The tavern smelt of vomit and mould. Neither Tacit or Georgi paid the stench any mind. They supposed it probably helped mask their own odour, four days on the road riding hard to bring news of their first assignment together back to the Vatican. They still had another four days ahead of them till they got there and the pair felt the need for a night under cover and a little more comfort than the land could offer. A hot meal cooked by another’s hand and wine on tap would beat what fare they could gather on the road and drink from their wineskins.
Tacit guzzled his third goblet of wine, before filling it again and pushing back his chair into the shadows of the tavern corner. He gulped another mouthful of the weak house red and stared into middle space.
Georgi chuckled and filled his second cup of wine. He put down the empty jug and leaned on his elbows, peering hard at his friend.
“Considering the success of our first assignment together, Poldek, and our first night in a tavern after, how many days is it? … eight? … you really are quite dismal company this evening.”
Tacit sniffed.
“So what’s wrong?” Georgi continued, taking up his goblet but not drinking.
“Wrong?”
“Wrong. With you? Face like Cardinal Konstantinov,” he said, referring to the irritable Cardinal from Bulgaria whose face resembled a scowling backside.
Tacit chuckled at the comment and shook his head. He necked his wine and thrust his cup down on the table. “Any more?” he asked.
“Jug’s empty,” Georgi replied. “You want another?”
“I do.”
Tacit’s partner and friend caught the attention of the barmaid and she brought another jug over to their table. Tacit filled his cup immediately and sat back in the shadows.
“Got a bit of a thirst on tonight, Poldek?” suggested Georgi.
Tacit ignored him. “How many witches have you killed?” he asked, draining his goblet and nursing it in his lap.
Georgi raised his eyebrows and wondered, wrong-footed by the question. After a moment searching he said, “I have no idea. Not many. A few. The correct answer would probably be ‘not enough’. Why do you ask?” He brought his drink to his lips and sipped.
Tacit shrugged, leaned forward and reached clumsily for the jug, showing the first signs of heavy limbed drunkenness.
“Would you believe anything a witch told you?”
“Depends what it was they told me,” Georgi shot back, winking. “Here, let me.” He lifted the jug and poured a broad stream of wine into Tacit’s goblet. “Again, why do you ask?”
Tacit shrugged again and took the drink, thanking him. He looked across the tavern.
“Best not to worry yourself, Georgi. How many of us are there left?” he asked, drinking again but this time more leisurely.
“From our original thirteen?” Tacit nodded without looking at him, as if drawn by the other scenes in the tavern or unable to look at his friend. “I don’t know. Petr went north. We’ve not heard from him in over six months.”
“Five,” Tacit growled in answer, almost upending the goblet into his mouth so wine ran either side of his lips, down his black cassock. “There’s five of us left, Georgi.” He turned his eyes onto his friend. “More than half of us killed.”
“We’re Inquisitors,” Georgi replied. “We know the dangers. We’ve always known them.”
“I thought only monsters could behave in such a manner.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Georgi laughed, but it was more in an attempt to lighten his friend’s mood.
“That those who command us, who send us out, can act with such little care.”
Tacit’s melancholy had begun to make Georgi uncomfortable. He snatched up his wine and sat back, eying him cautiously.
“And our superiors? What do they say?” Tacit continued drowsily, as if reading from a script. “Nothing. They say nothing but draw up the next assignment. They’re killing us, Georgi. They’re killing my family all over again.” There was silence between the pair of them. “Do you ever see lights?” Tacit asked his friend – now looking as sullen as Tacit with the drift of the conversation.
“Lights? What do you mean, ‘lights’?” he replied testily.
“Exactly that. Lights, all around you?”
“God, Poldek, are you drunk? Course I’ve not seen lights all around me! Who has?!”
“I have. Or I did. Once. No, that’s a lie. I saw them when I was younger once before that, before I’d joined the Inquisition. Just before I joined. And then once afterwards, when … when my master had been killed and I was left all alone.” He stared, as if hypnotised by the knots of the table, with his unwavering eyes. “They’ve not come to me since. Never. Not for over three years now. When they came to me it felt like I’d been touched by the Lord God himself. I felt his power and his greatness. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Such power. Such warmth and belonging.” He drew a filthy nail across the grain in the wood of the table and made a mark. “I can’t help but think I’ve been abandoned by him. That he knows my thoughts. For cursing our superiors. For questioning their judgement. For raging at them for killing us, one by one.” Tacit drained his goblet. “That God knows my weaknesses.”