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 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.