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 had 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
