by Mike Wild
And here, looming in front of him, was the heart of it. The base of Final Faith operations. The multi-spired monstrosity that was Scholten Cathedral.
Slowhand, dagger still held at his back, was ushered along Enlightenment Avenue towards it, the broad approach lined with red-tabarded cathedral guard and thronged with cathedral-goers and the officially sanctioned hawkers of religious tat who preyed upon them. The most blatant misuse of donated funds he could imagine, the structure towered over and dominated the city, serving not only as head office for the Faith but as a place of pilgrimage for those faithful who had clearly been sufficiently indoctrinated not to share his opinion of the place. They came from every region on the peninsula to bask in its magnificence, to worship in its endless banks of pews, or, if they arrived at the right time and were selected by the guard, to attend the weekly audience of the Anointed Lord – one of which, by the incessant clanging of the cathedral’s bells, was happening now. Each of them would go home happy – if lighter in the pocket – because the pomp and the ceremony that was trowelled on to blind them to the truth made the experience seem like a little bit of Kerberos on Twilight.
Slowhand was spared the pomp and the ceremony. He had to settle for being shoved roughly along side corridors, any pretence of being a group of mates out for a stroll gone now that he was away from the public eye.
Again, he didn’t mind. Being backstage, as it were, gave him chance to see with his own eyes the operation at work. All down the side of the corridor along which he was shoved, one after another until he was in danger of losing count, he could see into booths where the faithful were in consultation with priests. Alone or in groups, they passed over coin to the superficially sympathetic and nodding clergy, they in turn passing on benedictions in response to requests for divine favour ranging from fertility for their mool to a cure for a village’s collective pox. And hells, they were good – so good they could have gone on stage themselves the way they made the money disappear, surreptitiously slipping it into tubes behind them and benedicting ever more loudly as it clattered down some central shaft into a communal coffer in the basement. It was a treasure trove that ever grew and never stopped, and one thing was certain – if for whatever reason the Final Faith didn’t eventually subjugate the peninsula by rod, then they’d have no problem buying it outright. Even he hadn’t realised just how massive a business it was.
Slowhand was shoved on, and his surroundings, other than for the sound of a distant choir, grew quieter. He was brought to a halt in a large chamber designed in such a way that anyone entering was channelled immediately and directly towards a raised dais in its centre, the path by which they entered unobstructed so that they might depart without turning, stepping backwards all the way. He knew the reason for this was that, as the Lord of All’s supposed representative on Twilight, no one was allowed to turn their back on the Anointed Lord, the ruling no mere fancy of power but written – apparently – in the holy scriptures and enforced by its hard men – the Order of Dawn – as a crime punishable by death. Handy, that, he’d always thought, because if the Anointed Lord wished someone gone, then presumably all the Anointed Lord had to do was order them to turn around.
Speaking of which witch, here she was now. The head of the Final Faith swept into the chamber fresh from her audience with her flock, flinging off her holy vestments with a theatrical sigh of annoyance that suggested she was more than glad to see the back of them – in a manner of speaking.
Slowhand studied her, stimulated despite who she was. That the Anointed Lord was striking was undeniable, being tall and statuesque in build with a face that was handsome, if somewhat stern, this topped by a long, flowing mane of fiery red hair reaching down to her buttocks. Her eyes a bright green, they would have been attractive were it not for the way she used them, looking upon her underlings with some degree of disdain. They made him think that the term striking could also be applied to her in the way it was applied to a cobreel, fangs bared and about to lunge for your throat, and in that respect she certainly had the sinuous curves.
They had never met face-to-face, but Slowhand knew her.
Her name was Katherine Makennon. And the last time he had seen her, she had been a Five Flame General in the Army of Vos.
Makennon mounted her dais and flicked a glance at him, noting his presence, and he was about to step forwards, say ‘Hi’, when his escorts pulled him firmly back by his arms. It appeared that it wasn’t yet his turn.
A man slammed through the main doorway and strode towards her, iron-capped boots thumping on the polished floor, though there was nothing polished about the man himself. A squat barrel of a thing, he struck Slowhand even from a distance as being distinctly ugly and unlikeable, and his dishevelled appearance hinted he had just this second returned from some assignment in the outside world. Wherever it was he had come from, it had to have been somewhere hot. The man was charred and blackened as if he had been caught up in some great fire, and Slowhand swore that parts of his clothing still seemed to smoke.
He was announced as Munch, and Makennon’s expression darkened as he approached her – he had obviously not brought good news. There was an altercation. Words were exchanged. At one point, the Anointed Lord slapped him across the face. Slowhand wondered why he took it – statuesque or not, Anointed Lord or not, he could have snapped Makennon like a dry twig.
The exchange ended and she dismissed him, holding out the back of her hand in a clear sign that his audience with her was over. Munch kissed it, not once, twice, but three times, and Slowhand could almost hear the mantra that would have accompanied each contact of his lips – the very same mantra he heard almost everywhere he went.
The One Faith. The Only Faith. The Final Faith.
It should have been over, but the small brute of a man lingered still, his lips hovering over her flesh. He actually looked likely to go in again. Ah, that was it, Slowhand thought. The little bastard has the hots for her. Okay, that was understandable – he might, too, given a moment of flung-about-the-bedroom masochism. But really...
He sighed, loudly. “Look, I hate to interrupt, but have you done with the tonguing yet?”
The pair shot him a fiery glare, then Makennon ordered Munch to the sidelines with a flick of her finger. Another flick followed, this time commanding the lapdogs who held Slowhand to bring him closer.
He and Munch passed midway, and Slowhand bent to whisper in his ear. “Little tip, pal. If you wanna get your hands on the boss’s bazooms, try to grow higher than her knees.”
Munch roared and spun towards him with a balled fist, but Killiam caught it readily and solidly, stopping it dead and holding it, unwavering, six inches from his face. He held Munch’s stare, veins pulsing in his temples, an unexpected steeliness in his eyes matching that in his grip.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.
Munch considered, a gamut of emotions crossing his face, not least surprise. Then a cough from Makennon reminded him that he had just turned his back on her. Growling, he snatched his hand from Slowhand’s grip, turned, and continued to shuffle backwards.
“Quite a show of strength,” Makennon observed, “for a common street player.”
As the Anointed Lord spoke, Slowhand was jostled into position before her, where he bowed with theatrical exaggeration, sweeping his hand under his stomach and then up into the air.
“Actually, I prefer to think of myself more as an artiste. Troubadour, bard and all-round entertainer, in fact.”
“Really.”
“Absolutely.” Killiam pulled a balloon from a pocket, blew into it and, with a series of tortuous squeaks, twisted it into the semblance of a fluffy animal. “I even do balloons.”
Makennon slapped the shape from his hand, ignoring it as it bounced away across the floor.
“Why is it that you are doing what you are, Mister Killiam Slowhand?” she asked without preamble.
“Ah. So you know my name.”
Makennon gestured with a flyer in
her hand. “‘Killiam Slowhand’s Final Filth – Every Hour, On The Hour’,” she read. “It wasn’t hard.”
Slowhand smiled. “No. Suppose not.”
“And why is it that you have so little respect for our church?”
“I don’t know,” Killiam said, though, in truth, he had every reason in the world. “Why does your church have so little respect for the other ones out there? How does that little ditty go again? The One Faith, the – ?”
“Ours is the true faith.”
“Right, of course. True as well. You consulted the Brotherhood of the Divine Path about that, lately? The Azure Dawn? Or the rest of them your mob have squeezed out or shut down or disappeared since you began annexing the whole damn peninsula?”
Makennon smiled grimly and stared him in the eyes. “Killiam Slowhand. That really is the most ridiculous name...”
“Hells. You should hear my real one.”
“Those churches are irrelevant,” Makennon declared, answering his question. “Misguided fancies, the beliefs of fools. They – and others like them – will come to understand the way of things.”
“When you’ve knocked it into them, I suppose. If you really want to know why I have so little respect for your church, Anointed Lord, then I’ll tell you.” Slowhand remembered her as she had been. “This isn’t Andon and the peninsula’s no longer at war – but most importantly, you’re not a general any more. Stop running your religion as if you’re still trying to build an empire and maybe, just maybe, people will voluntarily listen to what you have to say.”
Makennon laughed out loud, as if the whole idea were ludicrous, then stopped suddenly and leant forwards until she was staring Slowhand directly in the eyes. “I’m not the only one no longer serving my country as a soldier, am I, Mister Slowhand?” Her eyes grew curious and her tone deepened as she drew in almost seductively close to him and he could feel her hot breath on his cheek. “Oh yes, I know you just as you know me. So tell me, Lieutenant – what makes you do this? Just why is it that you are donning the garb of a fool and attempting to undermine us in this ridiculous, seditious way?”
Slowhand’s eyes narrowed. “I have my reasons. And one of them is I just don’t like people running other people’s lives.”
“Hmm. But surely someone has to do just that, don’t you think? Otherwise the whole of society would simply degenerate into an unruly and unruled rabble.”
“Rabble, eh? Why do I get the impression that as far as your opinion of your flock goes it rather neatly sums things up?”
“We provide them with guidance.”
“They didn’t ask for guidance.”
Makennon sighed, then gestured around her audience chamber with her hand, sweeping it to indicate what lay beyond as well. “You think this all a sham, don’t you?”
“A sham and a scam, actually.”
“That we have no destiny? That our only concern is with our own material gain?”
“Bang! Nail on the head.”
“That we do, in fact, lust solely after power?”
“Woohooh, you’re good. No wonder they made you the boss.”
Again, Makennon leaned in close. “What if I could prove to you that it was otherwise? That our future is plain? Would you then cease your public mockery of our church?”
“That would be something of a tall order.”
“Then allow me to fulfil it.”
Slowhand stared at her, unsure of where this was going. “What’s this about, Katherine?” he asked with intended familiarity. “I’m far from the only seditionary out there, so why the special treatment – this personal touch? Why didn’t your lackey’s dagger go all the way in? After all, it’s happened before, so I hear.”
“Because I want you to join us.”
“What?”
“The Final Faith needs people such as you. People possessing certain skills.”
She turned and walked to the wall of the chamber, where she opened a compartment and Slowhand found himself staring at something he thought he’d never see again. “Where did you – ?”
“Does it matter? The point is, it’s yours if you join us. Yours to use again, in our cause.”
Again, Slowhand stared, but this time at Makennon – getting the woman’s measure. It was clear her style of running the Final Faith was unorthodox, but it was also clear that she believed in what it did, at least to a degree. But despite the incentive she’d just offered, he had no interest in joining her, though, he had to admit, she’d got him curious.
“Okay, Katherine – what do you have to show me?”
Makennon led him out of her audience chamber and along another seemingly endless corridor, to the furthest reaches of the cathedral, the threesome who’d brought him to her trailing behind. There, she showed him into a library whose shelves were filled not with books but rolled-up scrolls. Other scrolls were unfurled on the walls, images daubed on them in red and black ink – images of hellsfire and damnation, praying and weeping souls, vast marching hordes. Before them knelt figures he didn’t recognise – stylised, twisting forms that somehow didn’t look quite human – and symbols splashed here and there, some of which reminded him of the crossed circles of the Faith, others vaguely of keys. He had no idea what any of them meant. But he knew who was responsible for them.
Hunched and twitching over long tables down the centre of the library, Final Faith brothers scratched away at scrolls with quills, creating more of the strange images. Hollow-faced and exhausted, the worst aspect of them was that they were not looking at what they were doing – their eyeballs, to a man, rolled up into the backs of their sockets, completely white.
“Hey, fella, are you all ri – ?” Slowhand asked, touching one, and then found himself somewhere else entirely, where other hands moved across another scroll, in another room he sensed was far away – gods, was it the League, in Andon? He spasmed suddenly, totally disorientated, and then felt his own eyes begin to roll upwards in his –
Makennon slapped his hand away and he gasped. He knew now who these people were – telescryers, remote-receivers, weavers of the threads whose particular use of magic wrecked their bodies and burned their brains away.
And Makennon had them working some kind of... production line.
“What is this?” he said.
Makennon smiled. “The future. The scattered pieces of a jigsaw held in a hundred sealed collections and forbidden libraries across Twilight, being brought together, here, for the first time, so that the path of the Final Faith might be fully divined. Prophecies, Mister Slowhand – prophecies as old as time. Prophecies that show the destiny of the Final Faith.”
“Let me get this straight. You’ve got these poor bastards telepathically purloining a bunch of dangerous-looking old doodles because you think they are relevant to you?”
“Yes.” She swept her hand across the walls. “Don’t you see?”
Slowhand saw nothing – except maybe that Makennon had got a bump on the head on one battlefield too many. But he reminded himself it made her no less dangerous – if anything, more so.
“Join us,” Makennon urged. “There are many things to be achieved.”
“Erm, no thanks. I’ll come back when your god’s got his head screwed on.”
Makennon’s expression darkened. She summoned the escorts.
“Oh, let me guess,” Slowhand said. “This is the part where you lock me up and throw away the key?”
“You are a nuisance to me, and I cannot afford to have a nuisance... spoil things at this time. I would have preferred to convert you to our cause because the removal of someone who has made himself so obvious on our streets is itself obvious, but then what choice do I have?” She directed her attention to the escorts and said: “He’s a tricky one. Have him stripped and searched thoroughly. Take everything from his person.”
“Everything? Katherine... not my balloons?”
“Including his balloons. When you’re done, take Mister Slowhand to the Deep Cells. He’ll be st
aying in our most prestigious quarters for a while.”
The escorts grabbed Killiam by the armpits and began to shuffle him off, noticeably turning his back into which the knife dug once more towards the Anointed Lord. This breach of etiquette wasn’t a privilege, he guessed, but a sign he was considered already dead. Nevertheless, he let them take him. Actually smiled. Because this was the other thing that the Final Faith excelled in – they made people disappear. And in forcing Makennon to make him disappear he’d got her exactly where she wanted him.
No, wait. Exactly where he wanted her.
At any rate, they had each other where...
“How long a while?” he called back.
“Until you come around to our way of thinking, or until you die.”
“Right. In that case, about those balloons...”
Makennon watched him go and then returned to the audience chamber, summoning Munch back before her.
“I’ve considered your report,” she said. “This Kali Hooper. I want her found.”
Munch nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Take whoever you need for the task and locate her. Quickly. Bring me that key.”
“Just the key, Ma’am?”
Makennon stared at him, then laughed. “Has your pride been injured, Konstantin? Is that it?” She waited a moment. “Very well, Munch, just the key. The girl is unimportant. Feel free to do with her what you will.”
There was a pause, and Munch smiled in anticipation.
“The One Faith.”
“The Only Faith.”
“The Final Faith.”
CHAPTER FIVE
YOU WIN SOME, you lose some, Kali mused. It was a week later and she was halfway down her third tankard of ale, draped at the table by the captain’s chest in the upper nook of the tavern, the affair of the Spiral – despite a lingering nag about her vision – fading from her mind. Time to think about what to do and where to go next – there was, after all, enough choice out there. The Lost Canals, as she’d mentioned to Merrit? Uummm, maybe – she didn’t yet know. But it was something that she intended to plan out, here, at this very table, over the next few days.
