Chapter 28: Wine and Dine

"Paradoux Clarum."

Music

You and Sister Cardew leave the Church of Flesh within a matter of minutes. Cyril happily stays to the exterior ward, with the promise of having the entire afternoon off.

Cutting through the battlements and remainder of the keep, you wind down the streets of Beorward, past several extremely ancient fortifications. The afternoon sun is almost directly overhead, and not a cloud is in the sky. You can't help but murmur your thanks to Storm, for what a beautiful day it is.

A few birds flit overhead, and the streets are full of commotion. You were instructed to take a winding path along several narrow streets (to avoid as much scrutiny as possible). The wealthier districts are blessedly devoid of beggars or cut-purses, and Ray's presence ensures your safety. The priestess at your side even seems to appreciate the dog's presence after an hour or so of walking without issue.

The myriad stone foundations, carved up and into the city are terribly inviting. Tall wooden structures protrude from the ruins, re-purposed into houses and halls. Each one is a little tilted, having been reconstructed time and time again. You keep largely to their shadow, passing from the residential buildings and commerce, narrow back alleys and hidden passages.

You're traveling in almost complete silence. It takes you back.

Just when Sister Cardew is about to start complaining of her aching feet, the alleyway opens into a bustling main road. Several pack horses go by, accompanied by men from the capital. Dozens of farmers and craftsmen have laid out their wares in stalls and the streets themselves, hollering, bartering.

Inns line the street. You catch The Scale and Ale, a single-story hall balanced precariously along the ruins. It's bustling, dingy, and more typical of a tavern along a main road than its neighbor.

Beside it is an unbelievably noisy tavern with a familiar name. The Broken Drum has enough revelry within its halls to rival a festival itself, and the merry-making has poured somewhat onto the street.

Opposite of the taverns, closer to the residential district, lies your destination. You look up to the second floor. Directly next to the road you're on is a sound structure. Though the building has no windows to speak of, Hope is far nicer than anything else you've laid eyes on in the city (save for the Church of Flesh itself).

Upon entering the door to A Prayer, a little bell rings announcing your entry. You take a moment to hold the door open for Sister Cardew and Ray before stepping in.

An aging gentleman wastes no time in addressing everyone in your company as you filter in. "Welcome, ma'am— and sir, welcome. Men and women of the cloth are always honored guests, come right inside."

The entrance is remarkably small. The single, wooden, unfurnished square room has another door opposite. The actual entrance to A Prayer is semi-transparent, thanks to frosted crystal that constitutes its bulk. This chamber (as unusual as it is) seems to be strictly for filtering in guests.

This place takes itself quite seriously.

Through the incredibly valuable glass, you can make out a darkly decorated chamber lit with low candles and fully-lit hearths. It is nowhere near as populated as the rest of the street.

The well-dressed gentleman standing before you really looks more the part of a lord than a tavern-keeper. His neatly trimmed, graying beard, spotless apron, and fine attire are rapidly becoming the only source of color on him. "Will you be staying with us this evening? Or perhaps—" He's going to eclipse your pallor at this rate. "—excuse me. Sir."

He's looking down to Ray. Your boy is sitting politely.

The wrinkles around your host's eyes crease as he gives your dog a weary smile.

You have to answer on Ray's behalf, "yes?"

The smile persists. He's trying to be respectful. "No animals, save for the ones we are serving this evening. No exceptions."

"Excuse me, sir." You're nearly a foot taller than the man before you, though he's significantly broader. Looking down, you gesture to your extremely well behaved dog. "We understand."

"Pardon?"

"It is terribly easy to forget that the men of the cloth owe their lives to who they fight alongside. Ray is too polite to correct you." You lean in. "Please, allow me." The tavern-keeper shirks back almost imperceptibly. "This ally of the Church of Mercy appears to have better manners than you do." He's definitely leaning back. "For every life he's saved— up to and including my own— I think speaking on his behalf is prudent." You lean in a little further, dropping your voice. "He doesn't want to embarrass you in front of the Father of the Church of Mercy."

Standing fully upright, you look down your nose at clean aprons and a well-sewn tunic. "I believe proper accommodations for myself, and the Sister with me, would be sufficient contrition. A table. For three."

A very deep bow follows. "I am terribly sorry, Father Anscham. Of course. Any member of the clergy is welcome in my establishment. It would be an honor to serve you, and anyone in your company. Please, right this way."

The priestess in your company seems unamused, but defers behind you. Sister Cardew is beckoned to step into the inn first, and you come along right behind her.

Ray picks himself up, glancing to the master of the house with curiosity. The innkeeper remains bowed, holding the door open for all three of you.

​

The interior of A Prayer is jaw-dropping. The place couldn't be a farther cry from a tavern if Cyril tried. Smatterings of light catch off the floor. Goblets and crystal line the majority of the tables, which are all of a fine, jet-black hardwood. The ground underfoot, the very walls, and a banister on the top floor must have been designed to amplify the light and flame all throughout the building (save for a number of exquisite rugs covering the back of the hall). Unlike the braziers you're immediately greeted by, only a small hearth is visible beyond. It's surrounded by better seating and smaller tables, as opposed to the low seating in the gathering area where you're standing. Hundreds of candles line the walls, and might as well be embedded in the oddly colored material. Whatever the exotic substance is, it's windowless for security and discretion.

There may be only ten figures in the entire space. One middle-aged and finely dressed woman is attending to half of them at once. Several members of the upper class are engaged in a meeting around one of the tables by a roaring fire pit at the rear. A smattering of other guests are seated about the remainder of the room, mostly drinking.

Stretching even further beyond the hearth at the end of the hall are several corridors. Assuming the bulk of the patrons are out about town, or in the rooms that surely lie beyond, you turn your gaze upwards.

Right around the corner is a steep and narrow staircase. Even if Sister Cardew hadn't immediately ascended it, you would have inspected the space out of sheer curiosity. Her shawls trail on the steps behind her, and you keep several feet behind, lingering over the banister. Etched into the railing and adjacent wall are prayers. They're primarily devoted to Flesh, but you catch a couple of litanies scratched in to Agriculture and Spirit.

Several more seem to have slipped past the inn-keeper's notice: obscenities and crude drawings are intermingled with holier words. You avoid tripping on your feet at the sight of it, and quickly catch up to Harriet at the top of the stair.

Hope lives up to its namesake. It is a blissfully empty lounge and bar. Several empty tables adorn another well-decorated floor, with more crystal glasses and goblets spread over every surface. Two more women are attending to cleaning off the area, which likely was just emptied of customers. Only two other figures are in the room, sitting quietly at a table in a corner to your left. It's two men who have taken their hats off, sharing a large bottle of wine, deep in conversation.

Without prompting, Sister Cardew goes to a table in the rightmost corner. The barkeep swiftly follows after her, and makes pulling out her seat look more like a refined dance than a measure of courtesy.

You try to ignore the raised eyebrows you and Ray get from the pair at the other end of the room. A quick grimace at the busybodies has their faces back in their drinks.

Sitting alongside the priestess of Spirit before your chair can be pulled out, you're bowed to once again.

"My sincere apologies, Father Anscham. My name is Sir Rainecourt—" Sister Cardew's eyebrows lift at the nobleman. "—and I am at your service. My daughters, Bernice—" He nods towards a short brunette. "—and Delia—" A raven-haired and willowy girl opposite Bernice. "—will be happy to assist you if I am unavailable for any reason. If you would care to stay for the evening, we have had the tremendous privilege of hosting a band of gentlemen from Calunoth. Masters of the hunt, and make no mistake, supper will be comprised of deer. Which, if I may...?"

You're trying to be patient. "Yes?"

"Would be prepared to your preference, Father Anscham. If you are to stay for the afternoon, we have a large offering of wines provided by Wearmoor's finest vineyards; but it would be an honor to present one of our Elvish imports to you and your..."

Sister Cardew blushes. You interject, "the import would be excellent, Sir Rainecourt. We intended to stay for lunch. A little privacy would be greatly appreciated."

The woman beside you is obviously grateful for your tact, but your host is lingering. You are getting impatient, given all of the business you both have to attend to.

Setting aside your things, placing Sister Cardew's book on the table, you politely say, "thank you, Sir Rainecourt. Any commodities you have at your disposal would be sufficient. The wine, and some cheese— or fruit, perhaps. We are simply here through midday. I will not hesitate to call for you if we require any further assistance."

Another deep bow. "Of course."

Sister Cardew removes most of the gauze and shawls about her face and hands, while Sir Rainecourt vanishes off to a room beyond. There are several orders made to unseen hands, which you pay no attention to.

"Thank you for the opportunity to leave the church, Sister Cardew."

She's straight-faced, unreadable. "Business is business. Shame about the fuss."

"I am afraid it is unavoidable, at a decent establishment—" You're still frowning.

The proprietor of Hope makes his way smoothly back to your table, nestling an aged bottle of wine in his arm. The opposite has two wine glasses in hand. Behind him stands Bernice and Delia, who wait a moment with trays perched just out of view. Each one is topped with an assortment of fresh fruit, and you spot a wedge of soft cheese amidst several crystal-handled knives.

Your good breeding and years of conditioning make the affair relatively painless. The wine's label, Paradoux Clarum, promises something pink. The cork is visibly unspoiled. Offered one of the glasses before Sister Cardew, you accept a sample.

Swirl on the table. Aerate. Swiftly bring up the glass. Concentrate on the aroma.

Fruity. Citrus. It's been months of rations and demon's liquor. This is probably too sophisticated for my palate. There's something pleasant, rhubarb?

Small sip.

No pain. It must actually be Elvish. Nothing unexpected, save for an exotic fruit. It's crisp. Can't place it. Too much business to attend to for any trivial questions. Something to consider if we have the time later, possibly.

You nod your head to the server, who immediately offers a humble smile and pours you half of a glass. Sister Cardew's is filled while you reiterate your earlier point. "Our discussion is to be made in private, Sir Rainecourt. Missus Bernice? Delia?"

Both women are very young, are entirely too respectful to address you verbally, and simply perk their gaze up (having kept their eyes lowered in deference until now).

"I will call for you if necessary."

They reply in unison.

"Yes, Father." "Certainly, Father Anscham."

Looking to their father, you repeat, "we are not to be disturbed otherwise. Thank you for the excellent service. That will be all."