Private Under the Father's Eye

[Santiago Malik]

Of late, Santiago made it a habit to peruse the library. Villa Sutra boasted a vast emporium of books, rivaled only by the Imperator's own collection and that of a niche group of purveyors and monasteries. Its stacks were meticulously organized by category, with a staff of dedicated caretakers to ensure nothing left the room without their knowledge and express permission. Even then most requests were denied, save those by the Legate herself and occasional guests of the garrison.

A twinned spiral stairway split the room, leading up to the interceding hallway to the Legate's own chambers on one end and a shaded balcony on the other. It was here that Santiago lounged, splayed about on an elbow atop a pile of pillows. A pitcher of chilled water rested beside him with a polished bronze chalice the staff kept topped off. Platters of fruit and sweated cheese were just out of reach, set by a cloth to wipe the oils from his fingers before he returned to his book.

This volume, titled "Journeys Beyond the Moon," chronicled one scholar's theory on the evolution of theology across Khurun. It held Santiago's fascination, depicting rural beliefs so foreign to his Imperial palate that they might better belong in a work of fiction than any educational piece. But he trundled on without care, attention glued to the pages for the better half of the afternoon. Only when the horns blared and signaled the closing of the pewter gates for the eve did he rise from his perch.

His eyes stung and an ache had settled in the small of his back as he stood. Stretching, he cast a casual gesture to the staff for them to retrieve the tome. After a passing fashion, he returned to the library and made his way down the long, spiraling stairway.

Lost in a fit of reflection, he barely managed to avoid collision with another that walked the steps.

A frown pinched his brows, but he muttered no word of apology.

"Apprentice," he said instead, eying the cloth that swathed the body before him, "under whose orders have you disturbed the peace of this place? The hour of prayer nears. Would you disgrace our Father so?"

 

[Silk]

She slid down the stairway with the loose, quiet grace of someone born to tighter corners and darker alleys. Silk caught herself half a heartbeat before she ran into the man, her soft-soled slippers fluttered against the stone like a whisper. The collision was light, barely more than cloth against cloth, but it was enough. In the moment of contact, Silk’s fingers moved with the ease of a prayer, ghosting along his belt and pockets, feeling for anything interesting: a ring of keys, a coin pouch, maybe a scrap of a letter...

"I meant no disturbance, honored one," she said softly, her voice very mindful, very demure. "I fear in my haste to serve, my feet ran quicker than my good sense."

She glanced up through her lashes, just enough to catch his frown, the self-important narrowing of his eyes. Oh, fucking Bell-Ringer. These robed men fat on sermons and power, quick to sniff out insolence, quicker to punish it. She kept her face as plain as milk. Her body still, the way a rabbit sits under a hawk's shadow.

"Waysira commanded me to fetch a text for her contemplation." she added, she colored her voice sugar-sweet. "She feared the gates would close, so she bid me move with haste lest the gates close before her devotions." She smiled her little ghost of a smile, and waited to be dismissed like a good girl. Silk tugged the sleeve of the linen robe, feeling the fabric rasp against her raw-cleaned skin. Look at me, she thought bitterly. A proper little lamb.

 

[Santiago Malik]

"Cleric Warsira to you," Santiago said, notes of warning tinging sharp his tone.

He was caught between steps, out of sorts as he sought perch upon the stairs. A hand had reached out, bracing himself between banister and woman alike, coloring his breath with the brief excitement that accosted him. His features shadowed severely, but he spared a moment's hesitation to smooth the emotive ridges from his brow.

A breath that resembled a sigh cloyed him, much akin to the woman's own saccharine tone.

"I am to sup with her and the Legate this eve," he said, sweeping out an arm to gesture about the stacks. "Inform me of which you seek. I may assist you in delivering them."

A thought nagged at him. Pale shadows of curiosity, quickly dismissed.


@Silk

 

[Silk]

She let herself stumble a bit as she turned, brushing closer to his side than she needed to.

Silk dipped her head like a proper little nothing. “Of course, Cleric Waysira.” she murmured, soft as girl’s first lie. Long dark hair slipping forward like curtains drawn over a stage.

“I was sent for 'Benedictions of Salt and Flame,' second binding, by the hand of Maedi.” A complete fabrication. But with the right name and a placid tone, it should pass. "She said it should be in the western alcove, near the scrollwork of the ‘pure tongue.’ Though I’m sure you know shelves better than I." Her fingers laced, hiding the slight shake from adrenaline or suppressed laughter. Even Silk couldn’t tell.

Of course, she didn’t want his help. She didn’t need it. The only thing she needed was for this peacock to piss off. But instead, he was sniffing around like a rat near the bread cart. Silk tilted her face up, just enough to meet his gaze, and then lower it again quickly. “If you might assist, your grace, I would be most grateful. Would you... lead the way?”

 

[Santiago Malik]

"These texts are unfamiliar to my ears," Santiago said, replaying the wash of words that crested the woman's lips. Each fell into the proper cadence, mimicked the meanderings of a lamb lost amidst the stacks, and yet something was lacking. The titles, the manner of address, a nest of small idiosyncrasies ill-fitting a member of Ko's dedicated.

"You've confused your directions. The stacks containing scrollwork reside on the second level, whereas the western alcove is..."

A frown, swift tightening of lips and furrowing of brows. But he had found his balance, dismissed the nattering thought. Pivoting on heel, he made his way back down the spiraling stairway, beckoning the woman to follow. Nearing the bottom, he cast a glance over his shoulder to her.

"Unless, perhaps, you've taken to using Waysira's request as an elaborate method to shirk your duties. Impropriety is a dress best worn away from our Father's eyes."


@Silk

 

[Silk]

‘Unfamiliar to your ears,’ is it? You’re listening too close, darling.

Silk's face arranged into that wide-eyed reverence the clerics liked so much. “Of course, your grace. I’m… still learning the layout. Too many doors, halls and shelves. And all of them look the same.” she said, thick with syrup, like she’d been fed honey and obedience since the cradle. The stairs curved, and Silk moved just slow enough to seem pious, just steady enough not to trip on the trailing hem she was already itching to cut off.

Too many words. Gods help me, I hate this.

She almost snorted. “Thank you for correcting me.” she said, all demure and dustless. “I’d be lost without the guidance from someone so… experienced.”

"Impropriety is a dress best worn away from our Father's eyes."

“The Father sees all... I’d never want to offend his… "A pause. Her mind flailed. His what? Judgment? Grace? His mouth-breathing choir of bastards? "...eyes.” she finished, weak as dishwater.

Inside, her nerves were sparking like live wires. This wasn’t her game. Silk knew how to gut a lock with a bent pin and three heartbeats. But this? This talking? Silk was not a witty, charming gentleman robber. I gut coinpurses, not conversations.

The stairs ended with the hush of sandals on marble, Silk's steps half a breath behind his. The library sprawled before her with shelves tall enough to vanish behind and shadows thick enough to get lost in. Time to disappear, rat-girl. Her gaze drifted to the rows, calculating. A maze of ink and wood.

And then she slipped past him. Quick as a fish through fingers. Turned right, past a shelf stuffed with crumbling volumes and the reek of old glue.

 

[Santiago Malik]

For a spell, Santiago considered giving chase. A brief reverie, filled with maundering over whether his lost aplomb could keep pace. Readily dismissed. His legs were languid, soft from the day's leisure, and his slippered feet boasted little in the way of purchase on the veneer-slick flooring. The excuses tumbled by in the blink it took the woman's back to vanish into the stacks.

Hesitation cost him the prize. The prize of knowledge, of a mystery solved. A question answered. He suspected, as he shortened his stride and made for the reception, that he was to be bereft of such luxuries.

A pity, then, that Castellis Sutr's guests had to endure this farce.

"Bar the doors," he said to the clerks at the reception, only to receive blank stares in return. "Post a legionnaire at each, two on the upper level. Ensure our runaway apprentice is not allowed to disturb the Legate."

A pause.

"Seize her. Have her returned to Cleric Waysira for remonstration."

Nods fumbled in way of reply. The gated doors swung shut on the heels of a legionnaire.

"Spare her any injuries," Santiago said. "I will attend the apprehension."

Ko only knew how far the woman managed to slither off through his exchange.


@Silk

 

[Silk]

Silk had almost made it. Almost.

Two hours of half-crouched creeping between the tall stacks, ghosting past votive alcoves, and wedging herself behind bookcases older than the order itself. She had the stolen scroll folded and stashed, nothing sacred, just something promising. Codes, maybe. Cartography, maybe. Something someone would pay for.

The hand that caught her wasn’t fast. It just was big. Unmoved. Steel-greaved and reeking of oil and patience. A sharp yank at the collar of her robe hoisted her clean off the floor. She writhed, not out of resistance, because that was pointless. But it was habit. Wrists twisted, shoulder hunched. But the grip didn’t slack. It shifted, got harder. Pinched her robe at the neck seam and lifted, holding her like a mangy kitten dragged out from under the stairs.

“Order is to bring her straight to remonstration.” he said. Her toes dangled, scraped once against marble before the legionnaire hefted her properly. One handed. Like she weighed less than a pike. Silk kicked once. It earned her nothing but a chuckle.

The scuff of sandals dragged across polished stone, the rustle of robes not hers, the occasional clink of a loose buckle on the legionnaire’s belt as he hauled her along by the scruff like a stray dog that’d pissed on the altar. She didn’t struggle. That part was over. She just glared, half-lidded, jaw tight, fingers curling against the fabric bundled around her collarbone.

“You think they'll whip her for this?” wondered the smaller of the two legionnaires. Ahead, a temple functionary stepped back from a shelf, robes immaculate, brows arched. “I was told Cleric Malik wished to join the apprehension,” the woman sniffed, arms crossed. “He seemed… invested.”

“Then he’s late,” said the legionnaire, hefting Silk higher as she sagged a little more.

 

[Santiago Malik]

Santiago took his time in hastening after the pursuit.

The legionnaires he sent ahead performed their duties with the rigor expected of empire trained soldiers, chasing after the woman with nary a care for the state of the archives. As he followed, he noted the piles of books and jostled stacks: loose papers, broken bindings, shelves in utter disarray. More tomes than he could readily count were strewn about the floor. A menagerie of chaos had descended upon the cleric's haven.

In lieu of joining the very pursuit he ordered, Santiago instead had approached the stacks in an attempt to restore them to some semblance of order. With the aid of the clerk that manned the front desk and a handful of archivists, they made measured progress on the fleeing woman's heels. It was slow, meandering work filled with mutterings and tsking tongues. Frustration that was aimed as much at the soldiers as the fleeing woman.

Indeed, a common line of discourse within the group excused her actions. It was only natural to flee, they had said, when chased by so many armored buffoons. Santiago declined to add his own commentary. Some chagrin cased his brow at the situation, at an aspiring member of his clergy causing such disruption to the villa's routine, but the hours' labor dulled what anger he housed.

When the water clock struck well beyond the evening's repast he caught up to the pursuit. Night blackened the windows, leaving only shroudlight and candles to assuage visibility. Flanked by a pair of scrivs, he approached the party in time to catch the last of the legionnaire's comments.

"Thank you," he said, dry as the dust kicked up in the archives. To the man holding up the wayward cleric he added: "Escort us to Waysira's offices."

To the other: "Go on ahead. Report to Legate Hyuli the mess you've made of her library."


@Silk

 

[Silk]

Silk said nothing.

She couldn’t afford the wrong word now, not with Santiago’s shadow stretching over the hall like a noose. She didn't lift her head, only let her body sag a little more in the soldier’s grip, like the very mention of Waysira had snuffed what little breath she had left.

They’re buying it. Just a scared little novice, wide-eyed. No thief, no trespasser, just some soul who strayed too far from the chapel light.

The legionnaire adjusted his grip with a grunt and began walking. Shroudlight flickered in the sconces, casting long, skeletal shadows that crawled ahead of them, and the stone beneath her feet was cold, smooth and too clean. Like a place where things disappeared without a sound. She tried not to look like she knew where they were going.

Her feet dragged. The legionnaire didn’t slow. He was stronger than he looked, and he looked like a brick wall. She risked a breath. Just one. Pulled it in between her teeth and let it sit there like a coin.

“I welcome penance.” she breathed. She nodded to herself as if the idea were reasonable, face still hidden under the fall of dark hair.

What else do they do? Gods, think...!

“I’d do fasting. Flagellation, if it’s called for. The barbed cords. Like the penitents wear during Zenit.” Her voice cracked, and she let it.

 

[Santiago Malik]

The long walk to Cleric Waysira's study remained ponderously silent.

Santiago spared few glances back to his ward, and his escort did well in reading his mood. Exhaustion warred beneath his eyes, like so many crows clawing incessantly at lids in want of sleep. Despite the easing of natural light, a day's long session of reading exacted a toll. One not so easily paid in idle fruit and libation. A later concern.

He knocked brisk at the door of the Cleric's study and waited for the muffled reply before entering.

The Cleric Waysira was a sturdy woman, taller than most, with a face weathered dearly beyond her scant thirty-odd years. Sun-tanned and sporting a pair of reading glasses, the lines of her frowned in time with lips that pursed at the sight of the trio intruding upon her domain. Adorned in white and gold, she bore little in the way of accessory, save the idol of Ko's many hands painting her breast, lending to the appearance of an ascetic. Surprising, given the lavish baubles that surrounded her.

"What gutter'd you drag this one from, Santi?" she asked, her tone hitched with contempt. She smoothed the waist of her robes, gently laying aside a scroll before making any effort to rise. This she managed in a single string of motions, quite limber.

"Cleric Santiago."

"Ever the pup, barking over propriety. Tell me, boy." This from the crooked arch of a brow, promising to suffer no patience for fools. Of which, she might readily admit, three currently presided within her space.

"A lamb lost of your flock, she claims. I caught her in the library, skipping prayer. When queried, she named you her mentor and fled at threat of reprimand." Santiago was keen to arrive swift at his point. Bandying words with the Cleric spelled disaster.

Waysira, to her credit, squinted long at the lass. Waited, took another moment's survey. Shook her head.

"None of mine, this skinny corner trollop. Playing pranks on me, now? What's this, another of your whores all dolled up and bathed? Got the villa in a tizzy over a bit of foreplay again?"

 

[Silk]

Traitors gonna betray.
And that was exactly what Waysira did.

Silk barely had time to blink before the whole damn room tilted. Of course Waysira didn’t even put effort into a lie. Just tossed her under the wagon like it was old bread crumbs. Honestly? Fair. If the roles were reversed, Silk would've already sold Waysira out twice.

“None of mine, this skinny corner trollop. Playing pranks on me, now? What’s this, another of your whores all dolled up and bathed? Got the villa in a tizzy over a bit of foreplay again?”

It seemed priests had three flavors of imagination: piety, paranoia, and perversion... and they always defaulted to the one with the most sweat involved. Fantastic. Perfect. Love this for me. The big-brained person in this building decided the most reasonable explanation is that I’m some cleric’s strumpet. Not even a high-end one, but a “skinny corner trollop.” Silk's face pinched like she had swallowed a lemon.

“Wait...What-'again'? Wait..no?”

Credit where due, the Waysira didn’t flinch. No muttering, no stalling, no false confusion. Just a quick assessment of the pieces on the board, and then she went straight for the throat of the cover story like a true professional. Waysira’s dismissal hung in the air like a wet rag, and Silk felt the legionnaire’s grip tighten. At least he didn’t try to strangle her. Silver lining.

"Again?" The thief slapped in a wobbly laugh before she could strangle it. Mask slipping. "You’ve actually done that, Cleric Santiago? Faith moves in mysterious ways.” Silk bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a snort.

Waysira, on the other hand, blinked once. Twice. Slow, predatory blinks. The crack in Silk's mask split wide.

The legionnaire frowned. Hard. “Ahem. Cleric Waysira, Cleric Santiago” the legionnaire said, voice stiff with protocol. “Permission to take this one straight to the Commander. She fled custody. Lied to clergy... and I’m fairly sure she bit Legionaire Magnus. Clearly this one is a spy."

He lifted her like she was a stray kitten, Silk’s feet dangled half an inch off the floor.

 

[Santiago Malik]

"No need to bother Hyuli over this, dear," Waysira said, tone cloying, sweet. "Let the child down, she's Santi's problem. Typical, isn't it? Run along now, let the Legate know we'll be late to supper." A sharp smile, that one.

Santiago clicked his tongue, lips twisted around a mutter that played at imperception: "One time," he said, "one time I bring a woman into the villa and evermore am I played for the fool."

"One time that you were caught, boy."

It was an effort to keep his arms listless by his side, his frustration placid from his eyes. Through the exchange, Waysira moved from her chair to stand in front of the door, giving the legionnaire a moment to slip out of the room. She clicked it shut behind him and turned the lock. Another pitiless smile.

"Fool of a man to think this slip of a girl a spy. She's been searched, yes? What secrets could she possibly steal that warrant the Legate's intervention?"

She shook her head, shrugged.

"Now tell me, what's your deal? The Father forgives most, child, after confession. You might even look pretty in a smock."

 

[Silk]

Freedom. Well, sort of. Not the running-out-into-the-night kind.

Silk hit the floor on her feet, barely, ankles wobbling as blood rushed back into them. The legionnaire’s grip had left little phantom bruises, tender stripes of indignity. The thief rolled her shoulders. Her grey eyes flicked around the room like a rat in a cathedral.

Waysira locked the door, like a woman proud of her security. Old imperial make. Heavy bronze plate. Keyed from both sides. Three-pin warded cylinder. The kind used in temples and treasury offices for generations. Sturdy, reassuring, and absolute shit against anyone who knew the difference between a rake and a tension bar. Silk huffed a soft laugh. Cute.

The office smelled of incense and ink, an old sanctum crusted with candle soot. Shelves bowed under scrolls. The walls sweated heat from a brazier.

While Waysira rambled on about forgiveness and smocks and salvation, Silk let her foot brush the bottom of a side table. Hollow sound. Loose leg. Perfect length for a makeshift lever. And that bowl of quills, a few of them were steel-tipped. Straight. Flexible. Hello beautiful little friends.

“My deal?” she echoed stupidly.

“It's a bet. A stupid one. But it pays well, and I...well, look at me, I could use the coin.” She gestured vaguely at her slender frame. “Some lads in the lower quarter, dock brats, said I couldn’t sneak in here. That the villa was ‘the tightest cunt in the Empire,’..." Silk clicked her tongue, shrugging as she drifted toward a bookcase that looked like it might have a draft behind it. Of course, Waysira had thought of having a secret escape route in case her act went south.

"Their words, not mine.” The thief quickly added.

 

[Santiago Malik]

Santiago did well to mask the scandal alighting his eyes. The woman spoke much akin to the common-stock legionnaires, those who had signed by necessity rather than for prestige.

Waysira, by contrast, barked a mirthless laugh that carried some hint of amusement.

"A mouthy wench, this one," she said by way of reply, lip still twitching. She failed to maintain severity, instead choosing to abandon it but for the stern cross of her arms under the idol of the Father's hand adorning her robes. "Would do better as a whore, girl, make better use of that mouth."

Santiago frowned, considering. Waysira was oft marked for the barbed nature of her tongue, but rarely did she display so crass a manner. By all appearances the Cleric maintained an air of dignity, authority befitting one granted a personal chapel within the venerable halls of Villa Sutr. Such a privilege, won by hard years of service and dedication to church and Raj, fit the woman well. Seeing it trampled by so craven a tongue gave Santiago pause.

"Cleric Waysira," he began to say, searching for some word of reprimand. "What meaning..."