Chapter 29 -  Dangerous Knowledge

	“He's got you working with the old priest, does he?”  the wolf murmured lazily, his claws moving through my mane as he patiently worked out the knots.  I was still violently opposed to the Privateer touching me. . . in any way. . . lest he get ideas, but I couldn't deny that he had skill with, of all things, tending a mane.  You wouldn't think so, looking at his own ragged dreads.  But he was actually fairly meticulous about grooming them, twirling them and waxing them so they remained fairly uniform, and beading them with different trinkets and baubles he'd collected throughout his troubles.  And for all his skill at keeping purposeful knots, he was also pretty good at getting rid of them.
	“He's a priest?”  I asked, curiously.
	The wolf shrugged.  “I don't know, something like that?  I always got that church-y impression from the stuffy sod.  He certainly talks about God a lot.”
	I turned and regarded the black wolf at that, lowering my brow.  He blinked his dark blue eyes back at me, trying to appear innocent.
	“You're bad at lying while you're drunk,” I stated.
	“That would make me bad at lying near every moment I'm awake,” the wolf pointed out with a crooked smile, “which I know isn't true.”
	“Fine, then this time you wanted me to know you were lying,” I said, rolling over onto my side facing the man.  We still shared the same bed, even though that's as far as our 'relationship' had gotten.  And was likely to, at the rate the wolf was going.  I knew thanks to Magpie that he'd been no more reserved in visiting the local establishments here than he'd been in the port we'd met him in.  And that wasn't going to fly.
	“No,” I said, peering at him curiously, “you know something, and you want me to know it, but you want me to ask, first.”
	“That's a leap in logic,” the canine said with a snort, but there was a teasing tone there, just beneath it all.  Like a child taunting a pet with a scrap of meat.  He wasn't bothering to hide the sly smile.
	“What is it?”  I pushed.  “What do you know?  Is it about the. . . Johan. . . man?”
	The wolf scratched his bare chest, idly.  “I dunno, you haven't been all that nice to me, of late-”
	“Grayson!”  I bit out.  “This is important!  I'm working for the man!  What is it?”
	“Nothing that would put you in danger,” he said with the wave of a paw, tossing his tail.  Then, a moment later, “. . . I don't think.”
	I groaned.  “What do you want for it?”
	The wolf just chuckled.
	“Other than that!”
	“You could scratch my back,” he said, rubbing his shoulder-blades back against the bedspread.  “I've been itching like a dog with mange since we got here. . . I think the weather's doing a number on me.  So muggy-”
	“Or you have fleas from the whores in port,” I growled.
	“No fleas, I promise,” he said, clapping his hands together.  “The fox fixed me up with something for that, awhile back.  I'm keeping up with it.  I even bathed this week!”
	“Ugh,” I groaned, “just. . . fine.  Roll over.”
	The chipper expression he gave at that was almost worth the dirt I knew I'd be digging out from under my nails later.  He rolled onto his chest, and I climbed up over his hips, settled in, and began.  The man was groaning almost as soon as I gave his shoulder-blades the first rake.  I made sure to press extra hard, just so he might regret this later. . . but this wasn't the first time we'd exchanged this favor, and damn the man, he only seemed to like it more the harder I did it.
	“So?”  I pressed.
	“Huh?  Oh, right,” he buried his muzzle in the bedspread, and I could tell from the way he spoke that his tongue was probably lolling contentedly out of his mouth.  Like the suave, charming gentleman he was.  “The wolfhound,” he muttered, around another groan, “is some kind of. . . I guess you could call it 'assassin'?  For the church.”
	I stopped at that.  “ 'Assassin'?”  I repeated, incredulously, then smacked him in the back of the head.  “And this wasn't important enough to tell me?!”
	“Ow-calm down,” he grumbled.  “I would have told you eventually, no matter what.  And besides, it's nothing to worry about.  Not unless you're plotting his Lord's death.”
	“The Denholme man?”  I snorted, getting back to scratching.  “Don't tempt me.”
	“Anyway, they're not literally assassins,” the wolf said, his voice still muffled.  “More agents, for the Church and the Crown.  They think a lot more of their secrets than the rest of the world does, I think.  Hung up in their ancient. . . cloak and dagger. . . secret society nonsense.  Some lads think they've got the whole of the world on puppet wires, and I'm sure they like to think that, but the fact of the matter is, if that were true, Amuresca wouldn't have lost the last war, and they did.  They can't even keep their colonies protected, these days. . . .”  his words faded off into muttering, and more groans, at that point.
	“. . . keep going,” I prompted.  This was interesting.
	“They're called Knights, or Knight Templars, or a dozen other names, I'm sure,” he said with a sigh.  “I only know about them because along the Southern Islands, they used to be infamous for shutting down cartels, and hanging men of. . . my persuasion.  They usually fix one of their crazy, zealous little church boys up with a noble who owns a fleet, and make sure they manipulate things so the right routes get protected, and the right Privateers are successful. . . or sunk.  But I think that age has. . . mostly passed.  The Church and the Amurescan Crown can barely keep any of their trade channels safe these days, save the most major.  Their fleet's spread too thin.”
	He turned his head to the side, and let out a long breath.  “So, I don't really know what that man's goals are, these days.  He's fiercely loyal to Denholme, though.  That might be all there is to it, now.”
	“Mnh, I guess you're right,” I said, shrugging.  “None of that is really likely to affect me.”
	“I told you,” he sniffed, then turned his head enough to look back up at me.  “Just. . . take care around him, is all.  Old hound can't be trusted.  And he's a wicked shot.  I'm not saying he's shot me, but. . . .”
	“He's shot you,” I finished for him.	
	“Yep,” he said, with a rueful chuckle.  “I'm only walkin' around because he wanted to see me hung, not because he missed, neither.”  He was silent for a few moments, then asked, “What are you doing for him exactly, anyway?  Not that it's a huge surprise, but he didn't give me too many details.”
	“Oh, I'm not supposed to say,” I said, conspiratorily, leaning over his shoulder.  “It's a secret.”
	“I told you mine.”
	“That was his secret, not yours,” I chuckled.  “And I'm really not supposed to say.”
	“Old bastard always does Denholme's dirty work,” the wolf muttered.  “But then I guess that's what they do for their Lords.”
	“If it was something that directly affected you, I'd tell you,” I promised the man.  “But for now, it seems better if I keep my mouth shut.  We aren't even heading out until the end of the week.  And I. . . believe I'll be serving the good of the colony.  And potentially you.  So.”
	“I trust you,” the wolf said, with complete sincerity.
	I smiled somewhat, and eased up a bit with my claws, switching to rubbing at his shoulders.  The wolf's tail tossed, bead sparkling in the low candlelight.  I didn't mind him so much when he was docile and agreeable like this.
	I don't know why, but at that moment, something completely different popped into my head, and I felt the need to voice it.  It had been bothering me since I'd spoken to Ransom about it, and seeing as I couldn't discuss it with Puck, the wolf seemed the only other option.  
	“Strange question,” I murmured, feeling the need to preface it that way.  “But, you seem like a worldly man, if nothing else.”
	“I am that,” the Privateer grunted.
	“Can a Priest,” I paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to say this, “marry. . . himself?”
	The wolf literally turned his head at that, and gave me the oddest look.
	I sighed.   “I-I don't mean like. . . can he marry himself.  I mean, can he perform the ceremony. . . to marry himself to someone else.”
	Grayson laughed.  “Well, damn.  That is a strange question, I'll give you that.”
	“I just,” I stammered, “I met one, recently, who- it would be difficult for him to find anyone else to do it, is all-”
	“I'm guessing this has to do with the fox and the 'yote, love, you can skip the run-around.”
	“Oh my Gods how,” I stated, rather than asked.  “How?  How did you know?  They were barely ever even together on your ship-”
	The wolf's shoulders shook with a laugh, although he'd buried his muzzle in the bed again, so I barely heard it.  “Sort of thing's more common at sea than you might think, lovely.  I've gotten so I know when two men are buggering.  So. . . what.  They want to get hitched?”
	“Well- no,” I said quickly.  “I don't think it really matters to either of them, honestly.  I mean maybe a little, to. . . I just. . . it was mentioned, in passing, and I was curious if it was even possible, is all.”
	“Well, sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he muttered, “but it ain't.  Not like that, anyway.  I mean tribal traditions are all different, but I'm fair certain I don't know a one that allows a priest to oversee his own ceremony.  And the Amurescan priests don't even marry.  So no.  He can't.  Sorry.”
	My shoulders fell somewhat.
	The wolf turned, the hint of a smirk tipping the edge of his muzzle.
	“But I could,” he said.