The Trouble With Clerics
Part 1. Noussoir's Story
AC 1018, Paparazzi Glantri Headquarters, Glantri City.
“I don’t understand why we have to sully the reputation of the Paparazzi Glantri—”
“Eh-eh-eh! What reputation?” laughed Gaston du Lac freely. The rest of the Paparazzi Glantri smiled in silent assent. Beatriz Dominatore remained placid as a wizard’s scrying pool.
Noussoir du Marais glared openly.
“As I was saying,” Noussoir said seething, bearing his teeth that remarkably seemed like his brother’s own canine teeth—his brother being Prince Malachie du Marais, a werewolf in secret, yet commonly known by those in the know—like the Paparazzi Glantri.
“This matter with the clerics! Why do we have to investigate? Clearly those clerics running after apparitions and miracles and thus running into a nasty bit of trouble with the Constabulary—”
“A bit of trouble?” Kassar Krinagar interrupted. “Noussoir, do you know that people are calling the Alexander Day event a massacre? Do you know how many people, both clerics and innocents, were killed, not to mention those injured?”
Noussoir knew that Kassar Krinagar was perhaps the only one of the Paparazzi with a slice of conscience, and thus habitually had such reactions. Noussoir, for his part, habitually ignored such reactions.
“So those misguided zealots were willing martyrs for their religious fanaticism—all over this Milagro de Los Amantes—which I tell you was nothing than some spectacular conspiracy between the Illusionists of Krondahar and the Witches of Belcadiz.”
Noussoir directed such pointed comments at Kassar, but also managed to gain the undiluted ire of Felicidad de Fedorias.
“There are no such things as Belcadizan Witches!” cried the elf-maiden from Belcadiz in categorical denial.
Noussoir took a while to notice that she had actually stood up from her seat to emphasize her point. Tempers shorter than their stature, Noussoir remembered an old adage going.
Kassar chose to say nothing and merely stared harshly at Noussoir with a gaze that would cause a lesser soul to turn into stone, burst into flame, or melt into mush.
But Noussoir du Marais was no lesser soul.
The ever-cheery Melisante Erewan merely whispered to her unsavory seatmate Gaston, “Why is he so testy?”
“Eh-eh-eh!” laughed Gaston, less than discreetly, “The bed of Princess Dolores has grown cold, not the dragon lady has been known for her warmth!”—referring to the fact that the cold-blooded Princess Dolores Hillsbury of Fenswick was Noussoir’s lover—or maybe, not anymore.
Beatriz Dominatore, another eternally cool, unshakable belladonna, who presided over the meetings of the Paparazzi Glantri, spoke.
“It is because they are a threat to Glantri that we must investigate the workings of these ill-advised clerics—not just those involved in the massacre, but all clerics in Glantri.”
Noussoir was silenced.
“If, Noussoir, you do not wish to go incognito, then I will send you to Aalban to meet with Olga. She will be reviewing all the documents of all officially licensed priests within the Principalities.”
Noussoir could not find a reply or a retort against Beatriz’s dominating command.
“It is your choice, Signor Noussoir,” continued Beatriz, confident enough to allow a sinister smile to creep on her face. “Fieldwork or paperwork?”
Bluntly, Noussoir asked the enigmatic Beatriz pointblank.
“Just who are you working for, Beatriz?”
