Leaving Isfrid in the tailor's workshop to endure Elias's measurements, Faust stepped back out into the cold Weimar drizzle.
He pulled his collar tight against the draft, his solitary eye scanning the crowded streets with practiced disdain.
He needed an Inquisitorial seal for their next step.
Faust sighed, his breath curling like smoke in the damp air.
The Inquisition, once a terrifying instrument of supernatural purging, had long since devolved into an apparatus of corrupt, ledger-watching bureaucrats. The entire continent was simmering with foul tension; another catastrophic war felt ready to erupt at the whims of arrogant churchmen and squabbling kings, while colonial empires devoured the New World in an insatiable frenzy of plunder.
There were days Faust genuinely envied his mortal siblings. They had turned to dust decades ago, spared the indignity of watching the modern world choke on its own greed.
He turned down a narrow alley and climbed the damp flagstones toward the regional court of the Generalvikar. Instead of the Inquisition, secular courts and the courts of Fürstbischoves dealt with cases of heresy, witchcraft, and, most importantly, large-scale witch hunts. But either way each of these institutions shared a tight-knot relations, often mistaken by the others to be this or the latter.
Inquisitions and these courts of Holy Roman Empire had different names, albeit same functions.
Inside, the hall smelled of damp wool, tallow candles, and sour ink.
Behind an iron grille sat a clerk, slumped over a mountain of requisitions, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.
Without bothering to look up, the clerk slid a blank affidavit through the iron bars.
"State your parish of origin, provide your baptismal records, and list two guarantors of pure faith," he muttered in a monotonous drone.
Faust didn't touch the parchment.
Instead, he reached into his breast pocket and tossed a heavy, folded promissory draft onto the scarred wood. Wax-sealed in deep crimson, it bore the unmistakable, deeply embossed crest of the Saxe-Weimar Herzog family.
The clerk's eyes dropped to the seal, then widened as they caught the initial balance inscribed in gold ink. He snapped his head up, his mouth opening in absolute shock as he took in the tall, dark-skinned nobleman looming over the counter.
"Wait... wait right here," the clerk stammered, scrambling to his feet so violently his chair scraped across the floor. He hesitated, swallows hard, and awkwardly added, "...Sir."
Five minutes dragged by before the clerk scurried back into the hall, lingering behind a tall, austere figure draped in the heavy, slate-gray robes of the high clergy. The hooded official swept into the chamber, his sharp, pale eyes narrowing as he evaluated Faust from head to toe.
He picked up the draft, turning the paper over to scrutinize the watermark and the ducal signature.
"A strange envoy," the hooded man spoke, his voice smooth and freezing. "What business does the ruling Herzog have with our tribunal that requires such... theatrical discretion?"
Faust offered a cold, knowing smirk.
"My house has poured enough gold into your cathedral's coffers over the last century to dispense with the interrogation. Herzog has a small, immediate request: an unrestricted Inquisitor's seal and safe conduct."
The man stared at Faust in absolute silence for three long beats.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he slid the paper back across the iron grate toward Faust's fingers.
"The seals of the Holy Inquisition are sacred instruments. We cannot fulfill this. Take your draft and leave. Unless you are ready to go through all the formalities and procedures to become an Inquisitor."
Faust's smile only widened, dripping with aristocratic venom.
"A pity. I shall return straight to the Herzog's residence and inform him that the Holy Office finds his patronage worthless, unable to accommodate a simple trifle."
He reached out, his fingers brushing the parchment to withdraw it.
Before his skin could touch the paper, the hooded man's pale hand shot out, snatching the draft away. The official reached into his sleeve, uncapped a silver reservoir pen, and smoothly scribbled a single, bold zero onto the end of the sum.
Faust let out a rich, booming chuckle that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling.
Leaning forward against the iron grille, Faust took the pen directly from the cleric's fingers.
With a casual, effortless flick of his wrist, he inked another zero onto the parchment, multiplying the already astronomical sum tenfold.
Faust slid the check back, his amber eye flashing beneath the white bandage.
"I'll be sure to put in a good word for you, Fürstbischof."