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Repentance is hard work. Every six months, all the Plague Sisters would travel to their assigned supervisors to submit a report: where they fell short, where they overstepped, and where they acted too provocatively with leaders accustomed to comfort. This was especially true in cases where conversations about life and the church's tithe ended in bodily harm. Unfortunately, the states that had barely survived the Dark Times lost any sense of unity. Each took care of their own interests, trying to climb out of the mounting mess on their neighbors' backs. Kingdoms, counties, baronies, or even what was once called empires—Europe had been so shaken that the survivors were initially dumbfounded, then started trying to restore order with clubs and fire. The Church emerged as the only unifying force, present everywhere, offering effective methods to combat the undead, and forming efficient squads to cleanse death-ridden territories.
Rumor had it that in distant lands, the Qin managed to keep the attacks of the undead and werewolves confined within the Great Wall. The Muscovites, too, handled various abominations surprisingly well. It helped that they’d always lived in a constant state of chaos; to them, a risen corpse was as much a threat as a Tatar with a mace. They’d cut down enemies and move on with their lives. But the enlightened and pampered Europe struggled. Yet a decade passed, then another, and people began to adapt to the new world order. Regions with strong local authorities emerged, where chaos had been tamed. New boundaries were roughly sketched, and it became clearer which cities couldn’t yet be reclaimed and which areas the undead avoided, lest they be harvested as ingredients for alchemists. Armed caravans began to cross even the problematic regions, while adventurers and rogues looted temporarily abandoned towns, villages, and castles for anything valuable. Inquisitors spent more time letting gangs operate than organizing punitive raids against the larger undead creatures, who were nearly wiped out from the sheer terror they caused.
Still, the advanced extermination squads weren’t disbanded, just in case. Alongside the episcopates, there was another structure that wasn’t openly discussed, where Agnes came twice a year to report on her work. It was a tiny monastery at a crossroads. Easy to enter, but if any serious blasphemy was discovered, leaving it would be feet first only. For Lady Haffna was kind but merciless at times, and even the Pope didn’t dare cross her when she visited. No one argues with the head of the Tribunal, who oversees the revived holy department of heretical sin investigations. Heresy is such a thing—one that could even cause the head of the Catholics some trouble.
Usually, the Plague Midwife came to the preventative talk in old rags to avoid unnecessary questions. But this time, things got busy: two raids around the area, calming a small crowd of forest spirits who’d had too many fermented berries, and dealing with the ghost of a miller, angry at the world, who had decided to argue with his terrified relatives during the sudden division of an unexpected inheritance. Then there was a caravan, where a miserly merchant refused to pay his guides, so she had to pull a crowd of filthy traders out of the swamp and set the mischievous local swamp spirits straight. In short, she arrived before Lady Haffna just as she was—on her beloved roaring, iron, four-wheeled monster, wearing a fiery-red cloak and new boots with silver-plated toes. Enchanted silver, of course. It doesn’t wear out, scratch, and if you deliver a blow between the legs, it blesses the recipient with a hymn-worthy voice. Tested and proven.
“May I?”
“Come in, Agnes. I've been expecting you.”
A short, elderly lady lovingly patted the mountain of folders stacked on the left corner of the large table. To the right, there was a small, lonely pile of pages covered in fine handwriting. The office's owner had kind eyes behind her glasses, a smile on her lips, and two bodyguards flanking her high-backed chair—Parmesan golems, a gift from one of the more corrupt bishops. Iron statues immune to any magic, loyal only to their mistress, able to twist any troublemaker into a pretzel in seconds. There had been precedents where she had to use the ‘boys,’ as Agnes knew well. That’s why she always behaved herself when visiting, keeping her wild jokes in check and not showing her unruly side.
Settling on a stool bolted to the floor, Agnes cast a disapproving look at the folders stuffed with paperwork and grimaced as if she'd bitten into a rotten lemon.
“Complaints about me?”
“Reports, Agnes. Complaints are when the facts aren’t confirmed. But with you, it’s a little more complicated… In fact, these cover not just the last six months, but the past three years. I’m trying to understand just what kind of person is carrying the word of God on our western border. Let’s start with the story of how you helped defend a temple from zombies in Saarbrücken. And where exactly the donations went, which the local authorities brought in for safekeeping at the start of the Plague. According to the records, there were around twelve thousand Reich ducats there.”
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Completely uninterested, the Plague Midwife tried to use her prepared distraction.
“I brought you some plum jam. Just as you like it. A whole jar.”
“Thank you. But let's go back to the story from two years ago, because I need to decide—are we trying that jam over dinner, or are you giving it to the executioner as a gift? So…”
After four hours of a leisurely conversation, Agnes was indifferently considering the possible options for her impending demise. The rack? The gallows? Decapitation? Or perhaps even quartering? But the old lady, tired from sorting through papers, stuffed another stack of documents into a folder with a look of distaste and glanced at the column of figures she'd written down during their discussion.
“Something’s not adding up. Either it’s thirty-five thousand in total, or it’s four thousand less. That’s the amount that bypassed the treasury. What do you say?”
“I’d round it up to fifty,” the Plague Midwife croaked, struggling to straighten her stiffened back. “Could I have some water? My voice is gone.”
“Of course. Let’s head to the dining hall, and we’ll have a proper dinner there…”
“What about the executioner?”
“We’ll split the jam three ways. One part for me, one for the sisters, and one for the executioner. He has a sweet tooth…”
“So, I’ve repented, and I get a discount?”
“Repented?” Lady Haffna laughed, wiping tears from her eyes with a pristine handkerchief. “My dear, you’re just caught with your curious nose in things, and now you’re trying to negotiate… No, it’s something else. I understand what they write about you, and that you sometimes behave provocatively—that’s not a crime either. We don’t take timid souls into the Plague Sisters. Half of you are rascals and scoundrels, eager to knock someone’s block off. I just try to look inside a person, and often I see that someone with a high rank, who tries to set themselves above others, has long since rotted on the inside. Meanwhile, someone else may drink to relieve the tension after a raid, but would still give their last shirt for a friend… Here’s my latest list. You brought in new, enchanted muskets for the academy, paid out of your own pocket… Sent supplies to the orphanage and arranged for three spirits to be trained to combat any pestilence before it even starts. The abbot didn’t spend a single coin on that—your initiative… The rebellious bishop sent a letter of thanks, saying they managed to intercept a pack of man-eating wolves with your support.”
The head of the Tribunal stood up, groaning as she stretched her back, and complained, “This weather is starting to make me ache. Sit like this all day, and by evening you can barely move… So, for now, your balance is in the black. Therefore, I’ll overlook the minor mischief, but try not to overstep. And yes, you didn’t punch a single bishop in the face last year, which is good. Maybe that’s because you mostly stick to the borderlands. Keep up the good work… And tomorrow, fast a little in the morning, read some prayers, and write me a detailed account explaining why you decided to round up the total to fifty thousand and for what exact deeds. I’ll double-check to see who on my watch failed to keep an eye on you in time.”
***
The day after lunch, Agnes was getting ready to go home. But before she could climb into her armored vehicle, she managed to catch the executioner. Now, she stood before the brute, affectionately grabbing him by the trousers with her left hand:
“Hey, you big oaf, explain this to me. Do you really feel sorry for the coals? You sit in the cellar like it's a resort. You’re grilling shish kebabs between clients with security and quietly sipping beer. You’re going to get so fat soon that there won’t be enough rope to tie your belt. And you’re worried about bringing a heating pad to Lady Haffna—her legs will fall off? Just kick the blacksmith, and he’ll make a box, line it with felt, and scoop a little from the hearth—easy as pie. Granny doesn’t need much.”
“But I — ...”
“You, you... Do you think if she’s in bad health and a new person comes in, they’ll keep you around? There’s already a line of people waiting to settle scores with you stretching beyond the horizon. All those bishops, scribes, extortionists, and other ink-slinging souls. You’re just a scarecrow to them. The moment the mistress steps out the door, you’d better prepare your exit. So, consider that I’m not just looking out for myself. I’m suffering for you, you thick-headed fool. I can hardly sleep at night, you know… Got it?”
“It’ll be just as it should be, Lady Midwife… You don’t have to worry… What size box is better? This big?”—the brute spread his arms wide. “Or bigger?”
Sighing, Agnes decided to let his nonsense go and pulled the executioner along with her.
“Let’s go to the blacksmith. Otherwise, you two will be whipping up another ‘iron maiden’ without any creativity. I’ll send a wool belt and a vest through the Sisters. But with you, we need to decide right here and now.”
In the evening, the sweet old lady reviewed Agnes’s brief report, sighed, and added a couple of lines at the bottom.
“Such a nuisance, trying to cover up ten thousand with old deeds. Well, I’ll hold her accountable in six months… I just need to hint that one jar of jam won’t be enough.”
The next day, one of the bishops from the northern territories was set to visit. And unlike the thugs of the Brotherhood, the fat hog had no good deeds to his name. Therefore, they would have to speak with him downstairs, suspended on the rack. Unfortunately, most people often confuse their personal pockets with church funds. That’s why Lady Haffna had to sift through numerous signals from the field to keep things somewhat in check. And to ensure that sinners repented in time. After all, if they returned what they had stolen and paid extra on top, they would get a discount. The main thing was to get this sorted out before the papal document was opened and various uncomfortable questions began to be asked.
***
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