Session 22C - Punishment

Talk and talk and talk. One would think that, now that I am no longer a nigh-mindless drone under the direction of my estate and imperator, I would welcome the respite, but the urges of my own private quest, forestalled, grow in me, and I'd lief as finish this business with Jotunheim and be about it.

Whilst the Graf journeyed ahead in its inimitable fashion to the people of Jotunheim, Guilt and I traveled the long course to that world's stem. And yet, even as we approached that absurd space, we realized that our initial plan would not work.

For among those Nobles we could trust and count upon, too few bore the power necessary to effect the stem's severing. Who else could we call on? Haley is too weak, in this at least, and Meon -- I'd sooner see him take the final plunge, were he not, with his imperator, bound on Earth.

Fungus had been to contact our brethren Electricity and Lust. I still sought to contact Reality, but she rejected my prayer. I'll leave to poets to interpret that event.

That meant speaking to the Imperators, and letting them, Amaciel and Cathetel, do this thing. That added to the danger, for such an attack would draw both their fellow Aaron Serpents in protest, and the Excrucians as well. Still, that seemed the most likely course to succeed.

To that end, Mariska returned to Earth, whilst I continued on to find Fungus. That meant descending the stem, a reverse Jack the Giant-Killer (I would give that the best interpretation I could), down to that forsaken world.

And, not surprisingly, there were those awaiting. I would never think of defending Earth at its ... stem. The Excrucians are far better at understanding the underside of the Mythic than I.

Something must be done about that.

A figure arose on a distant mountaintop as I descended through the atmosphere to ground level, and then I became aware of another figure, approaching form behind. I turned to that one, a woman of blond, stars in her eyes -- a Valkyrie, in appearance, and thus likely am Excrucian Shard.

"Creature of Earth, you are not wanted here," she said, slowing her approach. "My master and I bar the way. Return whence you came, and we need not fight."

I shook my head. "I've no desire to fight you. That is not my errand here."

She nodded. "Then begone." She gestured back to the stem. "That way."

"I have other business in this world, and seek only to pass."

"Then we have reached an impasse, and one of us need breach it."

We rushed each other, and she launched the first blow. I could sense her boosting her power to land the blow, but I parried it, thrusting with a riposte that she, too, dodged. She was good, no doubting it -- though not as good as I. And I worried about her "master."

I urged my speed and strength upwards, reversing my spear and driving its butt up into her chin. She flew backwards, the thin air of this world rumbling and cracking as the local sound barrier was breached. Her trajectory, nearly flat, drove her toward her master, and it would have been too much to hope that he'd be struck by her, nor would such a hope have been rewarded. Instead, he moved a handful of inches to one side, to allow his minion to pass, possibly headed for a low sub-orbit.

I was not there to see it, having let my blow and my own power of flight send me in the opposite direction at full speed. A glimpse back was enough to spot the master keeping even pace with me.

That wouldn't do. Could I defeat him? Possibly, but not certainly. And I could not take him to where the Graf was, in Utgard half the world away.

Fine. I'd take the short cut.

Summoning up the power of the Spear, I smote the ground below me, changing course to dive into the cloven planet below me. The ground rifted open before, closed in the shock wave behind. I maintained a straight path for a minute or two, before shifting, in case he estimated my direction and thought to be there to meet me where I emerge.

Were he not following me already. I hoped not.

Then I was in the open, slowing, long before I should have transited Jotunheim. The darkling city rose up about me, fetid and complex, a regular rats warren under a sunless sky.

"INTRUDER!" cried the first of the svartalven, catching me in his beady black eyes. And then, in their hundreds, they charged ...

Sian whips both their asses

Actually, this is a test to see if I can upload an image okay on Doyce's blog. Which, evidently, I can, which makes me think it's a config problem with his Firefox.

But Sian really could ...

Session 21C - Punishment

On the greensward by the cemetery of the Imperators, we discuss the death of a world.

Our goal is to keep the Excrucians from taking control of the Bifrost bridge in Jotunheim, which would let them attack any world they wished. We'd considered a straightforward attack -- holding off the hordes in Asgard City, whilst one of us destroyed the bridge.

But Fungus devised a far more cunning -- and, appropriately, inhuman plan. And I'll confess that it was not one I'd have thought of. My mind still shrinks from seeing worlds as fruit upon the World Tree, and so would never have dreamt of simply severing the stem, to let Jotunheim fall the nigh-infinite distance to Hell.

Let those denizens deal with the Excrucians, most appropriately. And, should they object, it would be no cause of tears for me.

It will take several of us Nobles to do this -- our brethren in Chancel Amaciel seem the most likely subjects (others that Guilt and Fungus suggest -- Desecration, Justice -- I'd lief as not consult with, and my own feelings about Imagination are conflicted enough I cannot judge whether she could, or would, help us).

Or, of course, we could bring Cathetel and Amaciel themselves to do it. I shrink from that course -- I suspect the price, were they even willing to so exert themselves, would be too high. And the complications ...

Of course, the others of their order, the Serpents of Aaron, may well object to this plan. Which complicates things still more.

The heavens wheel above us, as though our discussion, e'er setting out, takes months, not hours. But at length, having chit-chatted enough, Mariska and I go forth to the stem, whilst the Graf moves in its own ways to warn what few allies remain in Jotunheim ...

Session 20C - Punishment

Old patterns, old thoughts. Maybe this is why I avoided familia entanglements, to avoid dropping back into such patterns. It all passes by, almost painlessly and easily, and meaningless to me. It shouldn't -- I should care. But I almost welcome the Lethe of being a weapon, to be pointed here, and here, and not having to worry about the whys and wherefores.

No wonder I gave up what I did.

I listened to Christopher question Mariska sharply as to why she was making her daughter's life so unpleasant, by agreeing to torment Ofrah's fiancee, Noah. I'd wondered much the same.

Mariska made noises about merely making a holding action against Noah's master. I wondered if she believed that.

We arrived at the Chancel. Jerrai was there. The resurgence of the Cammorae after the -- that time, that was not a prime reason for my decision, but something that had weighed on me at the time. After watching selfless sacrifice and bold bravery, to see these -- slime taking precedence amongst humanity. Easier simply to kill them. Humanity, that is.

We bantered a bit. I wanted to do more, but speaking too much to the Serpent can only bring one to damnation. Besides, the less the contact, the less the chance of my acting -- rashly. Watching Jerrai's expression as a mere head atop my spear would be gratifying for a short time, but Cathetel would likely disapprove.

The Cammora did tell us that Cathetel was not readily available. We traveled to the Chancel's Heart -- a journey I felt uncomfortably impotent in. The magicks of the Chancel are not mine, and my disinterest has echoed my powerlessness.

Once there, within the labyrinth of a rest home's memorial garden, we found Cathetel in serpent form, reared straight upward, high above the atmosphere -- or where the atmosphere would be, were this truly the Earth.

My voice carried as a whisper, so Mariska, in my arms, must hail him. We brought him up to date, and he chided us regretfully for allowing the Excrucian to be recovered by his fellows. He warned us that they would be heading toward Jotunheim, too, and they were far less a known quantity than the enemy already there.

Cathetel advised us to get assistance from Chancel Amaciel. Some of them were on the Tree -- Lust and Electricity (as Mariska put it, "the most rambunctious" of them). Mariska, though, might be needed by Cathetel. As she was less powerful in combat, that was not too great a blow, but I would miss her company. Which seemed -- odd.

We received a prayer, echoing and awesome within the Chancel's Heart, from the Graf. We agreed to meet upon the Tree, on the outskirts of the Imperators' Graveyard, where once we interrupted a picnic. I found it vaguely alarming that I was considered to be a "guide" to the Tree. Ye gods.

The Graf spoke of what it had found in Jotunheim. That world, now torn and conquered by the Excrucians, had had its powers stripped from it over time, the Estates of its Nobles traded in to Earth. And -- I ought not to have been surprised -- those Estates had been gathered up by Amaciel and Cathetel.

I told the Graf and Mariska, then, of the First Apple, and the memory I had, of how the two Chancels had once been one. The Graf was peeved, but I attempted to explain how Cathetel had assured me it was done for the best of reasons, and the protection of us all.

Even as I spoke the words, though, I wondered ...

The Excrucian forces holding Asgard were not expecting an attack across the Bifrost Bridge. And that Bridge was why Jotunheim was of such value -- a gateway to any world, to any spot upon the Tree. It had to be destroyed. And to do so, we had to act from the Asgard side of the bridge, where the Excrucians -- far too many of them -- held sway.

Session 19C - Punishment

[Stream-of-note-taking ...]

Haley's shelter. She's happy to talk. Who does she work for -- and why haven't I thought of that before?

Never had a lot to hide.
Only from myself, it seems.
Or, that amnesia ...
No ... on another.
Never asked -- to whom do you owe allegiance?
an Angel. Not supposed to talk about him. Doesn't get along with others. Melek Taus -- "Peacock Angel" -- Unsavory. On Lucifer's side, but has rejected beauty and corruption.

Others: Memory, Envy.

Not the first time your memory has come back. Last time 50 yrs -- Gave me this (shows scar). -- Crushing dried flowers in my hand, sending them away (memories).

One of the reasons I'm still doing what I'm doing. Every time you started figuring out what was going on -- you stopped. Didn't have everything all planned out. Had to put off a lot of other projects when i heard about what happened. I went to the Luna base, thinking you'd go there. Worried about shooting. ... Like I lost my keys.

I haven't been happy for 89 years. Make it 104. 1915. The Divergence.

So ... why? Why would you do all of this?
532 years of good times? of fun?
What was it like then?
It's like she used to say -- "Ever forward!"
Who?
(Doesn't answer.)

You have a natural knack for agonizing. It's ... cute.

200 years.
Need to check with my familiar and Imperator.
You know, you never used to do that. The Legion ... the Fae Guard ... you just did it.

Anything else I should know? Don't want to know your memories ... but mine.
Peter Pan -- hmmmm ... I'll have to read that.

Oh, and don't go to Jotunheim. They don't like you there.

Man-hug/Patting back.
"I'll be back in touch -- contacting you."

Call Fungus. No response. Stupid tech.
Guilt: Fungus was going off to Jotunheim? WTF?
Have wrapped up Noah stuff -- might be interesting.

Noah anchored to her. He was driving when her sister died.
Responsibility. What a bitch.

Working with Guilt to cause Noah grief.
Sian makes a note to chat with Guilt about this.

Get through in a prayer to Fungus.
Excrucians. Need help? Lots of Excrucians at Bifrost

Session 17-18C - Punishment

Stray snippets of thought:

*   *   *

I confess my sins to my brethren.

That seems a bit melodramatic. Say, rather, I confess my suppressed memories of burying the chest of Excrucian weapons at the Chancel of the White Tiger, at Cathetel's behest.

They take it with relative calm. Guilt -- Mariska -- from whom I expect some ribbing, seems merely thoughtful. Fungus is phlegmatic, as usual, seeking to place this piece of the mystery into place.

If I was expecting immediate understanding of why Cathetel had me do this, or why the memory was suppressed, I am disappointed. As if I should be surprised by that.

If I am confessing, though, am I damned for confessing but one thing of three? That was the only item, though, germane to what we now do, so far as I know. The secret of the first apple remains a puzzlement, and something I will pass on when time permits. The secret of the third apple, though, is mine, and mine alone. It is not something I can share with the others.

It is tangled web I weave. I wonder if something -- other than I -- will be caught in it.

*   *   *

Dealing with an Excrucian.

It seems anathema, though my own role in the Valde Bellum has been more in support of my Estate than in the front lines. Indeed, to battle directly is to have lost, I am told, though that has rarely been my experience. Still, little have I battled with the Fair Foulness before -- at least that I can remember.

Still, one must, at times, deal with the Devil. I cannot directly attack him, without provocation, and fighting over his fellow, the one we call "Pretty Boy," seems absurd. So we reach a compromise -- we keep the dagger Pretty Boy has stolen, so that we can use it to determine where the other weapons have been cached. And we keep the Excrucian doppelganger for a time, so that we can remove from him the memories of those he has counterfeited -- Electricity, Guilt, Fungus. Both are returned to the hunter at sunrise.

And so we achieve all our goals -- guidance to the weapons (which the hunter also seeks), removal of memory and secrets from Pretty Boy, and removal from the playing field of Pretty Boy himself. While it will not be at my hands, I know the punishment he will incur from his fellows is at least as great as we could provide.

So, perhaps, we have gotten the better of this deal with the Devil. Perhaps.

*   *   *

Noah offered me "scones." Sweet Lord Jesus above, American scones. With frosting.

It is with bitter amusement that I consider how, in the Five Centuries Now Lost, the scone -- unfrosted, mind you -- became the great culinary masterpiece of the Immortal Empire. A master chef's scone would cost a small fortune, and be hailed across the galaxy as a triumph of British High Cuisine (a concept which, subsequent to the Rollback, was excruciated).

Now, of course, they still cost a small fortune, if purchased at Starbucks, but are a pale shadow of their former selves.

The irony is not lost on me.

*   *   *

Noah natters on and on about teaching, about helping children, about the importance of the future.

The future. Hah. As if that were something one could count upon, any more than one can count upon the past.

*   *   *

At the very least, he offers me decent tea, with milk. Not (as some have served me in the past), "Lipton's." With, or without, Coffeemate.

Some things are beyond punishing.

*   *   *

"We can go ride the faeries this afternoon."

What?

Ah. Ferries. Idiot.

Granted, I hate faeries. No, I do not hate them, they simply strike me as magical chaos, emblematic of the mythic, as nonsensical flibbertigibbets without discipline, all anathema to me, to my way of thinking, to all I stand for.

And then I think back on the Fae Guard, and what was lost, and I would weep. If I could.

*   *   *

I need to have a talk with Haley. She called earlier, and I put her off. But I need to let her know what I know -- and ask her why she has kept this secret from me. Mayhap she has a good reason. Certainly her interest in me has been inexplicable. Knowing what I now know provides a reason for that. Or maybe more.

How could she let me do that?

And what do I do about it now?

Session 16C - Punishment

After much dithering, Guilt -- Mariska -- and Electricity decided they needed neither myself nor Alanna in Washington. Just as well -- I felt distracted by far too much else.

And it wasn't just my personal issues. I sensed I had been abrupt with the Graf. Dealing with its needs, particularly as they applied to our Chancel, would be a good trumping distraction.

"Fungus?" I was using the new ear bud. Annoying, but, one hoped, effective. "Fungus?"

Was the damnable thing even working?

At length, the Graf replied. I hoped this wasn't indicative of usual delays in the ear buds. I could have offered up a prayer in this time ...

I've long had difficulty understanding the Graf, but it was not difficult to sense that it was peeved at me. "Punishment. Have you accomplished the Great Harvest yet?"

Damn. Thanks so much, my sibling. "No. I had been going to see if there was aught I could assist you with, since you seem to have so many duties and so little help, but, now that you mention it, no, I have not, and that is my ceremonial duty. Thank you for your reminder. I will contact you later."

Damn its eyes. If ... it had eyes.

I made my way slowly down to the catacombs beneath the courthouse. I had been too long away, and the harvest of Pen Lo's quintessence had not taken place when it was needful. The bowl beneath the torso was overfull, tarnishing the body above with its heat. And the atmosphere was heady, overwhelming -- metal and flowers and ozone, redolent, leaving me gasping and lightheaded after only a minute.

I could have held my breath for how long it took. But it was, in a sense, my penance for failing to do as I must in this duty. And, it seemed to me, it might let my thoughts drift, to consider what I'd learned.

I realized, after a time, that my vision was slipping in and out of the Mythic. And, perhaps it was because the fumes of Pen Lo, it was the images from the Second Apple that I dwelt upon.

I must speak to Cathetel of this. He knows what I've remembered. But -- why? So much of what we've done hinges on this, and to know that Cathetel -- it makes no sense. Our Imperator is subtle, and I am not, but a deception such as this ...

From the First Apple, knowing what I know -- could the division have had this effect? Is the other involved in this as well, or could something have gone wrong in that as well?

And, if I wish to draw closer to my brethren, how can I continue to mislead them in this way? Where does my duty lie?

And the Third Apple. What I've lost -- or given up, to be honest. What do I have to offer the others, then, really? Or would they merely think me sentimental? Guilt would only chuckle. Crime would laugh aloud. Fungus --

"Punishment."

-- Fungus would --

"Punishment." An image of a tree -- no, a spear.

"Fungus." In my mind, an image of the moors, a bit of song from a very old play, a bit of a modern novel ...

"So, what did you want?" it asks, peevishly. "I mean, I'm sorry, I can see you are not yet finished." No sympathy in that voice. "Call me later."

"Right." The contact goes. Was it real? It was hard to think.

Haley knew. She knew. Knew what had happened. Was that why she had approached me, why she had been watching for me? What else had I forgotten and not yet recovered, discarded with soul and time and ...

Why hadn't she told me? What other secrets was she hiding? I felt a sudden sense of betrayal -- but was that fair? I didn't know any more ...

"The rest are gone ... quitting ... Rebecca ... the next Justice ..." Words, with no life behind them. Had I made the right decision? How could I know? And if I were to break the pattern I'd been trapped in -- heh, just what Haley had suggested -- I needed to recover what I'd sent away.

I'd met James Barrie, once. A cutthroat had attacked him and his new bride, in London. I'd dispatched the man, and, strangely, we'd ended up talking. Was that before -- no, it must have been after. I thought of his creation, Peter Pan -- never growing up, never changing. Losing ...

He'd been an anchor for me, for a time. Strange. How had I forgotten that? Had I cast it off, too, or had someone else ...

"Every time a child says 'I don't believe in fairies' there is a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead." Barrie had said that. Or I'd told him that. I couldn't remember any more. "God gave us memories so that we might have roses in December." I'd laughed at that. "I don't want to care about the world that would do that," I'd told him, too. No, wait, that had been to Haley, not James.

But I do want to care. And that's the conundrum ...

*   *   *

"The apples I ate, my lord. The memories they returned. They raised ... questions."

"Yes. I imagine they would."

I hand him the bowl from the harvest. He nods, and takes it.

"I feel the need, my lord, to ... discuss certain events."

"Ah. You recall as well, though, that we discussed the matter at the time."

And, now, I do. He'd told me what to do. But -- "But ... why?"

"The answer will be available to you. Good will come of this, and then you will understand."

That is not enough. For once, it is not enough. I wonder -- does he realize that?

"There are those who have benefited as a result of our actions." A Royal We? "You will not be convinced by words."

"You are wise, my lord."

"I am a clever old beast who turns enemies and friends against each other, but usually for the greater good. Do you believe that?"

I nod. In agreement, or acknowledgment?

"Our Graf has enough clues. Talk with the Graf -- together you will find the truth."

Perhaps. "One last question, my lord. Why was my memory removed of this?"

"I thought that would be best. It is part of the protections we --" A different sense of we. "-- put around the memory of everyone."

And then he dismisses me, to decide what to do next ...

Session 15C - Punishment

1.

Haley is badly shaken by her service to the dying and injured of Miami, but she points me to where she hid the apples -- in a wall behind a piano above the shelter. Curious. We shoosh away a few kids playing there. She offers to stay, but -- no. Something for me alone.

2.

Dear, sweet Mother of God. What have I done? And why?

Haley is still next door. I can hear her. I could talk to her, ask her for help, for explanation.

No, no time. Too much to do, always too much to do. And too much time has been lost -- the bitter reality of that clear to me now, even if I dare not contemplate it.

I put it down, put it aside, put it behind. I have done that far too much, but at least it feels natural, as so little does any more.

I sort and sift the remaining apples, culling only the ones most personal. And, yes, I include some referring to mhy Anchors, though only the briefest of memories, the most formal, agreements of cooperation, cooperative attempts to mete out punishment against the guilty. Surface seemings only. (And how much deeper is the truth? Do I know any more?)

3.

To the chancel. There is a Coast Guard cutter there I can take to Lord Entropy's Chancel.

I enter Lord Entropy's court. Many murmers as my burden is seen, as if I cannot hear them. The consensus is that I've brought far more than most do, to the wonderment of all.

Entropy is pleased. How nice. He invites me to a hunt. I think not. "Duty calls," I tell him, without irony. "Have a nice day, Sian," he replies, a personal note that is also most unusual. Fine.

As I depart, I hear another comment. "Manipulation, then, or an attempt to climb at the court. Or else, of course, utter ignorance." I glance at the speaker. Penelope, Marquessa of Memory. If I let myself consider it, I'll scream. Instead, I let my mien show that I am not to be trifled with. Let her consider that.

Meon is there. I snub him. I am in no mood for any more, though I owe him thanks for his actions upon the Miami rooftops.

4.

It is only later I consider the message I conveyed with my large load of apples: that I have far less than they to hide, even from Entropy. I'm over the ocean, then, so nobody save a few fishermen can hear my cry, and they think it is merely seagulls.

I let my vision slip to the Mystic. Mother Ocean roils below. Sprites of sea and air play amidst the dolphins. Bitterly poignant, knowing what I know now. Isn't that annoying?

Yes, it is.

5.

I return to the Courthouse, and try to brief Cathetel on what I've been up to.

I tell him of the bribe, of my quest, my involvement in the battle, and my visit to Lord Entropy. In turn, he speaks of Tomas being still slow to heal, hampering the investigation. And Crime had lost an anchor, and withdrawn for a time, further weakning us.

I do not speak in detail of the second apple, nor at all of the third. I will -- some day. Perhaps soon. There is much I must understand, and much else I must accept understanding of, a subtle difference.

6.

I greet Fungus on the way out. I try to be more open, more friendly. I am glad to see her. In a strange way, I value her more for what has passed in the meantime. It comes out odd, jaunty, ringing false. Irony.

It tells me a bit of what has passed, of the assignments and duties she's taken on. I wonder that it is alone in this, and know I should help. I will, but there are still other things that demand my attention first, and there is naught that seems so urgent it cannot wait on a few hours.

At the very least, I need to talk with my Anchors.

Fungus seems irritated by this.

7.

I am contacted by Mariska, using one of the new, strange technologies that has been developed in the Chancel to tie us together. An interesting innovation, and of obvious advantage. I wonder why we have not done this before.

She, and Electricity, are involved in an Excrucian redoubt at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, DC. I remember that place, all too well. I hate politics. Even in my own time, the punishment for wrongdoing is much more subtle than I care for. Things are better now, but still maddening.

At any rate, there has been fighting, and injury, and a fugitive to locate. Discussion ensues over whether I should come through to assist, be held in reserve, or what. I feel vaguely unhappy about being dragged yet further from my course (especially after putting off Fungus).

We shall see.

Session 14C - Punishment

"So there we were, Lord Entropy, his nobles Desecration, Destruction, Scorn, a bunch of ogres, Death, Electricity, and, of course, me."

"And the Excrucian?"

"Spread out over about ten square meters and stapled firmly in place to the stone."

"Ouch."

"Indeed."

"You want some more of these chocolate-covered butterflies? I can't eat another bite."

"No, thanks. But you can pour me some more of that champagne. I've decided I really like champagne cocktails."

"We'll make a girl of you yet. Oh, okay, sorry, don't give me the fish-eye or anything. Sheesh. You want the Midori, or the Rum Raisin, or the Blue Stuff in there?"

"Whichever."

"I said don't get all huffy. So you were there, the Excrucian was there, whole bunch of people were there. Including Meon. Was he watching you?"

"How the hell should I know? I wasn't watching him."

"Not even a little?"

"Even if, through some cosmic fluke, my line of sight might happen to briefly rest upon him under ordinary circumstances, at this point, he was the least of my concerns. I'd dropped in, unannounced, to Lord Entropy's realm, to his very throne room, with an Excrucian, whom it had taken everyone dog-piling on to deal with. I was a bit more concerned with what L.E. was thinking about me right that moment."

"L.E. Limp Extrusion. Ladies Exfoliate. Lawful Evil. Lucky Engineer."

"I was thinking more about Legal Execution."

"Hey, that's good."

"Right. So he started asking for explanations of me, right off, given that I had not yet brought the fruit he'd tasked me to bring. So I had to give him the whole story about the Excrucian breakthrough and the call for help and all that. It was, of course, my duty to respond to that. He could hardly question the matter. Particularly since I have a reputation for being just, which most folks interpret as being honest."

"But it's not."

"Usually it is. But not always. Which means people assume honesty from me."

"Handy."

"Well, it keeps me out of court politics most of the time, for one thing. And it gives me a little necessary leeway now and again."

"Was Languid Emperor satisfied?"

"Well, he made a point to tell Desecration, who was the one in charge of the investigation of our chancel, that we were 'useful, dedicated, if somewhat impetuous Inquisitors,' and that should be taken into account in the inquiry. Plus, it should be given more weight that the bribe Meon had received."

"Ouch."

"Aye. Donner looked properly confused by all this talk about quests and fruit, and tried to hit me up about it afterward, but I made it clear it wasn't a topic I wanted to discuss."

"You're good at that."

"Stop it. Hand me some of those -- spongeballs."

"The toffee taffy, or the marinara mango?"

"Toffee taffy."

"Lord Entropy seemed positively sanguine and mellow. He told me to finish up my quest anon, and that if I could have the fruit brought there, I could keep the spear. If I left, I'd have to leave it behind."

"So, of course, you stayed there. You and your stick."

"A comment that was tiresome well before its two hundredth repetition from my brethren, I assure you."

"Sorry. But you do, um, wave it around a bit."

"Well, hellfire, the damn thing makes me twice the warrior I ordinarily am, it grants me flight, and it gives me the Look to cow offenders. Do you wonder, then?"

"No, it makes sense. But it's an easy target for double entendres. I know, I'm pretty good at them. For example --"

"So it was about then I tried to pray to you, but you were pretty busy."

"Miami was kind of a mess."

"And I wasn't sure I wanted you to try to get the apples to me anyway, or somehow travel to Entropy's chancel on your own with them. What?"

"Oh. I just don't like him very much. He makes me feel all -- ooky."

"I'd think he was a very imaginative sort."

"Yeah, but the thinks he imagine. Icky."

"Well, I got interrupted anyway. Lord Entropy wanted my professional opinion on something."

"Uh-oh."

"Right. He wanted to know whether it was just that -- how did he put it? -- those who had seen 'fit to leave with the run of my demesne' the Excrucian they'd been pursuing -- Meon and Terminus -- whether it was just for them to be the ones to track the guy down."

"Ouch. Sounds like Large Exomorph to me."

"So I had to tell him that I had faced that same Excrucian --"

"You didn't."

"-- and that I'd let him get away from me, or that I'd let Meon take over the fight with him, so I could respond to the call for help from my brethren."

"And he said --"

"Well, I wasn't done talking yet."

"Oh, Sian."

"I know, but I had to. And, to be sure, I did feel some guilt over it. And Terminus had a big slash across his chest, and Meon was not looking all that hot, either."

"Oh, so you did look at him. And sometimes you think he looks hot?"

"Please. Let's just say that if there were any dashing qualities to him ordinarily that might make him attractive to someone, he was not displaying them at that moment."

"But you'd been in battle, too."

"I always look sharp."

"Ah. So you kept talking."

"I noted to him that justice was not necessarily the best way to determine who should track the Excrucian down, and that the success of that mission might be more important than that it mete out some just punishment."

"You, of all people."

"Well, hell, Haley, it's the truth. Poetic justice is fine in poetry and if you can make it fit into real life, but sometimes you need unpoetic justice and a dash of pragmatism. Getting the Excrucian was more vital than that Meon or Death or even I got nailed for not stopping him in the first place."

"I'm sure Lugubrious Ectoplasm loved that."

"No, he did not. He advised me that I should have a care to note that he was asking for the justice of his decision, not its wisdom."

"Ouch. Again."

"But he also agreed with me --"

"Which probably didn't improve his temper."

"So he assigned Death and myself to the hunt, but he told me I could join Death at my convenience."

"Great googly-moogly, he was mellow."

"Well, either that, or hungry."

"Ah. The apples. Right."

"So since Donner and Terminus were on their way back to Miami through the gate Death had made -- and Entropy was a lot snarkier about that than about what I'd done -- I decided to go along to."

"Without the spear."

"Well, I wouldn't have dreamt of trying to take it after Entropy's command, and it let me establish my faithfulness by leaving it there. 'We anticipate your imminent return,' was all he said."

"Which was when you got back here."

"Right. After all, I had to track you down, and then there was that third apple, and I knew I could find a boat to get back to Entropy's chancel."

"But what you didn't know was that --"

"Right. Urg. Pass the champagne again ..."

Session 14A - Punishment

[Special guest star role, 5-Jan-04]

Damage to the city is more like a couple of miles in radius.

Jump into combat. Justice, Knives, Crime, Fungus, Reality, Death vs. an Excrucian (summoned horse) and three Shards. All except Excrucian look rocky and wounded.

Hear a gun/rifle being readied. On my side. Coordinate attack on the horse (burn AMP):
Run as though to attack E., then slide down under horse's belly, raking with needles.
Gunshot takes out horse's leg.
Horse down, fungus envelopes.

Macy (gunner) wracked with E's whip.

Move to attack him -- disarm whip with needles instead (lots of fancy twirling of them, rip whip away, sai-like).

Sudden attack on E. by rebar out of the ground. Power of Cities has arrived.

Simultaneously, blast of water from buried main, striking E. -- and me -- pushing through portal opened behind by Death --

Land in Lord Entropy's chamber. Think fast. "A gift for you, Lord Entropy."
Summon Spear to me. Oh, yeah!

(Others come through?)

Joktan, Entropy, Meon, all make short work of E. Can't kill -- immortal -- but can immobilize him ...

LE suggests our chancel take possession of the whip. Wrap around Penn Lo -- make him sweat a bit more ...

[Gift of Apples? Can call Imagination, have her bring the right ones, right, (wink-wink). Next time.]

Session 13C - Punishment

I finished the first apple. Cathetel -- Amaciel -- had told me of the splitting of the chancels, splitting of our family, our memories, even our Imperator. And that there was something he wanted me to do. I wasn't sure why he was telling me this, unless it was because of the task. But ...

I bit into the second apple ...

Pieces clicked into place, even though none of them made sense. I had seen things, done things, part and parcel of the troubles that had faced us for some time -- and I didn't know why, or how. All I knew ...

Perhaps the third apple. I considered telling Haley, but decided I'd try the third. It might explain things, even though they defied explanation.

Then I heard the prayer -- and I knew it was from my brethren. An Excrucian incursion. In Miami

Even then, Haley looked at me, and she'd been told the same tale. I had to go -- and I besought her to watch the apples, even as I gathered she might be following. "I'll hide 'em," she said, and I was too preoccupied by the imminent threat -- and what I'd remembered -- to be disturbed by this.

Across the rooftops of Miami I danced. I was without my Spear, but -- well, I still had my knitting needles (it sounded ridiculous, but, then, there was sufficient whimsy left from my drinking with Haley to realize it didn't matter. What I looked like attacking Excrucians meant little. It was what I could do with the weapon that mattered, and though the needles were not (so far as I knew) so puissant in enchantment as the Spear, they would still do the job.

I leapt and skidded in shallow arcs from building to building. It was faster than ground level, not so obvious as high jumps. In the distance, I heard a mother scream, and a child die, and knew, somehow it was connected, but it was not where my brethren prayed my presence.

He landed upon the tin tenement rooftop ahead of me, upon a pale horse, garbed in horror, beautiful beyond words, an Excrucian of high state. He did not see me, as I raised the needles, and I called upon my powers of Aspect to speed my way, target my blow, faster than the wind --

-- a blow that never landed, as his Auctoritas slowed me beyond words, and he easily dodged the blow. I rolled past, came up at the ready.

"You would be well not to threaten me, little Noble," he said to me. "I wish only to pass. I am not the enemy you seek. There need not be conflict in this."

"Forgive me if I pay attention to my brothers before I take your word for it."

"I forgive very little. You would do well to remember that."

"That will not be necessary," I said.

It had been a long day or days. Humiliation before Lord Entropy. A long and pointless quest, confronting too many uncomfortable truths about myself. Worry about what I delivered back to Entropy, then still further self-examination and torment, then -- what I had learned. And, just as I was screwing myself to the sticking place in facing that -- then this interruption.

I screamed at him, with all the power I could muster, damaging myself even as I directed a tightly focused sound at him, a scream that could drill through stone, steel, and --

-- it tore the ear off the horse, and blasted a hole in the Excrucian's chest.

Even as, behind me, a terrible roar and rumble, like the world's end. I turned -- I couldn't not turn -- to see a shock wave demolishing blocks of warehouses and buildings behind me, like something out of London in the Blitz, or Berlin in '44, or Hanoi in '68 ...

Behind me, then, an echoing roar, and then I saw Meon, Desecration's Regal, collapsing the roof beneath the Excrucian.

"Go!" Meon said. "I will handle this. Go!"

I had to. My brethren were in the center of that destruction. And -- I saw the wound on the Excrucian healing, even as he tumbled, and knew I would be hard-pressed to stop him. And if my brothers were in trouble, they needed my help now.

As for Meon -- I knew not why he was here, save for word of the Excrucian incursion. He could handle himself -- I hoped.

I let my actions answer him, as I leapt toward the devastation.

Session 12C - Punishment

[Yeesh. Never wait a month (6-Dec-03), including a major holiday season, and then expect to be able to figure out your rather cryptic notes in the hour before the game. I'm just going to transcribe what I have scribbled, though I'll add italics to lines I think were spoken by others ...]

Enter freely and of your own will ...
- Frolicking fairies ...

Reenacting scenes of my life.
Drawn into scene.
Victorian imagery.
On patrol, warning a lady off the street. Looks like Lust? Makes no sense.
No Dickens.
Sian, you have a most interesting life.
Hardly.
Studied your life. Had the opportunity since you gave me your name. The tree at the center of the garden. Name carved in side.
Garden fades.

Only torqued off crone.
I liked that part. That was great. The spiders were good, too. Not original, but ...
The garden was inspired.
An internal journey.

Garden particularly inspired.
Barry - Peter Pan.
Of course it would be.
Predictable. -- Humans. [Am I human?]
Hedge maze. Rose garden. Herbs.
You expected matters to be like this.

Basket by my bole. Gather up fruit, as those sent by Lord Entropy, & others.
Do others come here?
Others come for the fruit -- journeys of discovery.

Humans are good at this.
You made of things from material. Some plain & unadorned, like the me ...
Made a few fine dresses.

Fruit -- apple, but like fish eggs -- bits of my life inside.
Complete.
A collection of you. Experiences, memories.
Does not steal them [would that be bad?]
Why he cannot send his servants. Only once.

Why called the Tree of Triumph?
Entropy's appellation.

Need to pick ... all of them.
Having your memory fall and ferment and grow -- would have some interesting consequences. You've led a very ... bloody life.
Judicious culling expected.
[Eat something. Eat Anchoring [?]]

Well, thank you for ...
... My difficult, mystic, and irritating nature?
... an entertaining hike.
That's great. It's been very interesting. What could compare to the first time?
I've heard that.
Yes, I imagine you have. [Sounds like me. Projecting?]

Row back out the whirlpool.

Imagination. Need help vetting my life.
I can't trust my grethren.
- Fungus wouldn't understand.
- Guilt ... would understand all too well.
- Crime ... sh'yeah, right.

Haley, you have been ... friendly to me. I appreciate it.

Haley,

Oh, I'm in your neighborhood.
In Miami. Imagination stuff.
I would appreciate some advice.
You would?
About ...
What? I could think of a lot of things.
...
Couple of hours. (Row, row, row)
...
Miami. Contact. Get together at earliest convenience.
Bar at dock. Froofy drink.

Nice ... basket.
From the Tree of Triumph.
Oh, he is so cool.
(I've talked with him.)

Visiting my town.

Consume my past.
Could get around it. Refuse. Get another task. Hand lopped off.

[[ Insert previous journal entry here. ]]]

So I'm reluctant to turn over.
You ...
Various servants of Lord Entropy would appreciate.
Joktan.
You need my help?

Crime. Oh boy. Crime.

Nothing there I really need to dwell on.
I won't argue with you -- I don't have time.
...
Vulnerability if not eaten.
Plant them. What would happen if they grew?
Pruning.

Lord Entropy or me. I don't want either to engage with that.
Know what you're saying but ... tough. You need to decide who.

I offer her one.
[Sifts through memories.] Here. An unfortunate instance from the Crimea.
I await her reaction, impatiently. What will she think? WELL?!!
She ate it all, even the core, save the stem, which she tied into a knot with her tongue.
There's ... stuff there. We'll talk about it later.
Lord Entropy
All the more reason I don't give myself to him.
Things bothered by.
Need to avoid giving info on Anchors.

Sort info. Stuff with Entropy.
He may not want you. He may want something you know.
Sort it.
- Anchors - a few
- Entropy - Pile (cannot tell)
- Stuff not for Entropy. Squirmy. ("I try not to dwell in ...

? Three apples - Things I don't know.
Well, can keep as they are, put somewhere safe.
No. Need to face it.
Should I stay?

Eat first. Amaciel - Cathetel. Explaining plan to separate things -- 2 chancels, 2 families. My reaction to it.

Eat second. AAAAHHHHHHH

Session 11C - Punishment

Okay, so what happened next?

Well, I could see, in the tapestries we were weaving, images -- the past, the present, the future, combined and mixed all up.

What did you see of your future?

I couldna tell. I knew they were pictures of what was yet to come, but only because -- I didna recognize them. Perfect memory, y'know? So I knew what hadn't yet happened -- poses, places -- but it's not like I could say, "Ah, well, when a tall man with a bright blue beard confronts me, I'll have to chop off his head because he's going to try and shoot me." Because that would have been too useful, too straightforward.

And you prefer things that are spelled out clearly.

Of course. But, like I said, it was all mixed up. So I tried to see if there was a pattern -- things from the past or the present that matched up, and maybe then how they related to the future.

Makes sense.

I thought so. The crone, though, she didna much care for that.

She wanted you to just go with the flow.

Right. I know I'm too analytical sometimes. It's hard to avoid when you have perceptions like mine. And I was trained to correlate facts, figure out clues.

Heh. Yes, well, we've talked about that before. More tea?

Ah, sure.

What flavor? Hyacinth? Granite? Little pink beetle?

Um ...

Remember what we talked about. Open your horizons.

Riiight. How about some Earl Grey?

Sheesh. Oooookay. But decaf. You have got to unwind.

I thought I was unwinding. Unwound.

You're a twenty-year grandfather clock who's been ticking for five minutes. Unwind more. What happened next? The crone had a fit.

Well, not a fit, exactly, but she told me to stop, and that we needed to take a walk. And then she started talking about eyes.

Eyes?

I didna quite follow. See, she had one eye -- at least in front. And the matron in the river had none. And the maiden doing the drying had two. But they all seemed to see equally well, to the degree they needed to.

I went about with my eyes closed for three weeks. Didn't faze me.

No doubt. But we're talking about me, right?

Right.

I mean, this was your idea, right? Just a chat between the two of us, someplace cozy and comfortable, a spot of tea and you hear about what I've been up to.

Girls' night out.

Um --

Right. I always find the stuff on the World Tree to be fascinating.

I'm glad that makes one of us. So we went for a walk, and chitchatted about the Tree of Triumph Fruit, and this reed boat that I was going to be sailing in.

Were there an owl and a pussycat involved?

No.

Um ... okay. So, let me guess -- she said something else cryptic.

That hardly takes any imagination. She said that I was going to succeed in my quest.

That's not very cryptic. 'Cause you did succeed.

Right. After a fashion, as she said. And then she said that I'd succeed frequently.

Good, good. More frogs?

No thanks. She said I should be wary of that.

Wary of frogs? Damned straight -- some of them will creep up behind you --

No, wary of success.

You strike me as a very wary person.

Always. I figured she was going on about being overconfident, but she said that success was not always best for me.

Mm-hmm.

I mean, that's rather cryptic, don't you think?

No.

Fine. Well, I think it's cryptic. I mean, when is success not success?

You want examples?

I know, I know -- "What shall it profiteth a man if he gain the entire world and lose his immortal soul?" That sort of thing.

Right! Good! Mundane example, and kind of silly, but nice thinking outside the box.

But that's all she said. That's the cryptic part. No specific warnings as to times when I should not succeed, or what sort of warning signs I should be aware of, or the consequences, or anything like that. Just this vague metaphorical warning. Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder?

Don't you already?

Right, but it's usually for failure. Now I need to be watching out for success, too?

Or maybe you should just take things as they come. Go with the flow. Or make up your own flow. Be the flow.

Twaddle.

Of course. That's what makes it fun.

Right. Anyway, I traded her the walking stick I'd crafted for a pair of the knitting needles. They were well-crafted, very pointy, very strong. Much better weapons.

You hadn't been attacked yet.

I was using my imagination.

Heh. Touché. But that's hardly a stretch for you. What did the crone say?

"Charming. Weave well." I think she was being sarcastic.

Probably.

So we went back and I got in the boat -- a coracle, really -- and sailed off. And when I looked back --

-- They were gone.

No --

-- They were all staring at you with their limited eyes.

No --

-- They were all laughing and pointing.

No --

They were climbing into a puce flying saucer, driven by Elvis, and propelled by several large five-winged swans.

No! They were all shadowy shapes of spiders.

Oh, well, that, too, I suppose.

Riiight. I wasn't quite sure what to do at that point --

Couldn't kill 'em, I guess.

No, of course not.

Well, that's good. It would probably have annoyed them.

I wouldna killed them just because --

You know, you have the cutest accent when you let your hair down.

I haven't let my hair down. It gets in my eyes.

I was speaking meta -- never mind. What happened next?

Well, that was three women who were no women. I'd told the crone next I was supposed to run into three men who were not men. She was surprised by the descriptions, seemed to guess it was the tree, and suggested I didn't mention it to the menfolk.

Ooooh. Mystical female secrets! Cool!

Oh. I thought she was admonishing me to be polite.

Nah, I like the mystical female secrets thing. Maiden, mother, crone and -- um -- you. The, ah, avatar of Nemesis, the goddess of --

I dinna think so. I'm not exactly, well, qualified.

Well, qualified enough for the Spear. Besides, you have to use your --

-- Don't. I'd rather not talk about it.

You never talk about it.

I don't want to talk about not talking about it, either.

Maybe that's what this was all about. Experiencing it, talking about it, coming to grips --

It was all about my being a stupid idjit and forgetting to bring a host gift. And someone having a yen for fruit in their diet.

If you think that's all this was about, you're just not seeing it.

Well -- no, I'm not.

Oh, well. It'll come to you. So, there you were, bobbing down the Mysterley River ...

Is that what it's called?

Well, it is now. to me, at least.

Okay. Well, whatever it was, I went floating along, until I heard weeping in the distance.

A maiden in distress?

Not exactly. The coracle came ashore where a path came to the river. I walked along, and found this -- man. He was sitting there, along this cart path, weeping. Just bawling his eyes out. He saw me, and then kept crying.

Some terrible tragedy?

No, he'd broken some big ceramic urn of milk, and he was just -- well, devastated.

You're saying -- wait, you're saying he was crying over --

Exactly. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen.

Maybe he really liked milk. Maybe it was the last milk in the land, and he needed to take it to his starving children. Maybe some horrible dragon was going to kill his mother if he didn't return from a quest for milk. Maybe --

Maybe so, maybe all of those things, but, y'know, come on. Get a grip, man. You spilled the milk and broke the urn. Get over it. Figure out an alternative. Suck it up, take your lashes, whatever, but don't just sit there and whimper and wail. It was -- well --

Annoying?

Womanly.

Reeealy?

Not like that. I mean, well, yes, it was unmanly. A man faces adversity, deals with the blows it sets him, and moves on. He takes responsibility. He takes action.

Like you.

Like me. Exactly.

You set such an example for men.

Right. I mean, except for the --

What?

The -- you know --

What, your boobs?

Yes. My -- bosom. Right? I mean, I can't exactly tell some bloke, "Be just like me," because he doesn't have the -- and I don't have the --

Sian, you've been a woman for years and years. Are you that uncomfortable with your body, still? That you can't even point to it and call it for what it is?

A gentleman never --

Exactly. Women are much more sensible about such things. Comes from changing diapers, I think.

Easy enough for you to say. You've never had your gender changed.

Who says?

What?

Well, I am the Power of Imagination. I can be whatever I can conceive.

So you've --

We're talking about you, right?

Um --

Right?

Right.

So this guy was acting like a weepy woman --

I have a great deal of respect for womanhood, I'll have you know. I've dedicated much of my life to the protection of --

Interesting you can respect them, and protect them, but not accept them.

Accept them?

Well, you're a woman, have been for centuries, but you don't accept that.

It's not that I don't accept it, I just don't dwell --

And you see some guy sobbing uncontrollably, and you say he's acting like a woman, which doesn't sound very respectful to them.

Well, it's not so much a matter of respecting them, as, ah ...

Never mind. So you left him there.

Well, I figured, if he was meant to be a guide, he wasn't much use as one. I could always come back to him, if need be. And, besides, it wasn't certain that the ones I met were all meant to be guides, as opposed to simply milestones.

You didn't kill him or anything.

I don't just kill everyone I meet!

Of course not.

Or even everyone who annoys me.

Good thing that.

For some folks, yes.

Am I annoying you?

You -- have your moments.

Good! And you're not killing me, and that's good, too! Right?

Asking me in a bit.

More tea? Chamomile?

Thanks. So, I said something like, "No use wasting time on regret," and moved on. I walked along the path, and suddenly realized I was being watched.

Some terrible, horrible, utterly awful enemy? A spotted snake with purple tongue? Thorny hedgehogs?

No --

Success? Failure? Did you look over your shoulder?

No. After a while, I did the last thing anyone ever does.

Looked up?

Right.

I always look up first. Or other directions, sometimes.

Riiiiight. Anyway, a planet and a moon were watching me. They didn't want me to know it, though, so they looked away, quickly. And whistled, as though admiring the stars or going about on an errand.

I love the World Tree.

That makes one of us.

No, really. Where else could something like that happen?

Nowhere else. Mercifully.

No, everywhere else. That's what makes it so special. You just have to be willing to see it. You're doing that thing again.

What?

Sighing. Rolling your eyes.

So anyway, I soon came on another crossroad.

Another one?

Well, the guy with the broken urn was at a crossroad. Though it was interesting.

The crossroad? What was interesting about it?

It wasn't one when I turned to leave. It was just one path, leading away.

Oooh. Very symbolic.

Right. I just like my symbolism a bit less -- well, real.

Like your boobs.

What?!

They're real. But they're symbolic.

They're symbolic?

Everything's symbolic. You just have to decide what they symbolize.

Could we not talk about ...

Say it!

Say it?

Say it. Boobs. Or I'll keep talking about them.

Could we not talk about -- my -- boobs. Breast. Bosom.

Want to talk about your cock instead?

Anyway, next I came to another crossroad, and there was this little run-down cottage there, and a well in front of it. And these two kids were playing on the well, standing on either side of it, tossing a ball back and forth.

How fun! What were the rules they were using?

I thought you didn't like rules.

No, I don't mind rules, as long as they change.

Then they're not rules, are they?

No, then they're not eternal, rigid, perpetual, cosmic laws -- which never are, anyway, except that people pretend they are, so they get to be.

As you say. So the kids were -- well, it was dangerous.

Oh.

So I got a bit put out by that.

Maybe they liked it that way. Danger they could control.

It's all fun, till one of them falls in the well.

So it would be better if they didn't have any fun at all?

Well, so long as they're safe, yes.

Mm-hmmm.

So I was put out, as I was saying, and I asked them about their parents. My Ma would have had my hide if she'd spotted me doing that, and my Da, too. The kids point to the house, where their father is having a nap. A "siesta." Well, that's just too much. I go in, and there he is, passed out on the table, a jug of some foul brew by his side.

Haven't you ever gotten drunk?

Well -- yes. Once. No, twice. But I paid for it, in body certainly, and when Father David found me the first time, in penance, too. And I didn't have any kids to look after.

Didn't you ever pretend you did? Have kids, that is?

No! I mean, that wasn't the sort of game boys played, and it would have been silly as a man. And then, well --

Ever want to have one? A kid, I mean. Or a man, I guess, too.

I -- I --

You sputter very colorfully.

I thought we were talking about me.

I am. Or a woman, if your taste still runs that way. Or runs that way now. Or if you're just curious, I mean, nothing wrong with that, might as well be flexible and creative, broaden the old horizons, nudge-nudge. That's what I keep telling you, at least.

So I went over and emptied the pitcher of water over his head. Now, he doesn't care for that, nor for my telling him his kids are in danger and he's a drunken sot.

Imagine that.

He grabs the jug, swings at me --

-- and you kill him.

No! Stop that! I dinna need to kill him. I simply punched the jug, so that it shattered. A show of strength, and striking at something that he values. And, can you believe it, the useless piece of garbage drops to his knees, horrified, sopping up the booze from the dirty floor --

That reminds me of a joke. This drunk staggers out of a bar and starts to cross the street --

It's not that I'm one of those temperance fanatics, you know. A small glass of brandy, now and again, never did any harm. And the Lord served his disciples wine, not that horrid grape juice some of the more radical Protestant sects fob off on their people. Did you know that --

Actually, I have something of a fondness for drink. Or of drunks. You know, the whole pink elephant thing? It's kind of nasty, but, well, that's part of the package.

Well, this drunk I had no fondness for. Again -- and, yes, before you say it, I understood the symbolism even then -- I'd encountered a man who was no man.

Are you saying he had no --

I'm sure I dinna know that. But being a man means more than the physical. A true man watches after his children. He deals with the world on his own terms, not fleeing from it into a bottle. He faces reality, plays the hand he's dealt, and lives it. That's what a real man does.

Like you.

Like me.

Mm -hmmmm.

You know, you keep saying that. It's damned annoying.

More tea? Or something stronger? I've some distilled dreamstuff in a bottle around here. It's a bit potent straight up, but with grapefruit juice it's divine.

... Maybe not right now. At any rate, when I went out, I made sure the children were all right. They said their mother would be home soon, and they could stay with their parents if need be. So I went on from there.

Which way?

Again, the only way. The crossroads was now just a path.

You'd made a decision --

--- And had to live with the consequences.

Like a real man! I get it!

Right. That's what I try to do.

Mm -hmmmm.

Anyway, as I passed on, the trees about me started changing shapes, eventually becoming a village, a world of organic, living houses, inhabited by a bird-like people. Though others dwelt there as well -- plant creatures, human types. It was dusk, and people were clearly concerned being out after dark. A large church sat in the middle of the town, but I saw a pub there, under the sign of a purple pine cone, and I went in there instead.

I think it's great you can be so tolerant of different forms and shapes of people. That shows a lot of flexibility.

My brother -- er, sibling, in my Chancel, is a mass of Fungus. My Imperator is one of the great Worms. One learns to deal with it.

And with your own form and shape.

One -- learns to deal with it. At any rate, I had no coin with me, but I knew there were those within who were transgressors, and the fines they ought to have paid found their way to my pocket. As I sat there, nursing something that ought to have been ale, I overheard rumors of murders that were taking place in the village. Working women, that caught my first attention, but menfolk as well. Shopkeepers. Everyone seemed vulnerable. Much speculation was about as to who was responsible, but all that was for certain was that the town protectors had been unable to capture the killer.

I'll be that got your dander up.

I'm not much for grand symbolic quests and living in a world of metaphors. But a murderer and predator upon defenseless women, and upon the others in this town -- that was simple, clean, and straightforward.

An odd way to describe it.

You know what I mean. It was something I knew, something I was trained for. Something that felt right.

So things can only be right if there are things going wrong?

No, not at all. Well, not in any way that's important. It just feels that way, perhaps.

And the feelings aren't important.

... Maybe we should talk about my bosom again.

What?

Just a joke. 'Twas a simple matter, then, to divine he who needed punishment for these crimes. A house stood atop a hill, overlooking the village. It was haunted, they said.

That's not very creative. Now, if it had been the church -- no, maybe the little girl who was picking up the empties in the bar, and with each empty she flipped a three-sided coin she carried to see if that person would be the next --

Do you mind? At any rate, I journeyed there, straightaway, and found him. And, again, not to belabor the point, he was a man in form, but not a man, but a monster, a gibbering lunatic. He came at me with a butchers knife, though I disarmed him with ease. Then I forced him to confess his crimes.

And the protectors of the village, they put him in jail, then?

No, him I killed.

Ah.

He well deserved it.

For being unmanly?

For being a ruthless killer.

Being a ruthless killer makes one deserving of death?

Of course.

You don't see the irony here.

What irony?

Mm-hmmmm.

I wish you would stop that. Here, pour me a bit more of that.

Only if you let your hair down. Literally, I mean. And you stop with the sighing and eye-rolling. Come on, nothing's going to attack you here, if a bit of hair gets in your eyes you'll only be ninety-eight percent as lethal as you usually are, but I think you can manage.

Fine.

There. That's better. Here.

Mmm. That's -- very tasty.

Don't drink it too quickly, it'll make your head spin. Literally. Ah. Your hair is like spun silver. I like it. You should do something more interesting with it, though. Here, let me --

Don't. Touch. The hair.

Oooooookay.

As I was saying, I left town after that. The madman's head I left on a spike at the gate of the haunted mansion, so that the people would know they were safe.

Wouldn't that make the people think the killer had struck again?

Not when people stopped dying after that.

Unless a copy-cat killer started picking up where the crazy guy left off. I saw this movie once --

They knew they were safe. I saw the ghost of the killer dragged into the ground by the ghosts of those who had lived in the house. And I felt -- saw -- the spirit of the village become clearer, less dark. Indeed, dusk had fled, and it was morning again.

Very symbolic. Though I like the copy-cat thing.

There was, of course, but one road out of town now, and that is what I took. At length, I came to a fork in the road. I'd run out of men-not-men, so --

Hey, that was funny.

I do have a sense of humor. Rather dry one, I was told, though Father David said it would get me in trouble some day.

Humor is very important. It shows a different way of looking at something. I like it a lot. Hey, here's one: a Noble, an Imperator, and an Excrucian walk into a Chancel --

The fork in the road, as I said, had a sign. Down one path, "Pandemonium Garden." Down the other, "Everything else." Now, Pandemonium was the capital of Hell, the city of "all demons" in Greek, in Milton's Paradise Lost. I assumed this was somewhat less ominous.

Besides, Hell isn't anywhere near that spot on the World Tree.

Right. Still, a Garden is what I was looking for, so that's the path I took. The road took me up into the wooded hills, climbing and descending in the rills and chasms in the bark of the Tree.

Very poetic.

Thank you. I heard, at length, a giggle, and a rustle in the undergrowth. I was ready for an attack --

You had your knitting needles in quatre?

I had the butchers knife now, remember? No, naught drawn, but I was ready for it. And then the attack came. It was --

Yes? Yes? Black arrows? Poisoned black arrows? Black poisoned arrow frogs?

Acorns.

Acorns? What, giant squirrels? I've heard of giant squirrels that inhabit the World Tree. No, really, they're a mile tall, with big, bushy --

I parried the first acorn, then the second, then parried and dodged a barrage. I heard bare feet upon the leaves and wood, and waited a moment. Then I decided to move on.

You didn't kill him!

Y'know, I don't kill everyone I meet.

The day is still young.

Indeed. At any rate -- yes, please, just a bit more -- as I turned to leave, he was standing in the path. "You canna do that," he said.

Did he have a cute accent like yours?

I dinna have a cute accent. I worked very hard to speak the Queen's English in my time in London. Too many folks were willing to consider us Welsh half-barbarians anyway.

Well you have a cute accent now.

So that's what he said. He was a young boy, maybe fifteen years old. A face of mischief, and eyes as old as the hills around us.

Peter Pan. Huckleberry Finn. Robin Goodfellow. Pan. Tom Bombadil as a teenager.

Whoever. That's how he appeared to me. He made faces at me. "Is there aught wrong with your face?" I asked, and he said there was not, and questioned me as to what I was doing there. I told him of the Triumph Fruit. "That'll be pretty difficult. It's in the garden."

See, he did have a cute Welsh accent!

He did not.

Then you do.

I dinna have a cute Welsh accent!

Well, it sounds like what I think a cute Welsh accent would sound like.

Have you ever been to Wales?

Yup. And to the dolphins as well. Hey, here's one -- a dolphin, a porpoise, and an orca go over a sand bar --

So ... I ask him, wasn't I on the path to the garden? And he ventured as the garden was along the path. Then he stepped closer, and said it was on the path, then danced away and said it wasn't on the path any further, and I'd have to catch him.

Ah. So he --

Yes, I realized he was the garden himself, somehow personified.

That was very good, imaginative thinking.

I was on the World Tree. It was the strangest thing I could think of, so I knew it must be true. Then he started chanting poetry at me as we ran through the wood.

Love poetry?

Of course not. Taunting poetry, like, "Sian, Sian, spank and yawn, / Came questing for the Garden / On a search for Entropy / Who for fruit had a hard-on."

Oh. Not very good poetry.

I tried to register my complaint personally, but -- well, he was pretty fast. Nimble, too.

He knew your name.

You noticed that.

So, he was faster than you?

As fast. Had I the Spear, I'd've caught him easily.

But you were without your pointed stick. Hey, you're doing the sighing/rolling thing.

Never mind. Yes, I was without it. So I performed a miracle, and outstripped him in speed and power. And, no, I didn't kill him. I realized I needed something from him, and that the best way to get it was with charm, not harm.

Hey, you can do bad poetry, too.

You should read my haiku.

Oh, I love haiku.

You obviously haven't read mine.

I'm sure it's charming. You know, there are certain Japanese poetic forms that are used just by women, and others used just by men --

Huh. I wouldn't know. Anyway, so I realized the best thing to do was to make this all a game. I mean, I could just tackle him and put him into a wrestling grip or something, but that wouldn't help all that much. But if I made it a game of tag, and won, then maybe --

Oh, that's good.

Thanks. So we're running, jumping, climbing, swinging, leaping from hilltop to hilltop, but now I'm going faster, further. I'm cutting him off, making him turn, taking the initiative back. And he keeps pushing, and eventually tries to jump something, a chasm, he can't. And I bound down, catch him in mid-air, and land him safely.

How heroic! Did he swoon?

Ah ... no.

Aw. Did you swoon?

No! He bowed to me, and I bowed back.

How ... moving. Here, take a bit more of this, the bottle's almost empty.

Fine. That's good. Stop. Anyhow, he bows, grins, and asks, "What can I be doing for you, after owing you for a fine tumble?"

A fine tumble! That's funny. So, did you wish you had? Taken a tumble with him?

What do you -- no. I did not. He was -- a garden, for God's sake. It wouldna be proper.

Oooooh -- "It wouldna be proper." Well, we can't have that.

Are you going to let me finish?

Sure, it's the only "proper" thing to do.

So I tell him again about being tasked by Lord Entropy with bringing back some of the Fruit of Triumph. And he says, "Ah, well, you'll need to enter the garden, then." And next thing I know, I'm at the entrance of this garden, and his voice is saying, "Enter freely, and of your own will."

That sounds very sexual.

You know, Haley, if I may be frank with you, you have far too much of an obsession with -- carnality.

Sian, 90% of the humanity spend 90% of their fantasy life focused on "carnality." What do you expect from the Power of Imagination?

Well, I don't spend that much time considering such mattes.

No kidding.

What?

Nothing. So, what happened next ...?

Session 10C - Punishment

I. "Fly Me to Meon"

I soar over the Atlantic, seeking the desolate islands of Lord Entropy's chancel. I fear I ought to have told the others -- but who? I would rather not tell Crime anything save what is absolutely necessary. Similarly Guilt -- I ought to feel closer to Mariska, but she seems to scheme too deeply for my taste. Fungus is too difficult to talk to, save when I must; I'm never quite sure it understands what I'm saying, or why I say it.

Others I know? Not of my Chancel, and this is Chancel business. And Cathetel must not know; if something goes wrong, he must be able to deny truthfully knowledge of my actions.

I grip the Nemesis Spear tightly, but as I approach, no threats rise to meet me. Instead, I descend to where I see Meon approaching to greet me.

He is silent, disturbingly so. Even when we exchange greetings, he is curtly quiet.

"I come first with a question, then with a warning on your behalf," I say. He nods within his hood for me to continue. "First, then, Michel Tomas --" I eschew the use of his title. "-- has identified the Excrucian trident he saw as one that had been in the possession of Pen Lo. I know that Lord Entropy's chancel participated in the division of those spoils. Do you know of such weapons, and what might have happened to them."

He shakes his head. "We were given charge of a portion of Pen Lo's possessions. We did not receive any weapons. Nephys was in charge of that."

Justice' own Chancel. Interesting.

"You said you had a second message for me. A warning?"

"Yes. I warn you of an attempt to bribe you. Those who oppose my Imperator's position in this dispute with Arnaud seek to influence your opinion with a great desecration. While I know you could not be so swayed, that such an attempt would be so openly attempted and widely known to others gives me some concern for your reputation."

I sensed ... surprise. At length, though, he merely bowed again. "Thank you for your warning. Now ... there is the matter of your gift."

Oh my. I had forgotten my last visit, and Meon's warning, though it was only a day or so past. A busy day, to be sure, but, still ...

"I had thought -- since I was here to consult with you, not with Lord Entropy." That sounded slightly insulting. "That is, as he is lord of the Chancel."

He might have been smiling. I am getting an odd sense from him, a tempering of the hostility of before. Still, my discomfiture clearly pleases him. "The gift for visiting the Chancel." He gestures around. It seems hardly inviting or worth paying a gift for, but I understand that it reflects on the Imperator himself. "You must follow me to Lord Entropy, then."

I seek something to say. This is not a time I can afford to be away from my own Chancel or my Lord. "Is my purpose in coming to you with this warning not sufficient a favor to the Chancel?"

A sense of amusement again. "I am not in such high standing these days."

I sigh inwardly. An open suggestion such as I am about to make is very dangerous, but I cannot think of how to place bound on it that will not be themselves insulting. "Is there then a service I can provide the Chancel, as my gift to it."

"I believe that's usually the idea of what Lord Entropy will ask of you."

Wonderful.

I am kept waiting some time in an antechamber. An insult, a reminder of my status, either as a mere Noble, or as one who has given offense? Or simply a reflection of Lord Entropy's limited time or limited interest in the matter.

At length, I am brought in. I genuflect before him, doing due obeisance.

"We understand that there was some confusion in your obligations as a visitor to this Chancel."

"The fault was mine, Milord. I take full responsibility." And I do. I am at fault, and it is only fitting that I be punished. My only regrets and concerns are how this may redound to my Chancel and Imperator.

(Though it raises a thought as to whether we could, in turn, impose such a duty upon visitors. Is it that it is Lord Entropy, or a tradition we could begin. Something to consider in the future.)

He summons his majordomo, who speaks with him in an unintelligible tongue. Finally, the other turns to me. "There is a particular fruit which grows on a particular tree that the Chancel has difficulty in gathering. A small basket of that fruit is desired by Lord Entropy." The creature tells me of the tree's location, upon the World Tree, and how to take the first step upon my journey, after which I will receive further guidance.

I bow, in acknowledgment of the obligation upon me.

The instructions, however, are not finished. "As recognition of your lapse," the creature says to me, "your token of office will remain here in this Chancel." It gestures over at a rack of weaponry, both strange and mundane in appearance.

My spear. Hellfire.

I consider an objection. Lacking it will make me more vulnerable to the inevitable barriers I will face. Further, only the spear gives me the power of flight, without which the trip will take far longer.

But surely this is already know to Lord Entropy. Arguing of the difficulty of the quest given seems unlikely to sway him, and will only lose me face. And even reduced, I am still well able to handle much of what I might encounter.

I arise and step to the case, placing the spear upon two pegs that are conveniently vacant. I feel suddenly empty without it, for it has been by my side for over a century.

"The journey will take but a small period of time," the majordomo is nattering on. "Not long enough for you to be inconvenienced by its lack." Easy for it to say.

I bow to Lord Entropy, dismissed, and am escorted by Meon back to my point of arrival. Now there is a large, sturdy row boat tied there, bobbing in the water. I know that my journey will take me to the Old Sow, a great whirlpool in the North Atlantic. I still retain prodigious strength and speed; it will not take long, even in such a craft.

Still, I am diminished. There is flight of course, and physical prowess that the spear granted me. The terrible mien I could present to my targets, too, came from the spear. Not that I expect to need that on this journey.

Meon stands by as I step into the boat. I look at him, and, politely, say, "I hope that my lapse will not adversely impact on your station."

He shakes his head within its dark hood. "It has been dealt with appropriately."

Well, at least I've not made more of an enemy of him than he already was. Cold comfort indeed.

---

II. "The Countess of Punishment went to sea // In a rickety old row-boat"

I cross the sea with mighty pulls upon the oars, each of which sends me far into the air, then, as I land, acts as a hydrofoil to let me skim further. I have time enough for contemplation of my sins, never the most comfortable of pastimes.

I can, I suppose, contact the Cammorae, and get them to take on this burden. The thought of treating with Jurai, though, makes me almost physically ill. There would not be just the cost he would impose on such an errand -- and it would be high, as the Cammorae are Earthbound, and would themselves need to call in favors -- but the degradation of having to actually ask something of him, and the joy he would take at it ...

Well, Desecration's Regal would probably be thrilled by the prospect. I'm surprised he did not suggest it.

Knowing I will be kept away for a lengthy time, I realize I must report back in to the Chancel. I decide upon Fungus, who will ask the fewest questions, and revel least in my embarrassment. I find some of the remaining mushroom soup mix in a pocket and begin to pray to it, feeling faintly ridiculous (despite knowing that others could do the same with my own coltsfoot). Why, I wonder, have the new communications devices not yet been produced by the Chancel?

"I am occupied," I tell Fungus, once it answers my prayer to it, "by an errand I am told will be short. Let our Lord know, if you will."

It agrees, then adds. "If you need to return quickly from somewhere, let me know, and I can gate you here."

An interesting thought to bear in mind. "I will be in touch," I tell it, and end my prayer.

I hear the whirlpool before I reach it. Diminished, I can still navigate from its true south, as instructed. The boat spirals downward, inward, narrowing, then, abruptly, widening again, as I rise again, inverted, upon a broad, placid lake or sea.

Upon the World Tree.

The current from the reversed whirlpool slowly deposits me upon the nearby pebbly shore. I keep my eyes open, watching for any threats -- and letting my vision slip into the Mythic, as much as I find it unsettling.

A great tree by the shoreline watches me, an amused yet equally disdainful expression on its -- well, on it.

"Are you my guide?" I ask.

"I am a guide," it replies. "What is your name?"

"Sian, Viscountess Punishment."

"Carve your destination upon me, and I will tell you where you must go next."

I do so, and it gives me the route to take. "That is not," it says, "the full path, but it will take you to the next guide."

I nod.

It hesitates, then asks, "Out of curiosity -- and you may deny me if you wish -- is this a personal quest? Or are you sent for another."

"For another," I say, cautiously, not spelling out whom.

The tree nods. "Lord Entropy?"

"Why do you ask?"

"He manages to get so few to pursue this, since he is forbidden to do so."

I consider. "What will I encounter along the way."

The tree nods again, as though expecting the question. "First, three women who are not women. then, three men who are not men. Then you will meet the Guardian of the Tree, the Tree itself, and, finally, most difficult of all, the Fruit."

"Why is the fruit so difficult?"

It leans toward me slightly. "You do know you will have to find a different way back? Did they tell you that?"

Of course they did not. Though they said nothing about it one way or another. "Why is Lord Entropy forbidden to obtain this fruit?" It occurred to me that if this was some crime, I would rather know of it now than later. Not that there was much I could do about it at this point.

"He is, it is said, only allowed to be on Earth, save for those Chancels elsewhere which can be reached from there -- the Locust Court, for example. Further, he and his weaken when they are off of that world. Thus, they must find others to do them such services as they cannot themselves perform."

Before I depart, I consider. There seems no value in not leaving behind someone favorably disposed toward me. "While I am here, is there any small favor or service I might perform you?" I think, being a tree, it might need something that its immobility prevents it from obtaining.

"You have given me your name. That is enough."

Hmmmmm.

---

III. "Witchy Women"

I walk along the path indicated, through woods, over hills, a river dancing and chattering a short distance away. Above me, heavenly bodies argue over who to invite to a party.

Along the way, I find the deadfall I need to craft a staff. There are times when it is better to have a weapon than not. I could have taken one of the oars, but I might return to the boat after all, and rowing with one oar is quite a bit more difficult.

I just feel better with having a stick. What can I say?

At length, I begin to hear music. Three women's voices in close harmony, singing some sort of rhythmic work song. I advance cautiously (realizing these must be the three women -- not women?).

I come upon them, beside the river. A matronly woman, blind, draws threads from the water, passing them on to an old crone with but one eye, who weaves them into sheets of cloth, handing them on to a two-eyed young maiden, who sets those sheets to dry upon the tree branches.

I do not read as much as once I did, but my memory is not so dim as to not recognize an incarnation of the Three Fates, the Wyrds, the Three Sisters, the Moirae, whatever they may be named here. What else might one expect from a sojourn to the World Tree. Which is one reason why I try to avoid same.

They greet me in unison, in song. "Hello, Sian. How is your adventure going?"

I am expected. Still, if they are the Fates, how could I not be? "So far without difficulty."

They wait for me to say something, so sure I must. "You sing beautifully."

"So do you."

Recollections of choirs and church flit past my mind's eye. "Not for a while."

"Are you sure?"

Now what the hell did that mean?

"Will you weave with us?"

I shake my head. "I have never woven before -- though I am sure I would be a quick study."

"Oh, we can teach you ..."

And so they do. The maiden takes me into her tutelage first, where she is hanging cloth upon gossamer threads. These reflect and are transparent at the same time -- but upon a second glance, contain images. Of me. Memories I hold, some locked away for a long time, many with reason. It is not a pleasant review, though rarely do I catch more than a glimpse before a ripple of breeze, a flicker of light, or my teacher's insistence upon further work take my attention from a scene.

As I see more, there are other places, other areas that are dwelt with. They are not sheets, but pieces of a tapestry, all but transparent, telling a story, giving a warning, showing a place. I look about and see hundreds of them.

I take one and examine it in closer detail. I am both astonished and not, in seeing that it shows me looking at a tapestry of myself looking at a tapestry. I set it aside, quickly.

The tapestry is not complete (I hope). Before I can read more, the maiden interposes. "Now you must study at the river."

There, the matron, blind, draws threads out of the water. "You must draw these," she says, "because they are needed for your tapestry."

"Who creates the threads?" I ask. They merely gesture, in unison, at the river, unhelpfully.

I learn, shortly, how to find the right thread, the one that feels right. It is intuitive work, not analytical. I cannot simply look and see what qualities are the correct ones, but must somehow feel it nonetheless.

And I can, which is a disquieting surprise. I assume that some lesson is being taught me, beyond the ostensible. I both resent it and find it intriguing. I, someone who knows I care to know the measure of things, must learn to know the unmeasured. As I said, disquieting.

(I am that much more introspective than once I was -- I blame Imagination, to be honest, though I also realize it's a gift. It's confusing. And, again, disquieting. I suspect it is for the better, but so is an overland journey without food or water across a burning desert to get to some desired goal. At any rate, I am more introspective, but not as much, perhaps, as I ought to be. I may have a blind spot there, but I'm not stupid. No matter what some folks may joke about without recalling my preternatural hearing.)

As I begin to get into the -- rhythm of drawing out the threads, I realize I've been singing. For a while. What in hell?

Before I can contemplate this, I am called to weave with the one-eyed crone, learning to craft the tapestries. I go to her, where the fabric is bundled up on her lap. I can see, once more, imagery there, disturbing pictures, unhappy ones -- but there is no time to study them more closely, for she is speaking.

"The pictures -- they will not be visible until they are done. And until they are hung. But then it will be ... too late."

Session 9C - Punishment

Scene 1, between Punishment, Justice, and Cathetel

[Within the Imperator's Court]

"It would be best if all were gathered."

"You wish me to contact the others?"

"Yes. I have the Ritual Defense against Arnaud's forces --"

"The Ritual must be placed on hold, until the truth is discovered, Lord. After all, you are not qualified to lead armies while charges such as these are outstanding."

"Since we know he is being framed by someone, to prevent Milord from defending himself, perhaps against the very party that has sought to so false accuse him, is hardly just, Justice."

A smile. "I am here to judge. My job is to investigate regarding the conflict between Cathetel and Arnaud."

"And you will therefore, of course, Justice, assure that Arnaud does not take advantage of your investigation."

"If you will assure that your brethren will be here when I return, then I will seek all legal means to restrain Arnaud." The smile again, baiting. "You could request intervention directly of Meon, you know. He -- speaks very highly of you."

A frown. "Milord, do you wish to contact them, or shall I?"

"I will refrain from exercising any untoward power over my Realm. You may summon them."

---

Scene 2, between Punishment and Justice

[Upon the building's roof]

A cry to the winds. "My brethren, our Imperator summons us to the courthouse." Consideration, then a kick at a ventilation pipe, aborted.

Unexpected appearing. "That was very subtle."

"When legally blocked from overt action, Justice, subtlety is all that is possible."

"Ah -- yes. When will they be here?"

"As soon as they can be, Justice."

"I will be waiting. I'll assume you, too, will be there, since you seem to have so much to say."

A polite smile. "If it is Milord's wish, then certainly I'll accede to his desires, Justice.

"You have placed guards on the Excrucian ship, of course, to prevent any further ... unfortunate stumblings-upon?"

"I really could not say. I have been busy reporting to Milord -- and to you, as well, Justice."

"I will leave you to it, then." Departure.

A kick sends the vent pipe sailing far into the evernight sky, to land somewhere in the ocean.

---

Scene 3, between Punishment, Cathetel, and the Cammora Jurai

[Justice has gone to Arnaud. Punishment has completed her report on the Excrucian weapons.]

A sound from the door. "Hello? Oh, I don't mean to intrude --"

"And that, Milord, is the truth." Turns. "Ah. Jurai." A small step, interposing between Jurai and Cathetel.

"Yes, Lord Cathetel, and, of course, the fair Sian. Heh. I had the honor of speaking with Mariska and Mr. Devereaux, and I have news for them. Would you know where they are? Or would you like to hear about it?

A glance at the Imperator. "You may tell us."

"Heh. Yes. Well, you already know that Arnaud's chancel has sent some very fine gifts to our Lord Entropy. Well, they're also trying to influence Meon, Desecration's Regal. We've learned what the bribe is." Pauses, waits. "It is something of a time-sensitive nature." Pauses, waits.

A sigh. "Tell us, then."

"Yes. Well, they are making a fine gift to Desecration's Estate. A grand desecration, as it were, in the middle of Miami. A fabulous artifact from a burial site elsewhere. Very old. Very significant." Eyebrows waggle.

Silence.

"Well, they plan to do something to desecrate it, involving a house of prostitution there." Pause. "Heh. Yes, well, it's Eve."

Raised eyebrows. "Eve -- as in, 'Adam and ...'?"

"The very one. Heh. She's to be found, dead, burned beyond recognition in a whorehouse, the unfortunate victim of arson. She'll be labeled a 'Jane Doe' by the authorities. Truly, a fine desecration. Meon will love it." Pause, awaiting reaction. "This information, I'll note, was not easy to obtain. Very costly."

Coldly. "You will have to arrange with Guilt for repayment."

"Of course. Of course. Heh. I could, you know, find out more. Arrange for further 'intel' --" Gestures quotation marks. "-- on the plan. Or perhaps find a way to redirect the sacrifice in ... your favor? Heh. Of course, there would be a price, but that can easily be -- negotiated."

"Again, you would need to talk with Guilt or Crime about that. Your bargain is with them."

"Of course. Of course. Well, I'll just leave the two of you to your tete-a-tete." A smile, a raised and suggestive eyebrow.

The door closes. A look over at Cathetel.

"They are a necessary evil."

A bow. "You are at least half right, Milord."

"It is better to keep one's friends close, and one's enemies closer. As I am sure you are well aware. Go now. Do what needs doing. The others will gather here soon."

A bow, and departure.

---

Monologue I

Eve. Mother of humanity. Second-born of us all.

But betrayer of all humanity as well. Weak-minded dupe of Satan, violator of God's command, temptress and betrayer of Adam. She who first sinned.

An irony, perhaps, given our Chancel. Hers was the first Crime of humanity, leading to its first Guilt, and thus its first Punishment.

I'm uncertain how Fungus fits in. Perhaps the Garden. And Cathetel is a serpent, though -- well, obviously not that serpent.

But for Eve I hold no pity, no compassion, no sense of outrage. That she has not turned to dust, as all mortals must, means little to me. That her body would be desecrated means even less. None could desecrate it more than she did herself. Still, I suppose some would consider it a desecration, a way to influence foul Meon. I'll have to consider this.

And it's not as though it's the Blessed Virgin. That I could not stand by for, and such a desecration would be -- unthinkable. Of course, tradition has it she was taken directly up to Heaven at the end of her days.

Hrm. Best not to dwell overmuch on this, lest the conflict between the faith of my mortal life and what I see and hear and touch about me now becomes too great. I must seek out what my course today is, not speculate idly on matters I cannot control or understand. That is the better course.

---

Scene 4, between Punishment, Fungus and Guilt, and, later, Justice.

[In Cathetel's court, as the Imperator looks on. Fungus and Guilt arrive.]

"You've come. Where's Crime?"

"Distracted. It's a body part issue. Lust says that a piece of Pen Lo is missing."

"What?!"

"Not one of our pieces. Nor theirs. Someone else's. Lust has been letting folks know."

"So where is Crime now?"

"With Lust."

"Great. We need to get him back here, as soon as possible. The reason he's away doesn't matter. Tomas expects us all to testify before him when he returns."

"Do we know when he'll get back?"

In the room. "As soon as possible."

Turning to Justice. "I'll send someone to Storyville to see if he's there with Lust."

"Fine, Fungus. I have secured some time with Arnaud's people, a pause if you will, before the conflict must resume."

"I'm sure we'll have this all cleared up quickly, Justice."

"That is my hope as well, Sian. Now, speak to me of the trident. Have you any information of interest regarding it?"

"I know that it came from a crate in a cave on the shore. I know the crate was not from the shipwreck, but was planted there on the last day of the Chancel's creation. I know that a mundane was convinced to plant the weapons in the lighthouse, in exchange for money."

"I will want to speak with him, Fungus." A glance at Punishment. "Is he still alive? And in possession of all his digits?"

"Yes."

"Then send for him." A sigh, a smile. "So, not treason perhaps -- but surely incompetency in defense of a Chancel."

"I note that this took place before the Chancel was created, and at a time when my Imperator was already complaining of interference by others."

A frown at Fungus. "Do you have anything further to add, Sian?"

"Just that I trust that justice will be done. By one agency -- or another."

"The trident itself, from what little I saw of it, appears to be a weapon described in Inquisitorial investigations from several centuries ago. It was captured from the Excrucians then."

"By whom, Justice?"

"Pen Lo's Chancel, of course. Now, other weapons were captured at the time as well --"

"Who inherited the artifacts from Pen Lo, Justice?"

A hard glance at the interruption by Punishment. "We did. And, of course, Avralam. Lord Entropy. Representatives of the Valde Bellum. The Cammorae might have as well -- they were involved in debriefing the mortal inhabitants of the Chancel before it was returned to reality, and in the destruction of the castle. Lord Entropy, or a representative of him, would have been in charge of disposing of the weapons."

Consideration. "Under the circumstances -- well, Lord Meon will be here in the next day or two, and I will continue investigating on his behalf. In the meantime, Cathetel is within his rights to Ritual Defense of his Chancel. The trident will be taken to Chancel Nephys. The investigation will continue. This has been -- most informative."

A glance at Punishment. "One more question, Sian. Your reaction to the individual who was wielding the weapon. You could have just as easily disarmed him."

A blank mask without expression. "I did."

---

Monologue II

There are times I wish I were more useful.

My service to my Estate is of great value, of course. And I'm fast, powerful, and can strike down our Chancel's foes if given half a chance.

But when it comes to the magicks of this place, I am barely tolerated by the land or its people.

So when it strikes me that a good course of action would be to follow up on Tomas' comment, and seek to protect the Excrucian ship from further intrusions, my options are limited. I can simply swim out there and pick up every piece of wood, flotsam and jetsam, and bring it to shore, and then carve out huge blocks of stone and build a wall about the ship. Or I can (if they will listen to me) order the Coast Guard to plant men around it to protect it. But the latter would be feeble in effect, and the former faintly ridiculous and grossly inefficient.

I mention the problem to Fungus. It shrugs, and entombs ship and fragments alike in its namesake, both anchoring them and shielding them from most harm.

That sort of thing. Useful.

Then it occurs that there is one way I might be useful. One of the planned blows against us, according to that vile little man, is the bribing of Desecration's Regal. Lord Entropy, one would assume, is above such things, but Meon might not be. But pride is certainly one flaw he carries, as do we all.

I knew, in my days, of police who would take bribes. Foul creatures, to trade authority for personal gain, but with such are my days taken up. To give a bribe, though, is a difficult thing, for the one bribed must consider himself in control of the transaction -- not control as in responsibility, but control as in being the one truckled to. If the manipulation is too overt, the expectations in return too blatant, the inference that one can be bought too visible, a bribe becomes an insult. One becomes too obviously a commodity, to be bought or sold. Nobody cares to be a commodity, a sack of flour, a servant. Not, that is, if they hold to the pride of position. Pride that lets one take a bribe, then, is a fragile thing, and can be pierced by light of day or by subtle word.

I am not subtle, but I know of pride. I will go to Meon, then, in that desolate realm of islands, and warn him of how Arnaud seeks to manipulate him -- and, through implication, let him know that such an attempt at manipulation is known by others. Perhaps in that way I can prick his pride, such that the bribe will not be accepted, but shunned, and not redound to Arnaud's advantage, but to his sorrow.

And that, in turn, will be useful indeed.

Session 8C - Punishment

I approached the ship. Only its stern -- formed like a giant nautilus, its planks all engraved with Excrucian runes -- was relatively intact, tilted at an angle backwards as it lay upon the beach. The moans were coming from the captain's cabin, from the gallery at the stern. I landed, peered in through the windows, but could see little, even though my eyes could take in every fragment of moonlight within.

I opened the door, stepped in, alert and ready. The moan again, coming from a back portion of the cabin. A young man lay there, coiffed, beautifully dressed, gorgeously --

I paused. He was ... so ...

I shook my head. He was battered and wounded, opalescent blood staining his tunic, his pretty locks, his --

Dammit. What's the matter with me? Excrucians are beautiful. I knew that already. Get over it, man.

"I need to move you," I said to him. "It's too dangerous here."

He spoke a word in his tongue, a black and twisted language yet, from his mouth, like the chiming of bells.

I grunted, then reached down, gently picked him up, trying to keep his broken ribs and limbs immobile. It helped that I could gently fly across the room, back out the door.

In the moonlight, I could see his clothes were as from some court, where fine craft was reflected in minimalistic simplicity. Such style had never appealed to me -- a product of my time. Haley -- Imagination would probably be disappointed in me.

"Hey, what you got there, girl?" Crime's voice called up to me, where he and Fungus stood upon the sand. "Bring 'im down."

Wonderful. I was loathe to entrust even an Excrucian to Crime's tender mercies. But I wanted to check the rest of the wreck out, and didn't want to be delayed securing the prisoner, or taking him to medical care.

In the light, he looked 17 or 18 years old. I hoped he didn't have anything of value in his pockets.

Crime nodded as I landed. "I'm a doctor, girlie. Don't worry -- I won't hurt him. Let's see -- better splint that ..."

I nodded, glared at him sternly. "If you do hurt him, Guilt will know." And likely do nothing about it, but that's another matter.

He gave me a big grin. "But he's Excrucian. He deserves punishment for invading us, no?"

"Yes -- once we know what's going on." I couldn't stand his presence any longer. "I'm checking out the ship."

There was not much left. A few papers in the captain's cabin, at first glance, but I wanted to check for bodies before I gave it a thorough searching.

But there were no bodies to be found. The migo, the ogroids in the water, were maybe a score in number, but were also clearly not commanders of ships. The pretty boy (Keep calling him that) was only one -- the craft was too large for so few officers.

Of course, there was only part of a ship here. The rest was scattered across the reef. Yet, that wasn't how it looked. This was not a shipwreck, torn by impact. Instead, the ship had been -- rent. Torn apart, as though by giant hands, not a crash. Curious.

A further search below decks found no cargo (washed to sea), nor were there guns where one might expect them on a gun deck.

I heard noises above me, alarming for a moment until I recognized the breathing and movements as that of Crime. "What are you doing?" I asked coldly as I came back to the captain's quarters where he was rifling drawers.

"I'm picking up evidence, girl. Look -- the log book."

That would tell us where they had been, and where they were planning to travel. All right, that had been clever of him, though it was more likely he was out to sell it to a museum or some such thing. "Good job. I'll carry it."

We descended to the beach. Fungus looked at the log, nodded, then said, "I am speaking with my brethren aboard. They talk about five like our prisoner, along with one in a hood. They are making a contract, which they sign and seal. The hooded one is pointing at an image of the Earth. The hooded one promises a large chest as payment. Their leader looks within, and it glows. Our prisoner bears the chest below decks. The hooded one leaves. The ship heads to Earth, but the chest -- it is not clear, but a rupture occurs where the chest is, killing many, and the ship sinks here."

Excellent. "And the contract?"

"Look in the log book," Crime suggested and we found it there, tucked in the pages. The language it was scribed in was part Excrucian and part Angelic. The Angelic script promised services to be rendered, in exchange for (in Excrucian) good, or perhaps weapons. Since the rest of the log was in Excrucian, presumably the hooded one promising favors was the one writing in Angelic. Ostensibly one of the Light, or Heaven, but clearly a traitor.

An Excrucian rune was burn into the paper at the bottom. Beside it was a seal.

Cathetel.

But that trick never works.

---

After the attempt to frame Amaciel, which led to the battle which necessitated refounding our Chancel, it would have been a bizarre coincidence for Cathetel to have turned out traitor. Yet I was ready to leave, even then, to speak to him, and demand the truth. What I would do about it, were the implications true, was another matter, but I had to know where matters stood.

"This doesn't seem like the Big Boss," Crime suggested. "Let me try something."

He spoke, then, to the Spirit of the Contract, using his Domain to determine what crimes might be involved with its crafting. Betrayal and treachery, certainly, but also -- yes, forgery. Thank God. The contract was a forgery, to implicate Cathetel. It was almost certainly meant to be found, though the contract's spirit could not tell us why it had been done.

I joined in the questioning, if only to see if the contract had any punishment clauses for noncompliance or nonperformance. After all, what would motivate or frighten these Excrucians (the survivor of whom was watching us with expressionless intensity)?

Nothing, it seemed. The contract only promised what each would do, not what would be done if they did not. Interesting.

Of course, if the contract were meant to be found, the hooded one would not have worried -- since the destruction of the chest and wrecking of the ship were almost certainly intentional, and thus the contract was itself a sham.

"I must tell Cathetel of this," I told them. "You can secure and take care of him?" I added, pointing at the Excrucian.

Crime only smiled and nodded. Fungus -- well, I'd known it for over a century, and still its body language eluded me. But I trusted it would make sure Crime didn't simply slit his throat and dump the body into the ocean. I hoped.

---

The courtyard before the City Hall was packed with chupacabras, as were the streets beyond. They were gathering -- or being gathered -- and that was worrisome. I trusted it was at Cathetel's order.

I entered the building. Cathetel held court in, appropriately, one of the main courtrooms. Before it was a guard, the Bailiff, as well as a man dressed ornately. I moved past them to enter, having no time for ceremony, but the guard held his ground before the door. "His Lordship -- is, uh, busy."

I fixed him with a cold stare. "Indeed. But that does not remove my need to see him. Now."

"He asked not to be disturbed until the visit was over."

I hesitated. It was an order, but this news was urgent. "That is between His Lordship and me," I said, reaching for the door handle.

Amazingly, the Bailiff interposed himself, though he was sweating heavily. "His Lordship asked not to be disturbed." He added, in a less firm voice, "Please don't kill me."

The matter was rendered moot by footsteps approaching the door from the inside. It opened, and out stepped Michel Tomas, Saint of Justice, and investigator sent to settle the dispute between Cathetel and Arnaud.

It seems strange that a Noble of Justice would be so ill-favored by me, who am both just as a personal rule and in my execution of duties as Punishment. But Tomas was no friend of mine. He worshiped the law, to my mind, to the exclusion of justice. Mercy, and the fit of punishment to crime, both meant little to him. And worse, he dressed up his worship of codes and codicils with a piety that grated, as though he were divinely tasked to carry out his self-appointed duties, smiling only when the path to doing so was short and clear.

I knew I was not popular, even among my brethren, but I took cold comfort that Tomas was even less so. I, at least, had been known to go out for a drink. It had been some decades, but it had happened.

Nobody drank with Tomas.

Immaculate and haughty, he strode from the courtroom as though it were his chamber, not our Imperator. "Siân. How delightful."

"Tomas," I said, intentionally choosing his surname, not his given one, nor his Estate. Nor did I comment on my reaction to his presence here.

I was several paces past him when he asked, "And how is the boat?"

Obviously Cathetel had told him, but it was still irksome that he played games like that to throw me off-balance. I glanced over my shoulder at him. "In poor shape," I replied, as much about him as to him.

Cathetel sat in what had been the judge's seat, evidently lost in thought. I went to him and bowed. "My Lord."

He was silent, chin resting in his right hand.

"My Lord."

No reply. He did not even glance at me.

I would have withdrawn, but my news was urgent -- and a mission upon which he had sent me. "My Lord."

That drew his attention. He turned his gaze at me. "SIÂN. YES. REPORT ON WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN."

I told him of the boat, the prisoner, the contract, and what we had found out about it.

He nodded, slowly. "I HAVE BEGUN MASSING THE CHUPACABRA. IT MAY BE NECESSARY TO -- PROVE MY COMMITMENT TO THIS MATTER WITH ARNAUD. VERY GOOD. IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE?"

I hesitated, but the truth must out. "My Lord, I am -- disturbed by -- the new member you have brought to our family."

"CRIME."

"Yes."

He gazed at me for a long moment, though whether choosing his words, seeking greater meaning from my soul, or simply seeing if I would change the subject, I knew not. At least he said, "HE IS A MANIFESTATION OF A DOMAIN WITHIN MYSELF. BUT IT IS NOT THE DOMAIN WHICH BOTHERS YOU, SO MUCH AS HE WHO ENNOBLES IT."

I considered. "Yes. My Lord."

"IT IS A RECENT ADDITION, AND SO I NEED SOMEONE RECEPTIVE TO ITS NEW DUTIES. YOUR OWN STRENGTHS WORK MUCH THE SAME WAY IN THAT REGARD."

Nodding, I pondered his words. I must be just, so I added. "I must confess, he did spot the forgery. But ... even as he aids our cause, my Lord, he corrupts it."

"IT IS NOT THE ROLE, BUT HE WHO PLAYS IT. HE IS THE FIRST. THUS, HE MUST BE SOMEONE WHO EMBRACES THE DOMAIN, NOT SOMEONE WHO SIMPLY SEES IT AS A TOOL."

Even as I did, I thought. I did not punish for the sake of punishment, but punished as a means toward achieving justice (a far truer justice than that which that Domain's Noble, Tomas, achieved). And if he were the first -- his place in our Court was not forever. Though I realized now I had no hope of changing Cathetel's mind. Yet.

"IT IS NATURAL FOR YOUR ESTATE TO BE REPULSED BY THE NATURE OF HIS ESTATE. I WOULD ENCOURAGE YOU TO SEPARATE THE REACTION OF YOUR ESTATE FROM YOUR OWN."

I nodded, though I did not think that would help. Crime -- whatever his actual name was -- clearly was as reprehensible as the Domain he had taken on. "I will try, my Lord."

"UNDERSTAND THIS, ALSO: I AM A PROPONENT OF THE CHAMOMILE LAW. ADVERSITY BREEDS STRENGTH. BY HAVING TWO OPPOSED DOMAINS, I MAKE EACH ONE STRONGER. YOU ARE STRONGER FOR HIS PRESENCE."

And he for mine? I wasn't sure that was a bargain.

Cathetel was continuing. "IT IS FOR ME A PLEASING BYPRODUCT THAT THESE TWO ESTATES EXIST WITHIN MYSELF AND MY FAMILY ..." Suddenly his gaze was like a burning weight upon me, driving other thoughts away. "... SINCE IT IS IMPOSSIBLE THAT IT WOULD TEAR THE FAMILY APART."

I nodded again, and bowed. That was, it is true, unthinkable. I would have to see what I could do to live with Crime, until, at least, I could make a stronger case to Cathetel.

"FINE, THEN. REGARDING THE SHIP -- FIND THE WEAPONS THAT WERE UPON IT. THAT, COUPLED WITH THE FORGERY, ARE THE EDGES OF THIS DAGGER THRUST AT US. FIND THEM."

"Very good, my Lord." I bowed, and turned to leave.

"OH," he added. "IT IS TIME FOR THE CEREMONY WITH PEN LO. PLEASE SEE TO IT."

I nodded silently, bowed, and left.

---

Outside the courty, the guard threw me a wary glance, but I did not even acknowledge it. More obtrusively, the nattily dressed man who had been there when I arrived was still there, and he stepped forward and took my hand before I could withdraw it.

"Jurai. Stephen Jurai." He pumped my hand and smiled in a way that made me think I should make sure my billfold was still there. "I'm this Chancel's representative from the Cammorae, and I'm so pleased to be here."

The Cammorae were Lord Entropy's people among humans, an organization that could -- and would -- do anything for the Nobles ... for a price. There was always a price, usually one that added wealth and power to the Cammorae. After centuries, it was an open question, in some quarters, as to who really served whom. Too many Nobilis relied upon the Cammorae to do their dirty work, or to get permission to do things otherwise forbidden. It was no crime for the Cammorae to violate the laws of the Nobles -- and no crime to violate those laws in exchange a favor rendered.

That was the sort of "law" that Tomas was willing to see. My own sense of justice was revolted by it, but it was not something I could do anything about, save avoid it. Crime, on the other hand, would love this man.

I withdrew my hand from his, and refrained from the temptation to wipe it on my pants. "Thank you for introducing yourself, Stephen Jurai."

"Oh, you can call me Stephen, if you want. Or just Jurai -- it sounds so much more mysterious and powerful, don't you think? Especially with that charming accent of yours." He chuckled.

"It certainly sounds -- like something."

"Yes," he said, the grin growing wider. "At any rate, anything I can do to help you in fulfillment of your duties --"

I considered where I was about to go and what I was about to do, and to whom, and in what state he was in. "I can sincerely say that I wish you were the with whom I could fulfill my duties right now, but, alas, it's not meant to be. Perhaps another time, Mr. Jurai."

"Count on it, your ladyship. Count on it."

I left him, then, happy for the distraction, even for just the moment.

---

Amidst rock and stone, half-natural, half-carved by artifice, the torso of Pen Lo hung, suspended by a gold chain hooked down his gullet, slowly turning in the eddies and air currents within the chamber. He was dead, of course, though dying amongst the Imperators was a long thing, and even after death the body held power for some time.

His head was missing, of course -- our brethren in Chancel Amaciel had that -- and he also lacked hands and feet. His chest was splayed open like a vast, horrid butterfly, and within the cavity revealed one could see that the organs had also been removed. All those parts had been distributed among other Chancels that had suffered at his hands, and the hands of his familia. The irony did not escape me. I wondered who actually did have his hands, and whether it gave them pleasure, or only an outlet for cold fury.

Below him, on the floor of the chamber, where geometric patterns of tile seemed to move and twist beneath the dust, sat a large golden bowl, wide and thick, shockingly plain and unornamented. The bowl was used for the Harvest.

As the Noble of Punishment, the Harvest was among my duties to Cathetel. An unpleasant duty, to be sure. I was no sadist, and received no pleasure at Pen Lo's fate; justice was something I preferred to be swift and final. I could appreciate that, perhaps, this, too, was justice, barbaric though it was. And I could appreciate the power that the Great Harvest gave to Cathetel, thence to our Chancel and my brethren -- and me.

But I still did not like it. It was duty, though, so I did it.

The body slowly turn on its chain as I approached, away from me. Silvery fluid, shining like quicksilver, was beaded upon the skin. It slowly ran down to the edges and extremities of his remains -- tattered fringes of ribcage, the legs, the arms -- and thence to drip into the bowl below. That fluid was the blood of the Imperator, still being renewed, sweating through his pores in some autonomic agony.

My job, as Harvester, was to take a small silken towel of red, which hung upon a wall bracket, and carefully, slowly, thoroughly clean the body further of its beaded silver blood, wringing each gleaming drop into the bowl. Then I would untie each arm's stump, undoing the crimson cord that bound them, and let the blood drain from there that had collected inside. Then I would kneel and do the same for the legs.

I would carry the bowl back up with me, replacing it before I left with the one I had brought down. I would present it to Cathetel, and he would do with it what his part of the ritual demanded. Then my work would be done for the month, to my great relief.

As I approached the body, I could smell something -- unusual. Musk, and sweat, and ambergris and sandalwood.

Lust had been here.

She had the right, I supposed. Not even she would dare interfere with the body in a way that would harm the Harvest. But it caused me a small apprehension.

Pen Lo's headless, handless, footless body slowly swung on its chain back around to face me.

He -- it -- was tumescent. And as I stopped dead still, taking in that sight, the body suddenly twitched, writhed, as though it were still alive, still capable of feeling, of awareness, of --

I closed my eyes tightly for a long moment, driving the image from my mind, clearing my thoughts, reminding myself of who I was, and what I had gazed upon in my long years, and what my duty now was. Then I opened them, and, seeing but unseeing, I did what needed doing.

Quickly.

---

I met Crime and Guild as I exited Cathetel's chamber afterward, my hands and arms still gleaming and sticky with Pen Lo's blood. If they had anything to say, my look at them stopped their tongues, until I could clean myself.

---

They were still waiting when I returned. I told them of Cathetel's desires. "He wants the Excrucian weapons that were aboard the ship," I told them. I blinked, seeing something I'd seen before, but for the first time. "Like that one." I pointed at the sheath and dagger at Crime's side. "The Pretty Boy -- the captive -- he had that, didn't he?" My eyes get sliding away from it. It was well-ensorcelled to be unnoticed, and I was slightly shocked that I hadn't noticed it when I'd taken him from the ship.

"I'll hold onto this one," Crime said. "For the Boss, of course."

"Of course."

I explained the chupacabras outside. They had heard, for their part, that, after trying to bribe Lord Entropy, Arnaud was now known to be giving a gift to Desecration's Regal, Meon. I shuddered slightly at what such as Meon would consider a gift worth having.

"Let me see," I said, changing the subject, "if I can figure out where those weapons are." I summoned up my Estate, and attempted to divine, Who within our Chancel must be punished for bearing Excrucian weapons?

In my vision arose a room, concrete and cinderblock, within which glowing, twisted weapons lay arrayed. A man, in a National Guard uniform, stood at the door, staring at the display.

That way. I knew the direction, and I knew our chancel. And I suddenly feared what was happening, because if others found the weapons first ...

"The lighthouse," I shouted at the others, even as I took off into the air once more, flying there as fast as I could. Had I thought to perform a miracle, to translate myself to where the weapons were, things might have turned out differently. But I did not. Haley was right about my lack of imagination.

I covered the distance in mere minutes, cursing each one, even as I approached the lighthouse upon our patch of shoreline. In the distance, I could see an invasion of mechanical creatures moving down the highway. Even as my thought flickered toward them, I could hear Cathetel's voice in my head: DO NOT HARM THEM. Fine. I had no time anyway.

Upon the beach, before a wave-carved cavern, I could see Fungus. It was doing something with the cave, but I could spare it no thought.

On the bluff, over Fungus, unseen by it and in turn unseeing, stood Tomas. Oh, damn my eyes, I thought, for I knew suddenly what was happening, what the plot was against us.

A frame. We have the document, which we know is forged, but how much better the case if Excrucian weapons are actually found here, in the hands of our people, uncontrolled by our Imperator, unable to be accounted for. Sweet Mary --

A Guardsman stepped out of the lighthouse, waving around something that glowed and writhed and was wrong, and opened his mouth to call to a friend on the beach. I was still a half-mile away.

I shot him.

At the last moment, I directed the shot to his hand, not his heart. I could have argued he was in illegal possession of an Excrucian weapon within our Chancel, but it was unfair to penalize him for that, especially since he was almost certainly a passerby or just being entrapped. But I needed to separate him from the weapon, and a bullet was still faster than I was.

The weapon, a trident, clattered to the ground. The Guardsman fell, screaming, clutching his hand. I landed, even as I saw Tomas bounding through the air, away from us, a beatific smile on his face. Shite. Not enough time --

I kicked the trident away from the Guardsman, into the building. There I quickly found the chamber full of weapons -- one other that, like the trident, rivaled one of Meon's swords for puissance, a half dozen of a tier below them in power, and another dozen of still lesser sorts. The lighthouse still had Guardsmen within, so I drove a length of steel into the door, pinning the portal to the floor. It wouldn't stop one such as me, but it would keep passers-by out.

I flew out the door at speed, to the shore, where Fungus was slowly striding across the sand toward the lighthouse. I updated her swiftly as to the situation, asked her to watch the weapons, and then flew as fast as I could in pursuit of Tomas, knowing I was already too late.

---

I reached the City Hall, strode past the Bailiff cowering before me, past Jurai listening at the door, into Cathetel's court ...

"... possession, knowledgeable or not, is a capital crime," Tomas was saying to Cathetel. "For which we need immediate testimony."

He turned and smiled at me, as though he'd been expecting me to enter at just that moment. "Ah. Siân. Just the person I was looking to see. I'm so pleased you're here."

I gave him as bland a look as possible, hoping that whatever I could contribute in testimony would help, not harm. "Remarkably enough," I replied, "me, too."

Session 7C - Punishment

It is an irony of the highest order that, at a time when I have tried to seize my humanity, become less the cold sword-edge of Punishment and try to remember who Sian once was, events conspire to drive any joy or happiness from my heart. Perhaps this is why I became so cold, so inhuman -- not my immortality, lost and now forsaken, but the anger and hatred in my breast that holds ready to consume me.

From the battle against Friendship and the fall of Pen Lo, I was energized. I knew, from the strength I gained, I could take on my Immortality once more. But I feared it, feared what it had done to me, locking me into an unchanging weapon (figuratively, at least) at the cost of being a person. Instead, knowing that our rebuilt Chancel would need my strength, I made my eye, breath, and strength that much more stronger and quicker -- more deadly, perhaps, but also of more use to my Imperator, Cathetel.

Have I erred? Would matters be easier if I could return to unfeeling certainty?

First, there was the crafting of the Chancel, to replace that lost in the great battle. To build such a place requires the sacrifice of one hundred, one a night for one hundred nights. Not that there was any lack of worthy candidates among the citizenry of Dade Twenty-five alone were mine to take, though I divined for the others those I thought best to choose. Cathetel overrode my directives thrice, for reasons I did not know, though now understand.

Still, though each target was suited for the Final Punishment, it felt ... wrong. Mechanical. One after another, like an assembly line, dehumanizing both to the killed and to the killer. Yet, if I let myself feel the righteous rage justice would demand at the crimes of those who were killed, could I do it any more effectively? Would I be more or less human for it?

The new chancel echos in my mind of the old, though I cannot now clearly remember that place. Dark and garish, hot and humid, we crafted it well to its defense, recalling how we lost our earlier home.

And deep within the bowels of the courthouse building, whence the Chancel is ruled, in catacombs formed there deeper than the original city was ever delved, are chained the remains of Pen Lo, the shell of the Imperator whose neglect and spirit stood behind the crimes and killing that led to our reborn Imperator's death, among so many others. There, once a month, I descend, to harvest from that shattered from the quicksilver power that will nourish Cathetel, and so our Chancel and Estates. As Punishment, this is my job, my duty, even my pleasure -- and, yet, it is a terrible task, one that forces me to retreat behind its formality. How, then, can Sian do this, and not Punishment?

Upon creation of our Chancel, with the One Hundredth Death, the first task set me by Cathetel was to travel to Lord Entropy, and lodge a complaint against Arnaud, the Imperator of the Chancel to our north. He is greedy and proud, certain that in this area will spring forth the Fourth Age. If, he believes, or so Cathetel tells me, he alone possesses this area, then he alone will reap the blossoming of that Age, becoming a World Tree himself. It is a monstrous thought, and some of his peers and kin hold him in scorn, or anger, or fear, for it.

Arnaud is the first among those who sought to block our Chancel being built here. Indeed, Cathetel told me, he arranged for the hurricane dubbed Isabeau by the humans of this land to strike here, in hope that it would kill so many, and then so few more would need killing, that there would not be enough to finish the rite. Monstrous, indeed, and so he must pay.

And yet Cathetel did not wish suit brought merely to punish Arnaud, but to make it clear that any who interfere with us, any who try to oppose us in our duty or existence, will face retribution, legal or forceful. A show of strength it was, then, and a demonstration of our ties and importance to the order of things, to Lord Entropy himself.

I was given the option of traveling to the Locust Court, to file the grievance there, but chose instead to go before Lord Entropy. The strength was in me, I thought, and the power, and I thought it a better strategy to go directly before Entropy than before his minions.

His court is in the Lands of Desolation, islands in the Atlantic surprisingly close to our own new Chancel's location, in a corner of what the people here call the Devil's Triangle, a place of lost ships and souls where the Mythic bleeds through to the Prosaic. I could fly there, and did.

As I approached, I could see the islands below me, wrapped in waters bearing the foulness of the ocean, even when I turned my vision to the Mythic. Storms wreathed the place, buffeting me with their winds. A pale, serpentine figure, born aloft by translucent wings, flew to attack me. A test, I knew, though a mortal one. I destroyed its wings and it fell to the ocean below, still alive, but its blood drawing the predators nearby. A fitting punishment.

Entropy is served by three Nobles, Regals of their Domains -- Scorn, Desecration, and Destruction. When the second of those appeared before me, a cloaked spectre, like the Grim Reaper, forming out of the clouds themselves, I felt my heart quail, so foul was his presence. Yet when he spoke, his voice like a one near death, desperate and wheezing for air, I recalled my purpose, and answered him formally and faithfully.

"You are one of the new Inquisitors," he said, looking at me up and down, though I could not see his cowled face. "Come with me."

Too foul was his wake, and so I flew beside him, silently. We passed by monstrous beasts and horrors , above and below -- but also, in the distance, I could see islands of great beauty, and glimpses of white gleaming upon them at times. Unicorns, I knew. Creatures of purity and magic.

"Do you hunt?" he asked me, eagerly.

I felt sick, but let myself be cold. "Those who deserve to be caught."

"Heh. I prefer unicorns."

After a moment, I replied, "I'm sure you do."

I felt a deep, burning, abiding hatred for him, then. I put it aside, for I could not then act on it. If I ever could, it would be in a millennium -- but I knew it would burn just as fiercely then as now.

We descended into the city of black glass, in whose subterranean tiled halls, other hunts are held. There we passed through more which I will not now recount, until we arrived before Lord Entropy. He was breathtaking in his beauty, yet his hands ended in black, twisted claws, and he sat upon a throne of scorched stone.

SPEAK.

I bowed deeply. The obeisance was not feigned -- his was a presence before which any must bow. "I come from Cathetel."

He nodded. THE CHANCEL IS FORMED?

"Yes. But I come on Cathetel's behalf to file a complaint on Arnaud, who has unlawfully interfered with the lives and lands involved in forming the Chancel. He --"

A brief twitch of his claw, and I was silenced. WE WILL NOT INTERFERE. WE WILL NOTIFY A NEUTRAL INQUISITORIAL CHANCEL, AND ASK IT TO INVESTIGATE. THIS WILL SUFFICE.

I could only bow, and then was escorted out. Desecration himself walked with me back to the outer courtyard whence I would leave.

"The second visit from an earthly chancel," he informed me, "requires a gift."

I nodded. Cathetel would know the protocol, but I would mention it to my brethren.

"Expect a visitor from Locus Nephys by tomorrow."

I nodded again, then took my leave without speaking. I did not trust my tongue.

Somewhere south of the Bahamas, beyond sight of the Devastated Lands, I was finally, violently ill. That proves me, I suppose, still human to some degree, but I knew the sights I had seen, if I dwelt on them, would drive that humanity away. And, yet, if I shut them off now, I would be cutting into myself as well. I did not, and do not, know the answer to that conundrum.

At last I returned to the Locus Noctis, only to find the Inquisitor promised, Michel Tomas, had already arrived and spoken with Cathetel. My Imperator informed me and Fungus that Tomas would be staying on, handling the full investigation. He'd also been told that Arnaud had sent spices to Lord Entropy's chancel -- a gift, it seemed, or a bribe. Cathetel speculated that he might have to invoke certain rules of conflict, if this continued, and that we should be ready.

He then spoke to us of a ship that had been driven into the shore by the storm, and told Fungus and I to investigate it, along with our new brother Noble, Crime.

I stood upon the top of the steps to the courthouse, as he drove up and parked in a handicapped spot. I knew him, for he had been the mayor of Dade City before it was taken for the Chancel, a foul and evil man. Indeed, I had argued for him as one of the sacrifices, but had been overruled by Cathetel. I knew now why.

I hated him -- him and his Domain, inseparable in corruption. I remembered once Cathetel had mentioned crime to me. "BUT WITHOUT IT," he'd noted, "THERE WOULD BE NO NEED FOR PUNISHMENT."

"So be it," I'd told him. "If I did not wish to become obsolete, I would be as evil as that I fight."

And now Crime, personified, came up the steps toward me, exchanging introductions and pleasantries. I hated him, hated him to the core of my being with a revulsion that threatened to make me ill again, or strike out against him. And yet, bound to our Imperator, a piece of his soul was from the same source as mine, and we were bound to the same great purpose as our lord. I could not strike him down any more than I could not not do so.

He flashed me a toothy grin. "How's it going?"

"We have a job," I said, so coldly I expected the humidity to frost out of the air before me. I took to the air before he could reply, trusting that he and Fungus would follow in his no-doubt-stolen car.

How could Cathetel do this to me?

And how can I not be unfeeling and businesslike, carving off any joy or love or humanity I might otherwise feel, when the alternative is to be so filled with hatred and anger -- at Crime, at Desecration, at what duty calls me to do? It was easy for Hailey to speak about using my imagination, to break out of old habits and ruts, but to live, to feel, called for so much more than that, and without that living, the rest made no difference.

I arrived at the shoreline, and saw it, its bow smashed in. It was an old, wooden ship, but strange and unsettling in design. As I descended, I could see hairy, pasty-skinned bodies floating in the surf. I could see, as well, strange script written upon it, like the writing of angels, but, in its own way, the opposite, dark and disquieting and certainly not human.

I heard a cry for help, not in words but in tone, and went down to offer aid. If I were to be human, and not simply a machine of punishment and retribution, there was naught else I could do ...

Session 6 - Punishment

Spilled images race across my eyes, flickering and blinking by. How can sanity hold such madness, or make sense of it? Yet, if I forget, am I any more sane?

A spiraling highway of earth and stone, like the spirals of DNA, upon which ribbons we travel, no longer upon the tree, but above it. The Appian Way, fifty miles wide, a true highway for Serpents.

A timeless time, we travel down the tree, until at last we see a city, spanning both strands -- Locus Abralam, the Pristine Citadel. Here we must pass, though they bear one of the swords.

(In my flickering memory I see shapes of the Rocky Mountains in the US -- where Abralam touches the Mundane Earth, I wonder?)

We must pass through. It's too far to the tree, stellar space with titans a-nodding, stars and comets. Nor is the tree here easy to pass, hence the road.

Above us, titanium birds circle, mine for coal and water.

I see figures of memory. Ada Willamette, Strife, bearing six-shooters for a century ... Patrick Romneyson, from the alternative 19th Century, the force of Chaos. Borders ... a pile of gravel.

We could sneak through, perhaps, guise ourselves -- but Death cannot be guised (how appropriate), and so we must face the clockwork city head-on.

A checkpoint. A big tower with a sun dial. An old man guarding -- to what end do we travel? To, it seems, the Augur of the Two Roads -- thence we follow a grey path to a lushly appointed room, to meet the Augur ...

... the Imperator, lord of this city, a true god. Ever-shifting, ever-flowing waters of green and blue, dividing and joining again, only the eyes a constant, boring through us as though we were nothing ...

It asks us what we are doing and we tell, citing Orachi and paying all due obeisance.

"ENOUGH. A TITHE. FROM FUNGUS WE WILL REQUIRE A SPECIMEN OF THE GROLIANT SHELF MUSHROOM.

"FROM PUNISHMENT, WE REQUIRE JUDGMENT COME DOWN UPON THE HEAD OF ONE WHO HAS WRONGED US."

If it is just ... I can do no other. This is the truth, though I fear what it will mean.

"AND FROM DEATH, SPARE THE BARON OF KNIVES. PERMANENTLY."

We agree, so as to leave the city. Nor do I know what the alternative would be. My mind nearly rebels -- this is too strange, too dangerous. Mortal danger means little to me, even though I am once again mortal. But concerns over my family, and Amaciel ... these, are too new. Can I rid myself of such thoughts. Do I want to?

Reality had found Amaciel in fourteen cornfields in Iowa. We'd found him in the Bay Tree at the cemetery. Where else was he? How could we pull him together -- or how could we convince him to pull himself together. And should we?

The guard to the city bids us farewell, and warns us to watch for the thing that eats faces. Feh.

We travel south, downtree, hearing rumors of strife and chaos, random acts of unpredictable weirdness. An abandoned town of demon men set to flame. A nearby village locked in a month-long orgy. More. I begin to sense a thread in the strangeness. All seem to tie to our domains -- just as Amaciel does (or we tie to his). Fungus tries to find him -- "head toward the rumbling" -- we see nothing, save a horrible storm in the distance, wreathed in lightning.

The the lightning is upon us, striking us down.

Within -- the Serpent we seek. "Orachi?" No. "Amaciel?" Who?

It looks like Amaciel, but it has no memories, is capricious and young, and bleeding quicksilver. It knows not even its name, but we sense the truth.

We must bring it to another part of itself, try to build its memory. Iowa? No, the potential damage to humans is too much to contemplate. But the Bay Tree ...

I mention Sepulchre Adforari. "OH, NO!" It flees.

We pursue, try to speak to him. I make contact with Reality, bring her to us. She reaches out to him, a Ghost Miracle of the Chancel. He does slow. "We missed you," she says. "I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU," he replies.

Still, there seems to be some recognition. "We are your creations, your servants," I say. "WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER? WHO DID THIS TO ME?" In his words, the flashing of his eyes, I see myself, and I see Death.

Reality assures him. "We think you did it to yourself." Fungus adds, "We think you let this happen, to allow another's crime to be revealed."

We convince him, and he agrees, reluctantly, to return to the Bay Tree, to find himself there. He heads up the World Tree, directly, avoiding the Appian Way.

Time passes. Comets dance in the sky in the complex waltz of the heavens. I am not being poetical when I say that.

We arrive at the graveyard, where burial mounds like mountains stretch a hundred miles long, great valleys stretching between them.

He touches the tree. Naught. A sense of familiarity, but no change.

Reality nods. She shrinks the tree, a "forced perspective" on reality, once I fly her a sufficient distance away first. We bring it with us back to the Chancel, to the Heart, which we show to the Serpent. Electricity gathers corn from the sites to bring back. Fungus checks out the mushrooms in the lab. I have my Spear. We will all create a great ritual to restore Amaciel.

The ritual begins, deep in the Heart of the Chancel ... but we are only half-way through when Electricity gets a prayer. It's Regret, bleeding quicksilver --"Help ... please ..." Pen Lo has attacked them. We get word of other attacks -- and then battle comes to our own chancel.

But not before the ritual is completed. The earth moves, and Amaciel is restored to us.

"I REMEMBER!" he cries. "YOU MUST --"

Then he coughs up silver, and keels over. He murmurs something ... "ALATYR" ... the healing stone at the base of the World Tree.

The invading troops to the chancel had been cut off, and surrendered to Electricity. A wise move. Lust and I waited at the gates for them to open, to launch our counter-attack on those coming in. It was odd to stand by her side, but I knew she would more than hold her own in battle.

While we wait, I contact Imagination -- Haley -- to warn her. She thanks me, and bids me be safe. A nice girl.

The gate goes down, and we set forth to battle, in a warehouse full of Mardi Gras floats.

None can stand before us. At last, all our foes are downed. "If you want to live, go home!" Lust urges those still alive -- though unconscious. Guilt offers to ward the gate with the gargoyles.

We return to Amaciel. "MY CHILDREN. I REMEMBER THE MOMENTS THAT LED UP TO THIS ... NOT ONLY THIS TRAGEDY, BUT YOU AND I AND THESE RELATIONSHIPS TOGETHER. I CANNOT SAY EVERY CHOICE, EVERY PLAN WAS PERFECT, OR EVEN JUST. BUT MY PATH HS BEEN TRUE. KNOW YOU THAT. AND FOR EVERYTHING I'VE DONE THAT HAS CAUSED YOU PAIN -- I AM SORRY. He coughs, and collapses again.

I have an image of Haley, riding a winged cocker spaniel.

We head for the Fairy Ring, to get to Lost Things. We get there, to see the Bronze Man down, a sword thrust through his brazen chest. Friendship battles us all -- Death, Lust, Punishment, Knives, Eternity, Lightning ...

But what brings Friendship down is Jealousy. The Earth becomes jealous of Friendship's allegiance, and draws away all the matter of her body.

And then it is over.

And the rest is a blur, as though seen at a distance of days, weeks, even months, though it's been but hours.

Some will join our chancel, I think. Some will leave, ambassadors, liaisons. Amaciel's conviction is overturned. Does he still need healing? I don't know, though should.

Inquisitors. I thought someone said we were Inquisitors now. That should fill me with joy, shouldn't it? I don't know. Everything is changing.

I don't remember why I came here. I just wanted to leave for a while. And I hadn't spoken with you for too long.

My memories are still not what they should be. The time, however brief, I spent as mortal, bereft of Amaciel, changed me beyond the old patterns of my life. I don't know what that means, or how that change, too, will alter my life.

I just know it's all changing.

---

Alanna Metcalf, third chief of detectives for New Scotland Yard, put a blanket over the sleeping figure. She'd never seen Punishment this way before -- but, then, she'd not seen her for months. The worry of that interval was relieved now, though replaced by worry over her Mistress. The cold, hard, gleaming sword of a woman was still there, but somehow softened, more vulnerable, more mortal.

It made no difference. She loved her, and would serve her, forever, to the best of her ability. Which, at the moment, seemed to be letting her crash on the couch of the upscale London flat she rented.

Punishment had shown her a bit of the Other World before, but never spoken of it in such detail. Alanna wasn't sure if she believed it all, though enough magic had come through her life since Punishment had chosen her that she wasn't going to rule any of the ... well, ravings, most would call them ... out.

Great serpents bleeding quicksilver? A World Tree with DNA Highways? Flying cocker spaniels?

Alanna shook her head. Again, it made no difference. And, doubtless, all would be put right in the morning. That's what her mum had always said -- before she was murdered. Punishment had set that right, and whatever aid she could provide, even unto her own life, she would.

Alanna gave Punishment's silver hair a soft stroke with her hand, then shut off the light, and went to bed.

Session 5 - Punishment

We walked, then, along the great branch -- perhaps only a twig, but the scale was so distorted that it was as though we walked along the spine of the world -- upon the greater Tree. I tried to focus on the present, on the here. Pondering too deeply the wonders of Yggdrasil or the Mythic realm was, I knew deeply in my heart, the route to madness.

In my left hand I bore the Spear, now in its true form (if it could be said to have such), functiong at times as a walking stick (blade upwards, of course), at other times slung across a shoulder or two, or even, in rare moments, sheathed upon my back.

Rare, since I did not know what threats the World Ash would face us with, but trusted they would be mortal if we did not stand always ready to guard ourselves.

In my right hand, or sometimes in a pocket of my coat, was a sprig of the tamarisk that Reality had created to react to the Sword that had slain (perhaps) our Master.

We strode along the barky road, terrain as broken as any set of rocky hills, or more, yet always of wood.

Well, Death and I strode. Fungus sort of galumphed along. It slowed us down, but its knowledge of the tie between Amaciel's icon in the Chancel's Heart and ... similar mold somewhere out here on the Tree was critical.

Hours we walked. Or days. The Mythic realm is timeless, in some odd sense that defies description here in the Prosaic. Did we walk across countries, or continents, or solar systems? The answer seemed to vary each time we considered it, so we did not. We simply walked, the bark beneath us illumined by the aurorae which played about the tree's branches like St Elmo's Fire.

We came to where the branch met the trunk of the tree. We headed downwards -- though, in truth, gravity still made the bark we walked upon "down," no matter how we were oriented. Another matter that did not bear consideration.

We walked, and walked some more. There was hunger, a disquieting experience, but nothing debilitating. And even if we had wished to eat, no tinder would we collect from Yggdrasil, nor fire dare to light.

And then, hours/days/weeks along, we felt a trembling in the ground, as though a minor tremor shook it. But we were upon the Tree, and to create such a trembling ...

I flew, letting Nemesis pull me upwards, leaving the other two below. From my higher vantage, I could see --

Holy Jesu. 'Twas a serpent, one of those who call themselves Aaron's Serpents, as was our Master. It was near to three hundred miles away, which was but three lengths of its body. It would crush us, without even knowledge it had done so.

I streaked back down to the others, warning them. Death could run to safety, incredibly. Fungus I must bear upwards, taking care not to let it come in contact with anything subject to mold and decay.

More incredibly, the Serpent paused, seeing us with eyes like ponds, set in a head three to four miles wide.

Greetings, mortals.

Death said something, though I could not hear it, as my mind rung from the -- presence of the creature's words. Instead, I merely bowed.

Are you on a Quest -- or are you sightseeing?

Caution warmed me, for we were still sought after as traitors, as our Master had been executed. "There are many wondrous sights to see here," I called out, carefully. I did not think I could lie to one of the Serpents, but I might prevaricate.

Thank you, child. I am Orachi.

I recognized the name, oddly enough. This Serpent held no Chancel. Earthquakes were among its domains, and Snow.

I felt I should add something, so I mentioned Amaciel's quote, that it was not so much a wonder that planets should dangle from trees, but ...

... but that trees should exist at all. You know the proverbs, child. Who is your Imperator?

Well, that had done it. How quickly could I fly? I could not fly so quickly that I would live longer than it I fought.

"Amaciel."

Hmmmmm. Interesting.

That was unexpected.

You may find it useful to speak with me at a later time, when you know more. You have permission to speak with me later.

Huh? "When would ... that be, milord? What more must we know?"

You are on the right path. I will be around here for several more weeks. Orachi slid past, scores of miles of serpent flesh, horrifyingly beautiful.

And yet, he had been a comfort. For he spoke of our future, rather than of our being destroyed out of hand. And he spoke of our being on the right path.

Well, then, we would take it.

I carried Fungus forward, while Death sprinted below us.

*   *   *

We were approaching a great fissure in the bark, a league or more away, a fissure the size of the Grand Canyon. Below me was forest, through which Death ran. I was glad enough to not share his company for a time. Not that Fungus was a great conversationalist; it was content to merely sit and wait. But Death was -- uncomfortably intense. Uncomfortable, insofar as he reminded me of my darker sides and passions, those I pretended were well locked away, but which I knew lay all too near the surface when I hunted.

Hunting. I heard Death cry out in anger and warning. "We are under attack!" I looked down, and saw a swarm of winged snakes rising toward us, their brethren presumably engaging with Death.

"Drop me," Fungus said, and I obliged, it freeing up my hands to draw the spear. I knew the fall was unlikely to kill it, even if it did not conjure up a bed of mushrooms to break it.

It was a short fight, for all that. The serpents would stiffen, flip about, and hurl themselves as spears toward me as they attacked. They were of little threat, and many of them were dead before the others fled. I knew, instinctively, that they were but animals, undeserving of punishment beyond what we'd done to protect ourselves.

Death, too, and Fungus, were unharmed, far moreso than their own opponents.

We carried on.

*   *   *

We had reached the mouth of the valley, and there found a man having a picnic. He arose as we approached, and nodded. "Gentlemen, I do not think you want to go in there."

As we closed the gap, he eyed me. "Cheriour. Excuse me, I havfe you confused with your predecessor."

The red-haired figure introduced himself as Samael, a former associated of our Imperator. He warned us of opponents of great puissance within the vale. "Visitors are frowned upon," he said, "if not of certain length or breadth."

If this was the burial place of Aaron's Serpents, I would not wonder. Still, I pressed him for the danger, and he finally advised us to "watch the sky," as the primary defender was a great roc.

We would have asked him more, but another person came up at that point. The newcomer was distrated and unfriendly -- as though sure he was our better. Samael introduced him as Suphlatus, "Dust," then bid us an adieu.

We entered the valley, the Sepulchre Adforari.

*   *   *

It was a dismal place, and had we not been forewarned we would not have been lulled into complacency. About us, the ground was littered with fragments of bone and partial skeletons.

"It is coming," Death said, pulling his eyes from the boneyard.

"It's big," noted Fungus, and it was right. The great roc was the size of a widebodied airliner, its beak a brilliant bronze, its claws cold iron.

And, yet, we were three of the Nobilis, and chosen for our own puissance. I leapt into the air as it appoached, to land on its back, raking deeply with the Nemesis Spear. Death stamped upon the ground, and the force drove the bones upwards like a flight of bleached arrows into its chest.

As I drove the Spear in further, I could see Fungus had created a great puffball of noxious spores ahead of it, and I leapt off again, landing lightly, planning what I'd do when it wheeled aobut.

The roc did not. Gagging or poisoned by the puffball it had flown through, beak open, and wounded upon its back and chest, it wheeled off, fleeing.

We went on.

*   *   *

The graveyard was circled by trees, and was entere by a gate of trees, upon which hung a wreath of bay leaves. Walking into the yard proper was a strain, dark necrotic magics flicking about it. Death, of course, was as one intoxicated by strong drink. This -- darkness was not to my taste, however. Death was a means, not an end, for me.

About us snaked great burial mounds -- literally, given their inhabitants. Dozens of them, if not more. They bore no markings, just a sense of what had been interred there, and none of that recent.

Toward the back, we found open space, where there was activity of nearer days. The ground was disturbed there, and the mound was mossy, moldy -- more like a covering than a burial mound as the others had. It was the same growth as had festooned Amaciel's icon.

Where the head would be buried was a great bay tree, massive, softly aglow, its leaves like the heads of spears.

Fungus came forward, raised its hands, and was still for long moments. "He is not within," it said, at last. "The space is hollow, born up only by a discarded skin."

Then it was true. He still lived.

The bay tree, we could now feel, bore some presence or essense within it -- of Amaciel? It was growing, even as we watched it, and glowing as well. I plucked a leaf, but naught happened. Bay laurel, I mused. I change, but in death.

"Amaciel!" I cried out, not know if I wished him to appear, or not.

Nothing happened.

"We should go," Fungus said, at last. I nodded.

"Leave me, then, for a moment," Death asked us. He added, before we could question him, "I swear, I will not desecrate or loot the graves."

I looked at Fungus, who looked back at me. The guilty man flee where none pursueth. We left him.

He rejoined us at the gate, an unpleasant smile upon his face.

*   *   *

We found Orachi, even as he said we would.

Was your trip successful?

Death shrugged. "Informative, perhaps."

"But unfulfilling," I added.

Orachi nodded, a disconcerting motion given that it meant his head bobbing hundreds of yards. Then do you this. Travel downtree, along the Apian Way, past the Locus Avrilam. That was an Inquisitors Chancel, where resided Strife, Chaos, and Borders. And they bore one of the Swords ...

Listen for stories of a disruptive serpent, Orachi continued. If you can find it, and calm it down, it could be most informative. Something that might have been a chuckle, or perhaps a sigh, fluttered past our minds, even as Orachi turned and left, no easier to stop and ask questions than an avalanche..

We sought out, through flowers, and spoke to our kindred, to let them know what we had found. In turn, they spoke of a treacherous attack upon them by Hapura, Friendship, and the stalemate that ensued when the Bronze Man came to her rescue. The Chancel was safe once more, with Reality, Guilt, Electricity and Lust all there.

We considered our next move ...

Session 4 - Punishment

What are we but memory?
Losing our past changes us.
What then when regained?

Well, if I were a verser, as Tennyson, then I would be Viscountess Poetry, not Punishment. As it was, I know my mind is sharp enough that, should I choose, I could pen these chronicles as sonnets (Shakespearean or the Dago Petrarchan). But they would be as lifeless as that Japanese haiku.

But Imagination did say I should stretch myself. And so, a triplet of lines, for one's entertainment. Even to do so much, to entertain myself, seems ... foreign. Is that a good thing? Or a bad one?

It had been a few days since we retook the Chancel (so much as one can be said to retake something not held). We'd fended off some miscellaneous spies, dispatched some, allowed others to escape if it would mean leaving our safehold.

We stayed, then, in our Chancel. Lust wanted to rescue one of her Anchors from New York, to bring her back to safety -- but the Bronze Man knew of the woman, and would likely be watching. We could leave -- perhaps. Not all the exits into New Orleans would be covered, let alone through the Fairy Rings -- but the Inquisition would be on the look-out at any of our old haunts.

But that day, the Rite of Remembrance was finally complete. We were all assembled in a large, ornately decorated chamber -- a dining room, perhaps, though all the furniture was pushed back to its edges. We sat in a circle, bits of plant and flower smeared about our bodies.

The words were spoken, and someone hit me in the head with a sledgehammer, a kaleidoscope of images and smells and colors and textures and --

*   *   *

It was some five months ago. I was walking through the streets of Istanbul. A meeting of European Union officials was taking place there during the week to discuss cross-border water policy. It was a cover for a meeting of a sex slavery ring, run out of the government houses of most of the continent. They were having an after-hours dinner meeting that I would be attending. I would be the only one to leave that meeting alive.

But first, a long walk through the streets of this very old city, so deeply stained in evil as to be as black as the night.

"Siân."

He was beside me. As was his wont on Earth these days, he was tall, gaunt, unearthly even as he (it seemed) strove for humanity in his guise.

"My Lord." As he was walking beside me, I did not break stride. If he wanted me elsewhere, as he on occasion did, then my plans for that night would make no difference. If he did not, then I did not want to be late for my appointment.

"No need to be so formal, Siân." He smiled. I amused him. I knew that, without resenting it. I merely nodded in return.

"I need to know about killers."

Now it was my turn to smile. I still had that much sense of humor, even then. "I daresay I can tell you a thing or two."

"Don't be facetious, Siân." He was keeping pace with me easily, long legs striding back and forth. He was, in his true form (so far as I knew, now) a serpent the size of a freight train. But he made the transition to human form and movement with little effort. "I've been looking at histories. Of you. Your people, that is. Humans."

I nodded. I was aware, in all directions, of people who needed me, of people who deserved me. It was maddening, once. Now, a century later, I was able to filter it, prioritize it, weigh my decisions without passion. Well, perhaps not without passion, but with focus.

"A hypothetical, then, Siân. A serial killer is on the loose."

I could handle that hypothetical. Saucy Jack was the first I'd known, but not the last.

"Now," Amaciel continued, "the police have caught someone they think is the culprit. They are wrong, as you know they sometimes can be."

That hurt. I'd been one of their number, once. Those who sought to enforce the law held a special place in my heart.

"So the real killer is -- how do you put it ... off the hook? The police are satisfied they have the culprit. He will be found guilty. All the killer has to do is ... stop. But he doesn't. He continues to kill. He draws the police back to his trail." He glanced over at me. "Why? Why doesn't he stop?"

That wasn't easy. I tried to continue walking as I considered. After a few moments, I replied, "My Lord, I don't usually consider ... why."

He laughed again. More mockery? It was difficult to tell.

"Perhaps, then," I said, slowly, "it is force of habit. One does what one knows to do, whether it is to one's advantage or not."

He nodded, considering. "How long would it take for something like that to become a habit, do you think? After two years, perhaps?"

The serial killers I'd known had started early, usually, with lesser killings -- insects, animals, perhaps a childhood acquaintance. They'd been killing for years before they began their actual spree as adults. And yet, those final deaths had often come in a very short time. Sometimes it was years -- if uncaught. More often over weeks or months. "Two years? I'd certainly think so." I added, "Though but once is enough."

"Of course, of course." That smile again. Paternal. Understanding. Infinitely approving. It made me feel warm, despite myself.

After a few moments more, he added, changing the subject, "So, tell me, Siân. Before I came to you, what did you do? For fun, that is? I know of your profession, of course."

I considered, conjuring memories (in turn conjured as memories in the present day). "Well -- I suppose much as others around me did. I would socialize with others on the force, as seemed proper. Some -- I did not socialize with. But others, we would have a drink now and again. Or play at cards. I was always good at cards. I learned in school -- whist, for example, was one of my favorites." I thought of the play, trumps taken, points counted, the subtle byplay between partners.

It occurred to me that I'd not played cards since the day I'd been taken into Amaciel's fold. Did people even play whist any more? I had no idea.

"But," I went on, quickly, "I did not have much time for that. There was charity work for the church which I busied myself at much of my spare time. And studies -- I was the youngest detective in the Yard, and needed constantly to prove myself, and to show that new ways had advantage in pursuit of criminals. And --"

And not much more than that. Women, on occasion, though I shunned with disdain those brothers on the force who used their position to extort favors from those they ought rather to be protecting. But my work had kept me busy, and, largely, satisfied, and with all else I'd been involved in, "fun" had been a relative term. And Father Dafydd had not approved of "fun," on principle -- save for the joy of song, and, yes, an occasional game of cards.

I hadn't sung much, either, for many years, it also occurred to me.

"You know, Siân," Amaciel was saying, "you were an experiment for me. Usually I spend time -- well, honing a person, before I bring them into the fold. You were different." I glanced at him, and he went on, "Not that I regret that."

He did not say why I had been different, nor was I of a mind to ask. Shying away from that, and maybe the question of what "fun" I'd once had, instead, my thoughts were on his earlier question. "On serial killers -- perhaps they continue their murderous activities," I said, slowly, "because they feel -- well, that they must. That it is what they are here to do."

"A calling, would you say?"

"A vocation, yes. A ... duty, even." And that thought was, perhaps, still more uncomfortable. Save that my duty to punish -- yes, ofttimes kill -- was divinely ordained, and in a cause I could no more ignore than I could the rising and setting of the sun.

And do not the mad killers often think the same of their reasons?

Amaciel went on, "Would you say, from another perspective, that it is a matter of greed? A lust of some kind, that must be slaked?"

I nodded. "An obsession -- an addiction, even. Yes, mayhap. Any experience, even one so foul as murder, can become intoxicating. Once tasted, even a single draft, it can require a constant refreshing of that experience. Reality pales, and so they must repeat what they have done." And, like an addict, greater, stronger doses would be necessary. Yes, that made sense.

He smiled at me again, approving. "You are quite the philosopher, Siân. I am glad I selected you."

Joy was not in my heart that I could dance about at his words, but still they pleased me greatly. I nodded to him, graciously, even as we strode along. "My Lord. Will you accompany me on my rounds, then, this eve?" It was something he had sometimes done in the past, observing my works. As much as I understood our relationship, I know that, if I were Punishment, that, too, emanated from Amaciel, and was part of his spirit and domain as well.

"Not tonight, Siân. But thank you."

And even that felt good.

*   *   *

I fled down the tunnel below (part of, but subterranean to) the Chancel. The conjured troops of the invaders pursued, smiling men with no eyes, the forces of the Marquis of Lost Things. I'd killed many, the Spear gleaming bloodily in my hands, but the supply seemed endless, and only that I was Immortal had brought me free again and again. I could not stop this invasion, or even slow it much. And I had my orders.

I dove into the fairy ring, down where Fungus dwelt, and found myself in a London alleyway, moldering and noisome rags beside an ashcan scattering in all directions. One of them followed, and I fired a tight cluster of rounds into his chest, even as the heavens tolled, and all went white ...

*   *   *

It was a rare visit by me to our Chancel. I walked its streets, watching the women plying their trade, safe here. I glanced overhead at the leaden sky, seeing the gargoyles wheeling about, wondering if I should join them --

RUN!

Amaciel's voice crashed through my thoughts, nearly stunning me as though it had been shouted in my ears. I did not hesitate, but ran for the tunnels.

*   *   *

I awoke. And was myself again.

Yet, not. If I had all my memories returned to me (so far as I knew, of course), still I had -- if you can follow the paradox -- memory of my times without memory. The alleyway. Imagination. Meeting my brethren for the "first" time. Those events had, even against the weight of a century and a half of further existence, had an impact. I knew I might slip back into my old patterns once again, and without too much difficulty (I could picture Imagination's face puckered up in distaste) -- and I wasn't sure if that was something to be desired or not. I would have to see.

We spoke, then, of the visions of our past that each of us had. Many of the most vivid memories tied to conversations with Amaciel. There was nothing odd about that, per se -- I would expect our patron to be the most "real" thing to us. But those conversations had a strange, common theme.

Fungus suggested that, based on the questions Amaciel had asked me, that if we held out for a time, it was likely that the true culprit of the attack on the other Chancel would resurface, attacking once more. An interesting theory ...

Lust, for her part, was overly-pleased to proclaim that her memories demonstrated that she hadn't killed the angel, Cicera, the previous holder of her Domain. Who, then, had? It was ... oddly enough, it was the one that Cicera had called Master, and at whose hands Cicera had welcomed death: Amaciel. Our description of our Imperator matched the one who had conspired with Lust -- Macy, at the time -- to slay her Nobilis, to whom she was an Anchor.

(I use, I note, with perspective of my brief time of amnesia, the Domains of my brethren to name them, rather than their given Christian names. This might seem a distancing measure, and, perhaps, it is. But bear in mind that, in my time, nobles were still referred to by their titles or domains, rather than, in most cases, their Christian names -- thus, Westmoreland, Sussex, Morley, Gloucester. Even in these modern times, with the diminishing of mortal nobility in Britain, the custom remains, though somewhat diminished as well. So, consider it courtesy, or habit, or depersonalization, however you will. To be sure, I do not know which it is.

At any rate, Lust boasted as to how she was groomed to take over in her role. Certainly Amaciel had mentioned that he groomed people. Death, for example, revealed that had been a warrior, and then a sword for thousands of years, in preparation for his Domain ...

Guilt said that she was preparing a special rite that would find the guilty -- my kind of guilty, not her own generic sort of torment. Guilt worthy of punishment. I was capable of divining such things, as part of my Domain, but the rite Guilt was planning was able to pierce that veil even if Nobilis -- or Imperators -- were involved.

Guilt recalled a memory she had received -- though not of her own, but of Amaciel's. The Bronze Man, Jealousy, Friendship, were discussing a weapon that could -- that would be used to execute our Imperator. It was a sword, the memories said, that could have been used as well to attack the other Chancel, the Locus Sanguinus.

(The first Inquisitor Chancel that was brought into the case was the First Castle -- the Bronze Man, Jealousy, and Knives. They were later joined by the Inquisitor Chancel of the Locus Nephys -- Justice, Conspiracy, and Regret.)

Lust, as it turned out, was still gloating over being exonerated for the death of Cicera (I didn't mention that it was only her word of her memory that made it so -- though there was an odd sense of truth about the memories we related to each other). She grinned, nastily at me, that she was not guilty of anything that would warrant my punishment. "Not bitter, are you?"

"Nobody's bitter," I replied.

"Somebody is," she retorted.

"Not bitter." I fixed her with a stare. "Just unconvinced."

"Not my problem."

I maintained the stare. "It could be."

"Good luck with that," she said, sarcasm dripping from her lips.

"Thank you," I said, sincerely.

I was uncertain of Lust's innocence -- well, to be honest, her innocence was not in question, since it was a quality she utterly lacked. The only question was whether her guilt encompassed her former Nobilis' death or not.

But I was still uncertain as well of Amaciel's innocence of the charge against him. The questions he had asked of the others, of myself -- they might have indicated, as was speculated by some of us, that he was exploring in advance the charges against him, and planning an escape (why were we still alive?). Or, equally, they might have indicated his very guilt. Was his questioning of me about serial killers something in the way of a confession? Such killers often laid the groundwork of their own capture, revealing what they were doing. Often, it seemed, they sought to be known for their crime. Was it purely ego, then? And was it a sign of Amaciel's guilt?

Two years, he mentioned. The time it might indicate that a crime was habitual. That was, coincidentally enough, the time it had taken for the attack on the Locus Sanguinus to be detected. Did that, in fact, indicate he was to blame, seeking either to understand his own actions, or else boasting of them?

Guilt went once again to the Heart of the Chancel. Her icon was there. Amaciel's (humanoid, large, vaguely African in theme, and crafted of wood) was tumbled -- but, significantly, it seemed, not broken. And it was covered with moss and mold.

Guilt, naturally, called on Fungus. Electricity and I accompanied it to the Heart. The mold was indeed mystical in origin -- but not from Fungus. From Amaciel, then, who shared in the Domain of Fungus?

Fungus used a Major Divination to determine that the mold was, in fact, tied to someplace far away -- off the world, in fact, somewhere on the World Tree, where it could see the path leading. That tied in with a memory that one of the others had, that there was a place upon the Tree where Imperators went to die, or where they were buried.

Eternity, at that moment, called Electricity, with whom he had been in contact before. "Who is doing this?" he asked, because -- the attack on the Locus Sanguinus was still occurring. Eternity told us that it had taken so long to detect the attack because they felt that the damage being done to their Chancel was from the War, not realizing it was from an explicit attack. When they realized it, they had found strange, foreign flowers growing there -- flowers which had then been traced to Amaciel.

That would seem to counter the idea, ironically, that it was Amaciel. It was unsubtle, to say the least. Unless he wanted to be caught ...

Lost Things had determined that the attacks were continuing. Eternity (named Avrileros) agreed to see if their Chancel would give us the rite they had developed to trace the attack back to Amaciel.

The obvious thing to do, to the others, was to trace the mold trail out onto the World Tree to Amaciel. I raised the issue (to be contrary) that if Amaciel had fled because he was framed, we were doing him a disservice by tracking him down, and "blowing" his cover. On the other hand, I noted, if Amaciel were indeed guilty, we were duty-bound to track him down. At least, I was.

That brought up again the question of Amaciel's guilt with the others. Certainly, it was acknowledged, some serial killers sought to be caught. I was asked why I assumed he was guilty. I told them it was only justice I sought -- and asked, in return, why they assumed he was innocent.

The others were unconvinced by my reservations. Well, not entirely. Reality shared my concerns. Guilt (of course) agreed that it was at least possible -- though she disagreed with the obvious corollary, that if Amaciel were guilty, then we shared in that guilt, and rightly shared in his punishment.

How, if we pursued Amaciel, would we keep the Chancel safe? We determined that rites could be performed through our Anchors here that would do so. Which called to my mind, suddenly, my own Anchors, and I felt an unexpected stirring in my heart of ... affection for them. But I dared not contact them yet. If I were indeed guilty, and would be killed, I would not have them share that fate -- the further, mentally, I stayed from them, the more I hoped that they would be safe upon my death or destruction. I hoped.

Even as I made that decision, I was amazed by the feelings that accompanied it. It would bear further examination ... later.

Guilt had finally finished her Guilt Rite, and directed it, with the help of Reality (the spirit of truth) and myself (to focus on just cause for punishment), to determine who was guilty of the draining of Locus Sanguinus ...

It appeared the guilty party was ... a sword. A sword in fact, very similar to the one the Bronze Man had in fact wielded to execute Amaciel. In the vision incurred by the rite, it floated in a void (the "timeless void" to which the power of the Chancel had been drained?). But who had wielded it? That would take another ritual to find -- it was far too powerful for me to divine. Reality conjured up a flower that would detect the sword should it come near it, but that was as good as we could do at the moment.

Fungus argued that it was better to find out who was behind this before we pursued Amaciel.

Electricity contacted a "neutral" ally of his, the Power of Birds, to ask about the sword. Birds took the information, then curtly cut him off with a "I'll get back to you."

There were, we learned, three swords, forged for Lord Entropy (by Meon, Desecrations Regal) specifically to deal with "bad" Chancels. The Bronze Man and one other Inquisitor Chancel (Locus Ambrolam, home of Chaos, Borders and Strife, the latter of whom bore an Excrucian weapon) had one of the swords (the other two Inquisitor Chancels did not). Entropy himself bore the third. None of them seemed likely candidates for framing Amaciel.

So, was someone imitating the power of one of the swords? The rite implied otherwise. Had someone created a duplicate sword? It seemed nearly impossible. Was one of the swords themselves acting on its own? Absurd.

It occurred to us that Locus Sanguinus might be able to more effectively use Guilt's Rite, since they were intimately involved in the damage done. We decided we would offer it to Eternity, in exchange for the rite they had used to trace Amaciel.

In the meantime, three of us would track Amaciel through the tools we already had. Fungus had a tie to the mystical mold on Amaciel's icon. Death could track down an "Imperator's Graveyard" through his own means. And I ... I had a personal stake in tracking down Amaciel, and that might give me some useful leverage.

I was not myself sanguine about traveling the World Tree. My perspective, even with memories restored, was closer to the Prosaic World than the Mythic. Other worlds would have different views of punishment, which would in turn have an effect on me.

Still, it was what I had to do. It was, in essence, a duty. And so it was something I could not shirk.

*   *   *

We stepped from the Chancel onto a branch of the World Tree, from which worlds hung like fruit, including the own vast Earth that was my home. Amaciel had once told me, upon introducing me to that sight, "What is amazing is not that there's a huge, world-spanning tree, but that there are trees at all." Perhaps, but the World Tree had always filled me with awe, and now was no different, especially with the mission before us.

Death oriented himself, and pointed out our path. And so, grimly, into dangers known and unknown, we went.

Session 3 - Punishment

(21-Jun-03)

We, the lost children of (the traitor?) Amaciel, sat upon the roof and planned. We awaited the return of Reality in order to summon Death.

Could we get assets from out of the Chancel? Would the Chancel aid those of us injured in healing? Guilt knew how to get to the heart of the Chancel, but the enemy still held all but that heart, and we were as yet too weak.

The others tried to coordinate their attempts to discover what other Anchors they had. Fungus, in particular, seemed to know folks.

I sat things out, watching our perimeter. I knew I was not sociable now. It seemed I had not been previously, either. I damned the amnesia that still robbed me of my memories, even as I recalled Imaginations exhortations to try to find different paths to walk.

Electricity raised the issue of Lust. We knew she was not the Lust who had been part of Amaciel's family before his death. How did she become Lust? Could we trust her? Was she part of our group, our family? (No, I thought. And, no.)

Lust countered that the Brass Man had thought her a part of the group, that she had a shard of our dead Imperator within her.

Fine. But I would not trust her. Even if she was one of the injured, and wanted to rest to heal her wounds.

Fungus gave Hank some psychotropic mushrooms to sell to gather some money. We would use the money to buy guns. There, at least, was something I could do. I knew guns ...

The conversation turned back to Anchors, and the Chancel. Those who had the former inside the latter reported that there was minor damage there, the streets showing sign of skirmishing and deserted. In the "Heart" the Imperator's "icon" was toppled, but intact. Folks were being held in warehouses, guarded by SWAT-style troops.

The gargoyles there (!) were not in custody, but simply standing very, very still.

Reality arrived at that point, an older woman. We began to be introduced when --

-- well, it sounds like a penny dreadful to say it, but Death came upon us. Literally, leaping in, becloaked to the rooftop, dropping in the middle of us all, both Lust and myself instantly at the ready for him.

His entrance, though melodramatic, did not herald any hostilities, however. He was dark of mien and mood, though. Upon introductions, he glowered at us. "So, ave you guys been sitting here this whole time without a plan?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Our plan was to wait for you." That quieted him a moment.

Lust summarized the situation. A wronged party and a group of Inquisitors had killed our Imperator. The nobles of Lost Things and Eternity, with others, were among our foes. And, still confusingly, we ought to have been dead, upon our Imperator's death.

Electricity said that he had an Anchor working for the FBI who would provide us with firearms in the morning. That was good. The FBI would have good weapons, and if Electricity had one of their officials as an Anchor, there were a lot of other things the US Feds were good at that we could draw on.

Electricity also mentioned that, when he and Lust had been fighting the Bronze Man, the Power of Cities had gotten torqued and driven them here. He added that he had an Anchor in the Chancel as well, locked up.

Death reported an encounter with the Baron of Blades -- an "inconsequential" meeting. He also said that he could get us into and out of the Chancel. That would be useful.

I reported on my own encounters. "I met the Power of Imagination."

Lust spoke up, "Wow, I'll bet we'd have a lot in common!"

I turned a cold eye to her, and shook my head. "She seemed a very nice person." I went on to say that Imagination had wanted to help us, since this was an opportunity for us to break out of long-set patterns. I shrugged. "I'm not altogether sure what she meant by that."

Lust said something snarky. And then --

-- well, it is not something a gentleman would talk of, but I've not been a gentleman for over a century. Which, in its own way made matters, ah, worse.

She propositioned me, to put it in as kindly, yet bald, a fashion as possible.

"If that would help relieve some tension," she added.

"No. Thank. You." I tried to make it as clear as possible, in those three words, that the suggestion was not only unwelcome, but would be met with far great retribution were it repeated.

She shrugged.

Fungus told us it had an Anchor in the Chancel that was working on a rite to restore our memory. Was there anything we could do to assist?

Death told Hank his date of death. Hank blanched.

Reality gave us her summary. She named us all demi-gods (that was already clear in implication, but alarming to hear in person. Me? A Hercules? She also repeated that we should all be dead. Amaciel had been, she was told, in the process of destroying another Chancel (Lust piped up that she'd heard the same from Lost Things). We, in turn, might have been involved in that crime, which is why our memories were lost. Reality had acted to bring us all together to discuss further actions.

The oddities (among all others) were these. First, as noted, we were still alive, and still had our powers. That meant the Shards of our Imperator were still within us.

Second, the accusation against the Amaciel had been that he had been cutting off sections of another Chancel, locking them into a timeless void, and then sucking off their power. It had been going on for a couple of years. It just didn't make any sense.

Death asked how Amaciel had been tried. How was this truth established. The trials, it seemed, were "guilty until proven innocent." The Power of Truth, if such exists, was not involved. Once they had figured out what was going on to the Chancel in question, it has been clear who.

I wondered. Could it be that Amaciel was alive, somehow? That would explain why we will lived. Something big, though, had happened -- our lack of memory and (I knew, though could not say how I knew) lack of immortality showed that.

Who was arrayed against us? Lost Things, and Eternity, we heard (Electricity opined that the latter was sincere in his accusation). They were of the timeless void? The details were muddled. There were also Jealously and Loyalty.

The Locust Court had been the site of the trial. It was useful as such a thing. It was a Chancel, which Lord Entropy used as a court.

"We need to get our memories back, and investigate this," I said.

Death spoke up. "Do you think returning to our Chancel --"

"-- would get us killed really quickly?" I finished for him. "Yes."

Electricity suggested that I contact Imagination to find out who had fingered Amaciel. Death rejected the idea that we might look for allies (nobody, it seems, would want to cross Lord Entropy). Electricity shrugged, and planned to pick up some flowers at a shop in Los Angeles.

The plan, then, as we developed it, was, firstly, to restore our memories. The rite being researched might help. There might be a Power of Memory that could assist. Or perhaps Death's journal would be of help.

Secondly, we must determine the truth of the accusations against Amaciel. Nobody who had recovered their memory, or else never lost it (Guilt, Fungus, Reality?) knew aught of such a plot. Was that proof of anything?

Nonetheless, we must determine the truth, for if we were justly accused, and justly convicted, even if only in association with our Imperator, then we deserved what punishment was to be meted out. I considered myself a just person, and guilt by association was a slippery slope, I well knew. Still, the Shards we bore were more than mere "association."

And if any of my brethren disagreed with that judgment, and were not, in the end, if guilty, willing to turn themselves in -- I might need to take my own steps to see that all were punished justly.

Turning to lighter thoughts, in consideration of an attack on our Chancel, we determined that we were justified to kill mortals who had invaded it -- and Nobles, too. But that, again, depended on whether we were just in our cause.

I contacted Imagination, using the poppy she'd given me. She seemed pleased to hear from me. She was a pleasant enough person all-around, I noted.

"How are things going?"

"As well as can be expected."

"You need to expect more. You need to broaden your horizons."

I shrugged. "I'm trying to -- watch out for old patterns."

She smiled, approvingly. After a brief interchange of pleasantries, I asked her, "What can you tell me about our Imperator and the case against him?"

She related that it had been found someone was parasitizing off another Chancel to strengthen himself. They thought they knew who it was, and brought in the Inquisitors. Imagination knew they'd had some evidence, but had no idea of what it was.

"Use your imagination," I suggested, hoping she would appreciate the joke. She didn't. I felt oddly disappointed.

Could the Inquisition have been driven by malice, rather than justice? Imagination didn't think so. "They're all right."

Then could the Imperator have been framed? She didn't think he had any enemies.

Jealousy? Who benefited by our Imperator being eliminated. Again, she characterized us as a second-tier Chancel -- useful in the War, but not overly intimidating. Might the other family have been behind it? No, she didn't think so -- they'd been hurt, too. It didn't make sense.

"By the way, your friend, Death? Tell him all the stuff I've told you. He needs to cut loose now and then -- but in a good way."

I wouldn't care to be around when Death cut loose, but I told her I'd see what I could do.

Fungus, who was following along my part of the conversation, asked me to inquire if Imagination had any idea what neutral we might consult who is tied into the political scene.

"I really don't know --"

"Use your imagination," I tried again.

This time her eyes lit up. "Hey, that's funny."

I was pleased. I'd once had a sense of humor, quite a dry wit I was told. It had even gotten me into trouble a few times. I hadn't used it much lately -- hmmmm ... lately meaning in some decades.

I gave my farewells to Imagination.

The others prepared to contact Idding St Germaine, the Power of Bureaucracy, to get more information, while I made plans for our trip south. We'd determined that the Chancel lay contingent to New Orleans, so we had to travel there from Chicago.

Lust suggested a big mini-van, but nobody thought that was a good idea. Instead, we obtained two black Suburbans. Lust drove one, with Fungus and Reality with her; Death did the driving in the vehicle with myself and Guilt. Electricity could travel there on his own.

It took us about three hours, in the middle of the night, lending our Aspect to the Suburbans.

But after we'd arranged for a diabolical means of eliminating the opposition -- drawing on both Fungus' and Electricity's powers -- we heard back from Gwen, one of the Anchors there. She was free. The opposition was gone, as of about an hour earlier. Guilt performed a Major Divination and confirmed that there was indeed no threats reaming there.

We went in. The Chancel was -- odd. A city with design overtones similar to my own London of Victoria's age. But different. Strange technologies were evident. And indeed there gargoyles, flying about in the sky now, a strange -- yet strangely familiar -- sight.

Guilt traced the magic involved in the troop, and it led back to the Bronze Man (the Power of Sacrifice). He had sacrificed some of the people there to create the gate away, though, and that I would not forgive. That there had been some killed during resistance to the occupation -- but that was just, and no war crimes had been involved. But to sacrifice our people to power their getaway ...

But we could not pursue him, not now. Chasing a bear into its own cave was not helpful, and one should never try to beard an Imperator in its own den.

So, there we were, back in our Chancel. Why had they abandoned it? They had not found the Heart. No reason had been given.

I went to my quarters, in the top floor of a swooping tower. They overlooked much of the city below, but they were spartan, spare. I knew I'd never spent much time there, having -- things to do of my own.

Spartan. Spare. That had been much of my life. And, like my life, the rooms had been gone through and examined. Not ransacked, but searched. The parlor. The bedroom. The practice room.

I pulled off my coat, and began to practice some moves. What, I wondered, would we do next?

Punishment - Dies Irae

Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla, teste David cum Sybilla. Quantus tremor est futurus, quando judex est venturus, cuncta stricte discussurus. Tuba mirum spargens sonum per sepulchra regionum, coget omnes ante thronum. Mors stupebit et natura, cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura. Liber scriptus proferetur, in quo totum continetur, unde mundus judicetur. Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet apparebit, nil inultum remanebit. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix justus sit securus?

Day of wrath, day of anger Will dissolve the world in ashes, As foretold by David and the Sibyl. Great trembling there will be When the Judge descends from Heaven To examine all things closely. The trumpet will send its wondrous sound Throughout Earth's sepulchres And gather all before the Throne. Death and Nature will be astounded, When all Creation rises again, To answer the Judgement. A book will be brought forth, In which all will be written, By which the World will be judged. When the Judge takes his place, What is hidden will be revealed, Nothing will remain unavenged. What shall a wretch like me say? Who shall intercede for me, When the just ones need mercy?

The Dies Irae is a Latin poem to be read during the Mass of All Souls and at Funeral Masses. More information can be found here and here.

Session 2 - Punishment

(25 May 03)

I threw the watcher against the wall, face first, holding him there with one hand on the collar, the other pushing my gun up against the base of his skull.

"Ow!" he shouted. Or snorted -- his nose was mashed pretty flat.

"How many of you are there?" I snapped. Figure out the what first, then the why.

"Just --!" he began, loudly, then, as I drove the barrel in tighter, continued more softly, "-- just me. Ow."

"When will you need to report in?"

"Never! I mean, she calls me. Ow!"

I was, frankly, more than a bit surprised by his complaints. Hardly what I'd expect of a hostile operative. "Who?" I asked.

"Haley, the Power of Imagination!"

Huh?

"Don't worry about her," he added. "It's nothing personal, not a threat. She's really nice."

Right. "What is your mission?"

"Watch and holler," he offered up, without hesitation. "That's all I did."

"How do you report?" Maybe I could get a line on this Haley that way.

"Well, I just said, 'She's here.' But ..."

"Wait, just said?"

"Well, yeah, that's all I had time for when you grabbed me -- but --"

I turned him around, pushing the gun up into his nose, looking him in the eyes.

"But -- but -- it's okay, because she's really nice!"

Instinctively, I considered him and the state of his soul, and what transgressions he'd committed that deserved -- retribution?

And found nothing. Not that he was a saint, but that evaluation, which ought to have been automatic, came back a blank. And what the hell is that all about, Siân? Reading others' souls? What's that all about? But even as that question flitted across my mind, I was still faced with the current situation, which was clearly more immediate. I knew, by the blank I'd drawn, that this person was a trusted -- agent? Not the right word, but close -- agent of some higher power. And if he said that he'd already contacted this Haley ...

"You know," the man said, trying to smile winningly -- for which I had to give him some credit, under the circumstances -- "you seem really tense. Maybe a cup of peppermint tea --?"

I took the gun away from his face, but, even as he started to smile with relieve, smashed the pommel against his head, toppling him to the floor. Not hard enough to kill, or even permanently damage -- he'd done nothing yet, that I knew of, to warrant such a judgment. I quickly dragged him over to a calico-and-doily upholstered chair and sat him there, out of the way.

"That wasn't very nice," came a voice from the hallway, through the closed door.

I flattened myself against the wall, the gun trained to flank the doorway.

"Can I come in?" the voice continued -- female, Midwestern US accent, youngish. "I don't have any guns. Or knives. Or a sword can. Or balloons filled with nerve gas. Or a Frisbee that can be bounced off the wall and then reveal hidden blades to cut off your head. Or a laser-beam-firing wristwatch. Or a Bester grenade. Or ..."

She continued on for another half minute or so, declaring herself devoid of the most amazing array of weaponry. I'd never heard of anything like it, though I found myself approving of several of the concepts.

Finally, more to stop her than anything else, I called out, "Enter."

The door swung open, but nobody came in.

"Are you clinging to the ceiling over the door, ready to drop down and bite off my ears and otherwise hurt me when I come in?"

I was silent a long moment. Then I repeated, "Enter."

She stepped carefully through the door -- a young woman, 5'6" or so, well rounded, dirty blond hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was wearing a floral print shirt, a macrame vest, and jeans with holes in the knees.

She threw me a tentative smile, immediately looking straight at where I was standing, then turned her gaze at the man in the chair. "Aw, Sam."

"This one's yours?"

"Yeah, he is." She stepped over to him, grabbed a small pillow off another chair, and slid it under his head. "Poor Sam. I didn't hire him to be subtle, I'm afraid."

She let out a breath, then turned back to me with a big smile on her face. "Hi!" She took a few steps toward me, extending her hand as if to shake mine. Mine remained firmly gripped on my pistol, which remained firmly pointed at her.

She faltered a half-step, then reached out and gently "shook" my gun barrel. I made sure it did not go out of line with a vital target, and so did not stop her. "Hi," she said again. "I'm Haley. I thought you and your friends might need help."

Friends? File that away. "That's very nice of you," I replied, neutrally. "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

She grinned, gave a half-shrug. "I'm looking for something that can help me, too. I'm, Haley, the Domina of Imagination," she added, as if that explained everything.

I stared at her impassively. She sighed. "Okay, you ever read comic books? Alan Moore? Or, given your bent, maybe Garth Ennis? Hello? British writers? Of comic books? You're a Brit, right?"

"I know what comic books are," I granted.

"Okay, so imagine, like, someone being the super-hero of -- transportation. Yeah. This guy has the powers of transportation, and everything about transportation belongs to him."

I shook my head.

"Oookay. Something a bit more concrete. Imagine someone in charge of transportation. Not like the government guy --"

"Alistair Darling, Secretary of State for Transport," I said. His name had been in an article I'd skimmed at the newsstand earlier.

"Riiight. Okay, like him, but not the government. Worldwide, in charge of it."

I frowned. "Like a conspiracy?" The Illuminati? No, the Cammora?

She frowned, too, but with frustration. "Okay, imagine someone in charge of all music, worldwide, making sure a song doesn't become unpopular or something --"

"We're talking payola?" The Mob? Or, again, the Cammora? What's the Cammora? And why does it keep coming to mind in this context?

Haley pouted, slightly. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You need my help. Okay, so never mind the examples. Just trust me that I'm the person in charge of Imagination. And you --" She cocked her head, looking me over. "You're either Punishment or Death. I'm not sure which." Neither was I, which was more than a bit disturbing. "Your boss was into all aspects of life. I get the two of you mixed up sometimes."

"Imagination wasn't an aspect of life my boss was into?" I asked. Boss? And, past tense?

"Well, I guess he could have been, but he didn't. Though some of the others have plenty of imagination." She waggled her eyebrows at me in a way that was probably meant to be lascivious, but which seemed more like a kid trying to be lascivious. Her enthusiasm and friendliness was certainly -- endearing.

Not that I didn't have to be ready to try and kill her, if she posed a threat.

"So why are you here?"

"Because you have a big chance now to start all over. And that's where I can help."

*   *   *

"Can you point that thing elsewhere?" Haley said, gesturing at my gun. "It's really pointy, and it hurts when it hits you."

Or more. That's the idea. I lowered the gun, though. Slightly.

"Can I fix you some tea? You look tense."

I snorted. "What's with you people and tea? That's what he suggested."

Her face lit up with a big smile. "Good for him! But -- you didn't accept."

I shrugged, noncommittally. I'm not drinking any right now, am I?

"So, you want some tea?"

"No thanks." Anything could be slipped into tea.

"I'll make some myself, then." She stepped over to the kitchenette part of the flat, started going through cupboards. She gave a little squeal and a hop, and pulled down a box. "Peppermint. Just what I was thinking of. Of course." She put the kettle on. I watched the whole process with fascination.

"Okay, so this is what I'm talking about," she said, turning back to me. "You need to learn to open your mind to great opportunities. You've never used my Domain much."

Whatever that means, I thought, though I was beginning to get a glimmer. "I can imagine some imaginative punishments. Or deaths." If she took that as a veiled threat, so much the better.

She wrinkled her nose. "Not really. You're very linear." Haley cocked her head, examining me again. "I'm pretty sure Death is a guy. This time around, anyway."

"Where are the others?" I asked. Friends had been mentioned. Allies, at least, would be valuable right now, even if Haley was on the up and up.

"All of them?" she asked. She frowned. "Well, I can't tell you about your personal Anchors." Whatever that means. "But your family -- well, I probably need to tell you about them, it looks like. Death, of course. I mentioned him already." She giggled, and stifled it with a hand. "'Death in the family.' Get it?" She giggled again, then turned back to the stove, where the kettle was beginning to whistle. "There's Electricity. He's neat. And Lust. Guilt, of course. He's inventive. And motivated."

She'd poured the hot water into a cup, over her tea bag. She reached up into another cabinet without looking and pulled down a bottle of Scotch, pouring a little of that in, too. That isn't natural, I thought. Imaginative, but not natural.

"And then there's Fungus," she continued. "It's always different." I realized she was talking about another family member, not the subject of eating and drinking.

"Do you have any flowers?" she asked, picking up the cup. I opened my mouth to answer, when she suddenly stared at me. "Hey!" she said. "Pockets. You have lots of pockets, right?"

I'd discovered that was so when I picked the lock to the door. Lots of pockets in my vest, lots of interesting gew-gaws in them. I'd not had a chance to investigate them thoroughly. But, since she knew of them, I nodded.

She laughed. "See? Imagination! I knew you could do it. I like your pockets."

"Uh ... thanks."

Haley wrinkled her nose again, and took a sip of her tea. "Do you always have to be so serious?"

"Duty calls," I replied. It was the truth. Duty always called.

"You should have a t-shirt printed up that says that."

I shook my head. "How did this happen? Why is it -- I cannot remember anything?"

Haley took another sip, draining the the cup, then put it down. "They tried to kill your boss. Or maybe they did. Probably. I'm surprised you survived, being so set in your ways. Or maybe that's what saved you -- imagination means being in touch with reality --"

I snorted.

"It does!" she added. "You have to be in touch with it to be able to look at things differently. You're so set in your ways, you probably hardly even noticed." She frowned. "That's kind of sad, actually. I'm sorry."

"Ah --" What do you say to something like that? "That's all right. If I hardly noticed then -- well, I hardly noticed. I suppose." I looked at her quietly for a moment. "I do appreciate your, ah, help."

She smiled. "No problemo. Hey, do me a favor?"

And here comes the price tag. "Okaaaay ..."

"It's no biggie just -- look at your gun. You can keep pointing it sort of near me, that's fine. Just -- focus on the gun. And try to imagine ... it's ... a spear that you see ..."

I did keep the gun "sort of near" her, but tried to do as she said. What she was suggesting seemed somewhat familiar but -- it remained a gun.

"Open your eyes. See it. It's long, with a long blade, of the same metal ... deep bronze ... a metal shaft, too ... round pommel on the end ... shaft wreathed ... in flowers ... blood-red ..."

Her voice was almost hypnotic -- though, by the same token, I remained aware of her, on guard, ready to strike with -- my -- spear?

My vision seemed to ripple -- or maybe it was light itself that did, or even the underlying reality. I could see the gun -- and then something would flit across it, like a cloud past the moon, and in that shadow I could see the very spear that she was describing --

I pointed the gun (spear!) at her. Imagination indeed. "What are you doing?"

She held up her hands. "Nothing. Just trying to get you to use your imagination -- and see the reality alongside this reality."

My eyes went back to the spear, and now it was clearer, and I could see, paradoxically (don't think about it!) my hands both in a gun grip and gripping the spear. It's really pointy, and it hurts when it hits you, she said. I'll be damned.

"There," Haley said, clapping her hands in excitement again. "See? That's the sort of thing folks like you can see. It would freak the others out, though." Others? I wondered, but she was continuing, "Now, look at yourself, at Sam, and me. See the auras?"

There was an aura upon me, a vague nimbus, extending outwards from my skin and clothing, both emanating from me and wrapping about me. It was me, in some strange, ineffable way.

Sam, still unconscious on the chair, had a glow around him, too -- weaker than my own, barely visible, flickering, pulsing in time with --

Haley's aura was distinctly brighter than my own, which, to be sure, seemed both fitting and vaguely worrisome. It swirled and crackled about her and, at its outward extensions, seemed to ripple into shapes -- stars, moons, rabbits, lawnmowers, lollipops, dragons, pocket watches, comets, clipper ships --

"You're seeing the Mythic World, rather than the Prosaic One. Everything here has a spirit. See?"

She gestured back at Sam -- no, at the chair Sam was in. It seemed to be holding onto him, even as it muttered in a Cockney accent to, as far as I could tell, the piano bench, "And 'e's 'eavier than she is, and I don't think she's ever passed out in me, though there was the time she fell asleep after crying, when Princess Di passed on, and the time she couldn't stay away for New Years, and she actually spilled on me then, but was very sorry in the morning and cleaned me roight up, but, my, this one's 'eavy, and 'e's not even trying to stay on me, well, I never."

And the piano bench murmured in agreement, nodding, somehow.

"And over here?" Haley pointed to the toaster on the counter, which was looking at me (without eyes, of course, that would be silly), and saying hello, and asking if I wanted any toast, and how I oughtn't poke my spear into him, even if the bread gets stuck, without unplugging him first ...

"And this is a power you have?" I asked Haley, and she shook her head.

"No, like I said, this is just another reality. One you could see easily before, but which had to be pointed out to you this time. See? Paying attention can be helpful."

"Riiight." I shook my head, blinking. It was just a toaster, one way, but looking at it again, I could see it humming a little toasting song to itself And, frighteningly enough, both views seemed perfectly normal. Was I learning again what I had forgotten, or was I going mad? Is there a difference? And does it matter? "Thank you, truly, for showing me that, but ... I have to get hold of the others. The ones you mentioned -- Death, Mold --"

"Fungus," she corrected. "Probably easiest. Unless you have flowers for the others on you."

I could search my pockets, but I knew I didn't. I don't call them, I knew. They call me. And not often at that. Which suits me fine. Even though it didn't. "No."

She looked disappointed, then brightened up. "Well, like I said, we can probably find something for the Graf right here."

"The graft?"

"No, the Graf. Like Count, or Baron, or those other titles, only not. You'll understand when you meet."

"Okay."

"So let's see if Marcia does any fancy cooking. She's off at pinochle with the girls, I'm sure she won't mind" She began to root around in the cupboards.

"She does, does Marcia," said the wingback chair. "She cooks quite a bit, and spills very little on me, except for that time on New Years, when she fell asleep before midnight, but that was a little glass of sherry, not food, though why you'd want to consume either is beyond me, I'll tell you, but she's very nice, very nice indeed."

I saw the chair still supporting Sam, and turned back to Haley. "I do appreciate your help, but -- I do have to ask you something. To be fair."

"Well, I'd never ask you to not be fair, eh?

"Um -- was it your man I killed? Earlier?"

Her eyes widened. "Sam? He's not dead!"

"No, no. In the alleyway, when I -- began remembering again. There was a man I'd killed. I think."

She frowned. "No, I just have Sam. He keeps me busy enough." She cocked her head again, looking at me. "You killed this guy?"

I shrugged. "I think so. A neat cluster of shots to the heart. The gun was on the ground between us. It happened right before my memory stops."

"Describe him."

I did, paying attention to the empty eye sockets. I figured that would probably be a clue. "Did you take his eyes out?" she asked.

"I don't think I did. My hands were clean, and I'm pretty sure there are no eyes in my pocket. And it didn't look violent -- just that he didn't have any eyes."

She nodded. "Could've been an Anchor, or just some soldier of some sort. The other senses could have been enhanced. Anyway, no, he wasn't mine."

I was glad -- and hoped that I could trust her. She seemed trustworthy -- but, then, they always do. "Well, good. You've treated me well, and I'd hate to have killed one of your people."

"Me, too," she said, going back to the search. "Hated it, I mean, or would have. If you had. Killed one of them, that is. I mean -- aha! Mushrooms!"

She pulled down a yellow and green tin of Knorr's dried mushroom soup. "You can probably use this."

"Um ... do I eat it?"

She laughed. "Well, I suppose you could, though I like their sauce mixes better. No, just focus in on it, like you did on the spear. Just think to yourself, 'I am trying to reach the Graf of Fungus.' And break off pieces ever now and then. If you get an answer, it will be like a voice in your head. It's sort of like praying."

A vast room, lit only by votive candles, tears rolling down my face, a shadowed figure stepping out from behind the altar -- "Would you really?" I shook my head. "I haven't done that lately. I think."

"See? We need to talk about that. Here." From out of her vest, she handed me a poppy, a brilliant red-orange in color. "You can use this to get hold of me. Oh, and here." She handed me a card. "That's got Sam's number, his cell phone, and all that. In case you can't get hold of me. November gets to be real busy for me."

"All right. I -- will be in touch." I smiled at her. "And thanks."

"Great smile, honey! Work on that."

I ignored the comment, and started following instructions. Fungus. Fungus. How odd. I mean, Punishment seems odd (but, yet, so right). And Imagination seems odd. But Fungus? And yet --

It stares at me out of cloudy black eyes, its face a fragile mockery of human, bulbous and brown, and I know I could kill it with ease, but it wouldn't stay dead. It would just grow back. 'I am called the Graf,' it was fond of saying, 'for I am not Baron, but Fruitful.' She could smile at a joke like that, once. And it was my Family. Even if it did smell -- earthy.

I shook my head again. All right then. "I am trying to reach the Graf of Fungus. Hello? Graf? I -- call to you. If it please you, answer. It is I, your sibling." I would not pray to my equal, but, it was, I suppose like prayer. And, like so many prayers I had made, it seemed to be unanswered for some time.

Then I began to feel -- odd. Tingly. The flat began to fade around me.

"Oh, wow," said Haley. "That's a summoning. Someone's summoning you. Go ahead, see what happens." As if I knew how to stop it. If it could be stopped.

And as the room faded out, her last words were, "Oh, and don't kill anyone unless they try to kill you!"

That seemed fair.

*   *   *

The big, hairy, overweight, loin-clothed hippie was not pleased to see me. The gun in my hand, pointing straight at him, likely had something to do with that. I'd decided that I was more comfortable, for the moment, with a gun than a spear. The gun/spear didn't seem to mind.

I'd also been seized by a sudden fury. I knew -- I did not know how I knew, but I knew -- the ritual he'd used to summon me. Very old, it was, a bit of poetry by Sappho of Lesbos herself, a woman crying out, in the most personal and terrified ways imaginable, for succor from Nemesis against those who were unjustly hurting her. He'd even cut open his hand, to let the blood drip on the ground. The ritual required blood shed by the one who summoned Punishment. The idea behind it was that the summoner was, in fact, bleeding from an attack.

It was an old ritual, and a sacred one. And he was no more in need of my aid than the other dozen or so hippies cavorting about the rooftop. How dare he?

"Honey, you aren't going to feel good about that in the a.m., if you shoot him," said an old lady, sitting off to one side, nursing a bottle. She caught my eye, for certain, and there was something about her that seemed familiar, but I kept my attention on the man.

"Hey, hey, don't point that thing!" he said, backing off. "Not my fault you got up on the wrong side of the iron maiden this morning."

"Why did you call me?" I said, trying to keep my voice under control. The barrel remained pointed right between his eyes.

"June told me to. It's her fault -- wave that thing around at her, not me."

I knew he was correct -- he was not to blame, save for his insolence. There was something I could do about that, perhaps, but I wasn't sure what, only that using my gun on him would be wrong. I also suspected I knew this June, but wasn't sure. She didn't seem to "match" any of the names Haley had given me. "Do you know what that ritual means in Greek? Was that the only way you could bring me here?" I gritted out between clenched teeth.

"We'll, you could've stepped through your Chancel to here, I guess -- oh, wait," he added, sarcastically, "it's full of bad guys out for your blood. So, yes, I guess this was the only way to get you here."

I lowered the gun a bit, taking a step back. It was a bit of a madhouse, up on a tenement roof on a horrible day in -- I scanned the sky line -- Chicago, United States. Hippies. The old lady (who grinned at me and took another drag from the bottle). The asshole in front of me. Pigeon coops. Why was I there?

We talked, some, after that. The hippie was named Hank, and he worked for June in much the same way as Sam worked for Haley. June was bringing all of us, our family, together in one place. She, herself, was driving in from Minneapolis (she needed time to deal with a woman named Vera). Electricity had been here already, but had been called away, to return later. A similar summoning ritual had been used on Lust, but it had failed -- the rumor was that there was someone else now in that role (a new/old sibling, in some strange metaphysical way I could not yet understand).

(I would later learn that the appropriate flower could be used to contact one of us -- just as I had been trying to use a mushroom to contact Fungus. But though June had directed him to grow a garden of such flowers, Hank had proven a less-than-effective gardener, and the flowers had all died. I was hardly surprised.)

It seemed, as Haley had suggested, that someone had attacked us and killed our boss. Well, more than that: he had been judged guilty of treason by "Inquisitors," of having committed some capital crime against another Family. He had been judged guilty and executed. As part of the execution, we ought to have died as well. Obviously we hadn't. By getting together, then, we could come up with a plan. Perhaps.

I nodded in agreement. It seemed as good a course as any. I offered to continue trying to contact Fungus, though I was finding the cavorting, half-naked (and fully stoned) hippies a -- distraction. They smelled good, in a way that seemed strange to me, male and female alike.

I shook my head again. Distractions. Have to concentrate.

I'd stuff the Knorr's tin into my coat jacket. I pulled it out, and took out another mushroom. "Graf of Fungus, I call to thee ..."

*   *   *

A long silence. Then, in my mind ... "Is your mind swiss cheese, too?" Strangely familiar. Familiarly strange.

"If by that you mean, are there holes in my mind, yes."

"What do you want?"

I explained the situation, and that was looking to summon it. Fungus seemed to consider, then asked if there was more of what I had used to contact it. I still had the tin. At Fungus' request, I described the surroundings, and Fungus indicated it could use the organic matter in the pigeon coop. The old lady -- Guilt -- volunteered to get the hippies to pull the stuff out of the coop space and onto the rooftop, and was not ineffective at doing so. I sprinkled the remaining mushroom soup mix onto the pile, and --

Well, and then, with little to-do, Fungus grew out of the mass of pigeon droppings and feathers. I kept a straight face, though it was both difficult to believe and rather disgusting.

Hank ran and got Fungus a plastic rain poncho -- to keep the moisture in, oddly enough. As Fungus was donning it, I asked Hank who June was.

"She's my boss. Reality."

Oh, fine.

Fungus seemed to to have most of its memory intact, and knew all of us there. "When is June returning?" it asked, in an odd, raspy voice.

"She's driving in," he said, a lot less antagonistic than he'd been earlier. "She should be here, soon. Um ..."

"What?" I asked.

He gestured over at the other hippies, who were staring at Fungus. I suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if we'd been caught doing something bad, something we shouldn't have been doing in front of others.

"Ah," said Fungus. It reached under its poncho, and pulled out a set of strangely colored mushrooms. "Here."

The hippies seemed a lot more mellow after that.

Electricity, we further learned, had come and gone, off to assist the new Lust -- a woman -- who needed help. June had said we should wait until everyone's head had cleared before we summoned the last member -- Terminus, called also Death. I bristled at the suggestion that Death might be more dangerous than myself, but Hank insisted that, while with my spear I might be a match for him -- "Well, he's more of a snap judgment kind of guy. If someone summons him, then they either need or deserve death. Whereas Punishment -- well, she gets slowed down trying to judge of they're worthy of that punishment."

It was hard to argue with that. Though, if it should come down to a fight with my brother ... "Probably best, then," I heard myself saying, "to wait until the others return."

And while we waited, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. It was a struggle to find something palatable to eat down in the kitchen of the flat the hippies had, but I found a fresh grocery bag with bologna and "Wonder Bread," both of which were horrid and wonderful at the same time.

It was only afterward that I considered it had been -- many, many years since I ate something because I was hungry.

Things got exciting shortly after I was finished with my sandwich, as a phone booth suddenly grew out of the rooftop. A young man stepped out of it, to face my gun. "Hey," he said. "You must be Punishment. I'm Electricity." He gave a slight wave of his hand, trailing sparks as he did. It did establish his bona fides.

I pointed the gun at the woman behind him -- pretty, in a cheap, tawdry way, her looks not helped by the shreds into which her leather jacket and pants had been torn, nor by the glower on her face. "And you are?"

"Really angry at you for pointing a gun at me."

Fungus chimed in, peering at her, "I don't know you."

Electricity, though, introduced her as Lust. The new and improved model? I thought not, though I did lower the gun. For the moment.

"Hey!" Lust suddenly chimed in, "you're all the criminals."

Guilt smiled. "Honey, you're the one with the bruises on you."

Lust explained that she'd been attacked, without warning, by one of the (to give them a label) Bad Guys. She also noted that Electricity had gotten into a fight with someone, too.

"Where," asked Fungus, "is the Angel, Cicera?"

Dead in New York, according to Lust, heart torn out. Electricity said that Avrileros, whoever that was, had claimed he had not done it. (And it was about then that I had to introduce Electricity more formally to Hank, who offered him some Glenfiddich. He'd offered me some, too, and while it was strangely enticing, I'd decided it was best to stay clear-headed for a while.)

"So the old Lust is dead?" I asked the new one.

"Unless he can survive with his heart torn out," she replied.

Oh. That angel. Bitch.

Electricity asked, "Anyone know how to get into the Chancel to get people out?" He had been getting phone calls from someone there.

"Yes," Fungus replied, "but there are people there waiting to kill us."

"The key question, then," Electricity said, "is did the boss really do it?"

Did the boss really do it? Yes, that was in fact the question. If I am the spirit of Punishment, and if our master was really guilty of the crime he'd been accused -- was not, then, his punishment just? Did he -- and, by extension, we -- deserve that punishment?

And, if so, then should I fight against it?

It would have helped if I could remember what the boss even looked like.

The conversation had been continuing as I'd been pondering. "Who's this Lord Entropy?" Lust asked.

"Head of the Locust Court," Fungus replied. Lord Entropy was in charge of the defense of Earth (from whom?). He had judged in the case of our boss (our "Imperator") against accusations from the Family of the Perpetual Wanderer, including the Dominars of Lost Things and Eternity (Electricity noted that Avrileros had said it was a matter of long-term damage done them). That judgment had been carried out by Inquisitors, including the Bronze Man, who served the First Castle, Pen Lo.

By God, you need a program just to keep track of the players.

Lust continued to think that, since she'd assumed her Estate after the supposed crimes by our Imperator, she was off the hook. This despite the fact that the Bronze Man had attacked her in New York.

That battle had been ended by the Power of Cities kicking them all out, including transporting Electricity and Lust to where we were waiting.

The bad guys had evidently learned some of the ways in and out of the Chancel, but not all of them. There were other ways they didn't know anything of, but which Guilt did know. Unfortunately, Guilt had been stricken by amnesia as badly as the rest of us. Fungus could assist, but it would cost some of its power to create a Miracle that would help.

Miracles?

Fungus said that, long-term, we needed to find out what "assets" we had in the Chancel (the otherworldly realm of our Imperator, our true "home territory"), and if we could get them out. That brought up a discussion explaining what Anchors -- like Hank, and Sam -- were: allies, minions, folks through whom we could work our powers through. And, in fact, Electricity was able to see through the eyes of one of his Anchors, inside of our Chancel. He saw many prisoners inside of warehouses, well-guarded.

Death had been there, hear learned, fighting, causing destruction. It was thought he'd escaped. I hoped so -- we would need his strength.

There were troops all over the place there, with thousands of our people held prisoner for things like violating curfews.

It made me wonder -- did I have Anchors? Were there allies I held so closely, people whose welfare and mine were so closely linked? If so, I had a duty to them. But first I had to find out who they were, and how I could contact them.

Meanwhile, Lust was nattering about how good her senses had become, since her taking on her new Estate. "Hearing is great!" she enthused.

Isn't that special? A pity my ability to know what punishment someone deserves did not work on my brethren; I suspect I'd have gotten quite a bit of information about the new Lust ...

Prelude 2: EnNoblement

I will never forget her face. How odd that I cannot remember his.

I wonder what that means.

It was dark inside of Christ Church, that long-ago November night in 1888. The Hawksmoor church in Spitalfields was a mighty landmark in the East End, and the only place I could flee from the horror, for a few moments, to collect my thoughts, to say my prayers for her, and for those like her. The communion rail was hard and cold, the few candles scattered here and there barely enough to me to see my hands before me.

Her name had been Mary Kelly, though others knew her by other names. She'd been born in Ireland, but from a childhood near Cardiff had learned Cymraeg fluently; I'd talked with her in that tongue (now dwindling in use as so many immigrated to the five valleys) a month or two before, after Kate Eddowes had died, and she'd even known an old joke I'd heard at my Da's knee.

And now she lay in her bed, in her own hovel on Miller's Court, carved like a pig at the hands of a drunken, maddened butcher, her blood everywhere, her guts stacked beside her or placed carefully under her head, her face --

I shook my head violently, bent it far deeper, clutched my hands together as tightly as I might, until it felt like I might break the bones in each from the pressure.

Why, God? Good Jesus, why is this madman not stopped? I know there is great evil in this world, for we are fallen, but in Your Mercy and Your Terrible Judgment, can this fiend, this mocking, Saucy Jack, not be stopped? Must Your punishment of his sins wait until he's killed, and killed, and killed again?

I threw my face up, so that I could see the tormented figure of Christ upon the cross above the alter. He'd known torture, but not even those who'd killed Him had exercized such brutality, such evil --

"God!" I cried out. "Take me! Let me be Your tool, the sword in Your hand! I would give anything, anything, even unto my soul and life, to be Your punishment, to stop these most hideous crimes!"

My voice echoed in the stillness of the sanctuary, even as a tolling rumbled from above.

"Would you?" came a man's words to me. "Would you really?"

As I said, I cannot remember his face. I thought at first he was a priest, for he was dressed all in black, and black was the cloak about him, though I think it was not a cloak, but wings, folded and shrowded about his shoulders. I saw him many times thereafter -- why can I not remember him now?

I can hear his voice, though even that is odd, for it was both like a great church bell and like a choir of men from my youth, and even then it was the voice of someone very learned and old and wry with the years.

My voice was echoing around the nave. "Yes! I would give anything. You -- you didn't see her! She was alive, when we spoke. She was fair, and --"

How could I explain it? Father Dafydd had taught us, taught us all, to respect women. Their lot is hard, he'd said, in punishment for the sins of Eve. But they, too, are of Sarah, and Esther, and of the Virgin Mother of Our Lord, and the Apostle Paul said we must love them and cherish them as Christ loves the Church. My own father, too, had told me many times, Be they rich or poor, son, the Queen herself or the lowliest drab in the gutter, they all are ladies, son, and must be treated as such.

And now Mary Kelly -- not the first, not the second or the third or even fourth -- lay in pool of her own fluids, butchered by the deranged creature who was preying on the women of Whitechapel.

I was the lowliest detective constable of the Metropolitan Police assigned to the investigation, dogging the feet of the other detectives and officers who sought to end this reign of terror. I was younger than they, and, from Wales and with my accent, subject of some unkind comments from more than a few of them.

Yet, even they, who were bound to the service of the public, seemed as eager to use these horrors to their own ends -- to advance careers, to throw groups they cared not for (such as Jews) into a bad light, to argue the need for more men to patrol the fleshpots of the East End (and answer to them, and bring in more bribes for them), and to grind axes against their fellow police officials, superiors and competitors. Sometimes it seemed I was the only one who saw the victims of these foul deeds as the poor, slaughtered souls they were.

"I did see her," said the man. "And you would give up anything, you said. Would you give up everything?"

My eyes burned, as I stared up at the newcomer. He was so tall -- "As God is my witness, I would."

I felt my soul pierced by his gaze, weighing me, judging my worth, my sincerity, the value of the oath I'd just sworn. "What is your name?"

I stayed on my knees, as he approached the front of the rail. "Sion Ewig, Father."

He smiled, his teeth white in the gloom. "No father, not in the way you mean. Tell me, Sion, what do you know of the human condition?"

I blinked at him, confused.

He smiled again. "I, as well, though I have studied it centuries, with the help of you and others like and unlike you. Would you like to help me in my study, and my war? Will you take my service?"

"I am a servant of the police, and of the public of London County," I said, warily. "And of Her Majesty." My eyes flickered back to the cross. "And I am a servant of Our Lord, first and foremost."

He followed my gaze. "Ah. One of the Light. Though I suspect you'd be surprised to find out what Heaven thought of him. Still, he was one of the best of us. He singlehandedly turned back the empire that a shard of those beyond had built, and did it in such a slow, natural way, turning its own strength upon itself, and with so little of the direct bloodshed that even I had thought inevitable, that he forever subverted the concept of god-emperor in this world, and with it the ultimate war that would have destroyed you all in a few centuries, give or take. Remarkable. He's owed a dozen times the fame you mortals have given him."

He gestured around. "This was a graveyard, once. Of those same Romans. Now it is a church in his name. The irony, I trust, does not escape you."

I shook my head. "I don't understand."

"Part of the human condition as well, though I fear Hell has preempted the Domain of Ignorance. Never mind, you'll do." The words were oddly relieving, yet they made me tremble a bit. "Will you then take my service? I can force it upon you, but I'd rather not have to wait until you recover."

My eyes went back up to the cross.

He shook his head, abruptly impatient, even angry. "That one died over a century ago, fighting the Excrucian Golgotha, which is an irony I suspect you also do not appreciate. Now, answer me just once: if it lets you be the punishment of those who prey upon these beasts of Whitechapel -- indeed, across the entire globe -- will you take my service?"

To punish evildoers. It was the goal that had drawn me to the police in this greatest city on Earth. Others laughed at my idealism, but I'd sworn an oath of service and protection, and I would remain true to it for all the days of my existence. And that meant that monsters such as Jack had to be stopped, punished for their crimes, and kept from ever harming man or woman again. If this one before me could help me make that happen, then no added service could be too great.

"Yes," I said, at last, and was surprised by how hoarse my throat was.

"Very good. But there is a price, you must know. First, you have a training in the classics?"

I nodded. Father Dafydd had seen to my education, even before I left the valleys and came to London. I think he saw in me, perhaps, a future priest, but he'd died before I could choose that vocation, and the new vicar, from Sussex, had thought little of the Welsh or their hymns and piety, and less of his assignment to them. I sometimes thought that was one reason I'd been so quick to leave, as no kin remained to hold me there.

"So, then, you know of the goddess Nemesis, and her sisters."

I nodded again. It seemed odd to speak of pagan spirits here, but it was a mere distraction. "The daughters of Nyx, the night, who punished the transgressions of mortal men."

"For you to become what is needful, you must be transformed to one of the Daughters of the Night. That is required, that Nemesis' spear might be yours. You'll want to change your name, of course, but you'll think of something. Besides, name's for your sort are far less important than title. Even if the noble falls, the Domain survives, save the Enemy be responsible."

I didn't know what he meant, but it made no difference. Spear or pistol or hangman's noose, if I could make the Bloody Jack pay ...

As if reading my thoughts, he said, "And that, which you most desire, I fear, cannot be."

"What?" Confusion, dismay made me sway.

He closed his eyes, as though looking at something only the darkness within coudl reveal, something painful. "That errant one has already been -- dealt with. He harmed, where no harm was done. Our Lord -- our true Lord -- has wrought justice in this case, far more effectively than even you could. The echoes will still be felt for the days and months to come, but that will be naught of your concern."

I believed him, though I knew not why. "But --"

He opened his eyes upon me, and in them I could see a thousand bloody spirits. "But there will be many who are equally deserving, Sion, and who are equally beyond the law's reach, or the reach of those who have not been paid off or sheltered by the law, or who are beyond the caring of society. Those you may have. Those transgressors. For punishment, by you."

"For punishment," I repeated. Something was rising within me, hot and terrible, and cold and terrible, as I thought of Mary Kelly, and and Kate Eddowes, and all the others, killed and murdered and abused over the years and centuries and history of mankind. Jack might be gone, but there had been others before, and there would be others after. And there would be me to deal with them ...

"Yes," I said, standing up at last, off my knees, ready to grasp that nettle, knowing that any pain it would give me would be cheap at what I would gain, what mankind would gain. Our Lord, whatver this one before me might say of Him, would approve, I knew it. "Yes. Do what you must."

And I was slain, and remade in a new image, and learned the truth of the world, and both wept and laughed.

The next night, I punished my first offender, a man who had beaten his wife to death for not having at hand another bottle of gin for him to drink. I drove the spear of Nemesis into his chest, through his heart, and watched as his life, in turn, was forfeited.

It felt good.

His face I don't remember, either.

But Mary Kelly's face I'll never forget.

Session One - Punishment - 18 May 03

I gazed down at the body. No ID. No eyes. A neat cluster of shots in his chest. Nice work. I assumed it was mine, unsure why the assumption felt so natural, save it might be a memory I could not remember.

The gun's weight in my hand was a comfort. With it, I felt I could do almost anything. I knew that was a dangerous sentiment, but did not know how I knew.

Sirens warbled in the distance. Time to leave. The gun tucked into the belt at my back like it had grown there. The alley was an odd artifact of intersecting buildings, with no purpose save for a door to one side, redolent dumpsters beside it. If there were anything painted on it once, the legend had long since flaked away in the grime. But, then, I needed only to know that this was the way out, not wonder what it was the way to.

That seemed vaguely familiar as a sentiment as well, and just as unfamiliar in its origin or meaning.

If the door had been locked it would have been no problem something whispered, but it made no difference, as the door barely fit into its jamb. I wonder how they keep it secure at night? Again, it made no difference. I'd never be here again. Unless I'd been here before, and simply didn't remember it.

Damn.

It was an Indian restaurant, and my stomach rumbled. It was a sensation both distantly familiar and utterly strange, and I was getting very tired of feeling that way. Whoever did this to me will pay. Dearly. That felt better.

I was in the mud room, a drain for the mop to one side, a ladder to some ancient storage place embedded in a wall. Ahead the way held a pantry, then the kitchen proper. It was between meals, and off in a far corner two men jabbered in Urdu about a friend of theirs who gambled too much. I hadn't known I knew Urdu, but that was turning out to be par for the course today.

They weren't facing in my direction, and a third man who was grunting and groaning to clean a grill was only somewhat angled toward me. They never had a chance to see me slip past them into the butler's pantry between kitchen and restaurant. I glanced through the windows, took in the few quiet patrons polishing off their lunch, and casually passed into, then out of, the room, for all the world someone who simply ought to be there. None of the customers even looked up from their curry and vindaloo.

The dark-skinned woman at the door, hair dark as coal, looked at me a little strangely. I could kill her, to be sure. I knew I could frighten the hell out of her, too, but this wasn't the time for that, either. I simply gave her a nod, took a peppermint, and exited.

Whitechapel by day is always busy, and there were plenty of businessfolk there for cheap eats, tradesmen and housewives shopping among the tatty shops, and, of course, the tourists. If they'd seen what I'd seen, they'd vomit up lunch from last Tuesday, I thought, wondering what I'd seen in the same mental breath.

A Metropolitan police cruiser had come to a stop a building or two ahead, another car behind it, and since half the crowd was gawking I felt I could, too, without drawing attention. The alley was behind me, and glancing there I could see another of the silly little cars stopped short there. Both uniforms and plainclothes were getting guns out of the trunk, and I could hear the crackle of microphones and speakers. "Shots fired, officers responding," other bits of that sort. They were taking it seriously, and part of me automatically wished them luck, while part of me furiously backpedalled from that wish.

I stepped down to the next storefront, a newstand. I entered, to get myself off the street (were there descriptions of me out there?), and to see if any of the news headlines jogged my memory. I could hear the cops speaking as clearly from inside as out, which was both odd and natural in that annoying paradoxical way that was already burning a slow fuse within my gut.

My eyes skimmed across the headlines, taking in whole stories at a glance. Huge Power Outage Strikes Malaysia. US 'Rave' Fire Kills Hundreds. Gun Battle Terrifies Londoners. I gave that last one a special look, as though it rang a bell, but it was full of lots of words and very little content. What can you expect from the Guardian?

Meantime, the cops had found the body, word was, out looking for some sick bastard who'd mutilate a corpse (only beforehand), and I had heard all I was going to unless I hung around long enough to make folks suspicious. So I didn't.

I knew London, but I didn't know London. A glance at a tourist map gave me the layout of the city, burned in my head like I'd walked every street there a hundred times (perhaps I had). And paying for a candy bar (the hunger remained odd, but I knew it had to be dealt with) gave me a chance to look at the wallet in my jacket pocket.

Siân Ewig. An address in Whitechapel. How convenient, as was the £30.

No keys in the pocket, though. Interesting.

I walked casually down the street, paying as much and as little attention to who might be watching me as I could. I'd been found once (I somehow sensed, guessed, that the man in the alleyway had found me, not the other way around), which meant I could be found again. Which meant that my flat was a trap I could not avoid.

I knew it was my flat, just as it was my name. Even if it was neither where I truly lived, nor what people called me. Yes, the systemic confusion was no less annoying with repetition.

I approached my block -- familiar only from the map, not from my mind's eye -- with caution. I would deal with getting in the door without keys when must. But until then ...

I spotted him across the street, on the stoop of another flat, reading the same page of the paper over and over, his shaded eyes on my place, not on the words. He did not, I was sure, see me.

Fine. Pulling out the gun and killing him would be counterproductive, both attractive of unwarrented attention, and not, at this point, satisfying. I wondered at that pairing of concerns, even as I saw a man in black with a bold white collar, speaking Cymraeg and holding forth at length on both the value of life and the terrible wrath of the Lord, and His divine punishment on those who killed his sheep, while I stood stock-still in my pew, lest Da clout me on the head again. The vision was gone as fast as it came, leaving me to blink behind my own sunglasses.

I shook my head slightly, then moved back a block, passed down another alleyway into the back garden of the building upon whose stoop the watcher sat. I passed unnoticed through the back door, past two flats in back, then to the front two. One, I could hear, had a dog within it, a small yapping thing which made a frightened noise at my displeasure and slinked away. The other was empty, better suited to my purpose.

My vest had within it various items, including lockpicks, and I clearly knew how to use them, for the door was open in less time than it took to tell. I glanced around, noticing the bay windows. A half-glance through them showed the watcher, still oblivious to his target's true location.

I went back to the hallway, pulled out the gun which sang to me in my hand of lightning and blood and the Lord's mighty punishment.

Then I silently opened the foyer door, opened the front door, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, the other hand boring the gun barrel into the base of his skull, and pulled him inside before anyone on the street could notice.

Sian - Intro Session (0.5)

THE POWER OF PUNISHMENT LAY on the cobblestones of a dirty alley. This, as her eyes blinked open, was the first thing she could bring into focus; grimy stones, bits of refuse settled against the juncture of a building's wall and the ground.

Her cheek was pressed against the cobblestones as well, which meant she was lying on her stomach with her back exposed to --

She rolled over, blinking against the noontime sun that snuck through the rooftop barriers overhead to stab at her eyes. The alleyway was dank and old (which seemed familiar) and thick with the stink of molding trash.  (That seemed familiar too, although somehow for a different reason.)

She sat up, resting her arms on her knees. She was wearing slacks, a jacket. Her knuckles were scraped and bruised. A taxicab drove by the mouth of the alley several dozen yards away and she realised she was in London.

She didn’t know how she knew it was London, what or where London was, or why it filled her with a certain relief, but she knew that she knew and she knew she was not wrong.

Forcing herself to her feet, she took stock of her surroundings.  The dead body on the ground between her and the alley’s dead end caught her attention first.

Her reaction was not fear or revulsion but resignation, as though this were a familiar scene playing out for the hundredth time to no happy conclusion. She approached the face down body (too much like her own earlier pose for comfort) and rolled it over.

A flash. A memory. Looking over the shoulder of a London bobby, looking down on a body lying in a very similar -- the same? -- alley. Blood everywhere. the poor woman's eyes wide with terror and death and the stink of blood and offal nearly overwhelming and --

Five... no, seven bullet entry points. Centre mass. Also, his eyes were missing. It did not look as though he’d ever had them.

She remembered. He was striding straight towards her from the dead-end of the alley, half-smiling. She had had a pistol and he had been wearing sun glasses.

Looking around, she found the gun against the wall and shortly thereafter found a holster for it at the small of her back. She didn’t see the sunglasses anywhere.

She frowned. It didn’t feel right, having used a gun. There was something...

Something... off. Wrong weapon. Not the feeling that she wouldn’t have killed someone, but the feeling that it wouldn’t have been this way.

So something was wrong, but that wasn’t the real problem.

She’d been trying to remember her name since she’d first rolled over into the sun, and she couldn’t.

-=-=-
[The nobilis of Punishment is played by Dave Hill.]

The Twilight of Eternity!

Another Ripping Yarn of HMIA Bonaventure!

"Engage the Atomics!"

At Captain Lady Rebecca's firm command, Chief Imagineer Lady Haley grinned and pressed forward the brightly-burnished lever that pulled the graphite rods from the great radium core at the center of the Her Imperial Majesty's Aethership Bonaventure. Mighty lightnings, a cosmic Saint Elmo's Fire, danced about the craft's great aetheric sails. The finest ship in the fleet, in the last century of this new one, the Bonaventure was a shining star moving amongst the firmament, cruising the aether like a clipper ship of a bygone age.

Rebecca smoothed down her deep blue uniform. Her hair, beneath the captain's hat, was ginger in color, tied back modestly. "Well," she proclaimed, sitting with satisfaction, her eyes taking in the Bonaventure's bridge. The damage done by the Pumpkin Dragon had been patched and polished, until nothing could be seen of the fiery burns that had ripped through the ship's hull but a week ago. "A fine job, my brethren. The Imperatorial Command will be pleased."

"Damned straight," the Lord Adam replied from the helm. A golden glow seeped from his eyes, lighting up his face. His hands gripped the wheel with easy confidence. "The many nations of Rigel will offer no shelter to the Excrucian menace."

A grim figure of black leather and white lace, spoke from the Guard station. "Those who did," murmured the Lady Sian, menacingly, as she stroked the large chromed vortex blaster at her side, "will do so no longer. Though --" Her eyes dropped. "-- many brave warriors of the Chancels Legion gave their lives for that victory."

"And they will be remembered forever," declaimed the Lady Amala. Green and sweeping was her gown, laced in gold, setting off the chocolate brown of her dusky skin. "Throughout Rigel, for so long as any mortals live there, their names will be known in song, and their sacrifice held up as the bravest of the brave."

"And Amala knows how to spin a catchy tune," quipped Lord Graham from the telephore station. His uniform was an odd mixture of brown and orange motley. He doffed his feathered beret to the Lady Alana, who scowled for a moment at the mockery, then broke into a grin.

"We've entered the Aetheric Stream, Lady Captain," announced Haley, snapping a sharp salute. She wore overalls and a rainbow colored blouse, like an engineer, though she bore a Noble rank like any of the other officers present. She flashed a smile at Sian. "Like a spear thrusting across the heavens." Sian flushed, and Graham laughed.

"Thank you, Haley," Rebecca replied. "And be sure, Sian, that those who died will not be forgotten amongst our ranks, either. I will propose to the Imperatorial Command that the new fleet of aetherships, planned to expand Her Imperial Majesty's Stellar Empire to the Magellanic Clouds and beyond, be named after the brave officers of the Chancels Legion who fell in battle against the Horde of the Wall. Not least of which will be your bold General Strafe."

Sian nodded with thanks.

"The Magellanic Clouds. I hear it's rainy there," Graham noted. His hands played over the glowing dials and indicators of the ship's communications. "Or overcast, at least.

"I've served in the Magellanics," Adam averred. "A distant mission for the Church. I look forward to bringing the great Sun's rays to its dappled mists permanently."

"I was actually joking," murmured Graham, to himself.

A silver flicker darted through the command cabin. "SeniorratingOReillytoseethecaptaincaptain ..."

Rebecca nodded. "Send him in, Faeguard Telendrindel."

"Ayecaptainmiladybeccabyenow!" The tiny figure flitted away through the steel and mahogany door from the cabin.

"The Fae Guard's status, Lady Sian?" the captain inquired. "Are their numbers back to specification?"

She stood to attention. "Aye, at full strength, ma'am. When we repelled boarders, they held off the Darkeyes long enough for me to return from the surface. What losses we took they've since replaced."

"Good job," Rebecca replied. "Pass on my complements to your Folk, then. Just --" She smiled. "-- suggest to them once again if they need to replenish their numbers, they might choose more, ah, discreet locations than the crew mess."

Sian flushed, and sat back down.

A few moments later, a man in red fatigues and brass helm marched in, boots clicking on the polished wood planking, and snapped a salute to Rebecca. "Ma'am."

"Senior Rating O'Reilly. You and the crew served this aethership proudly during the final battle."

"T'weren't naught, ma'am. Simply obeying y'r orders, ma'am."

"The sacrifices from the below-decks do not go unnoticed, O'Reilly."

He bowed. "I just wanted to report that we've all ship-shape an' Bristol fashion, ma'am."

"Indeed. A finer crew one could not ask. Though -- perhaps I should send Lady Sian below, to inspect. The black glove test. I understand she's familiar with Bristol."

To his credit, the rating did not flinch. "If ye wish, though we're ready for aught. An' the crew would lief as have the Lady Haley. Not," he added quickly, "that the Lady Sian is not welcome."

"Maybe we could both go. That'd be fun," Haley opined.

"Anomaly to the forward port side," Adam suddenly snapped out, his eyes on the televiewer screen ahead. He consult an indicator to his right. "An imperial orthicraft," he added, peering at the glowing green aetherscope.

Rebecca frowned. "It's too early for word of the Rigel victory to have reached Earth, even via runners on the World Tree."

"Shall I call the hands to battle-stations?" Sian queried.

The captain shook her head. "No. 'Tis an imperial craft, aright. One of the new models, built for the Council. Any telephore signal?"

Graham shook his head. "No. You know those Council types. They figure you'll roll out the red carpet without their even having to introduce themselves."

Amala made a rude noise.

"Haley, go with O'Reilly," Rebecca decided. "Be sure and express our gratitude. We'll take care of the hospitality."

Haley grinned, waved at her fellow Nobles, and ducked out, pulling the rating after her.

"I say it's medals for everyone," Graham opined. "With the casualties, that's at least several hundred for each of us."

"Not funny," Sian retorted. She looked at Rebecca. "A new campaign, perhaps? Her Imperial Majesty's forces are widespread now, but the Bonaventure is ready for further action. I've heard rumors of an incursion at the Horsehead Nebula."

"'Tis not horses' heads you seek, Lady Sian," Graham quipped, "but --" He broke off. "The orthicraft is hailing us to come alongside, Captain. About time." Though the Fool, Graham was all business when his duty called. As were they all. The Nobles of the Bonaventure were the finest the Imperatorial Command had.

"Acknowledge. Send them to the forward docking port," Rebecca stated. "Sian. Why don't you escort whomever's aboard there up here."

Sian leapt up, saluted the captain, set a hand to her vortex blaster, and strode from the command deck.

When she returned, her face was clouded. About her flitted a dozen fairies, all bearing gleaming spears, and murmuring an angry buzz. "Captain," Sian announced, coldly. "Lord Desecration comes, bearing orders."

The bridge fell silent. Not even Graham had a witty remark to make. At length, Rebecca stood, smoothed her uniform again. "Bring him in," she ordered. This was her ship. She would not let the presence of one of Entropy's Nobles shake her.

Sian returned a moment later, the darkness-shrouded figure of Meon following. Sian returned to her post, at the captain's left, but did not sit. Her hand remained resting, casually, on her blaster.

"Milady Captain Justice," Meon said, executing a sketchy bow. "I bring orders from Lord Entropy and the Imperatorial Council."

Rebecca would not let her eyes search those of the others. She could feel Adam's soft glow at the Helm, and it warmed her. She would have welcomed a joke from Graham, but he was silent at Communications. Amala, too, was silent at the Scientific console. Haley's welcome smile was missing below-decks, and Rebecca was suddenly sure that was best. At her side, at the Weaponry station, menace and anger wisped from Sian like a cloud, even as her Fae took up station at the door to the bridge.

"I stand ready to execute their orders," Rebecca replied. That Meon was here meant the commands were serious. What new danger were they to face? She was suddenly sure, whatever it might be, that they would be equal to it. That was enough to relax her, slightly. But only for a moment.

"With the Imperator's greetings," Meon pronounced, his raspy voice at once more formal than the most rigid drill sergeant, "you are to bring the Aethership Bonaventure back to Earth. There this command will be dissolved."

"What?" Adam shouted, prominences flickering from his body through his dress uniform.

"Absurd," cried Amala, the cabin to reverberate to the harmonics in her voice.

"I don't get it," muttered Graham. His face, usually smiling, was a mask of apprehension.

By her side, Sian remained silent. Rebecca was grateful for that, as it gave her an anchor of calm. This was a travesty. "I know the Bonaventure has not failed the will of the Council," she retorted. "Why, then, is this action taken. Has Her Imperial Majesty been informed?"

"Victoria? She has shuffled off the mortal coil, and so the treaty which bound the Imperators to her will is null and void."

That drew gasps. The Immortal Empress had lived five hundred years. Even so, "But -- why --"

"Treachery is upon us, Milady Justice." Meon smiled, a grimace in fact. "An Imperator of the Dark, fearing the mortal humans have advanced too far, need us too little, has slain the Empress. With the treaty gone, betrayal is possible. Thus, history is to be ... revised. A hand of cards picked back up to be replayed. All this --" A black-gloved hand gestured about. "-- is to be no more. Five centuries of time as the Prosaic reckons it, to the date of the Great Concord, is to be wiped from the memory of mankind, erased like a wire recording." He chuckled. "No physical trace will remain."

"But -- this ship --"

A grey-toothed grin. "-- will never have existed. Nor the colonies of Rigel -- nor Antares, nor Ultima Thule, nor the Corelands Desert. Not for most of a century will humanity venture back into space, and we will have naught to do with it. And it will be -- I am told -- a sorry, flimsy imitation of this, your proud vessel."

Sian at last made a sound. Rebecca threw her a glance. She was pale, was her security officer. "And those who have died," she said. "Are their lives to be made good? Are their sacrifices to be for naught?"

Meon chuckled. "Isn't that the finest part, Lady Punishment? Their deaths, their great giving of all, and all they died for, are stricken from the books. None will remember them. No statues. No monuments. No leaves in books of memorial. No stained glass or obelisks. Mother will forget son, son his father's death. Naught will remain but dust and ashes, and what nightmares may come to them on blackened nights. Though, if it is any comfort, milady --" He leered at her. "-- you will remember them. Every detail. We Nobles will not be affected by the magicks."

"No!" Sian took a step forward. About her, the Fae of her security contingent buzzed and hummed menacingly. "You cannot do this. It -- it isn't fair." She looked up at Rebecca. "Do something!"

What? What could she do in the face of such orders. "Lord Meon, I must -- I will protest. I will appeal to the Imperatorial Council --"

"The Council, you will find, is not what it once was. Bound by the old queen, they now bow before power. That means my lord, Entropy. And this is his decision. The magic is not all his, but imposed upon us. But he guides the final outcome. Will you dispute with him, Justice?"

"Why you --" Adam took a step forward, now fully aflame, engulfed like the sun-stars about them.

"Stand down!" Rebecca snapped. Adam started, stared at her, then turned away, back to his station, his blazing light subdued.

"For what it's worth," Meon continued, almost reluctantly, "it's not that there's that much choice. As I said, treachery drives Milord to this. There'd be little else he could do. Things in the new century will be much -- simpler. The Prosaic will drift from the Mythic. Things will be -- well, frankly, dull. But that's the way Lord Entropy wishes it."

"Lady Sian," Rebecca commanded, "escort Lord Meon back to his ship. He will return under his own power. If we are under orders, we will make all speed to Earth. There we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Aye, captain," Sian replied, darkly. "Lord Meon, you will come with us." The Fae guard formed a ring about him. "I suggest, milord, you walk the path we direct. This is still a war zone, and you are not authorized to wander at will. Some Folk of the Guard might attack first, ask questions second."

Meon laughed, and let Sian lead the way off the bridge, back to where his ship was docked. As they left, Rebecca heard him say, "Don't get too attached to these little vermin, Punishment -- I understand the changes will affect them, too ..."

*   *   *

They met, at length, in the captain's dining room. Faeries waited upon them, for the regular crew would not be allowed to overhear the conversation. Rebecca had ordered them not to speak to the crew of what was coming.

Rebecca set down her thick crystal wine glass, most of the deep blue Antarean Shiraz left untouched. She'd broken into the guest stores, however, since such items would no longer exist after their return. Amala had proposed, as was her duty as youngest, a toast to the late Empress, but there seemed little joy in any of their quaffs.

"I have been in contact with my Imperator, as no doubt you have."

Sian bowed her head, and would not answer.

Graham snorted. "Unavoidable, he says. Unstable and dangerous this time has been, he says. Regretful, but inevitable, he says."

"Damn it!" Adam snarled, slamming a fist on the table. He left a scorch mark in the lacquer finish. "It defies belief. All we've done, all we've accomplished -- to be wiped out, just like that."

"Not just us," Sian noted, quietly.

"No songs to remember anyone by," intoned Graham, sadness tinging his voice. "A pity, that."

"A pity? Is that all you can say?" Adam roared. "We should defy them! Not let this happen. We --"

"I have," Rebecca declared, quietly. "As Justice's Regal, I have told my Imperator that this is an unjust decision. I have told him I will challenge Lord Entropy to single combat, to decide it."

There was shocked silence around the table. Haley broke it, her eyes wide. "But -- he'll kill you."

Rebecca shrugged. "So many others have died. One more cannot matter. I owe it to the crew -- and to the ship."

"We'll stand by your side," Sian averred, animation again in her face, her voice. She got to her feet. "With what power we've gained in Her Imperial Majesty's service, we --"

"Yes!" shouted Adam.

"We're with you," swore Alana.

"To the --" began Graham.

"No," Rebecca cut in, flatly. "Single combat it must be, else it is rebellion. I strictly forbid it. And, if you've any love for me, or respect for my authority, you will obey."

After a moment, Sian sat. Silence, again.

"But he'll kill you," Haley said, plaintively.

Rebecca forced a smile. "Surely you, of all people, can envision another outcome."

She shook her head. "No. I can't." That ended the conversation again.

At length, Adam muttered, "I'll quit."

"Adam, no," Alana pled.

"No, I'm serious. Dammit, if that's how they treat us, then I'm through. My Master will let me go, and if he doesn't, I'll accept whatever his judgment for breaking fealty, but I won't work for them again. No more."

"I'm with you, then," Alana told him, after a moment.

"What?"

"I'll quit, too. We can go off somewhere, together. I --" She cut off, not willing yet to share that emotion.

"The rest of you -- come with us," Adam told the table. "If we make a stand, all leave, maybe they'll change their mind. At the very least, we'll have clean consciences."

Silence, then Sian shook her head. "No. I've a duty."

"Duty to those who would betray you? Duty to those --"

"The duty is mine," she shouted at him. "What they're doing -- it makes no difference. I swore to Amaciel my service, and it is his to have, for so long as he'll have it."

Alana shook her head. "Don't you even care --"

"Of course I bloody care!" Sian screamed back. "They're taking everything -- what we've done for the past decades, the advances we've made, the victories, the sacrifices. They're taking it all. And that's not all. The mortals, they'll be controlled, guided, kept from advancing too far, too fast. No travel to the stars for another hundred years. And those stars won't be inhabited, but lifeless rocks about balls of flaming gas. They're taking it all."

"They can't take your friends," Haley said, extending a hand toward her.

"They can!" Sian retorted. "The Fae Guard? Gone. No fairies, save in the Mythic. Naught magical, save in the Mythic. All those friends -- allies, brethren, comrades in arms, trusted and trusting servants -- wiped out of existence, though they'd never been."

She stood again, faced Rebecca. "Captain, please -- I beg you. Let me join you. I canna leave my post, like these others, but I can follow you. Let me fight by your side, even if it means --"

"No." Rebecca stood as well. "If I die, then I die. I'll not have the blood of my officers on my hands -- nor that of my -- friends." She looked at them all. "Do what you must. I bind you to no further service, nor will I report your plans. This much, I can do. I can do no other." She turned, and walked stiffly out of the captain's dining room.

Sian slumped back down into her gleaming chair.

"The rest of you, then," Adam said. "Come with us. At least we can be together."

Graham slowly shook his head. "No. No, I like the idea, but, frankly, I don't think I want to spend the rest of my days being reminded by you all of what we once had, and what was lost." He gave them a crooked smile, took off his hat, and tossed it onto the table. "I'll find some place of my own. Alone. Nothing personal, of course." He got up, nodded to them. "See you in the funny papers." Then he left.

Adam stared at the closing door, then uttered an oath. "Haley, what about you?"

Haley shrank back into her chair. "No. I can't. I -- I just can't. Besides --" She gave a weak, crooked grin. "-- someone has to look after Sian, right? I mean, you two, Amala, Adam, you'll have each other. Sian's going to be stuck on her own. That's not fair."

Adam and Amala looked at each other, then got up and left as well. The door hissed shut behind them.

"So, we gonna stick together?" Haley said, trying not to sound terrified.

Sian shook her head. "I canna." She looked up at her friend. "I canna do this. I canna leave, but I canna stay. I -- won't live with this knowledge, Haley, knowing what we had and lost. What's been taken from us. I dinna want to But I won't betray my oath. That's -- I suppose that's all I have left."

Haley extended a hand for a moment, then, when it wasn't taken, pulled it back. "You have me. You have the others."

Sian shook her head again. "No. I dinna. I canna continue." The she straightened out. "But -- I will. I have to go on. That's what's the important thing. I just have to figure out how." Her lips thinned. "An' I think I do. God help me, but I think I do."

And at the bleak sound in her voice, Haley felt very, very cold, as though the clement aether through which they sailed had become a frozen vacuum, and she'd suddenly lost her friend into that black void beyond ...