Chapitre Trente

La Vérité

Leon

Leon stared at the embers launching themselves within the tavern's hearth. The blaze crackled and danced in a way that he couldn't bring himself to look away, though it brought back painful memories. Every memory made the mousebane in his pocket a comfort.

The last few months he felt he'd been cursed, or was being punished by Lyr. An assassin very nearly killed him. His fiancée was murdered. He'd faced the hangman's noose. Magnus was a traitor. His best friend forced him into a duel, a battle, and a coma. None believed he'd wake; wishes for the same had crossed his mind. He'd seen his mother again. Heaven itself filled his eyes. Oh, but to wake to the sounds of battle, to Beatrice: stepmother, object of his love, killer of his best friend. Hell, too, lay before him.

It was almost as if the fire itself was whispering to him. So, you understand now? There's no need for you to go on. What lies before you in this world? All you ever do is suffer and cause suffering.

Leon plunged his hand into his pocket and grasped the mousebane tightly in his fist. The temptation was getting stronger by the minute, as was the fear.

The whiskey burned and lingered in his dry throat.

The bartender coughed behind him.

Leon did not turn his head from the fire. He couldn't, not even to check if the bartender had coughed to get his attention.

Removing the mousebane out of his pocket, he stared emptily past the tiny bud.

Cecile will take care of the family with you gone. Andre is a fool. But your father will appoint Cecile to watch over and advise him. He'll abandon the ridiculous notion that you can do anything to help this family.

Leon sighed and closed his hand around the mousebane again. He held his fist against his forehead and tried to think of a prayer to say to Lyr. But for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to say to his deity. He found so little to be thankful for, and he was never one for cursing God whenever something went wrong. Even if everything went wrong.

Your only friend is dead. The love of your life is married. She will never be yours, and you will always be alone in this world. What more do you really have to live for?

Leon dropped the mousebane into his goblet and filled it with whiskey.

It was time.

He reached for his goblet, but his hands shook.

Sucking in breath, he slapped his own face on both cheeks to calm himself.

Something howled within him... and without. When had a breeze picked up?

Leon held both hands firmly against the edge of the table. One thought occurred to him, one thing for which he could thank Lyr. My God, thank you for the apothecary who doesn't mind bending the law now and then.

Yes, bless the alchemist.

His hands were steady now.

Leon took the cup in his hand and raised it to his lips.

"Shouldn't stare into the fire so long."

The made Leon jump, and the goblet tumbled from his hand. The poisoned whiskey spilled out onto the floor, and soaked through the gaps in the cobblestones.

"Did I frighten you?" said the young man as he sat down in the chair next to Leon. "Terribly sorry, friend."

"It's..." Leon stared at the floor. His only escape was running away from him. Into the darkness it seeped, leaving him alone to face Le Jeu Fatal. "It's alright," he said, forcing a smile. As he looked at the stranger he could swear that he had seen him somewhere before, but he couldn't place it.

The young man stared at him blankly for a moment, those dark black eyes reached into Leon's brain and search out everything inside. Leon swallowed the lump in his throat. The young man nodded, his long, black hair falling over his shoulders as he did. "As I said, you really shouldn't stare at the fire so long."

"Oh?" said Leon, shaking the whiskey off of his hand. "And why is that?"

"Legend has it," said the black-eyed stranger, "That devils speak to us when we do."

"What?" Leon scoffed. "That's just ridiculous!"

The stranger laughed. "Oh, really? Are you telling me that with how long you stared at the fire no terrible thoughts entered your mind? No temptation to commit some mortal sin?"

Leon stared back at the stranger for a moment. Who is this person? Does he know my thoughts? Leon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "What do you want with me?"

The stranger offered his hand to shake Leon's. "My name is Nouvel."

Leon shook his hand, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Leon of House Renart."

"We actually met earlier," said Nouvel.

"We have?" Leon asked, now ever more skeptical. All he could think was that this was one of his father's enemies trying to get close to him. If that was the case, he was going to have to guard all his secrets jealously.

"We met on Pain Street," said Nouvel.

Of course! How could Leon have not remembered! Everyone there wore masks, but how could there be any mistaking those piercing black eyes and that scar on his chin? This was one of the members of the Pain Street Club!

"Ah, yes," said Leon, trying to sound as casual as he could, though few but the bartender could possibly overhear them. "Yes! T-terribly s-sorry, I remember you now. Nouvel, of course! Forgive me, I can be so f-forgetful." He silently chastised himself for his pitiful stammering and blabbering. Surely anyone listening in knew that something was strange. Though, perhaps they only suspected that Leon truly didn't recognize Nouvel.

"Anyway," said Nouvel, "I have an apartment here in Senon, and I was wondering if you might indulge me with a theological discussion."

A theological discussion? Surely that was code for something. Who randomly walked up to near strangers and asked them to join in a theological discussion?

Now that Leon thought of it, a great number of people. Members of the clergy who thought someone was falling away from the faith, recruiters for occult societies and covens, university students, and opium users. True enough, not all were mutually exclusive.

The offer was ambiguous enough. And though accepting it implied nefarious consent, Leon cared little for any onlooker's judgement.

"I'd be delighted," said Leon.

The two of them walked a few blocks, singing an obnoxious drinking song at the top of their lungs. Both of them staggered and held onto each other's shoulders, pretending to be far more inebriated than they truly were. Police officers stared at them as they passed, and Senon citizens leaned out their windows to shout profanities at them.

Were Leon staggeringly drunk he might have taken offense at the crude comments about his mother and shouted profanities back. He might even have thrown down his glove at one of them.

As it was, though, it was the perfect ruse for the two of them to retreat into Nouvel's home without arousing any suspicion.

Nouvel took and hung up both of their coats. "Now, don't worry, I've had builders and architects check these walls. They are absolutely sound proof."

Leon slid into a most comfortable-looking chair by the curtain-covered windows. "And just how do you afford all that?" The apartment was small, far smaller than anything a lord or a merchant prince might own, yet to make sure the walls were sound-proof was a great expense.

"I'm a journalist," said Nouvel, taking a seat across from him. "I write for La Vérité."

Leon laughed. "If you don't mind me saying... bunch of anarchist propaganda, from what I hear."

"Most people in a position of power would say that," said Nouvel. "But that makes us indispensable to the Pain Street cause."

The wind howled against the apartment's outside wall and thunder echoed in the distance. A storm was blowing in. Hadn't it already come? Leon remembered it roaring at him in the tavern. Their performance caused him to ignore that their walk had been dry and the air, still.

"Recently," Nouvel continued, "We've been printing article after article implementing high-level clergymen, specifically ones who are anti-witch-born, in various scandals. Some have taken bribes, some have taken lovers." Nouvel leaned in and whispered. "Some have even taken to practicing the occult."

A flash of lightning in the windows, followed closely by a crash of thunder.

"I..." Leon paused, trying to find the right words. "I imagine that is helping the cause."

"Not as much as we'd like," said Nouvel, leaning back again. "See, as much as chipping away at the Church's power helps our cause, it seems what would help far more is an outsider's perspective. Someone arguing in favor of the witch-born."

Leon folded his arms, suddenly paying attention, "And why should anyone try something that dangerous? Any who publicly speaks out in favor of the witch-born will be branded a heretic. The Church's agents would be after them for sure."

"Unless it was published as an interview." Nouvel stood and paced the room. "See, I've been thinking of this idea; I could publish an article where I supposedly interview a barbarian prisoner of war. Everyone knows the barbarians don't hold to the Salian superstitions about the witch-born. It's an opportunity to argue on behalf of the witch-born while claiming these are the words of some blasphemous foreigner."

Leon had to admit, the idea sounded strangely plausible. Using this fictional prisoner of war, he could spout heresy, simply claiming the whole thing to be a way to understand the enemy. What a clever shield.

"Why come to me with this?" Leon asked.

"Because every time I go to write the interview, it sounds like me," said Nouvel. "Everything I claim that the barbarian says just sounds like the words of a journalist." Nouvel sat in his chair again and crossed his legs. "I need help with this one. Help from someone who's not in my head."

Leon considered it for a while. It seemed like a good opportunity to do some good, make the world that much safer for people like Edmund.

Ah, Edmund, the child who had been Leon's shoulder to cry on after Magnus died. He had known just what to say. His intuition had been, well, magical; not simply knowing Leon's hurt, but feeling it himself. The boy who'd pulled Leon into the warmest, most comforting hug he'd had since his mother died. How could the Church really declare someone like that a demon?

Leon jerked with a wind gust against the window and a lightning flash in his mind, "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked. "You could easily sell me out to the Church if I helped you with such an interview. You could tell them that those were my words."

"I could do that anyway," said Nouvel with an almost smug smile. "You have no idea how often I've had Imperial Agents going after enemies to our cause just because of a suspicious, and purely fabricated, article I'd written. Believe me, if I wanted to destroy you I wouldn't need your help to do it."

The wind howled like a widow at the windows and rain beat against the pane. Thunder reverberated through the apartment, and Leon felt a strange chill creep over him.

"Besides," said Nouvel, resting both of his hands behind his head. "We're both members of the Pain Street Club, that makes us the best of friends. Friends keep each other's confidences, after all, and what bigger scandal can there be that being a member of a heretical secret society?"