Page 9 of Reap & Sow

“A pleasure. I am Bishop Florian Fane.” The bishop held a hand to his chest, where a pointed vial of colloidal silver gleamed. Eda eyed it with trepidation. The real kind, of course, produced by the Alchemists’ Cloister—that esteemed guild of enchanters devoted to the Faithhood and its many edicts. Eda saw them sometimes, traversing the inner city in their pale blue robes.

“Are you here to take over the temple’ouse, Father?” a woman called.

There were noises of interest; a small crowd gathered about the carriage. The Blades glared from atop their horses, but they didn’t warn anyone away.

Bishop Florian was unperturbed by the attention, smiling beatifically. “I’m pleased to say that I am, madam. May Bishop Emery be at rest.” He held his pointer finger against his forehead in blessing. A few others hurried to do the same. “I come to you today all the way from Alderport. It is His Grace the Patriarch’s fervent wish that a successor be named before his passing. The next Clerics’ Conclave shall be held right here, in Blackbridge.” The crowd tittered excitedly. “In anticipation of this most holy day, I have pledged myself to your service, where the Faithhood’s guiding hand is sorely needed. Blackbridge is a proud and ancient city—the oldest in Wesland! But with such history as this, less savory echoes of the past still linger.”

A Conclave. It had been decades since the last, and decades more since the one before that. Each city was bestowed the honor in turn. The choosing of a new Head Cleric—successor to the Patriarch himself—was bound to have Blackbridge in a great tizzy once the word spread. Piety might have lost its luster here, but an excuse for revelry certainly hadn’t.

Eda stood and listened to Florian Fane speak, intrigued. There was something charismatic about him she could not place. His warm smile. The confident, brassy tenor of his voice. Perhaps it was simply that he was young and handsome, too handsome for a cleric’s garb.

“Gateways of old still linger across our fair isle. It is the opinion of the Patriarch that this, good people, is why you have struggled against the foul influence of demonic bargains, beyond any other great Weslic town.” His tone shifted. “If Gateways are being used to prey on the vulnerable in Blackbridge, those responsible will be swiftly brought to justice. This I swear.”

Eda’s cheeks ran cold. Beside her, Lawrie stiffened. Her mind spun like a runaway cart wheel. They’ve never brought someone from the capital before. If the Patriarch thought to blame the depravity and lawlessness of Blackbridge on the demonic, rather than poor housing, corruption, and unemployment, that was no great surprise—but it meant the Blades would have their noses to the ground. Founded upon the Faithhood’s ideals, the Order of the Blade enforced all city-state law in Wesland, but opposing the demonic remained their core principle. It was no wonder the Grand Marshal had lent them to the bishop’s mission. Not with a Clerics’ Conclave looming.

Eda bit the inside of her cheek. We need to make that final Pact. And soon.

Bishop Florian held up his hands; the anxious chatter died. “Be not afeard. I mean to work tirelessly alongside the Order of the Blade to restore Faithfulness to Blackbridge, not merely for the sake of this Conclave, but for the city itself. We shall not fail. Your salvation is at hand.”

A smattering of cautious clapping quickly swelled with enthusiasm. It was a horrible tuneless buzz in Eda’s ears.

The people clustered around him like bees to a hive. The bishop shook a man’s hand. Bent down to greet a small boy.

“Let’s go,” she whispered, grabbing Lawrie’s wrist and pulling him through the crowd. The eyes of the Blades pressed upon her back like a chill wind heralding a storm.

Eda had been chained to the shop—to Blackbridge—her entire life. The history of her family’s pain was etched into every cobblestone. If there was a place where the Faith did not loom over her and soul brokers did not lurk below, she was determined to find it. Leaving this cursed city would be the first thing she chose for herself, after a lifetime without choices at all.

Until then, they had a job to do.

Three

“We’ll lie low.” Ben was pacing. Boots still muddy from the day’s work, he didn’t seem to care that he was treading dirt onto the rugs. “There’s nothing else to be done. Lawrie and I will stop searching for dealies until this bishop grows bored and things cool down.”

“Didn’t seem the type to grow bored, Ben,” Lawrie said, brooding on the stairs. “He’s been petitioned by the Patriarch himself to sort out Blackbridge’s little demon problem. He means business.”

Eda rubbed her temple. It was early in the evening, but she felt weary enough for bed already. Green light flooded the shop, tinted by the windows. Cluttering the casements were some of their most visually interesting stock: a huge brass globe, a Forisian dining service, a taxidermy peafowl complete with a train of shimmering tail feathers. Ben nearly knocked the thing over with his pacing, and she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “Lawrie is right. Gateways, Pacts, soul brokers like us—Florian Fane isn’t going to stop hunting them down after a few weeks, Ben. I saw his face. He’s committed.”

“This Conclave business has gotten the Faithhood riled up, is all. It isn’t the first time the Blades have declared crackdowns, and the investigations always pass. You think someone like Severin Lich lasted this long without knowing when to pause trade?”

Severin Lich had fingers in many nefarious pies. Illegal bookmaking, racketeering, exports. But the man was whispered of throughout the same dens and taverns Ben and Lawrie haunted for one particular reason.

He had a Gateway.

Lich had been running a soul brokerage business longer than the Shaws ever had, and far more successfully. His influence was strongest in the upper city, where the more underhanded nobles of Blackbridge flocked to him for Pacts. Lich had obviously learned of the Shaws and their Gateway—their elusive mustachioed voyeur proved as much—but they’d never poached his clientele. That alone might have spared them his ire.

“Lich is a businessman, not indentured like us. He takes coin, and a lot of it. He can afford to pause his operation for a time.”

“We can’t afford to get caught, Eda.” Ben scrubbed a hand over his face. “Not now.”

His weariness roused her sympathy. She remembered when he used to play on the street outside with a wooden sword, stern little face taut with concentration. He’d wanted to be a Blade. Eda suspected he still did, though he never said so. The Order of the Blade represented everything Ben was not permitted to be—noble, honest, free of shame. A champion of the commonfolk. Thanks to Oswin’s Pact, he was instead forced to act the shadow dogging their steps, preying upon their weaknesses like a starved wolf. He hated demons all the more for having to work for one.

Ben had the heart of a knight. It was a special sort of cruelty, Eda thought, to be twisted into the monster you were born to slay.

When Oswin died, Ben took whatever work he could find to keep his siblings fed. His current role as Head Stablehand for the Blades was as close as he might ever get. He liked horses, and the pay was fair, but he was surely only punishing himself. To watch those men and women in their shining armor pass him by, day after day, while he cleaned up their steeds’ muck…

Still. The position brought in coin, and being employed by the Blades meant Ben was mostly beneath suspicion. No simple stablehand would moonlight as a soul broker right under their noses. Or so they thought.

Eda slid from her perch on the countertop. “This bishop doesn’t seem like any we’ve had before. The Faithhood has always denounced Blackbridge as the most depraved city in Wesland—now they’re finally trying to clean it up. We can’t wait around and hope they’ll ease off. We don’t even know when this Conclave will be held, and autumn harvest is just three weeks away.”