I - AT THE ALTAR
Joe crossed the grounds toward the steps of the cathedral. Even late at night there was a glow coming from within. The parallel gravel paths, the oiled gates and the well trimmed hedges were present at every site the Chantry owned, and they made his skin crawl. Nothing in this city should be so straight, he thought, that was why it was unsettling. Everywhere Joe knew in the city, everywhere he could think of, the architecture was crooked in small ways, visible to those with a keen eye. Sure, the nobles tried to build perfect little estates, but they always made mistakes. Or time wore the edges down. Expansions were built, repairs needed. Everything had little flaws. But not the cathedrals. Every one of them identical, unchanging statues in an evolving city. He looked back into the darkness, watching for any outline against the orange glow of the city. Smoke in the skies, and gas lamps on the streets make sure no stars shine on this night. Pretty much how it goes every night in Templeton. Nobody following. It was late after all. His feet rapped on the stone steps, and with a final glance behind him, he pushed on the heavy door, leaning in with his shoulder, keeping secure the package under his arm. Light spilled out from the opening, revealing the glowing interior.
Forgetting his scepticism, Joe was suitably awed. Of course that was the intent. Just as grand as the outside. In fact the inside was far more grand, away from the wear and weather of the city. For most buildings, being viewed from afar was flattering. However in the case of the cathedral, a close inspection revealed no masked ugliness. Not that the soaring towers and windows weren’t impressive, but from the inside, bathed in a soft light from dozens of candles, the colour and stonework was breathtaking. At least, to a newcomer like Joe. He gazed upward, losing himself in the arched ceiling for a moment. The banners were so red. The wood so smooth. The gold so plentiful. Joe for a moment considered the wealth just within a pace of him. What kind of man steals from the Chantry? Probably the same kind that brings a weapon in here. He chastised himself, shook his head and turned to the head of the building, to the giant figure with its arms outstretched, and began walking between the padded seats toward the altar. The icon loomed over him as he approached, its form appearing even larger in the flickering light. He could see no cracks or imperfections in the stonework. He wondered, where do you get such a large piece of stone anyway?
“Formed and yet blemish-free.” A soft voice spoke to his right, making him start. “Pure. Such we can only aspire to be, base creatures that we all are, and not cut by the stonemason’s hand.” A figure glid from one of the many recesses toward him, white hooded robe casting shadow onto a bland face devoid of noteworthy features. She was a woman, though with how plain she looked, Joe could hardly tell.
“Ah, Minister. Yes, most, uh, immaculate,” Joe barely got the words out.
“Are you a man of faith, Mr Lightstep? Do you follow the Chant?”
“I...err...I do my best Minister. I don’t always make it to service, but I say my prayers. I do...I should make more of an effort.” The minister was strangely disarming, and Joe found himself inexplicably sweating under his jacket.
“And yet, you do not. Your actions betray your words Mr Lightstep. We all fall short sometimes, but we must take steps to rectify it.”
“No doubt. But we aren’t here for a purification.” Joe swallowed and tried to take control of the conversation by speaking more confidently. “We have business.”
“Shame.” The minister betrayed not a hint of disappointment. “Come with me, we shall speak somewhere you find more comfortable.”
“So, er, Minister what was it? I usually use first names, or false ones of course…”
“Minister will do fine.”
Of course it will, someone like me doesn’t even merit using your surname, Joe thought to himself with a mild resentment. The minister led him down several dozen stairs and down a corridor to a room lit by candles. Joe, being a tall man, ducked his head, then stepped lightly, as was his nature, inside.
The room was cut in half by a curtain, resting on a simple white font. It matched the statue of the Immaculate Lady, now many feet above his head. The room had a few chairs, surprisingly mundane, some low wooden furniture, and a large stone slab in the centre. It was serving as a table but seemed to Joe more like a crude version of the altar upstairs. That gave him the creeps. Upon it sat two well made wooden boxes. Joe was always anxious in one on one meetings, but that was just his sense of self preservation. And besides, that’s why he was always armed. At his hip he had a flexible leather bound cane, one of the most effective self defense tools developed by Templeton’s criminal underworld. A lurk cane, could break a man’s nose or finger with a single blow. A female minister was no cause for concern.
“Wine?”
Joe was surprised by the offer, the minister seemed so cold and distant. “Uh, yes, thank you, Minister.” The clink of glass echoed in the long pause before the liquid flowed.
“To our...business.” The final word was spoken after a pause. Was that a hint of distaste that Joe sensed? It was impossible to tell. But he raised his glass and drank just the same. It was good stuff, but of course the Chantry has only the best. The minister took a time facing a small series of drawers, unlocking one with a click. She turned back around with a leather bound book in hand, then brought it and their wine over to the table, sat down, untied the strap holding it closed, took a sip of their wine. She opened one box, Joe could not see inside, then lifted out a leather pouch, placing it down in between the two of them. It make the unmistakable sound of coins. The minister looked up, ready to start writing. “You must tell me about how you came by the goods Mr Lightstep. Leave nothing out please.”
“It’s not particularly exciting or unu-”
“Please. Indulge me.” She pulled out another pouch, placing it by the first. The thought sprung up before he could stop it, double the fee?
“-sual,” he finished lamely. “Alright. I suppose.” He placed the package down on the table, and began to recount how he had talked to contacts, greased a few palms with silver, made some shady deals in dark rooms. “After the first few times, some people got a bit spooked. Said I was getting ‘too regular’ or ‘trying to undercut their business’. So things got a bit messy after that.” The writing paused. “Then the local Lurk boss got involved, set everyone straight about their turf. So I brought what I had so far. Have a few more avenues that haven’t paid out yet.”
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“You left everyone in your tale unnamed Mr Lightstep.”
“Their names don’t matter. They’re just contacts.”
“And yet, I am interested.”
“I’m not a rat, Minister,” Joe said pointedly.
“And I am not a watchman.”
“Copper-eyes have informants everywhere. Trust me, knowing less is sometime better for your health.”
“Ministerial privilege. They can force me to reveal nothing. Tell me.”
She was right there. Joe reluctantly put names to characters from his tale of secret dealings. The big players like the cities most prolific Grinder, Sue of the Southside; Bertrand Irons, the chief Lurk; Hadrian Shoreleave, the dockmaster. As he began to name them, a third pouch came out, and his hesitation lessened. He named those on the fringe, like Peter Antler, the young legal clerk; Old Irene, the jeweler and smuggler. Soon the list was almost complete.
“Any more? Seller, thief, connection?”
“I…” Joe’s voice stuck in his throat.
“Mr Lightstep, please do not withhold anything.”
No sense holding back now, he thought. “There was one more. Kat at the Lying Lily. The uuuh, ahem...establishment off of Temple Bridge, in Smokebarrow. She sells.” Joe shifted uncomfortably. Kat was a good person, he really hoped he could make that up to her.
“Excellent. Then if you have nothing more to share?” The question hung in the air for a moment.
“No, that’s all.”
“Then to the matter at hand.” The minister reached for the package and beginning to unwrap the outer layers.
“I should go,” Joe blurted out, preparing to stand, “You need nothing else from me.”
“Stay.” The minister did not look up from their careful peeling pack of the cloth as she spoke the instruction. Joe reluctantly slumped back into the chair, watching the process.
“Well, well, well...” The minister mused, their voice and pitch rising with each repetition. “Mr Lightstep, you have been busy.” For a moment Joe thought he could detect genuine delight in the usually flat voice. One after the other, she removed the tiny paper pouches, each individually wrapped. Six in total. She opened each one, inspected it, and closed the pouch, methodically, without touching the contents.
“Bring me that candle if you would.” The minister didn’t look up from their task. Joe found himself bringing the candle, resigned to observing this strange procedure. The minister took it from him silently, and pulled out a tiny metal spoon like implement. She took it and scooped out a miniscule amount of the dull white powder within.
“What are you going to do with…?” Joe started and lurched to his feet, afraid of what would happen. He didn’t have time to finish, as the spoon plunged into the flame of the candle, and the powder caught fire.
The air around them suddenly felt electric. Joe’s ears buzzed with the sounds, the candle sputtering was loud and clear, his own heartbeat in his chest. In amongst all the new sounds, the minister’s silence went ignored. His eyes could see the grain of the stone altar (and could see now it really was an altar), and the brown residue upon it, how the contents of each pouch were a subtly different colour. For the briefest moment, he could see the features of the minister’s face, and tell finally what she looked like, the candle was suddenly providing enough light for his eyes. He would remember the face. He could taste the remnants of wine in his mouth, feel a few tiny flecks of some sort of sediment, bitter, sticking to the roof of his mouth. His tongue recoiled, they were foul tasting. His clothes itched his skin, he could smell the scent of the powder in the open pouches, and his own sweat. His mind could process it all, his body was telling him everything, he knew what the minister had done, he could even taste the drug in the wine. He was liberated, free to do what he wanted, to live his own life.
And just as abruptly as it happened, it was over. Colours dulled, sounds faded, his accelerated thoughts crawled forward at a normal pace. Joe staggered slightly, struggling to keep track of all the different parts of his body. Trying to remember the thoughts his mind had started to form.
“Mr Lightstep, sit down, you will only fall.” The minister seemed unfazed, or otherwise unaffected. Joe found himself back in the chair as the pouches were all cleared away and packed up. The table cleared. Altar, Joe corrected himself, recalling his thought. He instinctively reached out to claim his own pouches, filled with silver coins, but felt only stone. He blearily opened his eyes, everything seemed so, unfocused now.
“My fee...” He mumbled, as he reached out.
“But of course Mr Lightstep, I have your payment right here. It is important to clear the space. Ignore me for a minute, I shall be right with you.” The minister's voice was distant, accompanied by the clanking of something metallic. Joe could hardly tell from where. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something, like the rush from the powder had taken him to the edge of a life-changing realisation. If he could only burn another pinch.
“Now, Mr Lightstep, you really do need the attention of the Chantry. Let me get a good look at you, up on the altar now.” The minister still delivered instructions in a flat tone.
Joe dutifully climbed onto the altar, though he wasn’t sure he needed help. He just needed a little more of that powder. There were tiny particles of it in the air still, he could tell. His eyes darted back and forth trying to catch sight of one, desperate to remember all the realisations. He was on the cusp of recalling.
“Good. Now take this.” Her cold commands were irresistible.
His hands closed around something hard and cold. Joe looked down at it, startled he hadn’t noticed the minister had approached him. He was holding a metal cylinder of some sort, angled to a point at one end. As he held it, his ears could just catch a slight sound coming from the inside. It was a chime, ringing quietly in his ears.
“Sit straight, and then lie down.”
He did as instructed, brow furrowed with confusion. The minister spoke some words of liturgy that Joe didn’t attend services often enough to identify, then bent down and whispered softly into his ear. Joe obeyed his final instruction, raising the chime above his chest. Eyes widening in terror, he realised the angled end was sharp. His mouth opened in a silent scream, even as the rest of his body obeyed.
The minister lead the people in service the next day. She sang with them, she preached to them about mortality, she spoke prepared liturgy. Quietly she listened to others recalling the legacy of ‘Arthur Viscardi, a man of honour, a loving brother, a curious student’. And when the time came she gave the exhortations of the Immaculate Lady, the chant that was repeated back to her, line by line, as the casket slid through the altar, into the furnace. She closed the hatch and dismissed the mourners, who, as they left could see a trail of smoke spiralling through the vaulted roof and out of the spires atop the cathedral. In the furnace the thin wooden coffin and linen lining quickly burst into flames. The heat was intense, almost melting the wood away. Inside the casket the late Arthur Viscardi burned too, turning to ash like the wood around him. Sharing his furnace was Joe Lightstep, his body purified by the fire, as he finally let go his pouches of silver.