The Assassin & The Skald: Liberation

by C. M. Lind

  Nico stuttered as his eyes were still behind them, lingering on the woman’s chest through the passing folks between them. “You have a message,” he finally managed to sputter.

  Ulrich gave him a short shake. “Hey!” Nico’s eyes snapped to him. “There will be plenty of women like her that will welcome your stares when you’re a priest. In fact, that’s all women will want from you then. For now: pay attention.”

  Nico nodded, nervous from the luscious woman and deflated from Ulrich’s reprimand. “A Justicar came to call on you during the service. I told him he could wait, but he wouldn’t. Instead, he left a letter for you.”

  “A Justicar?” he whispered loudly in shock. “Why? Are you sure he was calling on me?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” Nico reassured. “You are the only Ulrich here!”

  “Did he say what he wanted?” Ulrich continued to whisper. “Why he was asking for me?”

  “No. He said he only wanted to talk to you, but he wouldn’t say what about. I asked him to stay and wait for you, but he insisted he couldn’t.” Nico looked worried, as if he had let Ulrich down. “I wasn’t rude, I swear! I even brought him paper and ink!” The boy looked as if he was another word from tears.

  “You’re not in trouble, Nico,” Ulrich assuaged the boy. “I’m just…” He shook his head. “Confused.”

  Nico nodded with relief, and the tears Ulrich thought imminent retreated from the corners of the boy’s eyes.

  “Did he give a name?” asked Ulrich.

  “Yes! He did! He said his name was Sir Balfour! He was very courteous. So, you don’t know him?”

  “No, I’ve never heard of him.” He hadn’t, which was not surprising. The Ankerites and the Justicars did not work together, and the two lived their lives entirely separate. At least Nico said he was courteous. Perhaps he wasn’t there looking to make trouble for Ulrich. If that was the case, there was not much this Balfour could do as long as Ulrich stayed in the temple. A Justicar had no authority in the temple of Anker, but he could make life for Ulrich difficult outside.

  Nico’s face puckered. “What is that?”

  Ulrich had smelled it too. They both looked to their left. Leaning against the wall was the beggar from before. His hooded face was slightly turned towards the two.

  Nico whispered to Ulrich, “That smell is him?”

  Ulrich nodded faintly.

  Nico turned to Ulrich, so that the man across from them could not see his face. He made a juvenile face, sticking his tongue out, contorting his lips to look like a twisted madman, and scrunching his brow to look like a caricature of shock. “Yeeeeee-uck!” he muttered.

  There was a small twinge of a smile on Ulrich’s lips. “Nico! Stop that! He could hear!”

  Nico dropped the exaggerated face. “He can’t hear!” he hissed.

  Nico was still turned away as the beggar pushed himself from the wall. The other parishioners in the hall waited for him to cross towards Ulrich, giving the stinky man a generous distance.

  Ulrich’s face turned serious, and he shook his head at Nico. Nico’s lips went tight, and he turned his head to see the beggar coming towards them.

  “Priest,” said the beggar, drawing out the s. His voice was louder than before, but it still had an odd mirth to it.

  Nico was relieved that the man wanted nothing to do with him.

  “Did you enjoy the service?” Ulrich asked. His face went blank, and he took short, shallow breaths, not wanting the fundamental stench of the man to go too far into his lungs.

  The strange man chuckled. “I wonder why you did not join the others in the choir?”

  “I am not blessed with the voice of my brothers.”

  “No, you aren’t. You are blessed with something much more desirous. Even your friend,” he extended his long finger towards Nico, “yearns to have your countenance.”

  The short, thin Nico pulled away from the man’s finger, and he half-stepped behind Ulrich.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the service.” Ulrich tried to look the man in the eye, but the beggar seemed an unearthly master in the art of hiding his face. Every time the beggar moved, the hood fell just the right way to keep his appearance concealed.

  “I did not say I enjoyed the service,” quickly, and insistently, countered the man.

  “No, but you didn’t leave.”

  “I am, it seems, fundamentally curious.” The beggar’s off the cuff comment was excitedly candid. He quickly regained his methodical, slow, entertained speech. “Quite a disappointment to my… father.”

  “Now that your curiosity is sated, I wish you a good day.” Ulrich turned to Nico.

  “It isn’t!” His words were insistent. “I assure you, it isn’t. I have been told that priests regularly meet with people—those with heavy consciences, perplexing religious conundrums, or intimate, personal quagmires. Is this so?”

  Ulrich turned his head back to him. “Yes.”

  “Excellent!” The man’s head turned slightly up in delight, and, for the first time, Ulrich really saw his mouth in the light of the hallway. His lips were cracked, old, forgotten leather. Oddly, his long, straight, perfect teeth were as white as sun-bleached bones. “I am in need of such a person to speak with about such matter!”

  Ulrich knew he must have been right about his assessment of the beggar. The man, who had probably lived his whole life on the street, was ill—gravely so. It wasn’t rare for someone to turn to the god of death when they knew their life was ending. “We can speak then.” He signaled the man to follow him back to the main chamber.

  “Oh no, I cannot articulate myself there! Too many people to overhear!”

  Ulrich wondered what secrets and questions the man might have had that would be a surprise to him—or to anyone else. “I’m sorry, but, for you, I think it is all we can do.”

  “Surely not. We must go someplace quiet,” insisted the man.

  “We have somewhere else, but those rooms are only used for people who provide….adequate donations.” Ulrich always felt crass for enforcing that rule, but he was thankful for it in that moment.

  “An easily remedied dilemma, priest.” Without hesitation the beggar pulled a golden petal from the small pouch at his waist, and he extended it to Ulrich. “Will this suffice?”

  Ulrich went stiff with surprise for a moment, but then he reached his hand out to delicately take the coin. He brought it to his eyes, and he saw the royal seal: a rearing horse opposite a slender hound, both of them facing a single long lily. He rubbed his thumb over the seal and pushed, but the coin did not bend. It was no fake. “Yes. It will.” Perhaps the man hadn’t lived his whole life on the streets—given his genuine coin and penchant for verbosity.

  “Then let us begin.” The man’s lips crackled as, Ulrich assumed, he smiled. “I am told haste is a virtue.”

  Ulrich had never heard such a thing about haste, but he agreed, given the situation. He put the coin into the box filled with copper petals and incense. Then he pushed the box into Nico’s hands. He stepped forward, but Nico grabbed his shoulder.

  “Ulrich, what about the matter?” Nico lacked any subtly in his nervous voice.

  “Nico, just put the letter in my room. I’ll read it soon.” Ulrich tapped the box in Nico’s hand. “Thanks.” He pulled away from Nico’s hand. “Be sure to get back to your studies, and you’ll be a priest soon enough.”

  Nico smiled back and nodded. While Ulrich’s encouragement had made him happy, Ulrich wondered if part of his happiness had come from the relief of the stench moving down the hall.

  Ulrich quickly led the beggar away from the main chamber. Through hallways they moved, towards the private chambers for such meetings. The area dedicated to the meetings had ten iron-reinforced, heavy, wooden doors. All the doors were open, as no other meetings were taking place, which was not unusual for the hour. Many of the regular, rich patrons had already come and gone for the day.

  Ulrich walked to the first open door, and he motioned for the m
an to enter. He did so, and Ulrich noticed a few parishioners that seemed to be lost behind him. He quickly motioned for them to turn around and head to their left for the main chamber. They nodded, but did not rush to his direction.

  Ulrich followed the beggar into the room.

  The rooms were small, but they easily could hold two comfortably. Four sturdy wooden chairs cushioned with down and heavy brocade sat in the rooms, one in each corner. The thick stone walls were painted with simple murals from floor to ceiling. This particular room’s walls were filled with rolling hills of yellow wheat, a clear, vibrant, cerulean sky, and a rising, orange sun cresting a hill. When he looked at the half raised sun, he saw a warm peach.

  He immediately banished the lustful thought from his mind. He had never indulged in such priestly acts of compassion mixed with passion, although he was constantly requested to do so. He found the idea utterly embarrassing, and he was even further embarrassed to be thinking of such things with the repulsive beggar in the same room as him.

  One brazier softly lit the room, and it was artistically placed on the base of the rising sun. The man took the chair closest to the door. All the light of the brazier lit up the half-dried filth on his clothing. It looked like the man had been living in an alley or a drainage ditch recently.

  Ulrich closed the door, completely sealing the stench in with him. He took a seat opposite the man. His back was to the brazier, and never in his life had he so wished for a window that he could open. With small, slight breaths, he told himself that he could bear the smell a while longer—all he had to do was wait, and it would be over soon enough.

  Ulrich waited as calmly as he could for the man’s words to come, but instead the beggar sat still and silent as a stone sculpture. Ulrich crossed his arms as he tried to think of the best way to talk to the man. He seemed to never quite know how to begin a conversation with the sick and the dying.

  There was a dry smack; Ulrich’s eyes went to the beggar, who was repeatedly mashing his desiccated lips together. The beggar finished off the annoying display by licking his teeth as one might do after eating fresh spinach.

  Ulrich decided he couldn’t wait. “How long have you been like this?” He said the last word as gently as possible.

  “I have been like this since the moment of my creation—I might dare say.” His leathered lips split apart to create a dreadful, toothy smile. “But this current pungent emanation is a recent development.”

  Ulrich nodded. “How long do you have?”

  “Like this, priest?” He snickered. “Not very long at all.”

  “What is it that you are afflicted with?” Ulrich sounded concerned—for he was—but it was more a concern if the man’s affliction was contagious or not.

  The man lifted his right index finger and brought it to the back of his left hand. He tapped a rough piece of raised flesh. “My skin appears to be…” His long nail sunk into the bump, and he slowly dragged it down. “Decomposing.” The decayed skin lifted away as easily as dandelion seeds in the breeze, revealing slate flesh below.

  There was no blood, and the man showed no sign of pain. “Unfortunately, the extremities are always the first to go,” he mused softly. He took the thin strip of decayed flesh in one hand and held it up to the priest, wiggling the dead patch as he spoke, “Soon there will be nothing left!”

  Ulrich’s revolted stomached clenched, and he turned away, clasping one hand over his mouth. He lurched, but there was nothing in his stomach to expel. Instead, he heaved nothing several times in rapid succession. Only the foamy, acidic juices of his stomach gurgled into his mouth.

  The beggar dropped the flesh to the floor, and he waited for Ulrich to finish his display.

  When Ulrich regained himself, he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the putrid stench of the beggar. His stomach seized again, but with a burning, and he choked down acidic foam, forcing it back down in hurried gulps. Hesitantly, with one hand still clamped over his mouth, he turned one bewildered eye to the beggar.

  “Not at all like you. You are young. You are handsome. You know you are, most certainly. Your face is one that opens doors, no doubt.” There was a wry mirth to the man’s voice that made Ulrich freeze. “Tell me, priest, why did you go to Turmont’s?”

  Ulrich’s breath stalled at the question. He told himself to run, but he was unable to move his body; it was as if his joints were welded in place as hot coals sputtered fire in his chest. Ulrich narrowed his eyes. “That’s none of your business!” he weakly shouted behind his hand.

  The man’s finger went back to his gouged hand. He tapped his fingernail onto his flesh. “You were there for the woman, yes? Why?”

  Ulrich’s eyes went to the discarded flesh on the floor. There was no blood upon it, no rosy coloration, nothing to show it was recently alive in any way. “No,” Ulrich lied with a whisper. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. His eyes shot to the door, silently begging for someone to check on him. Maybe Nico would need him for something? Perhaps the Justicar who had called upon him earlier would suddenly burst through the door. In that part of his mind ruled by logic, the part that was locked in terror, he knew no one would come for him.

  The beggar stabbed his nail into his hand, and he ripped another long, dead strip of flesh away in one quick slash. Ulrich finally found himself moving, but it was to simply turn his face away from the sight. The beggar hopped off the chair and was standing in front of him. He shoved the wiggly length of flesh towards Ulrich’s face. “You were there for the woman. Why?”

  Ulrich looked at the flesh brandished towards him. It was the same as that on the floor: lifeless, old, wretched, foul, and alien.

  The man tossed the flesh at Ulrich.

  Ulrich leaned back in his chair, hitting his head against the wall in an effort to avoid it, but the stringy, decayed flesh caught on his robe. His hand shot from his mouth as he swatted it off like one would do to an angry bee. It was tepid, yet damp, like it was soaked in layers of old, stale sweat.

  “Why?” the man forcefully demanded again.

  “Why do you want to know?” Ulrich sputtered. “What does it matter if I saw her?”

  The beggar went to one knee, and he darted his face inches away from Ulrich’s. He smiled again. As his lips curled up, the bottom split open, revealing fuzzy grey flesh underneath. “I knew it, but I wanted you to tell the truth. I can smell her on you even now.” An excited mirth had maniacally overtaken his tone. He pulled away from Ulrich, and his right hand went to his chin. He stroked it, and his flesh shifted downward with the motion. “I wonder what a priest would be doing there at such a time? Why he would spend the night?” he asked, his attention upon the mural above Ulrich. He shoved his face at Ulrich’s again, and his words were excited and fast. “The answer seems obvious, given your godly calling, but do you care to enlighten me?” The flesh of his chin sagged a bit farther, like an old, shaggy oversized coat.

  Ulrich’s heart pounded. The heat in his chest had spread throughout his body. Even his fingers began to sweat. He felt faint, as if he had been working in the sun all day, without a single drop of water. “I don’t know who you are, but it wasn’t what you’re thinking.”

  “Then, enlighten me, priest.” The man seemed to savor the word on his tongue.

  Ulrich’s hands shot out before him, and he pushed them into the man’s chest. The stiff, unyielding hardness of the man stopped his hands, bending his fingers backwards, and he felt his wrists twinge. “Shit!” Ulrich cried out before he pulled his hands back to his own chest.

  The man hissed a tsk, like one would do to a child, as he glared into Ulrich’s eyes. He reached his hand down into his neckline of his robe, and began to pull on something that Ulrich could not see. “As I was asking, what were you doing there?” There was a sick suctioning sound from underneath the beggar’s rags, and the man grunted.

  Ulrich looked to his hands, which were shaking. “We only talked,” he whispered. “I didn’t… with her…” His whole bod
y went light, and if it wasn’t for the chair, he knew he would have fallen to the ground.

  “Conversed is all? Are you sure?” The man grunted again as he continued to pull. “Tell me what it was you spoke of.”

  Ulrich tried to think, but his memories seemed to be covered, like how ice formed over the lakes in winter to trap the water below. “I… I… I don’t know!” He spoke in rhythm with the pounding pulse in his head.

  “Nonsense! You know!” the man grunted one last time, and whatever he was pulling on became loose under his robe.

  Ulrich couldn’t understand why the man would want to know, or what the man desperately needed to hear from him. To Ulrich, nothing Vi and him had spoken of had been of any true importance to anyone beyond the two of them. “I wanted to check on her. I wanted to make sure she was well!” He spoke with triumphant recollection.

  The man smiled with one arm still down his shirt. “Is that so? You were worried about her wellbeing? Tell me then, do you show your concern with raised words and curses?”

  Ulrich’s breath stopped. His face shot at attention towards the man, and his eyes went broad. “What?”

  “Is this what you are like, priest? Is your concern always so aggressively uncouth?”

  “No,” Ulrich breathed. He leaned his head back against the chair. “Never!”

  “Then enlighten me.” The man leaned his face in close to Ulrich, and his loose chin waggled as he spoke.

  “I was pissed!” Ulrich angrily whispered without thinking.

  “So you go to her house to express your dissatisfaction with her. What about?”

  Ulrich stared at his chin. The left side sagged lower than the right, and Ulrich could see that his lower lip was peeling off, sinking with the chin.

  “Priest!” snapped the man. Ulrich’s eyes shot to his. “Do not make me ask again.”

  “Why do you want to know?” was all Ulrich could muster.