Chapter Ten

"Pottage Stew"

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My gaze lingered on the Inquisitor as Beaumont escorted him and his aide, Inquisitor Seamus Stowton, a bullish younger man with a cleft chin, to a table. Beaumont bowed his head profusely and spoke in an overly polite tone. A far cry from the way he treated me. 

Makes sense. The Inquisitor's the most powerful person in town right now. But what's he doing here?

Hawkthorne refused the first table he was brought to and pointed to another that was secluded in the corner. The table had several wooden figures of knights lying across its surface. 

"Ah, of course, sir," Beaumont said nervously. "Let me just get these out of the way."

The innkeeper hurriedly gathered the toys into his arms, pulled the seats out, then scurried off. Through the walls, I heard him chastising his child. 

Hawkthorn took a seat at the corner table. Moonlight peered in through the window, draping over the man's skeletal figure, casting a crooked, almost inhuman shadow against the floor. 

Inquisitor Stowton sat across from him and cast a furtive glance around the room.

"Why did we come here, sir? So far from our residency at the Mayor's home?"

"Lower your voice, Stowton." Hawkthorne said. "I wanted someplace private, without any curious ears listening in."

I held my gaze low and turned my movements sluggish in an attempt to emulate the passed out drunk at the other table. My act seemed to work as Stowton whispered to Hawkthorne in a hushed tone. 

"What should we do, sir?" 

"Whatever do you mean?" Hawkthorne responded in a tired voice. 

"Well, with the latest killing, it's clear the witch is still active. That means we hanged an innocent man..."

"No... The town cast their vote. Don't forget, We were called upon only to facilitate justice. We are neither its agents nor its hands."

I smirked at this. It's a convenient way to keep your hands clean.

"No, the trials are not the issue at hand. The real problem is this."

Hawkthorne reached into his cloak, pulled out a pamphlet, and slid it across the table. "Some vagrant, Edric Cotton, or something or other, has been passing it around to anyone that will give him the time of day." 

Stowton picked it up, glanced over the words. His eyes widened when he realized what he was staring at. 

"Malleus Maleficarum? But that's—"

"Yes. The very same manuscript we inquisitors painstakingly study for years to aid in our war against evil. It seems some fool has gotten their hands on a copy and disseminated its contents in the form of this dreadful pamphlet."

"But how? Our manuscript was written in the kings script. This is in common hand."

"I had heard rumors of a translated edition being passed throughout the country. I didn't imagine I would come across one here." The High Inquisitor shook his head at the pure ridiculousness of the idea. 

Stowton studied the pamphlet closely, then spoke in a careful manner, "Sir, might I ask... What's the problem here? Isn't educating the public of the devil's methods and machinations a good thing?

Hawkthorne let out a deep, bothered sigh. "Do you understand why we were called here? Why this town is paying us?"

"Well, it's because we're the country's greatest experts on witchcraft—"

"And why are we the country's greatest experts?" Hawkthorne poked at the pamphlet with his bony finger. "Our power comes from these words. We study them carefully, then share the ideas within them at our discretion. It does us no favors for its contents to be made available to the common folk."

"But the killings will not cease. Surely, casting a wide net could be a good thing?" Stowton asked. "Is that not what you did in Lanford—"

"We are not to discuss that. I thought I made that quite clear," Hawkthorne snapped. "Anyhow, that was a different time and place entirely. The town of Honeywell requires a different approach. A subtle approach."

Stowton didn't respond, and the High Inquisitor continued, "You saw how they hanged Mathus Crowley. One person pointed the finger, then the guilty votes followed. Their fire is a volatile one. It needs no fuel."

Stowton still said nothing and Hawkthorne seemed to take this as agreement.

"I simply want to know how that vagrant gained a copy of that manuscript. I'd be a damned fool if I believed he came into it on his own."

Stowton rubbed his chin, deep in thought, then suggested, "Mathus Crowley had an older brother. I believe he was working at his bookshop. Before he... you know." 

"Perhaps..." the Inquisitor muttered, not quite convinced.

As they considered the source of this new manuscript, Beaumont entered while balancing several bowls of hot stew atop a tray. He set a bowl down before both the Inquisitor and his aide.

"A bit of pottage stew for our hardworking inquisitors," Beaumont said with a warm, hospitable smile. 

Hawkthorne lifted a spoonful of stew and watched it drip back into the bowl. His eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction.

Beaumont chuckled nervously, "Desperately wish I had some mutton in there for ya. But the vegetables are the freshest you could find. Picked this morning, I reckon!"

"That'll be all, thank you," Stowton said.

Beaumont brought a bowl over to me and plopped it down on the table. In a direct and plain tone, he simply said, "Here." 

The stew was a golden amber, filled with an assortment of vegetables—carrots, onions, mushrooms—and fresh green herbs. Warm steam lifted into the air as the scent wafted over me. It was heavenly.

A smile crept onto my face. I thanked Beaumont in complete and utter earnest. He seemed a bit taken aback then left the room. 

I kept one eye trained on the inquisitors, while the other eye was drawn to the enticing meal—the first I had in I don't even know how long. I tore off a piece of the barley bread sitting next to the bowl. It was slightly stale, but that didn't bother me. I dipped it into the stew, coating the bread with the warm amber broth. The flecks of fresh green herbs and the subtle aroma of the earthy vegetables made me salivate. 

I couldn't wait any longer. I brought the stew-coated piece of bread to my lips.

But... nothing. 

I could feel the stew coating my tongue, and the dry bread emulsifying between my teeth. But there was no flavor. I might as well be chewing on plastic. 

[The pottage stew is delicious!]

I stared at the display, stunned.

I'm... not allowed to taste it?

[Your hunger is being satiated!]

I couldn't believe my eyes. I should have known it was too good to be true. I had half a mind to flip the stew at the display, but what good would that do? No, there was only one thing that would bring me satisfaction.

I'll find the witch and kill the bastard that designed this bullshit circle.

Filled with a renewed vigor, I focused my attention back onto the Inquisitor. But it seemed their conversation had moved on to the country's politics and their annoyances with its taxing structure.

I wondered about their concerns regarding the manuscript.

Hawkthorne is right for all the wrong reasons. If enough people start taking that pamphlet seriously, we're gonna see a lot more innocent people getting killed for no reason at all.

I wasn't going to find any answers tonight. It was getting late and I decided to return to my room and check the Butcher's logs. 

Lying in bed, I scrolled through all the entries. They seemed innocuous at first. 

[Walter's Log: Had a pint at the tavern after closing. Old Tom wouldn't stop going on about the executions. I'm worried. He'll get in trouble talkin like that.]

[Walter's Log: The missus cooked up dinner. A bit under-seasoned, but I didn't have the heart to tell her.]

[Walter's Log: Sat by the fireplace and practiced my letters. Don't know why they made L's and I's look so damn similar.]

[Walter's Log: The man is back again.]

I sat up straight when I read that entry.

Is he talking about the Pale Man?

I continued to scroll through. 

[Walter's Log: Every time I check the window, he's still there.]

[Walter's Log: I asked the missus. She doesn't recognize him. He must be from out of town. Lot of out-of-towners lately. I don't like it.]

[Walter's Log: He saw me.]

[Walter's Log: He's making me nervous.]

[Walter's Log: I've had it. I'm going to put a stop to this.]

This isn't good...

I left my room and quietly made my way down the inn's steps and into the kitchen. I needed a weapon, but the demon's bone was still with the blacksmith. Fortunately, Beaumont had left out his set of knives to prepare the stew. I grabbed the largest one and ran out the backdoor. 

As I emerged onto the street, the cold night's air nipped at my skin. A display popped up before me:

[Walter's Log: He'll think twice about comin' around here.]

I cursed under my breath.

No, you idiot... He's gonna kill you!