'Qui: The Fall of Ottawa' Chapter 3

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Chapter 3:

Qui recoiled and nearly dropped the enchanted falchion. The vision was slowly receding, but he could still feel the artifact's unholy Hunger pulsing through the metal into his exposed palms with a phantom heat. It felt like he'd seen the execution with his own eyes. 

"Was it real?" he asked.

"The blade shows you its desire," Cranston replied. "It wants to be used. To kill. I don't know if this willfulness was intentionally imbued when the weapon was forged or if the Sabbat rituals twisted it in some way unfathomable to the Camarilla, but the origin of its Hunger matters little at this point. What does matter is if you have the will to use it."

Qui eyed the blade warily. It would be a useful tool in the right hands, but did he dare use a weapon with a will of its own? Was he strong enough? There were precious few who could attest to his quality in combat—most Kindred who witnessed him at his most proficient were no longer available for consultation. The nature of his profession left very few witnesses, which in and of itself was an indication of success. He should take comfort in that. But this blade…

"It showed me destroying Prince Jonah," Qui said. "Is it attuned to your desire or has it projected its own bloodlust onto you?"

That gave Cranston pause. She thought for a moment before answering. "A troubling question, assassin, but one easily answered. My opinion on Jonah's leadership was made up when he failed to heed my warning about the FLQ and led his men into a trap. These events were set in motion several nights before I first laid eyes on the sword so I very much doubt the blade could be the origin of my enmity for our current Prince."

The logic was hard to argue with, but Qui felt uneasy all the same. "Have you killed with it?" he asked.

"Mortals only. It didn't suit me, which is why I'm reluctantly offering it to you in exchange for services rendered."

Qui watched his reflection in the blade. He looked stronger when he was holding it. More confident. "And if it disrupts my business with these visions?" he asked. "I can see that being a liability if I fall into a trance mid-battle."

"The blade seems to possess a certain level of intelligence," Cranston said. "It makes its desire known and then it fades while the mystical properties remain intact."

"I wasn't aware that you were a scholar of mysticism."

Cranston shook her head. "I am not. I consulted my Tremere contact in the Quebec City Chantry. His name is Henrik Lang. He's ferociously devoted to his studies and in the decades we've worked together, he's never been wrong in matters of the arcane."

Qui nodded. That would have to do. He didn't come all this way for nothing, and the sword was of exquisite make. It felt light in his hands, perfectly balanced in a way single-edged swords like falchions rarely were in his experience. If the Warlocks he'd spoken to before accepting the job were to be believed, the blade was supernaturally sharp which would make it far easier to dispatch vampiric foes in one or two blows before they knew to raise their defenses.

"So you'll take the job?" Cranston asked.

"The blade will come with me," Qui said.

"When Prince Jonah is destroyed."

Qui gave her a look. "Now."

Cranston hesitated. It made her look weak and Qui bet that she knew it. Still, he was pushing his luck and she likely knew that, too. They were at an impasse and someone would have to give ground.

"Fine," she said after a lengthy silence. "But only because the blade itself showed you how it desired to be used." She reached down beside the display case, lifted a thick leather scabbard, and handed it to him. It looked ancient but when he touched it there was no sign of brittleness or aging. 

He shifted the falchion to his right hand and took the sheath in the other. The blade whispered something to him again in a language he didn't understand before he slid it home, housing it until the time was right. He'd need to find a Warlock he could trust to examine it as soon as the job was done. If the enchantment was beyond his ability to fully control, he could just as easily sell it off to a Chantry for enough money to set him up with a new identity for the next decade or more. Either way, he came out on top and Cranston got what she wanted. Win-win.

Now that the matter of price was out of the way, Qui decided it was time to get down to the finer details. "The time frame you proposed—you'll be sticking to it?"

"Yes," Cranston said. "It was impossible to bring you here and get you set up into a privileged position without alerting the Primogen Council. Therefore, I am responsible for your behavior for the duration of your stay. Jonah, himself, will be welcoming you to the city tomorrow night."

That part hadn't surprised Qui. There were two ways to kill a Prince in his experience—quickly, from the shadows, or by earning their trust before the inevitable betrayal. The former was typically the most efficient when it could be pulled off, but Princes were often well protected against knives in the night. The latter was preferred by clients who wanted their target to suffer humiliation, a fate many Kindred considered to be worse than final death.

Cranston not only wanted Jonah to suffer—she wanted to usurp him and take praxis for herself. It was ambition enough to get her killed in other domains, but Ottawa had been circling the drain for so many years that more powerful Kindred couldn't be bothered with it. Even the supposedly all-knowing Camarilla Archons had left it to rot as a temporary bulwark against Montreal's Sabbat hordes. If the packs' bloodlust was satisfied by raiding within Canada, it kept them from turning their gaze toward the Camarilla's more fragile projects to the south, in Manhattan.

"We'll change the tides of this domain," Cranston said as if she could sense what he was thinking. "And then we'll show our strength by scouring Montreal and taking it as our own."

Qui shook his head. "I'm not here for your politics," he said as respectfully as he could. "I'm here to get a job done."

Cranston waved her hand. "Of course, of course. Perhaps I've gotten overeager. We'll stick to the time frame we originally discussed. Jonah will require a heavy police presence during the conclave. That's when you'll move our ghouls and allies into the most advantageous positions without raising suspicion." 

"You're not concerned that the Council and visiting dignitaries will disrupt your plans?"

"The coup will take place before the visitors arrive," Cranston said. "To them, it will merely be yet another of Jonah's failures—the one that finally put him into the ground. The most emotional response I'm expecting from his contemporaries is that of amusement." 

Qui frowned. Kindred politics were rarely so simple, and they would get exponentially more complex the moment his employer attempted to seize leadership for herself. Then again, that wasn't really his problem—all he had to do was set the stage; what she did with it afterward was up to her. "I'll want to familiarize myself with the other players," he said. "Just in case things go sideways."

"You'll have three months to prepare before the conclave," Cranston said. "I'm sure you'll make the most of them." She looked him over closely. "That remarkable face of yours, blemish-free…that's why they'll believe I brought you in to manage law enforcement. An enigmatic right hand among the mortals who I can direct as I will. Most Nosferatu here are rather insular—other than myself, we don't like to delegate power outside the clan if we can help it. My counterpart, Michel Bouchard, wouldn't tolerate me assigning Kindred of another clan to this position. No one will question your presence in the court as long as you keep your head down and don't make too many waves before the big night."

Qui had met Bouchard upon his arrival to Ottawa and that had been enough contact to last him several lifetimes. The man was a rancorous old Sewer Rat—he'd taken one look at Qui and bore his hideous fangs with fury, accusing him of deception. He hadn't believed Qui was a Nosferatu at all until he had a good and proper look. Qui suffered the indignity quietly, disrobing and sweeping his long hair aside so Bouchard could examine the long, weeping scar that traced its way from the base of his neck all the way down his spine. 

He had only been a fledgeling when the Sabbat experimented on him with both Tremere sorcery and the unholy discipline of Vicissitude, leaving his deformities inexplicably bound into a wound that constantly pulsed with pain and an uncomfortable warmth. It was both an impossibility and his personal truth simultaneously. He couldn't explain it any better than the Camarilla scholars and sorcerers who had examined him year after year could. The vampires who did this to him were destroyed over a century ago, leaving him with more questions than answers.

"You said I'll be meeting with the Prince tomorrow night," he said. "Do you have any specific instructions?"

Cranston smiled. "You'll be escorted into Elysium by an associate of mine named Arundel. Behave and be humble—your typical charming self."

"Arundel?" Qui asked. "The Ventrue Primogen? Is he part of this?"

"He is who he needs to be," Cranston replied with infuriating vagueness. "Let's just say I trust him more than I trust you."

"Quite a recommendation."

Cranston snorted. "You're certainly confident, assassin. Just make sure my faith in you is well placed."