Annika glanced back at the city behind her. Orion’s quest certainly seemed doomed. Rumor had certainly spread regarding Rochfort. It had been big news in the first few weeks of the voyage of the Farsi, the al-Malik cruiser that had brought her to Gwennyth. Debate had been furious and wide ranging. Some claimed that Rochfort had been touched by the hand of the Pancreator himself and was burning away evil, others that the man had lost his mind and bathed in the blood of his slaughtered subjects. It probably made sense to take him up on his offer, to slip away into the crown and keep her rendezvous with Logan Christopher. What one man could do to quell a rebellion was beyond her comprehension but one thing was certain, if someone needed spiritual guidance, it was Orion Pentecost.

“We are taught to look for the hand of the Pancreator in paradox,” she told him as they slipped through the security cordon and onto the tarmac.

“Perhaps this task is such a sign,” she added as they approached the runt shuttle. A few crewmen in shapeless gray jumpsuits were making the final preparations for take off. They stiffened at the sight of Orion and one of them pulled a lever which lowered a ramp to the deck. Annika followed the knight up the steps and into the shuttle. Though it could comfortably hold  dozens of passengers, it had been reserved for a scion of the planet's ruling house. Low, Orion's stock might be with the bishop and his liege but he was still a Hawkwood.   

“Don’t you have any equipment?” Orion asked, glancing back at Annika. She shook her head slightly.

“We are a mendicant order,” she explained, “we dont accrue much in the way of possessions.” She tapped her palm on the leather satchel partially concealed by her robes. Without preamble she sat down on the deck resting her straight back against a bulkhead.
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