~ Chapter 03: The Gift of Guilt ~

Lord Roland san Estoc did not care for Claude Morgan. He watched him now, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as the Inquisitor studied the clerk's order. His lips moved as he read over the order, the faint sound of whispers and lip smacks touching the air. Whether Morgan did so naturally or merely wished to irk him, Roland did not know, but either choice was as likely when the Inquisitor was concerned.

No, Roland did not care for Claude Morgan, not one bit.

“I'm not so sure." Claude said tersely, scrunching the yellowed scroll and meeting Roland's expectant glare. A simple meeting in the hall, and already he was fed up with the Inquisitor.

Roland brushed anxiously at the pure-white fur of his neck, wishing he could hurry up and leave. He was one of the few cats to own a decent swathe of land in the Ferrin Union, and one of the only that held a respectable position in the King's Court. Despite the whispers and gossip, he refused to allow his lack of vulpine blood to be a cause of shame, always mindful to keep his pelt well brushed and maintained. Despite the talk, despite the jokes, Roland knew the true origin of the Nobles disdain; they were jealous, envious of his fairy-tale looks and his sheer individuality, no doubt. In a Court of foxes, nothing stood out more than a fluffy, all-white cat, especially one so prone to dressing in primary colours.

And, it should be said, he was hated for making them look bad; he'd gotten to where he was through hard work, who else could say the same?

He smoothed the fur out, ignoring it as he sighed at Claude. “And, pray tell Inquisitor, what does 'I'm not sure' entail precisely? What's not to be sure of?" He asked, whiskers twitching.

He's toying with me. Playing with me, like a meal. It's a shame really, in a Court of canids, us felines really ought to stick together. Yet, here we are. The old adage rings true; cats truly are selfish pricks.

“It's the specifics that I take the most iss-yew with Lord Estoc, one can't afford to overlook specifics in my line of work you know." Claude tutted, his tail curling. The Second Inquisitor was a well-mannered, well-groomed, and well-off snow leopard. He was a vicious bastard, but his beautiful, rosette-patterned coat was undeniably majestic, the thick ruffles of fluff wholly free from the stains burdening his conscience – if he truly had one. Roland hated it. Hated the way he spoke, the way he stood, the way that overly-long tail curled so seductively around his ankles. Hells, even the way he said the word issue was wrong!

Irritation bubbled in his throat, and Roland licked the back of his teeth, hot air hissing through them as he willed himself to calm.

He looked around, impatiently tapping his fingers. I just want to be done with this already, why must you drag everything on for a thousand leagues? Can't a thing be easy, for once? He was supposed to meet with the Treasury Chamberlain in just half an hour, regarding funds for the city wall repairs, but it seemed that too would be getting pushed back. Another grovelling apology, another favour squandered. And for what?

Claude, either ignorant or apathetic to Roland's growing ire, went on as usual, his words unspooling like a line of rope. “Naturally, I'd be remiss to deny a direct order from the King's primary clerk; though young Alston frightens me little. However, your document stipulates quite clearly that I should be releasing any innocent man – well, I thoroughly deny Barlow's claim to such."

He rarely speaks so daintily. Roland thought, the hackles on his neck bristling.

Claude was trying to get under his hide, and what's worse - he was succeeding.

The Inquisitor smiled faintly. “You understand, my Lord."

“There are procedures, for this sort of--"

“Bah!" Claude huffed, turning on a point and hurrying off down a narrow set of steps built into the wall, the lit sconces casting his shadow over the tired brick as he went. With a groan, Roland supposed he had no choice but to follow him down, leaving the warmth of the Keep's more socially acceptable floors behind him. The richly varnished wooden floors gave way to damp stone steps, almost slick enough with moss and decay to be called unsteady. The normally ever-present scents of lavender and jasmine ebbed away the deeper they travelled, slowly giving way to the stench of neglect, sweat, and fear distilled to its purest form.

Contrary to popular assumption, a part of Roland rather enjoyed the dungeons. There was an authenticity to them that the King's Court simply lacked. What he did not enjoy however, were the muffled cries of potentially innocent men being harmed behind closed doors. He hoped well for them, but he knew the reality; anyone will confess to anything, if you push them hard enough, guilty or not.

And the Inquisition was in the business of confessions, not truth.

As always, Claude kept talking. “King Niven's grandfather founded the Inquisition for exactly this kind of thing! We were supposed to be separate from politics, outside the river of shit they all spew. You used to agree with me on that!"

“I still do." Roland replied tiredly, as they finally passed underground. The dilapidated staircase gave way to a grimy cobblestone hallway, with locked, windowless doors decorating either side, each one set a few metres apart. Torches were even less common, and shadows pooled in the corners, the odd cry or whimper sounding from behind the heavy doors.

Claude acted as if he didn't even realise, his boots clicking as he strolled casually by, his tail trailing playfully behind him.

“Regardless, nothing is truly free of politics anymore." Roland continued. “We're no longer kits in this war, two decades in and imagining the end in sight. I don't know who you think pays for all our damn armies Morgan, but I'm sure the Guilds would love to educate you. The Kingdom is elbow-deep in debt and sinking, even with taxes hiked as they are. Unless your proof is ironclad, you simply cannot arrest someone like Barlow; we spoke of this already, and I distinctly told you to keep away from the Guildsmen!"

“Oh, and what if I have such proof?" The leopard paused before a large mahogany door as plain as any other, glancing back at Roland as if sampling a morsel.

“A confession signed under torture is not good enough. Not right now, not for me."

The Inquisitors paws went up, fingers splayed in mock surrender. “And what if I - purely by accident - happened upon a canal shipment of supplies and armour bound for the newly sovereign nation of Lyskirk? Why, there's one such shipment leaving Hieron tonight I hear, I already sent some Artificers to intercept it. Routine check, that's why we have this sort of thing after all, eh Lord Estoc?" Claude grinned wickedly, stepping closer and clapping Roland on the arm.

“Don't touch me."

“But if that were the case?" The Inquisitor prompted, raising his eyebrows. “There's a blockade in Lyskirk you know; nobody wants to say it but we all know it's Astmoor. They sunk half the bloody fleet in the Pass, they want us to flounder."

Astmoor, an Empire built on the bones of conquered nations, still at war with the Union after a hundred years, never quite able to best the lands across the channel. Lyskirk was a large, but petty and inconsequential land, run by equally petty and inconsequential men. Roland, for one, was frankly sick of hearing both the names.

He paused, growling. “And you have a confession to go along with this shipment, I suppose?"

One obtained without torture, perhaps? Roland choked back a laugh. Fat chance.

Claude gestured at the door. “What do you think we've come to collect?" He chuckled. “It's just been left to simmer a while. Come, step inside, you used to love seeing me work." Roland's stomach churned as his anger turned to nausea, but he followed the leopard anyway.

“That was never true." He muttered under his breath.

The cell was a tomb, and Roland was helpless to stop his nose from filling with the stink of it. A lethargic, morbidly obese bear sat naked behind a small table, stuffed into a rigid little chair with armrests clamped so tight they squeezed at his blubber, pushing his merchant-gut up and spilling it over the edges. Despite the thick brown fur Roland saw his neck, arms, and chest were lined with purple bruises and dried blood. One of his eyes was near swollen shut, the other hollow and sunken. He jolted as they stepped through the door, staring pleadingly at Roland with that one desperate eye.

If you don't have proof Morgan, this is going to be one bastard of a clean-up. I suppose I'll be throwing myself before the Guilds and begging their mercy, while you sit back in the shadows, untouched as always.

“Roland!? Roland san Estoc, by the Triumvirate, is that truly you?!" The prisoner gasped, eyes darting nervously between the cat and the leopard. “Please, my Lord Earl, you must put a stop to this barbarism at once! I'm a well-connected man, this cannot stand, the Guilds won't allow it!" His mouth hung slack-jawed, fingers clawing anxiously on the chair arms.

“All the posturing in the world won't save you now, Barlow." Claude muttered, rounding the table and giving his reptilian assistant a nod. “Look what I've here..." He dangled Roland's scroll, the one demanding a release of the 'innocent' Guildsman immediately.

But you don't know that, do you Barlow? It's almost too easy.

Inquisitors were not in the business of truth.

“Oh, you've gone too far this time Morgan, much too far!" The fat bear warned, jowls shaking. His chest heaved, panicked, laboured breaths coming in great gasps. “Lord Roland, I beg you see sanity, reason! There is no proof, none t'all!"

Without a sound the large reptile stepped forward and sunk a fist deep into the bear's gut. Barlow slumped with a cry, coughing and spluttering, a thin line of pink drool sliding from his lips.

An Artificer. The Inquisitor's fists, useful brutes good for not much else, just as much a tool as any hammer or chisel. Is that all I am to you now Claude? Something to be used?

Claude thwacked the bear's snout with the closed scroll, as if it were all a big joke.

And yet you're the only one smiling.

“I've an inventory here of the shipment you had bound for Lyskirk – it's full of all the kinds of things one might need to keep a poorly thought-out trade blockade going just a wee-bit longer. Things such as glaive-heads, money, armour..."

The bear swallowed loudly. “Tisn't mine..."

“Not according to the Artificers who stopped it, and certainly not according to the men in the next room over, the ones who were oh-so-eager to sell you out." He leaned in close. “Didn't even have to touch them, they howled your name like wolves in heat." Roland's lip curled, his teeth aching.

“Lord Roland!" Barlow cried again, terror creeping into his words. “Surely, you cannot merely stand there and allow this?! I'm an honourable man, a-and of good standing! Where's the justice!?" His wide paw slapped the table, like a cub having a tantrum.

“It's in the north, Barlow." Claude replied gently, the Guildsman's name sliding from his lips as if uttering it were a crime.

I could stop this. Roland thought, fingers curling at his side, glancing at the order clutched in the Inquisitor's paw. Could go right now, back up those stairs two at a time, fetch a squadron of guards and have Barlow freed.

But if it were true? Roland had lunch with the bear only a few weeks prior, and he'd seemed an arrogant and blustering fool, but a traitor? It felt unlikely, but it was always the ones you least suspected.

And Claude had been right before.

I wonder, what might you do with a King? He thought, watching the Inquisitor pace. What might you reduce such a man to, what state secrets would he spill, given an afternoon?

“Nothing irks me quite like arrogance you know." Claude said, standing back. “In the face of your painfully obvious tax evasion, what was I to do? My paws were tied! But then as I investigate that rather trifling matter, I find a more serious crime, though it's none surprising... if I might say."

“Please, I had nothing to--"

“And what's this I hear about you buying up estate in Gohdren?"

Roland's ears perked. The Guildsman had a home in the Lyskirk capital? The plot thickens, oh, you've got him now, all that's left is to box him in. He didn't enjoy watching Claude work, but there was a sort of thrill to the chase, that much even he couldn't deny.

“Buying property is not illegal!" Barlow whined.

“Ah, but sending weapons, armour, and gold to aid their blockade in exchange for amnesty most certainly is!" Claude roared. “In fact, I imagine you've been paying off their officials for years now! You've been doing what you people do best; cultivating favour. Spreading your influence like the sickness it is. Why, you're worse than the Madness Plague itself!"

“You've no evidence!" Barlow squealed, his sagging face scrunching up tight, fist banging on the tabletop as his expressions danced from scared shitless, to desperate, to furious. “This is a farce; a farce I say! We'll have you for this Morgan, why I even think all that lovely spotted fur might make for an exceptional thr--" His threat was cut short as the burly reptile stepped forward and slammed his face into the table, as if it were nothing. The bear howled as his skull bounced back, clutching at his snout, blood seeping from between his fingers.

“Confess." Morgan hissed, as the reptile passed him a different scroll. This one he unrolled, laying it neatly before Barlow along with an inkwell and quill. “The crimes, the names of your accomplices, it's all waiting there clear as day. I know it, Lord Roland knows it - nobody is coming for you. All you need do is sign. And we haven't even started yet, you and I, not really. You've had some time with my assistant, but next to me... Kalo is a light touch, quite broad in his application. Now for myself, I'm very good at getting into places I shouldn't, cats always are, you know. I get in to those small spaces and I start separating things that were never meant to be separated. Each man has his own special spot, for some it's their balls; for a lot of men it's their balls... or their cock, not that you've got much of either.

“Confess, and spare us both the discomfort."

Roland shifted his weight. He didn't like being a prop. But without the Guilds trading with Lyskirk the war effort stalled, and Astmoor would not delay in seizing the opportunity. Reel him in Morgan, and let us be done here.

“What's your special place Barlow?" Claude whispered, getting in so close the bear must be able to smell his breath. “Fingers? Teeth? Your tongue perhaps? Or maybe it's your kneecaps, don't worry; the mines can still use you crippled, they'll take anyone these days."

“I... I'm not scared of you." Barlow whimpered, eyes staring down. “I'm an... an innocent man! The Guilds won't--"

“They won't do shit!" Claude screamed, his voice then immediately dropping to a whisper. “Confess. We've got your shipment, your ledgers, your thugs, all we really need now is your word, and that's merely a formality."

“What do you want Morgan?" Barlow gasped, looking up with that sad, single sunken eye. “The Guilds, the Guilds have deep pockets you know, yes, very deep! Men like you could do well with a friend like me, there must be something you want, everyone has a price!"

“My price?" The snow leopard said, pausing to lean back thoughtfully. A look of shameful hope crossed the bear's face, and Roland shook his head. Claude put his lips to the bear's ears, his body still.

“I want the hundred to end." He began. Barlow swallowed. “I want this blockade dissolved. And I want your confession." He tapped the unfurled scroll. “Can you do that for me, Barlow?"

“I--" He stopped, looking at the two men and finding no purchase. He even looked to the Artificer, who wore an expression like that of a slab of concrete - only without all the empathy.

“Confess."

Barlow signed.

Roland wanted to be sick.

Claude looked almost disappointed.

The reptile dragged the crying bear away, and Roland was once again left alone with the Inquisitor.

In a jail cell. Nothing concerning about that.

“Thank goodness I was here for that." The cat scoffed. “So much posturing, have you no shame?"

Claude shrugged. “He confessed, and now Bastion's another paw for the load. It'll be good for him, work some of that fat off perhaps – though he'll need it that far north. Just count yourself spared it didn't go any further. It wouldn't have made me happy torturing him, but I'd have done it." He cocked his head. “For King and country, all that."

Roland wasn't quite ready to believe him.

“For what did you really drag me down here, Inquisitor? And why do you now suddenly care so much about Lyskirk and this blockade?" Roland asked, brushing the grime from his shoulder. “We both know you didn't need me for your little pantomime, all your pieces were quite ready to fall." Claude approached slowly, pausing only an arm's length away, still clutching the clerk's order.

“Can't I just want a talk? We used to talk so much."

“Mhmm, then you fell in love with turning men into bloodied pulps. All you've done is give me more trouble, I harried Alston about that order, trying to clean up your mess before it got out of control, now I need to go back and grovel. You might be able to forget such misgivings, but I don't have such luxury."

“Is that what it was? Poor kitty." Claude replied, his voice flat. “If only you'd had more trust in me. We might have our different approaches, Roland, but we still want the same thing. An end to this pissing contest of a war. Save the half-fleet we lost near Pahran, there's hardly been blood all year. I'm telling you, their hearts aren't in it."

“Everyone wants the hundred to end." Roland sighed. In truth it had been close to a hundred and three years since the 'official' start of the war with Astmoor, but 'hundred' simply had an easier ring to it. And if given the chance between ease and truth, nobility would choose the same every time. Roland fancied it would be called that long into it's hundred-and-twentieth year, if they were to see such a nightmare manifest. “What of it?"

“Not everyone." Claude corrected. “Slime like Barlow, or even Magister Baine, they don't care a whit, so long as they keep getting rich off it. Well, they'll care when the Emperor's wolves come and kick down their doors, mount their wives, and hang them in the streets by their spineless necks."

“Claude." Roland hissed, anger swelling. “Your point."

“Right! Right, right." The leopard exclaimed, leaning casually against his stained bench of horrors. “I've sent one of my softer Artificers out on an errand. I received a raven that he's due back soon. Thought you might like to step in on the meeting? It's somewhat of a personal project of mine, quite clandestine."

“That's all you wanted to ask me for?" Roland blanched. “A secret meeting? I attend a half dozen a day!" He gathered himself, turning to leave. “I've things that need attending, next time try to think up a real reason to speak with me. Good day."

“It's about her Ladyship, and that little iss-yew of hers, of ours."

Roland paused. Another headache I've been stuck with. Bastards everywhere. He focused on breathing, letting his irritation drain.

“I said... good day, Inquisitor."

He began to walk away when Claude called out. “Oh Roland! One last thing,"

By the Triumvirate. He thought, turning back.

“What?" He snapped.

“How's your wife?"

You've always been a bastard, Claude.