Penny

The Sinful Stars

The Bishop, a sour faced fat man by the name of Arcturus Cranmer, sat behind a vast desk of polished ebony inlaid with contrasting scrollwork of silver and gold. It was the sort of desk that screamed to the world that the man who sat behind it mattered. Scrolls of vellum were piled high bedecked with seals and scrollwork. Bishop Cranmer was, as indicated by his desk, too important to actually engage in the laborious task of writing and illuminating the documents which surrounded him, but each one required his imperial consideration and, if found worthy, his august signature. Annika and the priest who had accosted her sat on an uncomfortably austere pew along the back wall, clearly designed to engender the proper feeling of penitence before the Bishop. As nearly as Annika could tell they had been here for over an hour without so much as a word being spoken. She took some small pleasure in the fact that the priest who had all but dragged her from the market was similarly forced to wait in a silence broken only by the clinking of the Bishop’s many jeweled rings and occasional bouts of intestinal upset. Like many Estakonic’s Annika had practiced the rite of Idetica, a meditative technique that allowed the practitioner near total recall of anything she had seen. Thus she was able to pass the time by ‘reading’ a salacious tale of a young Hazat noblewoman’s fictional exploits in the realms of eros while her escort could only shift uncomfortably. She was just enjoying the vivid description of Sir Hernando’s rippling abs when another novice entered the room and hurried up to the Bishops desk. He spoke a few quiet words and then retreated without further comment. Cranmer put down his quill and looked at Annika and her escort, his face twisting with distaste.

“Approach cretin,” the bishop commanded, his voice surprisingly high pitched for a man of his girth. Annika deliberately glanced at her escort implying that the remark had been directed at him. The young priest’s face darkened with anger.

“Now Sister,” Cranmer growled, betraying his impatience with the petty act of defiance. With the grace of an al-Malik courtier she stood up, ignoring the pain in her legs from her long repose and climbed the small dais to stand before the desk. Cranmer looked her up and down with exaggerated disdain.

“A woman, a witch, and an al-Malik Republican all in one, the Estakonics really will ordain anyone,” he glowered. Annika made no reply, Estakonics were well used to such abuse from the other clergy and learned early on there was little use in getting into a theological debate. Fortunately the bishop hadn’t asked her a question so there was no need to respond with anything other than serene silence, which just might have been the most irritating choice she could make.

“Well as it happens I have a use for you, perhaps the only use the Pancreator in his wisdom could find for you,” Cranmer sneered, leaning back on his chair which creaked in protest to being forced to carry his porcine bulk.

“I am going to be assigning you as a Confessor to a Knight who has recently been bought to my attention,” the bishop said with a self satisfied smirk. Annika blinked in confusion, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, though it obviously was in Cranmers mind. She opened her mouth to protest, she hadn’t come to Gwennyth to be tangled up with a noble and it would certainly interfere with her purpose here. She closed her mouth before she could say something she would regret. Bishop Cranmer was straopsherically her superior and though the Estakonics valued independence they probably wouldn’t look kindly on trouble started out of sheer dumb insolence. Instead she tried logic.

“Surely you have your own priests who might be better suited to providing the kind of guidance you would wish,” she ventured in what she hoped was a diplomatic tone. Cranmer smirked again.

“I think that you will suit the needs of the Church perfectly in this matter,” he replied, clearly enjoying her reluctance to take on the task. It was already late and unless she missed her guess Logan was already free and looking for her.

“As a novice, I am too junior to serve as a Confessor,” she tried, attempting to inject a tone of disappointment into her voice. Cranmer waved a pudgy hand in dismissal.

“Rejoice Sister, for the Pancreator has seen fit to raise you to the rank of Deacon so that you may undertake this vital task,” Cranmer told her. Annika couldn’t hide her confusion. Cranmer was acting as though this were some kind of coup but she couldn’t see why. Of course just because she couldn’t see it didn’t mean there wasn’t another shoe waiting to drop. No one reached the rank of Bishop without a great deal of skill in political manoeuvring, which meant that there was, without doubt, another shoe. Lacking other options she effected a slight curtsey.

“I am pleased to serve Him in any way you deem necessary your Grace,” she replied. At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the same attractive novice who had entered before appeared in the doorway.

“He has arrived your grace,” the boy reported.
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Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Lithyll’s gaze paned to Rene with the precision of an electronic lathe making a cut.

“You are a soldier Colonel,” the alien observed, “do you believe that trouble is likely to spread into Kalderi space?” Rene paused for a moment. He was not a trained diplomat and he wasn’t entirely sure what answer Solae would like him to give to the question.

“I cannot predict what the rebels might do,” he said after a moment.

“But it is possible that as they grow desperate they may make some move in this direction. Also Tan has pulled his fleets away to the galactic west, fleets that would normally be in charge of suppressing piracy. I’m even less able to predict what bandits might do while Tan neglects his duty.” It was no diplomatic masterstroke but he hoped it would keep the idea of danger alive in Lithyll’s mind and perhaps help move him to assist Solae in whatever way he could. Lithyll bobbed his head in what might ave been the equivalent of a sage nod.

“Wise words Colonel Quentain,” the alien replied before turning his head back towards Solae.

“We do not choose leaders in the same fashion as you do Duchess Solae,” he told her, “but it is our experience that those best suited to exercise leadership are those who least desire it.” Lithyll stood up and Solae and the other humans followed suit, exchanging bows with the alien.

“You have given us much to think about, I will discuss it with the others,” Lithyll declared. Rene had no idea who ‘the others’ were in this context but he assumed it was however the Kalderi on this planet made decisions.

“Rest, and in a few hour we will see you at the ball, you will have a chance to speak with others. Many are curious about you Duchess,” Lithyll told Solae with a toothy smile before turning and walking from the room, leaving the humans and their Syshin friends alone.

The Sinful Stars

Kolmar, Gwynneth, July 22nd 5005 IC

Knowing things is not the same as knowing people - Unconventional Saints and Unlikely Heroes

The early summer sun beat down on the Square of Judgement like a hammer. By nightfall, the food sellers and junk vendors opined, there would be a great storm which would sheet the city with rain and rend the air with lightning. For now, hundreds of men and a smaller portion of women sweltered in the heat, miserable at the end of the short chains that bound them to the iron rings in the center of each ancient flagstone. Advocates, or at least those who claimed to be advocates, bustled among the prisoners exchanging quick words before moving on. Many other people just came to gawk and jeer at the presumably condemned.

Gwynneth was a Hawkwood Fief, but by ancient treaty those accused of capital crimes were brought to they city of Kolmar for an audience with a judge from the Reeve’s guild. Few people who received such an audience were pardoned, but the influx of money both from the family of the accused and their victims both seeking to ensure justice was done, ensured that the nobility of Kolmar did not allow the practice to die out. It also made the city a dangerous place, particularly after dark, as grieved citizens of one type or another sought to settle scores with fists, knives, or whatever other weapons were available.

An accused murder could increase his odds of aquital by engaging the services of an advocate. In theory the advocate would plead his case to the Reeve, using his knowledge of the law to win freedom for his client. In practice however the advocate usually did little more than offer a bribe to the judge, a tactic that was somewhat more effective than impassioned speech making. The majority of the accused had no way of paying an advocate in coin or property, but the advocate could recoup his effort by compelling the accused to sign a letter of indenture that would allow him to work off his debt. This too was more ideliesed than practical, as in most cases the advocates simply sold the indenture to the Chainers at a reasonable markup. The Chainers promptly lost the letters of indenture as soon as they got their new employees off planet and away from the prying eyes of the Church, and the luckless individual was likely to spend the rest of their life as a slave in some backwater hellhole. Such was the course of Justice in the Known Worlds.

Sister Annika moved quietly among those awaiting trial. The chains that held each of the accused were of a precise length, about half the length of the vast granite flagstones. Thus even a berserk madman was of no danger provided one walked along the seams between the stones and didn't stray into reach. Most of those who would try such a thing had been to badly beaten in transit to attempt it here but it never hurt to be careful. Guards in Hawkwood blue and white, emblazoned with the golden stag of the Wilde family, stood at regular intervals around the edge of the square hefting rifles. They were not impressive men, mostly unshaven and with their livery poorly washed and Annika certainly wouldn’t have wanted to chance her life on their marksmanship if one of the prisoners made a sudden lunge.

To the Estakonic Priestess the square was a babble of voices both auditory and mental. Her telepathic ability would not normally have been strong enough to pick up anything beyond surface thoughts but as the ancient Urth saying went, nothing concentrates the mind like the prospect of being hanged. Each prisoner she passed dwelled almost entirely on their crime, replaying it over and over as judgement approached. Here a potter smashed in the head of a lover who had spurned him, there a drunk relived the horrible sensation of finding himself standing over a corpse stabbed in a bar fight. Some few of them were even innocent, puzzling over who had framed them or what series of unhappy accidents had lead them to this dire impasse. There was little she could do for them, not without revealing how she had come by the information or engaging an advocate of her own, for which she lacked any form of payment. Like all Estakonics she was sworn to poverty, expected to beg for her sustenance, a practice that didn’t lend itself to extravagant legal expenses.

It took her perhaps an hour to find the man she had been seeking. He was wiry and bearded and his left eye was covered with a leather patch. His hard angular face made him look untrustworthy but Annika sensed that wasn’t as true as he liked to pretend. He had been framed, a fact clearly apparent from the meticulous detail in which he had recreated the events after it was too late. She didn’t doubt he had killed before, but of this particular crime he was innocent, set up to take the fall by the gang of thieves with whom he had been working. The revenge he was planning was colorful and a little more detailed than Annika wanted to picture.

“My Son,” she said, the words a trifle ironic when addressed to a man old enough to be her father. The prisoners head jerked up as she stepped closer to him. His right eye was a surprisingly bright shade of blue, cool and piercing.

“Oh bugger off priest,” he snapped with pro forma animosity.

“You know it is a sin to think about a priestess that way,” she added tactfully, fighting down a blush from the sudden mental images she had lifted from the man’s mind. Priests were supposed to put away such worldly thoughts but the man's imagination was vivid. She was an attractive woman, long limbed and with smooth olive skin and dark eyes though most of the rest of her was concealed beneath her conservative robes and habit.

“What do you…” he began but then changed his mind, closing his mouth with an audible clop before regarding her for several long seconds.

“What is this,” he demanded, scowling at her.

“Confession,” she told him simply as she knelt down beside him, her hands assuming an attitude of prayer.

“I don’t have anything to confess,” he snapped glaring at her with his one good eye. Annika giggled and he looked at her as though she had just sprouted another head.

“That isn’t even remotely true,” she chided him, full lips curving into a smile.

“But as it happens, it is me who needs to confess,” she told him.

“Confess?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows knitting as his puzzlement began to give way to annoyance.

“Yes, I actually came here to offer you a job Logan,” she told him with a beautific smile. He barked a short laugh which died in his throat as he realized that she knew his name.

“How do you..,” he began but then shook his head dismissing the thought. Instead he lifted his chained hands and rattled the metal links.

“Do I look like I’m in any position to take a job?” he half sneered.

“That depends on how you do in your interview I suppose,” she returned. Logan shook his head.

“You must be out of your mind,” he commented. Annika wondered if that were true, she had already given the Avestite who had been following her the slip in order to meet with Logan, while it wasn’t technically against Cannon Law it wasn’t going to win her any points with the Inquisition.

“Pray with me,” she directed. For a moment it looked like Logan might object, but instead he rolled onto his knees and clasped his shackled hands before hers.

“Merciful Pancreator, bless this child, Logan Christopher, forgive him any sins he has committed or omitted. Grant that if he is worthy he find me at the Church of Saint Athelia at midnight,” she continued, altering the words of the litany but not it cadance. As she spoke her hands parted slightly and a slender metal rod about the length of man’s finger protruded from between her clasped hands. Logan’s eyes widened for a moment before he lifted his own hand slightly and drew the lockpick between them, making it vanish as if by magic. Annika concluded the prayer of forgiveness and then stood.

“There you are,” a voice snarled and a hand grabbed her from behind. Annika gasped as she was spun around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man in the vestment of an Orthodox priest. He was a Novitiate like her, though unfortunately as an Estakonic, this meant she was required to obey him.

“What are you doing here sister,” he snapped. The novices eyes burned with puritnical superiority through the stink of garlic on his breath and his pimple marked face didn’t exactly lend him grandeur.

“I am hearing confessions,” she responded acidly.

“You might try it some time,” she added with a wave at the square intended to convey the lack of orthodox clergy.

“The Bishop wants to see you, you will come with me,” he snapped grabbing her by the arm and physically turning her towards the western gate. At least he tried to. Annika had grown up in the courts of the al-Malik family and was no stranger to bigger stronger cousins attempting to push her around. Instruction in Paranu Bindi, a combination of meditation and martial art hadn’t hurt either. She continued to turn with the momentum of his shove, gripping his wrist with one hand as she pivoted around behind him, her other hand thrusting hard up into his arm pit, pinching the nerve painfully. The other novice let out a pained squawk that choked off on a rising note.
“Let us be polite about this,” she hissed in his ear, “But make no mistake, if you touch me again we will have cause to visit the Sanctuary Aeon before we visit the Bishop. Am I understood?”

“I will tell the Bishop about this!” the novice squealed tears running from his eyes from the painful hold.

“Good, I’m certain he will be very impressed,” she responded tartly. Convinced she had made her point she gave the novice a shove in the direction of the western gate.

“Lead on then,” she told him, “we wouldn’t want to keep his grace waiting.”

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Damned to the Depths

Calliope came forward at a regal pace. She had found a cloak in the pile of loot that covered her but the breeches proved to be too big to be practical. The cloak was of a fine grey leather of some animal that she was unfamiliar with and subtle patterns had been worked into it by a cunning leather worker. She had cinched it around her waist with a cord of black silk that had probably once been a scarf. This only partially maintained her modesty as the cloak didn’t quite cover her blood smeared breasts and the resulting v ran almost to her belly button. It would have looked weak to keep a hand clutching the garment closed and so she didn’t bother. It was good to see that Markus had survived, though she couldn’t claim to be surprised. It was hard to imagine that the crew would fight off such fearful odds if their captain had succumbed.

The former Tyrant of Calaverde reached the foot of the throne, her gaze not lingering on the dead bodies. For some reason the sight of them made her feel strange and so she didn’t linger. She offered Markus a slight bow, not deep but perceptible. The kneeling pirates began to whisper among themselves, muttering about witches and demons and ill omens. Among their kind any woman who presented herself so openly as Calliope was to be despised, but they dare not show their feelings openly.

“Congratulations on your victory Captain,” she called to Markus in her orators voice, clearly audible throughout the cavern.

“I am pleased to be able to tell you that the last of their mages is dead, it turns out that his faith that the manacles they forged could hold a djinn was misplaced.” Truthfully she was still unsure of how she managed to escape the arcane restraints, a lot of what had happened was hazy like a dream she had once known but had now faded. Unconsciously she touched the tattoo that spread over her chest, her mind supplying the feel of dragon scales to the nerves in her fingers despite the fact it was perfectly smooth. There would be time to unpack what had happened later but for now she saw no reason in adding to her reputation by claiming to have broken the restraints herself. Afterall, if Markus intended on adding these Arads to the crew, overawing them now wouldn't hurt.

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WoT: The Dark One's Own Luck.

Water poured out of Mave’s throat as she sucked in air in deep ragged gaps. Her throat felt as though it had been garotted with wire and she was having trouble making her limbs respond to her commands. Somewhere, along way down the list was the fact that she was naked and soaked.

“G...gahh….” she managed as she pushed herself up onto all fours, dark hair hanging lankly over her face before he reached forwrd and brushed it out of the way. She reached out and embraced Saidar, the flow of power and serenity calming her. She could suddenly feel every impresion of the killers fingers on her throat, and could trace every droplet of water on her body.

“Gray man,” she managed, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her torso to provide some vestige of modesty. Ali seemed too focused on the corpse to notice her brief nudity.

“Sh...shadowspawn?” Ali asked, though if he had heard of graymen or if he was just guessing Mave couldn’t tell. She nodded and picked up the dagger the man had carried. It was warm to the touch, greasy and unpleasant in some fashion she couldn’t quite define. Even now her eyes tried to slide away from the body, though the temptation was not nearly so strong now that life had left it. He seemed an ordinary looking man, a little older than middle age, unremarkable in every fashion.

“Do everything be alright in there young lady?” came a call in a thick Illianer accent. Mave and Ali both froze for a moment uncertain of how to proceed.

“Are you alright?” came the voice after another moment.

“I’m fine,” Mave called back, rather more hoarsely than she would have liked, “Just slipped while I was getting out of the tub, i'll be out in a moment.” That was, apparently enough to satisfy the proprieter whose departure was marked with heavy footfalls.

“What should we do with… with the bo… him,” Ali asked. Mave looked around.

“Stand back,” she instructed Ali before laying the dagger on the corpses chest. Reaching out she wrapped the corpse in flows of air and then poured fire into it. Mave squeezed her eyes shut and gave it everything she had, the air containing the fire so that the corpse blazed bright for a few moments before nothing remained but ash. She loosened her weave and a stream of hot ash blew out the window leaving a few drops of cooling metal on the tile floor from the melted dagger.

Had the gray man been looking for Ali and struck at her as a target of oppurtunity? Had it been hunting her? Was it merely preying on anyone who might be Aes Sedai.

“We should get out of here,” he managed before pausing, “And thank you Ali, for my life.” She leaned close to the distraught youth and kissed him briefly on the cheek.