No Lie Survives the Saints

Below is a little vignette I wrote, not originally intending to post or publish, just to help me get the feel for my Verum Inquisitors. Thought I'd share. It's unedited. Some language. All names/people are fictional.

Enjoy. Or...hate it if you want, that's fine too.

No Lie Survives the Saints

An Inquisitor of the Ordo Veritatis

I dressed in a three-piece suit meant to make lesser men feel privileged. As for me, I felt like a peasant. Rough fabric, the distinct scent of “outlet store.” I missed my Inquisitor vestments, custom-made, custom-tailored, black with the most subtle hints of dark navy blue, and a bladed-cross pin in place of a tie.

A suit fit for kings and princes.

Instead, I wore the rags of commoners--men who prettied themselves up, lied to themselves to feel important. But despite their best efforts to appear extraordinary, despite their clothing’s brand names and designer logos, their suits, ties, and business skirts were nothing but rags, the same as everyone who lived outside the Blessings of the Saints.

I stood among the rabble on the third floor of Chicago City Hall, gazing through the wall-to-ceiling window into the council chambers two floors below. Faint traces of my reflection stared back at me in the glass: slender frame, slick black hair, middle-aged, nothing too remarkable…which was preferred. I needed the ability to disappear among lesser men.

Below, council men and women sat behind curved desks arranged in semicircles around a central speaking podium, beneath vaulted ceilings. Gold-trimmed walls, polished stone, hanging flags, and civic seals tried desperately to project dignity into a room built for bargaining, vanity, and lies.

So many of them had so many secrets. And I knew them all.

Councilman Vale used the city’s homeless outreach fund to funnel money into a faith-based “non-profit” run by his son-in law. The “non-profit” group placed homeless teens into shelters…abusive shelters that made their money off sex trafficking.

Councilwoman Graves, a tough-on-crime patriot, used her office to organize a fentanyl trafficking network protected by police officers loyal to her and her alone. Odd that overdose deaths seemed to always spike in the neighborhoods that had historically voted against her.

Others, too. Pro-life Councilman Mercer paid for the abortions of his mistresses. Family-values Councilman Holloway beat his wife and paid the police to stay quiet. And feminist reformer Councilwoman Pike “rented” her youngest interns to her most wealthy of donors.

The list went on.

All their secrets, hidden behind sleek facades.

Activism? Vanity.

Morality? Performance.

Democracy? Theater.

At the end of the day, they could disguise themselves as much as they liked…but…Dressed in rags, all of them.

Near the rear of the room, I spotted my target. A fresh face among his wrinkled peers, barely into his first term. Councilman Vince Moretti. His sins could not go unpunished.

I waited until the end of the council session. The chamber emptied of its parasites. Staffers scattered. Lobbyists whispered final promises into eager ears. Security relaxed.

Councilman Vince Moretti slipped through a side hallway.

I followed.

He was expecting me.

We met in a private office suite, dimly lit with a soft amber glow. Dark polished wood. Leather chairs. Tacky pictures with fake-golden frames.

“Mr. Smith?” he asked with a smile that had cost him thousands, teeth too straight, too pearly. “Vince Moretti, pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” I matched his false sincerity beat for beat.

“Please, sit.” He pulled a chair from a corner table and poured two glasses of scotch. “Drink?”

“Of course.”

I joined him at the table, and we wasted fifteen minutes with pointless small talk. I presented myself as a representative of a wealthy donor interested in supporting the councilman’s re-election campaign. Moretti tried to impress me with empty promises to make the city wealthy and prosperous, and I let him ramble…not paying attention to the words, but paying attention to the way he spoke. Rehearsed. Every word and movement. Practiced. Always smiling at the right time, accentuating points with his hands, nodding carefully. Measured tones. Like reading from a teleprompter only he could see.

“That’s all very well and good,” I said, refilling my glass. “But what I am really interested in, is hearing about your latest business endeavour."

“The new foundation?” Moretti asked. “Word travels fast, we just announced--”

“No, no. Not that business. Your other business. Your true business.”

Moretti wasn’t an experienced enough politician to hide his surprise. A slight twitch of his eyebrow; an awkward drink from his glass.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said.

“Let’s drop the pretense, shall we?” I asked, twirling my glass. “You must have guessed by now, I am not here on behalf of any potential donors. And if you haven’t guessed that, I would question your intelligence.”

Moretti stared at me silently for a moment, but then looked away, shifting slightly in his seat. “If you’re trying to accuse me of something--”

“Oh, I would never,” I said. “There’s no need to accuse. Not when I know. With certainty. As you’ve just begun to take your first steps out into the world at large..who have you betrayed?”

Moretti took another drink, hoping I wouldn’t notice his other hand fidget, adjusting the ring on his finger. A Relic, a signal ring of some kind, more than likely.

“There’s no use calling for help,” I said. “Your men are already dead.”

Moretti almost dropped his glass, setting it back on the table. “Who are you? Who are you really?

I loved this part--it made the ratty suits and subterfuge worth it.

I pulled my badge of office from my jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. A silver disc with a symbol: a downward-pointed sword, wrapped in thorns and scripture ribbons, with an eye embedded in the hilt, against the backdrop of a “V.”

Moretti’s eyes widened. “Inquisitor…”

“Cassian Verrok,” I introduced myself, “of the Ordo Veritatis.”

One of the many chapters within the ranks of the Verum’s Inquisitors, the Ordo Veritatis specialized in exposing weakness, heretics, and blasphemers within the Verum itself. Like all members of the Ordo Veritatis, I aligned myself with the Black Choir--the Confessessors. A fitting name; those who pledged to the Black Choir fit perfectly among the ranks of the Inquisitors, the spies and “secret agents” of the Verum.

Moretti stood, panicked. “Listen, I don’t know what you think you--”

“Sit down, please.”

“Whatever you--”

“Sit. Down.” I didn’t raise my voice. Unnecessary.

The councilman swallowed and sat, adjusting his jacket, as if it had suddenly become too heavy. “What do you want?” he asked so quietly it was practically a whisper. “Please…”

“A fair question. Tell me, Mr. Moretti…” I pulled a small metal case from the inside of my scruffy jacket pocket. A simple case, silver, engraved with the symbol of the Black Choir: an eye surrounded by thorns. “Are you familiar with the stories of Saint Praeconis?”

Moretti shook his head, sweating, eyes occasionally darting around the room as if he expected someone, or something, to strike him down from the shadows.

“He was known as the Tongue of Nails. My Patron Saint. During the Hidden Crusades of the First Purification, he interrogated kings, exposed bishops, condemned entire bloodlines. His words were as powerful as the swords of the Paladins. A master Confessor, one who never needed to raise his voice to anger or raise his hand to violence. Do you know why?”

The small councilman shook his head again, too afraid to look me in the eyes. Fear could be wise, at times.

“Because he understood something about the truth. Something that few people do.” I opened the case. Inside: seven black nails, each engraved with strings of tiny scripture. I pulled one from the case, and turned it, slowly, between finger and thumb. “Lies are not abstract things, Mr. Moretti. They wound the soul. Flail the spirit. Until, eventually…the soul begins to scream.”

I set the tip of the nail against the table, softly. Moretti couldn’t have known what the nail would do, but his eyes were fixed on it, imagination likely running wild with possibility.

“Only truth survives,” I said, turning the nail against the tabletop, scraping away thin curls of wood. “So, tell me, Mr. Moretti…What is your truth?”

“I…” he stammered, eyes fixed on the nail. “I don’t know what you want.”

“Oh? Your first lie, but I hardly think it will be your last.”

I pushed the nail into the table, no more than a centimeter deep. The moment the nail pierced the wood, Moretti gasped as though something invisible had pierced him. Had it, though, or had he imagined it? Feared it? The councilman couldn’t be sure; I saw the doubt in his eyes, the fear and uncertainty.

“What are…” the councilman swallowed, shook his head, so stiff he would probably snap his neck by accident. “What…”

“What is your truth?”

I left the first nail lodged in the table and pulled out the second.

Moretti leaned back. “Don’t. Whatever this is, just stop.” He gripped the table, knuckles white, face pale. “What do you want? Ask me a real question, dammit. Just tell me what you want!”

I drove the second nail into the table.

Moretti squirmed, gasping.

I reached for the third nail. “You still haven’t told me….” Drove the nail into the table. Reached for the fourth. “What is your truth?”

“Stop!”

“Why?”

“Just stop!” Moretti shouted, body shaking, teeth clattering. “Is this about the Ninth Vellum? You can’t be…it’s not even a Relic, it’s a normal book!”

I reached for the nail again.

“I said stop!”

“Then stop delaying. And tell me.”

“You already know.”

“Of course I do. No lie survives the Saints.”

Moretti knitted his brow, stood so quickly he knocked back his chair, suddenly emboldened by his own anger and ignorance, it seemed.

“No lie survives the Saints? Do you even hear yourself? Who talks like that? Stop with your cryptic bullshit and tell me what you want to hear.”

I said nothing.

“What do you want!” Moretti shouted, eyes watering. “Christ, I am so…sick of this. You people and your cryptic bullshit, magic and Saints and…magic is dead. You people…drilled this crap into my head. All of this useless...You all groomed me, you know that? Like a cult, telling me I could be powerful, special, and…but ya know what, you piece of shit? You know what I learned? Everything you people tried to teach me about magic and all of that, it’s all bullshit. All the ceremonies and doctrine and…none of it…none of it matters. You know the way the real world works? Outside your damn cult? You don’t need crazy prayers and scriptures and magic, you only need one thing. Wealth. That’s it. A suitcase of cash is more powerful than a case of old bones or whatever the hell magic trinket you think is so important this week. So…yeah, I sold the dusty old book, the Ninth Vellum, whatever the hell name you people had for it. And you know what…? I don’t regret it. I don’t. I’m done with the Verum, I’m done being a part of your little cult and the games you all play. You all think you’re so…”

He stopped at that, although I’m not sure why that particular thought gave him pause. The councilman closed his eyes and breathed deep, as if silently cursing himself.

I smiled. “There it is.”

“That’s what you wanted?” the councilman asked. “A confession? That’s what you used you little magic nails to--”

“Magic?” I pulled one of the nails free from the table and lifted it. “No, these lost their power years ago. They are just ordinary nails…”

Moretti narrowed his eyes. “What is wrong with you people…”

“We hate traitors,” I explained. “Not just traitors in action, but traitors in spirit. After everything you have been granted by the Saints and--”

“I got this far on my own!” the small councilman shouted. “Me!”

I was on my feet and across the table in the blink of an eye, my hand around the councilman’s throat. He gasped and grabbed at my wrist, my arm, but I held my grip as strong as steel.

“I do not like to be interrupted,” I said, staying calm, as I hated violence. “You have turned your back on your beliefs and betrayed us. That is the truth that I have ordained. The truth of your failure. Your weakness. And…the last truth you will ever hear.”

I snapped his neck and dropped him to the ground. Stared down at his lifeless body.

Sighing, I straightened my jacket. And thought of my Patron Saint. Praeconis. He never raised his hand to anger or violence.

I, however…was no saint.

I stepped over the fallen councilman and left his body for the maids to find.

END