Prince of Lies - James Lowder [39]
Var and Worvo took the coins eagerly, their disgust at the alley's smell driven away by greed. "Our thanks, Patriarch," Var offered. He bowed grandly and kissed the death's-head ring the high priest wore. When Worvo lumbered forward to do the same, Mirrormane waved him away.
"One of the Zhentilar will escort you out of here," the patriarch said as he pulled Rinda into the shop. The door slammed closed on the thugs' further exclamations of gratitude.
From the steel in Mirrormane's eyes, Rinda knew that Var and Worvo would be dead before they made three blocks. It was a common practice for Cyric's church: hire a messenger then kill him once he'd completed his task.
The patriarch's face was a mask of wrinkles, his silver-white hair a nest of snakes. He smiled in a poor imitation of warmth and gestured for the scribe to move into the room. They were alone amongst the tilting shelves and rolls of finished parchment.
"You are to be blessed with a rare opportunity to serve the church," the patriarch began. "Lord Cyric has need of your skills as a scribe."
Rinda slipped the cloak from her shoulders and shook her dark curls into place. "Begging Your Holiness's pardon," she said, "but I'm not very religious and, I'm sorry to say, a rather poor scribe. If I had any skill at all, I'd be part of the guild."
"We've been checking up on you, Rinda," Xeno returned sharply. "You turned down a spot in the guild, not the other way around. And for what – to go off and do good deeds for thieves and drunkards."
The thin facade of pleasantness shattered. With every word, every gesture that followed, the patriarch teetered on the brink of mad rage. "We know everything about you. Don't think for an instant your actions go unnoticed, that you do anything in this city we do not condone." He chuckled. "The hope you foster, the dreams you nurture – they help our causes in ways you can never understand."
"This is hardly the way to win her cooperation," a voice said coolly from the back of the room.
The patriarch dropped to his knees and pressed his palms together in fervent prayer. "Forgive me, Your Magnificence, forgive me. But she is an unbeliever. She profanes your-"
"Enough," the man said. He stepped into the room with casual grace, eyeing Rinda openly. His gaze made her skin crawl. "Perhaps an unbeliever is just what we need to win over the other fools who cannot see the light."
For a moment the scribe wondered who this lean, hawk-nosed man could be to make Patriarch Mirrormane kowtow. He appeared to be no less than half the priest's sixty years, and his clothes marked him as nothing more influential than an underling in the city's thieves' guild. His leather boots were worn at the heels. His cloak was clean, but a little threadbare. Only the ancient rose-hued short sword on his belt told of wealth or power.
"I am Lord Cyric," he announced, then paused for a reply, for Rinda to bow or avert her gaze. When she merely stood and stared, a smile crept to his lips and crinkled the crow's feet surrounding his dark eyes. "You're a skeptic. That's good."
Patriarch Mirrormane slipped a dirk from the sleeve of his robe. "Kneel," he hissed.
"Oh, let her alone," Cyric said. He studied the scribe a moment longer then added, "Get out, Xeno. I think we'll get started now." The patriarch scurried backward to the door and disappeared into the night.
The realization that this was indeed the Prince of Lies crashed in on Rinda, and she began to tremble uncontrollably. Like rainwater, her cloak slipped through numb fingers to pool on the dirty floor.
Cyric ran a slender finger across her lips. "A skeptic, but wise enough to fear me, too. Better and better."
"I – I don't -"
Cyric silenced her with a gesture. "You're here to listen, not talk. Come."
He took her hand and led her to the part of the shop where the parchment was prepared. Vats of water and lime stood along one wall, filled with soaking animal skins. Circular wooden frames held skins already softened in the tubs. Beneath each one, wet piles of fur mounded where