Sessio XI -- Priest's Gambit

Godefried grew exasperated, "I understand that you want to find this 'Lorenzo' character to join forces, but I've yet to hear a plausible plan to find a man who makes a point of not being found. You don't even know if he wants help!"

Fr. Malachi nodded. "It's true, but it does seem that God led us to this point -- together. We have a chance to do some real good here. How can we not try?"

Godefried sighed.

"I know you don't believe him about the divine destiny stuff," Fiona said, indicating Fr. Malachi, "and I don't know if I do, either, but I do think we can find Lorenzo, and I do think he'd be interested in allies. Knowing what I do about his endeavors these past few weeks, he seems to have gone out of his way to recruit people who could help him. That's how he ended up recruiting -- "

"'Avicellus' ...yes, yes. Youv'e told us before. The enigmatic man with a bird mask who lurks in shadows and battles nefarious forces," Godefried scoffed.

"Say what you will," Fr. Malachi interjected, "but you and I well know that the rumors have indeed been widespread. Our young friend here did not make them up. You know they've caused much consternation amonst the nobility and churchmen alike."

Godefried sighed again.

"So what do you propose we do, since you seem to be so well-connected to the seedy underbelly of this fine city?" he asked Fiona.

"We know that Gautiero Gallo, the Medici henchman from the bakery said that the Medici archive in the basement was pilfered, and 'Avicellus' was suspected. Lorenzo obviously want to get his hands on Medici documents, so why don't we pilfer some of on our own. That will give us leverage to negotiate with Lorenzo," Fiona said.

"That still doesn't help us find this Lorenzo to do any negotiating in the first place!" Godefried shot back.

Fr. Malachi answered in a soft tone, trying to sooth the tension between his two friends, "We can continue looking for him in the meantime. Besides, if it becomes known that we have such documents, Lorenzo may come and find us first."

"That's precisely the sort of thing I'm afriad of," replied Godefried resignedly, knowing that he already had been outvoted on this course of action.

After another pause, he looked at Fiona, "Well? You're such a criminal genius. What do you propose we try to steal? And from whom? And when?"

Fiona's face lit up with a smile, "I thought you'd never ask!" She unfolded a slip of dingy paper from her pocket, "Here," she continued, "there's a courier from Venice that regularly makes rounds through Ravenna to carry messages to and from the Grimani family in Venice and the Medici. I've been tracking his movements, and he's due back in Florence this week. He always stays at the Whispering Frog."

"Does he travel alone?" Godefried asked.

Fiona's eyes dropped a bit, knowing Godefried wasn't going to like her answer. "He does, about half the time. Sometimes he travels with one or two companions. He almost always poses as a wool merchant, though."

Fr. Malachi interjected, "Very well. Let's surveil the inn and wait for his arrival." He looked over to Godefried, "Then, we can decide if it's safe enough to make a move and how we might go about it!"

Godefried replied, "I know better than to try to dissuade you when you get like this, no matter how crazy the idea is. Fine. But if I see the setup and say we're aborting the mission, the mission is over, agreed?"

"Whole-heartedly!" exclaimed Fr. Malachi with glee.

***

The Whispering Frog, a squat inn nestled in a narrow alley off Florence’s bustling Via Calimala, hummed with the clatter of mugs and the murmur of travelers. Its faded green sign, depicting a frog with a knowing smirk, swung above the door. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of stale ale, roasted mutton, and damp wool. Rough-hewn tables crowded the common room, where merchants haggled and locals swapped gossip. A staircase in the corner led to private rooms upstairs, and a back door opened to a cramped courtyard stacked with barrels and crates. The inn’s reputation as a haven for discreet dealings had made it the perfect stop for a Venetian courier posing as a wool merchant.

As evening fell, Godefried, Fr. Malachi, and Fiona had taken up positions to surveil the inn. Fiona, cloaked in shadows near the courtyard, had used her skills to blend into the alley’s gloom, her eyes sharp for the courier’s arrival. Godefried, his plate mail muffled under a heavy cloak, had stood across the street, leaning against a wall as if waiting for a friend, weaing an intimidating scowl to deter prying eyes. Fr. Malachi, dressed in simple robes to pass as a wandering priest, had lingered near the inn’s entrance. Their plan had been to spot the courier, confirm his companions, and devise a way to steal the Medici-Grimani documents without raising alarms.

A horse-drawn cart had rumbled into view, stopping at the inn’s courtyard. A wiry man in his thirties, dressed in a wool merchant’s tunic and cap, had dismounted—likely the courier, based on Fiona’s description. Two others had accompanied him: a burly man with a shortsword at his hip, who scanned the alley warily, and a lean woman with a hooded cloak, her hand resting on a dagger. They had unloaded three heavy trunks from the cart, each secured with a sturdy lock, and carried them into the inn through the back door. The courtyard gate had been left ajar, guarded loosely by the burly man, who lit a pipe and leaned against a crate. Inside, the courier and the woman had headed upstairs, their voices low but urgent, mentioning “Grimani’s orders” and “Medici’s cut.”

Godefried's eyes met Fr. Malachi's at a distance, and the fighter shook his head almost inperceptably, but definitely communicating: "No!"  Fr. Malachi raised his eyebrows above a sheepish grin which pleaded with Godefried to forge ahead.

Godefried rolled his eyes, knowing that Fr. Malachi, as usual, would have his way.   He approached the burly man and began asking him for directions to the cockfights. Fr. Malachi entered the tavern through the front door. The burly man's increasing annoyance allowed Fiona to move silently behind the guard, slipping into the courtyard.

Inside the Whispering Frog, Fr. Malachi had pushed through the front door, his robes brushing the worn floorboards. The common room bustled with rough laughter and clinking mugs. A barmaid weaved through the crowd, balancing a tray of ale, while two merchants argued loudly over wool prices at a corner table. The staircase to the private rooms loomed to his left, and the back door to the courtyard stood half-open, revealing a sliver of the crates outside. The courier and the cloaked woman had vanished upstairs, their footsteps echoing faintly from the floor above.

In the courtyard, Fiona had crouched behind a barrel, her eyes scanning the trunks left near the cart. The three locked chests, each the size of a small coffer, bore the faint crest of the Grimani family etched into their wood. The courtyard was dimly lit by a single lantern swaying above the back door, casting long shadows. A stray cat slunk past, its eyes glinting, and the distant clatter of the inn’s kitchen drifted through the air. The burly guard’s voice carried from the gate, still grumbling at Godefried, who kept up his ruse with dogged persistence.

The situation teetered on a knife’s edge. Godefried’s distraction had held the guard’s focus, but the man’s patience seemed to wane, his hand now resting on his sword hilt. Fr. Malachi stood in the common room, unnoticed for now, with access to the staircase or the back door to the courtyard. Fiona, hidden among the crates, had a clear view of the trunks but risked detection if she moved to pick their locks. The courier and the woman remained upstairs, their voices too faint to discern. A sudden shout from the inn’s kitchen: “Oi, who left the gate open?” threatened to draw attention to the courtyard.

Godefried apologized to the burly man and stepped away, slipping around the corner and in through the front door to join Fr. Malachi, still standing there, taking in the layout of the inn. For his part, Fr. Malachi was absorbed with trying to figure out how to get upstairs, and both were worried about Fiona.

Fr. Malachi stood near the entrance, his eyes darting between the staircase and the back door. The inn’s clamor -- merchants’ arguments, the clatter of mugs, and a bard’s off-key lute -- masked their hushed exchange as they worried over Fiona’s fate in the courtyard. Fr. Malachi’s fingers tightened on his holy hammer, his mind racing to find a way upstairs where the courier and the cloaked woman had vanished.

In the courtyard, Fiona had frozen behind a barrel at the innkeeper’s shout about the open gate. Her heart pounded as she pressed deeper into the shadows, her lithe form blending with the crates. The three locked trunks sat tantalizingly close, their Grimani crests barely visible in the lantern’s flicker. The innkeeper, a stout man with a stained apron, had appeared at the back door, peering into the courtyard. “Damned fools, leaving the gate open,” he grumbled, stepping out to inspect. He hadn’t spotted Fiona, but his presence blocked her path to the trunks. The burly guard glanced over, distracted by the innkeeper’s muttering, while upstairs, the courier’s voice grew sharper, arguing with the woman about “delays” and “the Florence deal.”

The innkeeper lingered in the courtyard, muttering as he checked the gate, inches from Fiona’s hiding spot. The burly guard’s attention wavered, splitting between the innkeeper and the alley beyond. Inside, Godefried and Fr. Malachi stood unnoticed in the common room’s din, with the staircase to the upper rooms temptingly close but guarded by a passing barmaid who eyed strangers warily. The courier and woman’s argument upstairs grew heated, their words hinting at Medici-Grimani secrets. A sudden crash from the kitchen -- breaking crockery -- drew the innkeeper’s gaze back toward the inn, offering a fleeting moment of opportunity.

Fr. Malachi acted quickly and approached the inkeeper, his voice warm and disarming. "Hello, my son!" he said. We would like to rent a room. Do you have a special rate for a poor, itinerant priest and a veteran returning from the Dragonborn Wars?

The innkeeper, still grumbling about the open gate, turned to face the cleric, his scowl softening at the mention of charity. “A priest, eh? And a soldier?” he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron. “Got no special rates, but I’ll not turn away a man of the cloth. Two silver for a night, upstairs, third door. Don’t cause trouble.” His eyes lingered on Fr. Malachi, then flicked to Godefried, who loomed nearby in the common room’s doorway, his cloaked figure imposing despite his limp.

Fiona, still crouched behind the barrel, had held her breath as the innkeeper’s attention shifted to Fr. Malachi. The courtyard remained dim, the lantern casting flickering shadows over the three locked trunks. The burly guard, distracted by the conversation, had turned his back to the gate, puffing on his pipe. Inside, the common room’s din had grown louder, the bard’s lute now joined by a drunken patron singing off-key. Upstairs, the courier and the cloaked woman’s argument had quieted, replaced by the sound of footsteps pacing across creaking floorboards. The barmaid, carrying a tray of mugs, had paused near the staircase, her gaze sweeping the room but missing Godefried, who stood half-hidden in the doorway’s shadow.

Suddenly, a sharp clatter echoed from the alley beyond the courtyard gate. A stray dog had knocked over a crate, startling the guard. He cursed, drawing his shortsword and stepping toward the noise, leaving the courtyard momentarily unguarded. The innkeeper, still talking to Fr. Malachi, hadn’t noticed, but his conversation was winding down, his eyes drifting back toward the trunks. Upstairs, a door had slammed, and the courier’s voice barked, “We leave at dawn—make sure the papers are ready!”

"I hope it's not too much of an imposition," started Fr. Malachi, drawing the inkeeper's attention back to himself as he handed him a gold coin, "but would you be so kind as to show us the way to the room you mean?  My companion here is injured and struggles to walk long distances."

The innkeeper’s eyes had widened at the coin. It was far more than the two silver he’d asked for, and he pocketed it swiftly, his gruff demeanor softening. “Right, Father, no trouble at all,” he said, turning toward the back door of the inn. “Follow me, it’s just upstairs. Mind your step, soldier,” he added, glancing at Godefried, who nodded silently, his limp exaggerated for effect as he trailed behind.

In the courtyard, Fiona had remained motionless behind the barrel, her breath shallow as the innkeeper’s boots crunched past her hiding spot. The burly guard, still distracted by the clattered crate in the alley, had wandered further out, his shortsword glinting as he peered into the darkness, muttering about “damn dogs.” The three locked trunks sat unguarded, their Grimani crests catching the lantern’s faint glow. Inside the common room, the din had swelled. A merchant had spilled ale, shouting at the barmaid, who scurried to clean it up, leaving the staircase momentarily clear. Upstairs, the courier’s pacing had stopped, replaced by the rustle of parchment and a low murmur about “sealing the deal before Florence burns.”

The innkeeper had led Fr. Malachi and Godefried through the inn, passing the kitchen where a cook cursed over a broken pot. They reached the staircase, its worn steps creaking underfoot, as the innkeeper pointed upward. “Third door on the left, Father. Key’s on the hook by the door,” he said, already turning back to the kitchen’s chaos. The courier and the cloaked woman’s voices grew clearer from above, now discussing “the Red Scarf’s payment” and “Byzantine gold.” Outside, the guard had returned to the courtyard gate, his pipe relit, but his eyes remained on the alley, missing Fiona’s shadowed form.

While the inkeeper was drawn away and the guard was distracted by the commotion, Fiona was able to pick the locks on all three chests. She surprised even herself, as picking locks was not a skill she was particularly good at, despite her history of theivery. She typically preferred to rely on her appearance and charms to con her marks into handing over whatever she wanted.

Nonetheless, she was able to get them open and looked inside.

The lanterns' dim glow had illuminated the Grimani crests on the trunks as she lifted their lids, her heart racing with anticipation. Inside, she had found a trove concealed among wool samples: folded documents bearing wax seals, a shimmering elven cloak that seemed to ripple like moonlight, a sturdy steel gauntlet etched with faint runes, and a silver amulet shaped like a carpenter’s hammer, glowing softly with a holy aura.

Inside the Whispering Frog, Fr. Malachi and Godefried had lingered at the base of the staircase, the inn’s clamor masking their presence. The barmaid, still occupied with the spilled ale, had paid them no mind, but a drunken merchant at a nearby table had begun eyeing Godefried’s armored silhouette suspiciously. Upstairs, the courier and the cloaked woman’s voices had grown tense, their words sharp: “The Red Scarf expects the Medici’s payment by tomorrow, or Florence will see blood.” The creak of a chair suggested one of them was moving toward the door. Outside, the guard had turned back to the courtyard, his pipe’s glow flickering as he scanned the area, oblivious to Fiona’s success but growing restless.

Fiona, recognizing the elven cloak for its stealth value, quickly threw it over her own shoulders. She pocketed the documents without reading them. She also pocketed the pendant and shoved the gauntlets under her arm beneath the cloak. Then, she quietly fastened the padlocks again and used her cloak to slip into the inn through the back door.

She remained unseen right up to the point where she stood shoulder to shoulder with Godefried at the base of the stairs.

"We have to go," she said, slightly out of breath.

"How did you get --" started Godefried with surprise.

"No time to explain," Fiona reiterated, "Got what we came for. Let's go. Now."

The three left through the front door and made their way back to the hostel in Santa Croce. None said a word along the way. Only once they reached the safety of their quarters did Fiona hand over the documents and the items.

"Here are the documents. I grabbed these, too, figuring they could be useful for you lot. I have no idea what they do."

Godefried pored over the documents while Fr. Malachi examined the pendant and gauntlets, trying to figure out their magical properties.

The documents from the trunks had revealed fragments of a plot: one letter, penned in a hurried script, detailed a Grimani-Medici agreement to fund a shipment of Byzantine weapons to Florence, destined for “allies in the shadows.” Another note mentioned a meeting at the “Charcoal Flame” on the new moon, signed with a red scarf symbol. These would certainly be revelations that would interest Lorenzo, if they could ever find him.

As Godefried finished deciphering the messy scrawl on the letter, Fr. Malachi had figured out what the items did.  The pendant, which he claimed for himself because of the hammer motif, granted him a bonus to melee attack and damage. The steel gauntlets, which were given to Godefried, seemed to give him a sense of protection.

The pilgrims' hostel had been quiet, save for the distant creak of a cart outside and the soft snoring of other lodgers. The documents and items had sat on the table, their secrets partially unveiled, but the trio knew their heist had likely stirred a hornets’ nest. In fact, they were counting on it.

The courier and his companions at the Whispering Frog would soon notice the missing items, and the Red Scarf’s agents could already be hunting for the thieves. The “Charcoal Flame” meeting loomed as a lead to Lorenzo, but its location remained unknown, and Florence’s streets were alive with Medici spies and Venetian whispers.

It didn't take too long for Lorenzo to find them. After all, they had tasked Fiona with spreading the word that she had a rather unique, hammer-shaped pendant to fence.

Three nights later, Fr. Malachi was sitting by lamplight, enjoying a glass of Chartreuse, when he heard Fiona call from the hallway. "Help! Father! They've stolen the pendant! They've got me at daggerpoint!"

Fr. Malachi's fingers stroked the hammer pendant around his own neck as he looked over at Fiona, sound asleep on her mat.  He gently kicked Godefried in the bed to wake him up. The room was so small, he didn't need to get out of his chair. Godefried, initially groggy, sat up with a start when he heard Fiona's voice crying for help from the other side of the door, but Fr. Malachi just smirked and motioned over toward the sleeping girl on the floor. Then he motioned toward the door.

Godefried quietly and carefully positioned himself so he could swing open the door while remaining completely behind it once it opened. This he did, revealing the imposing figure of a plague doctor dressed in black from head to foot in the doorway. Safely at a distance, Fr. Malachi simply said through a broad smile, "Avicellus, I presume? We've been expecting you. Why don't you come in and have a seat. We have a lot to discuss."

Avicellus entered the room uneasily, stepping far to the side, as he knew someone was behind the door. Godefried closed it without trying to be quiet, and Fiona roused at the sound.

"Don't fear, my good doctor," the priest continued, "we mean you no harm. Additionally, I have what you came for right here," he said, holding up the documents, "and what's more, I fully intend to hand them over to you without a fight."

"I -- I don't understand," Avicellus replied.

"You see," Fr. Malachi continued, "we regard ourselves as allies to you and your patron, Lorenzo. We stole these documents for Lorenzo to aid him in his holy mission to rid Florence of tyrannical corruption."

"What do you want for them?" Avicellus asked, assuming that there must be a catch.

"Payment? Why, we want you to take us to Lorenzo, or to bring Lorenzo to us. We would like to combine our efforts, and we think our skills could help you greatly. I think we may have already proven that," he said as he placed the folded documents back on the table and tapped them with a heavy finger.

"You can imagine that I cannot simply take you to Lorenzo's safe house..." began Avicellus.

"Indeed!" said Fr. Malachi with a laugh. "No, I ask only that you give us your word that you will arrange a meeting where we might make our offer to him directly. You can bring him here or you can summon us to a meeting in a public place on a day or night of his choosing. In fact, as a gesture of goodwill, here." Fr. Malachi held out the small sheaf of documents to Avicellus. "You may take these to him now.  All I ask is your promise to me, as a priest, that you will convey our request and honor your word."

Avicellus, not quite sure what to make of the whole situation, took the documents and promised as the priest asked.

The following morning, a note was slipped under the trio's door, asking them to meet Avicellus and Lorenzo two nights hence. Of course, this was but a ruse, as the following evening, Avicellus and Lorenzo surprised them at their room. After a long conversation during which much trust was built, Lorenzo told the trio of the artifacts and the plan he had with Avicellus. For his part, Avicellus agreed to work with the three newcomers. As dawn came, the five sealed their agreement with a toast. Henceforth, the four adventurers would be working together to achieve positive change in Florence.