been unified had since pulled apart with their quarrels, and now each had local governments and had settled into a loose triumvirate. The imperial throne was still acknowledged as Morgravia but any semblance of empire had fractured. Empress Florentyna had a long road and hard task ahead of her to rebuild what her father had allowed to slip.

He looked down at the unconscious Zeek. He could still walk away and the man would regain his wits shortly. But he was obliged to protect the Brotherhood as much as himself and Fynch. Besides, he’d already said the Prayer of Sending.

He smothered the tailor soundlessly. It would look as though the older man’s heart had given out. Cassien quietly overturned a chair to make it appear as though the tailor had simply fallen as his heart failed. He double-checked for any signs that he and Fynch had been in the shop, quickly gathering up the old clothes that Wife Wiggins had supplied and he had discarded. He knew there would be no written record of any of the transactions involving him.

He left silently via the back door but his mind was already reaching toward the next step of damage control. He found Fynch sitting on a low wall just beyond the alley, his head turned toward the sun. He thought the man was smiling but as he drew closer he saw that Fynch was grimacing.

The spry old fellow opened his eyes. There was sorrow reflected. ‘Is it done?’

‘Yes. No-one will suspect anything other than that his heart gave up.’

‘Then our secret is safe.’

‘Not quite. There’s a whore. He told her things. I don’t know how much she knows or whether she could even be bothered to pay attention, but I’m not inclined to gamble.’

‘A whore,’ Fynch repeated to himself, staring at the ground, although he didn’t seem surprised. ‘Does it end there?’

‘I hope so. But there’s more bad news.’

Fynch looked up.

‘Her brothel isn’t local,’ Cassien continued. ‘It’s in Orkyld.’

Fynch closed his eyes as if in pain.

‘We can’t undo it, but we can fix it.’

‘Quite right,’ Fynch replied with resolve.