A North American, post apocalyptic epic fantasy...
It is 1,692 years after the "Great Death" nearly wiped humanity from the face of the Earth, and a new civilization has risen from the ashes. A tenuous union of four semi-autonomous kingdoms has rea...
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Two hours later, Allison stepped onto the busy thoroughfare. With the draping habit of a faith of the High Church covering every inch but her face, and that in shadowy relief, no one noticed her. Princess Allison could have fooled her father dressed like this.
Allison steered down a cobbled street with tall, close manors and dark windows. It had all symptoms of the burgess. Commons with small wealth and comfort but not the luxury or prestige of nobility. At the end of the quiet neighborhood was the House of Constables.
"Sister," hissed a slimy voice from behind. A greasy man staggered from the shadows. Inside her cloak she tightened her fingers around her dirk's hilt. "What is a faith doing out at a time like this?"
"Stay the fuck back or I'll split you lobe to lobe!"
Hearing such language from a faith gave him a second of pause, but still he stumbled closer. Allison's eyes moved anxiously up and down the empty street. "I love a woman with some spice." He sniffed the air. "Only a faith is fresh enough for my tastes."
Allison wrenched the dirk from her robe and waved it in front of the man's face. "I said get back! I've been hoping to find some moron to stick with this new blade. Looks like my lucky night!"
"Who are you?" he said, but without waiting for an answer he fled, stumbling more than once in his haste to escape.
Happier now, Allison slipped the dirk back in her robe. Moments later, she knocked on the door of the constable's confidently. There was a series of muted footsteps and a potbellied man wearing a faded maroon tunic and a pentacle brooch pulled it open.
"Constable," she said with a curtsy.
"Sister," he said, surprised. "Please enter."
"Thank you, sir." Allison kept her head bowed as she stepped into the chambers. The door clicked shut behind her.
"Warrun Millets," he said, extending a hand. "Deputy constable. And you are?"
"Anna. In the Sisterhood we keep no surname."
"I'm surprised to see a woman of the Church on these streets at this hour, Sister. Especially during the Fair." He beckoned towards a chair and she took the proffered seat. His desk was cluttered with parchments, quills, ink, and other devices. A mostly drank goblet of wine rested beside the burning stump of a cigar.
"Thank you, sir," she replied. Self-consciously, he removed the cigar and alcohol and placed them in a drawer out of view with a guilty smirk. "The hour is late, yes. But what should a servant of God have to fear?" She seemed like something stupid an actual faith would have said.
The man smiled strangely. He thinks I am young for a faith. And he thinks I am beautiful. Allison did not smile back. I can play this one like a lyre.
"I've come here on an...unpleasant mission," she admitted. "In fact, I hesitated to come at all." She gazed at her feet.
"Take your time, Sister," the constable said. "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"
"Tea would be fine, thank you."
Warrun busied himself in the other room and returned with a mug he placed gently in front of her.
"Thank you," Allison repeated, blowing away the steam and daring a sip. Bitterness tightened her mouth, so she set it back on the table. The constable was watching expectantly. "I have learned of a horrible sin by a very important man," she said, touching her index and middle fingers to her forehead between her eyes, perfectly emulating the Sisterhood's gesture of acknowledgement to the Lord.
"Indeed?"
"Something most unwholesome."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" he said cautiously.
Allison dared another sip of the tea, doing her best to pretend to like it. "It's...upsetting. Not just for me and you but upsetting for the...for the realm."
The constable shuffled, his chair suddenly uncomfortable. "Is this wise, then? Is the sin so grievous that it deserves attention?"
"One of the White Throne's most important laws are being violated." She leaned forward slightly. "And the laws of God, constable." She mocked a quick prayer.
"I see." The constable sunk and omitted a reluctant sigh. "And by someone of some importance?"
Allison nodded. "This sin in being committed by a..." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "By a candidate to sit on the White Throne." She watched the constable carefully, gauging his level of interest, his level of fear. This is it. The moment of victory or failure.
"You are certain of this delinquency and the identity of its perpetrator?"
"Certain."
The constable hesitated. "Detail me the crime," he said reluctantly.
"At this very moment, not a few blocks from here, the candidate is..." she cleared her throat as if even having to say the words out loud made her feel sinful. "Laying with a prostitute..." She paused, shook her head, and pressed her fingers to her forehead again. "Laying with a prostitute who is not of age."
The constable's face was graven and pallid. Prostitution was not illegal in the Union, but laying with anyone who had not yet come of age was a level I offense since the time of Omar Roberts II.
"And you say this is happening right now?"
"I know where."
"Do you?" he asked. "How could you come by this knowledge?" He looked at her shrewdly, and for a terrible moment, Allison thought he recognized her. Or perhaps saw the bruise on her face.
"Sisters of the High Church are amongst the best in the city at listening," she said evasively. The constable swallowed.
"Then tell me, which...candidate are we talking about?"
It took all of Allison's power not to smile. "Lord Castrol Thomas."
