In the Priest’s Study

Stannis unwrapped the bandage on his right forearm with his left hand. The priest sitting on the other side of the desk watched the wound seep blood.

The priest said, “Not gushing. Not an artery. We have a bit of time.”

The priest picked a glass jar from the table behind him and set it on the desk between them. He held it with his left hand, as if to keep it from flying away. He tapped the top of the jar with his other index finger to emphasize his words.

“You are not of my parish.”

“No Brother, I’m from out of town,” the halfling answered.

“Obviously. There are no smallfolk living in this quarter. Why haven’t you gone to your own priest in your own town?”

Stannis pondered his answer for a moment. Sticking close to the truth would be best. But not too close. He came up with the reply, “My business in the city is not finished.”

“Of course. Business. Let's do a bit of business here. Since you’re not one of my regular parishioners — my tithing, contributing parishioners — there is going to be a fee.”

Stannis was expecting this, but was nervous about the tone in the priest’s voice.

“Of course, Brother. I have a bit of coin. Enough to cover the customary fee.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, my little friend. But this parish has wealthy parishioners. We have lots of coin. Gold doesn’t buy as much as words.”

“In exchange for healing my wound, you’re asking for information?”

“I’m asking for a conversation. All I get from my members is a discussion from a merchant’s point of view. I would welcome a different perspective. From one as short as yourself. You have your eyes a bit closer to the ground, if you know what I mean.”

With this, the priest sat back and slightly pulled the jar towards himself. Stannis stared at the jar and put his purse on the table. It didn’t jingle like a full purse. He reached in with his good hand and fished out a gold coin. He tapped it on the table for a moment, placed it flat on the table, then slid it over to the priest with one finger.

“I believe the church has set an expected price of one gold Crown on a minor healing. But in addition, you want me to converse with you? About what?”

The priest picked up the coin and dropped it in a slot in the top of a small wooden chest beside the desk. Stannis heard the coin clank against many other coins. He then noted the iron bands around the blondewood, and the inset lock with many scratches around the keyhole. The chest and lock might well be older than the young priest sitting beside it.

It was also protected by another lock. A brand new padlock, key and cylinder at a glance, probably made by Murthein, or maybe Bardoch.

The priest looked Stannis in the eye.

“I’d like you to tell me tales of your adventures. On a regular basis.”

He lifted the heavy lid of the glass jar and set it aside on the desktop. From within he withdrew a tiny measuring spoon with a black powder, maybe iron filings. He leaned forward to sprinkle the powder over the halfling’s wound.

Stannis felt a burning rise in his arm. The priest continued, “Do you think you could do that? Visit me every few days? Some of these coins might find their way back to you, if I find your stories sufficiently … entertaining.”

The halfling’s eyes began to water from the burning. He answered, “Yes. I’d be happy to drop by for some tea every once in awhile.”

“Good. I have excellent tea.”

The priest waved his hand over the bloody forearm and chanted a brief incantation. Stannis felt the pain fade away. Presently, the bleeding stopped and the gash closed. The priest tossed a clean linen cloth at the halfling.

“Please clean your blood off my desk, and I’ll see about that tea. Have you heard anything about a breakin at the home of the trader Thomas Enderly? I’m told the burglar left behind a bit of blood on the broken window. What do you suppose the burglar was after?”