Debt
Hannah Musil looked around her shop and sighed. It had been a slow morning, like many mornings, but Hannah was content. It was a good place. The spires nearby weren’t so high that the morning rays were kept from filtering golden through the windows, which themselves remained intact thanks to the great distance between her and any Gruul turf. And what was more, she was quite unlike many guildless Ravnicans in that she owned the place, free and clear. The desk she sat at, the floor and shelves neatly stacked, the upstairs room that might have been big enough for two but suited her alone just fine – they were all hers, and if anything happened to her they would go to her cousin Rachel.
Not that the Azorius weren’t around twice a month, to collect property taxes or sales taxes, or license fees, or some other legally obligated coin, but most of the people she knew had to deal with landlords pinching every penny and helping not at all with the infestations of rats or crumbling infrastructure that their tenants, thanks to the absurd rent, had no means to repair.
Yes, Hannah thought, leaning a little back in her chair, life was good enough selling cookware here. She had her place, was making steady profits, and if she ever found the time for it she was still young enough that she fancied the idea of discovering a handsome man to start a family with this year, or the next, or the one after, perhaps.
Then, the door swung open, ringing the bell that alerted her to the presence of a potential customer. Hannah sat up straight, put on her best smile, and took a look.
The man who stepped through her door was old but vital, his face weathered and creased quite hideously, though he attempted to lighten it with a smile. His clothes were very fine – White, violet, black, and gold including slacks, a shirt and fashionable waistcoat, and a longer coat that from a distance might have been mistaken for a set of robes, for there could be little doubt that this man was part of the Orzhov clergy: had his colors and finery not given it away, had the mass of golden rings set with precious stones jammed on his bony fingers not been a sure sign, the heavy and gem-encrusted signet that hung from his neck by a golden chain, laying just above the buttons of his vest, marked him beyond any doubt.
He stepped in calmly, confidently, brushing a little dust from his white sleeves and taking his tall, brimmed had from his head and holding it to his breast, revealing neatly combed hair he could not really hide was thinning and graying.
“Can I help you?” Hannah asked, “Cauldrons are on sale, they’re in the corner over there.”
“Actually,” the man said, his voice cool and smooth, “I did not come to make a purchase, though your stock does look very nice.”
“Oh?” Hannah asked
“To tell the truth,” he said, “I was hoping to make an investment.”
***
Hannah may not have been part of the “Gateless” rabble who raged violently at the guilds, but neither did she entirely trust them. Part of her was worried – the numbers involved in Pontiff Kuznik’s offer were over her head. She could do sums, but the formulae invoked, or sometimes simply referenced, were so complex she could only take or refuse his word that the terms were fair.
That part of her which wanted to walk away, though, was outweighed by the fact that the money the pontiff was offering could really help her business. She could afford finer stock that attracted finer customers and earned higher profits. She might even be able to hire an extra hand to help around the shop, so she would not have to stay up late into the night sweeping out from under the shelves. He’d want the money back, plus some profit for himself, but Hannah had allowed herself to be convinced that there would be enough benefit in it for them both.
There was one alteration Hannah had made to the bargain, which she was becoming increasingly glad she had made – the investment was, technically, in her and her alone. Pontiff Kuznik has been quite displeased with that at first, not having the shop itself as a security, but the plot had been in Hannah’s family for three generations and she’d rather see it in Rachel’s hands and herself in the Orzhov’s clutches than the shop given away to Kuznik and herself on her cousin’s doorstep.
It had all gone very well at first – she had taken the loan and used it to advertise, to improve her stock, to fix a few of the minor things that were wrong with the building. Her shop was more beautiful than ever, and it drew in more and better paying customers than ever. Surely, she had enough profit that she would soon pay off the investment and thereafter be able to enjoy her side of the benefits.
But then, things had slowed down drastically. She was selling less cookware than she had in the slowest times before she had taken that loan, and while her income had dropped drastically, the payments required had not. Indeed, they had started getting larger if anything, as the interest she could not scrape together enough coins to cover was gradually being added to the principal, and gaining the Orzhov interest of its own. And at the same time, she could no longer really afford to stock nice things, and that made her profits shrink even further.
Pontiff Kuznik sat across from her, feigning a sympathetic frown.
“It is a shame,” he said, “That business has become so poor for you. And it is my misfortune that this is not the first time I have seen an investment turn sour.”
He picked up the sheaf of papers in front of him, tapped it against the desk to even out the edges, and sat it back down.
“If I may share some of my wisdom with you,” he said, “You could be overwhelmed if this goes on much longer. Now, no one wishes such a mass of unsecured debt, nr the wages of bankruptcy, so it is my professional opinion that you should cash out now.”
“Excuse me?” Hannah demanded
“Miss Musil,” he said, “I am prepared to offer you, for this location, not only the full and complete forgiveness of your debt, but a sum of five thousand zinos beyond that, in recognition of the value of the property. Five thousand zinos, I’m sure you’ll agree, would be quite sufficient capital to restart your business elsewhere, perhaps somewhere more conducive to your profit.”
Hannah folded her arms across her chest. Whatever she had to do, the Orzhov weren’t going to get her shop. That wasn’t something she would allow as long as she lived.
“While I’m sure it’s a fair offer,” she said, “I’m not going to accept. This place has always been good for business, and a moment’s downturn isn’t going to scare me off of it.”
“Be that as it may, miss Musil,” pontiff Kuznik replied, “Your debt is going up, and the value of this land is not. The longer you the wait, the less profit I shall be able to offer you.” He sighed, “But of course I must remember you are not a churchgoing woman. Perhaps if you were part of the flock, you might understand a little more about my offer.”
Hannah thought about it. She had never liked the big, gaudy church, its beautiful windows and high-arched buttresses marred by the presence of repulsive thrulls, but it couldn’t hurt to see how the Orzhov conducted business among their own. Perhaps there would even be a way out of her predicament if she gave lip service to the pontiff’s faith.
“And if I were to become a churchgoer?”
“Well,” Kuznik replied, “I should be very pleased, for it is my first and foremost duty to spread the word and will of Orzhova. The tithe to enter the basilica is a mere two zibs. A small price to pay for salvation, don’t you agree?”
“I’ll think about it.” Hannah said.
Kuznik stood, and took the purse he had carefully counted the value of – every zib she had earned in the week that she could spare, yet still not enough to begin paying the principal down. He gave a short bow, put on his hat, and walked out the door.
***
Hannah Musil wandered through the great hall of the Orzhov church, looking up at its architecture and around at the people and… things in it, uncertain where she fit in their design. Perhaps she should have picked a different time, when there was a major service, in order to pay her visit. But she had paid her two zibs, and she hoped to gain at least something for it.
“Are you lost?” a young man’s voice asked.
“I…” she said, looking to him. He was somewhere in his twenties, she guessed, and dressed in the garb of a low ranked cleric, thin hands adorned by only a few gold rings, less dressed up than the withered or worse, horrifically bloated elder clergy but probably better off looking for it. “I’m sorry this is my first time here.”
The young man nodded, “It’s always good to see a fresh convert to the faith. What did you need?”
“Well,” she said, “Actually, I was just having a look around. My name’s Hannah – Hannah Musil. I have some unpleasant business with Pontiff Kuznik, and he suggested I might discover some help if I came to church.”
“Oh!” the young priest said, “Miss Musil, I hadn’t expected… well, I happen to work for Pontiff Kuznik myself, so I’m familiar with some of the particulars of your case. Perhaps I can be of assistance. My name is Yuri.”
Hannah nodded, “I’d like that very much, Yuri.” She glanced over her shoulder, and around at the church again, “Though I have to admit seeing all this has made me rather curious about some of the matters of faith, or at least your church, as well.”
“Well,” Yuri said, “I think I might answer that, too.”
“For one, perhaps you could tell me what sort of man the Pontiff is.”
“Well,” said Yuri, “I think he is a kind soul. He practically raised me after my parents were killed trying to spread the good word. I don’t think you could be dealing with a better man.”
“That’s good.” Hannah said, “And… what’s going on in the church right now?”
“Well,” Yuri replied, “Many things. Parishioners may arrive at any time to pay their debts, or their tithes, to hear one of the many elder clergy speak in lower key sermons or to receive counseling, to have their thoughts cleansed or to receive absolution.”
“Absolution?” Hannah asked
“Yes,” Yuri said, “Payment is properly rewarded with absolution in equal measure.”
He seemed slightly uncomfortable.
“And?” Hannah asked.
“And,” Yuri said, stammering a little, “Our humble church is home to one of the great Maws. There are some, amidst the most devout, who wish to give themselves to the Obzedat directly, for the absolution of all their debts and the salvation of their souls. It is the ultimate act of piety.”
“You don’t sound like you believe it.” Hannah said.
“Well,” Yuri admitted, “I’m young, as his grace Kuznik is wont to remind me. I don’t really understand every mystery of Orzhova.”
“That’s very honest of you.” Hannah said, “You mentioned counseling, yes? Perhaps you could give me some of that, since you say you know my case.”
“Of course, miss Musil. Perhaps we should talk somewhere privately.”
***
Hannah Musil stood at the bottom of a flight of steps. She looked down at herself, clad in a thin robe of grey muslin cloth. Tears filled her eyes, but she was past the point of no return. Everything had already been notarized, agreed to. There was no turning back. She put her bare foot on the first step.
Yuri had tried so hard to help her, Hannah reflected. He would probably be disappointed at her choice – she had worked with him, pouring over papers deep into the night to find every last deferment, grace, and any other fiduciary option they might discover in order to give her more time and stop the relentless upward march of her debt. For a time, it had worked, and she had even gained ground. Business was picking up, but not fast enough. It had all run out, and even if she were selling solid gold pots to the Obzedat themselves she couldn’t turn enough profit to recover.
Rachel wouldn’t understand either, but it was for her good, and the good of the family. They had a home, a legacy that was worth more than anything else Hannah had ever had to her name. When Rachel got the news, she’d probably cry. They had always been close, after all. The letter Hannah had sent didn’t explain much, but it did stress that she had no other choice. Rachel, she reminded herself, was strong and savvy. She’d dry her tears, and make a good life where their family always had.
Hannah took each step slowly, unable to keep herself from weeping. She wept for the life she had before she ever made that deal – that damnable deal with Pontiff Kuznik. It was a simple life, and not a rich life, but it had been good and she shouldn’t have gambled it for better. She wept for the life she was supposed to have lived, for long winter nights in a cozy place, with a family by her side. For a husband she would never marry, for children she would never bear. All her hopes and dreams that had been so bright and beautiful had come to this end, sobbing atop the final landing overlooking her destination.
The Maw of the Obzedat.
She stood at the edge of the platform, looking down into the pit of its gut, tears falling from her stained cheeks into that oblivion, past the rows of pearly fangs slicked slightly about the tips with the gore of past sacrifices. There it sat, slothfully awaiting the offering it might not even have been aware was coming, the gaping hole open and ready for Hannah’s sacred suicide.
Part of her mind told her that there was still a chance. She could turn away, run back down the steps. She could give the shop to Kuznik and go without a zeb to her name nor a zeb in debt, as the pontiff had often begged, as kind Yuri had finally said she should when it was clear that there was no other way to spare her life. But what then? She would still lose her life, and everything she had worked for. The future she had dreamed of would still never come. No, she thought, for one moment stilling her slow and quiet sobbing, it was better that it should end this way. At least this way, she was guaranteed absolution, and could hope for a quite end rather than suffering on the streets for the days or weeks it would take for some Rakdos gang to make the evening’s sport of her and leave not enough pieces for anyone to tell Rachel what had happened. At least this way, she could truly be done with it.
Hannah Musil stepped off the platform, falling into the gullet with an awful, wet noise, her body slapping against the soft flesh of its gut. Instantly, she regretted it, and tried to right herself, unharmed as she was from the fall. She stood quickly, and reached towards the light above.
The maw closed above her, the light winking out before her outstretched hand cold reach it. A heartbeat later, the massive fangs began their gruesome work, and Hannah Musil’s sacrifice was complete.
***
Pontiff Kuznik was sitting at his desk when his young assistant and effectively apprentice, Yuri Tyszka, entered.
“A report on the Musil account, your grace.” He said.
Pontiff Kuznik smiled. That woman could never scrape together the coins to pay off her debt, or even go after the principal rather than simply slowing the rate at which the interest compounded, even with all the loopholes she had discovered. She would have to give up her shop. That was the only way out, and then Kuznik could finally tear the place and the rest of the block, which he already owned, down to build his new manor. It was a good place, far from Gruul aggression and amidst a district of lower buildings that let the morning sun in.
“Hannah – miss Musil – has given herself to the Maw. Since you have often expressed an interest, your grace, it seems she notified both the Azorius and her next of kin of her intent. I presume, your grace, that this concludes our business with miss Musil.”
“Hardly.” Kuznik replied, dour and seething. The stupid woman! She had to deny him, one last time, what he really desired? Well, it would go badly for her. And Yuri was disappointing for the moment as well – he was far too soft with debtors, especially pretty ones or ones that had a good sob story. Kuznik had been sparing him much, but had perhaps spared too much of how the real world worked.
“Your grace?”
“The file, please.” Kuznik said. He took the papers from Yuri and laid them out, carefully examining the numbers while making notes on a piece of scratch.
“Pay close attention,” Kuznik said, “Miss Musil had a debt in excess of twenty thousand zinos current principal, secured by herself under the usual terms for such an arrangement.” The Pontiff turned the papers slightly towards his aide. “We mark down the sum by the value of her sacrifice, on which I shall be generous and evaluate the matter at the market value of, oh, a hundred and twenty pounds of cheap fodder, the sort for swine that contains bone and other undesirable bits as does an ordinary body, which is likely in the neighborhood of half a pound to the zib.”
Pontiff Kuznik looked up at Yuri, only to be disappointed to see horror at his simple subtraction rather than pride in the cleverness of the Syndicate.
“This is the way we do business.” Kuznik said, “You must learn it very well, if you hope to advance within the Syndicate. The Obzedat has long since determined it is the will of Orzhova. You do not question the Obzedat, do you?”
“No, your grace.” Yuri said, “Of course not.”
“Then, I shall continue. We are left with an outstanding debt still over twenty thousand zinos. We do not close accounts even one zib in the red, so naturally we must call in the security, which is to say we shall bind her soul to service. Add the cost of the binding to the debt, plus the delinquency fee.” Kuznik scratched at the paper, “And now we can figure the duration of service miss Musil shall have to render in the afterlife. At the standard rate for incorporeal labor of eight zibs a day, compared to the compounding interest…”
Kuznik scratched furiously at the paper. He knew the answer, of course, one iron-clad enough that the Azorius could not even begin to challenge the terms of the contract, but he would show his work for the benefit of his apprentice.
“We come to the realization that she will earn a net value of… negative two zibs each day to start with, naturally accelerating over time as the loss of ground against compound interest is a factor. It seems her term of service shall be indefinite.”
Pontiff Kuznik laid his pen carefully aside and folded his hands on the desk. Her service would also serve as a reminder that no one cheats the Orzhov, he thought. Not even unintentionally. Her soul would make an excellent footstool, or perhaps sweep out the fireplace where her shop used to be once Kuznik had built his manor. He could think of all manner of such degrading tasks to put her to.
“Now,” he said rising and putting on his hat, “If you could please begin the process by putting in the order for soul binding, it seems I must once again speak with a woman about investing in a cookware shop. Perhaps she will be more reasonable than her late cousin.”
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