There are ten things the cardinal is thinking when she sits getting her hair brushed this morning.

The first is that she is indeed grateful that this morning's breakfast will finish off the wine barrel that the pious Duke of Merryn... no, Troelling, the Duke of Troelling... has sent her in return for her intercessions on behalf of the people of his dominion. She had, in fact, like most of the Catholic cardinals on the continent (except for, no doubt, the Very Most Reverend Queen and Bishop of Alderburg, who, in her goodness forgets no praying Christian) forgotten to intercede for the people of the Merryn (no... no... Merryn was a principality... it was Troelling), and the fact that the armies of the his brother, the usurper had been easily starved out of their hiding places in the Southern Mountains had been merely a mysterious coincidence or an unheralded grace, or a tribute to the intercessory power of his brother's abandoned wife, the Abbess of Pernault. In any case, the wine was bitter and dull, but the grateful reception of all gifts had been part of her personal rule, even when in juxtaposition to her personal tastes.

The second is "Enter not into judgment with your servant, for in your sight shall no one living be justified." The second is: I am an old woman. The second is: I do not feel it in my bones. I do not see it in my face. I cannot mark out the spaces in my mind where thought come slowly because it still cuts sharp as cold iron. It is only that I am wondering if now is a good time to begin to be afraid. It is just that I am feeling like I will be tired very, very soon, but not yet. The second is: "I stretch forth my hands unto you. My soul gasps unto you as a thirsty land."

The third is that Sister Margaret is pulling tight on the knots in her hair, which tangles, the cardinal thinks, as it grays.

The fourth is that she has slept through lauds and does not want to pray the office that is written out for the hour of prime. That she does not want to think of the First Hour: Pilate in the judgment seat. She does not wish to think of mortals in judgment seats, making practical decisions and practical times. She does not want to think about the strange everyday decisions that contribute to the death of God. She will have to make those decisions later. The fourth is that she does not, right now, want to be Cardinal Miltiades this morning. She wonders what the sisters of the Cathedral would think if their Archbishop stood in front of the altar on which rested the Sacred Body and opened her in meaningless syllables or wordless songs like a common Babbler cultist. Would they become Babblers to follow her? Would the Babbling Followers celebrate the conversion of the great Cardinal Miltiades and make her a priestess of their rite? Would the rioting consume Magrin? Would there be Holy Synod convened, and the Bishop Queen summoned from Aldersburg to hear her argument? And all because she did not, this morning, wish to contemplate that damnable, practical Pilate?

The fifth is that two guildprinces, at least one will be a merchant, she surmises, and the Chief Rabbi of Magrin and, she suspects, the Virtuist hierophant, will be coming to her this afternoon to take up with her how she will cast her vote in the matter of the city's charter. The Viscount's emissary brought her honey cakes and a very fine white sherry on yesterday evening. She told him that she did not know how she would vote, but that she would earnestly request his lordship's earnest prayers (his lordship was a Severist) that godly wisdom would guide her thoughts on the matter. She wonders what the merchants princes will bring.

The sixth is that she did not dream last night, and perhaps her meeting today and her earnest quest to discern their meaning has soothed the visions. She wonders if the powers who are relegated to the carrying of visions are aware of the disturbances they cause. She recalls that visions are shadows that come in darkness. She contemplates that the devil was the light carrier of divine, and that thus, it is perhaps wise to trust visions. She wonders if she is now becoming a Towerist, who contemplate the meaning of the divine darkness: "By night we cry to You" says the mother of each tower at the moonsetting prayer. The sixth thing she is thinking is: "and God separated the light from the darkness." The sixth thing she is thinking is: "I am seeing shadows dancing over shadows, but if I turn on the light, the shadows vanish. Those are my dreams. If I only I were like Joseph's Pharaoh, and I might scour my dungeons and find someone waiting to tell me what they mean."

The seventh is that they have sent Sister Angela to attend her. The sister has skin that is almost brown, almost bronze. Her hair is black. Her hips are wide, almost as if she were carrying jars of oil bound to each one -- hips you cannot hide under the most modest of robes. Her shoulders, too. The cardinal thinks: Yes, she is like no angel they have ever painted... Perhaps she is Raphael, and when it is time she will carry my soul on those shoulders to heaven.

The eighth is: "Am I heretic? Will they call a synod and pronounce me one when I die?"

The ninth is "Does Lailelle have everything made ready? Of these women, who can a woman of my position trust?" Yes, she keeps thinking, everything gets tangled as it grays.

The tenth is that Rose Kebble died half naked, starving, and frozen last December at the solemn mass in the High Cathedral of St. Andrew in Aldersburg. She found, only yesterday, a letter that Rose had written her twenty-five years before. She wept, then burned the letter before she could read it again. She would pray for Rose's soul, and pray Rose's soul prayed for her.

Sister Justice finishes her combing and begins twisting gray hair into braids. The cardinal is a woman of great power, she thinks to the young sisters who she decides are frivolous. The cardinal is a woman of great holiness, thinks the young novice with the fair skin and pale read locks coming out from behind her wimple. To think I only know it now: The cardinal is a woman of great passion, thinks the soul of Rose Kebble who might be here, or might be haunting the High Cathedral of Alderburg, or might be nowhere, or might be praying in Heaven.

They have affixed her red cap. She rises. She walks toward the stairs. As she nears the crucifix in the foyer of her chamber, she genuflects, as is her habit, and the sisters kneel behind her. She speaks the first words of the morning:

"O sweet Jesus, who in silence faced the judgment of Pilate so that our souls may know only your mercy as their judge, lead us today that all our actions may be just and bring us to life eternal."

And the church, living and dead, says "amen."
posted by RR at 7:47 PM

In Magrin, The Feast of Saint Constance, September 18, In the 926th year of the Concord of Aldersburg, called the Common Reckoning

I am out of work, and I am beginning to wonder, just for the sake of wondering, if there is anything truly different between selling one's body and selling one's skills. In both transactions, your client takes some time to utilize something you hold dear in exchange for cash.

These are moot points for me, though. I am far past being able to command the prices for my body I once did, and I am far past looking for higher causes to utilize my skills. But I wonder if there is any great moral difference between the bed whore I was ten years ago (and more) and the wayfarer freeman I am now.

I am in the yard of the Wayfarer's Hall. It is where free members and company leaders alike gather to await clients when all other avenues of employment are exhausted. The summer has been quiet. Banditry is almost forgotten. The highways are well patrolled. The roads are well kept. And if things continue as they are, I will be spending a good deal of time in this crowd: mercenaries, scouts, guides, trackers, treasure hunters, bounty hunters, intelligence specialists... If it involves travel, weaponry, security, or information, you want a wayfarer -- at least that's what we say. Unfortunately, no one seems to agree.

I rise because Karken, his highness, has entered, what's left of his company, Karken's Wolves, in tow, returned from the border skirmish in Denton (in which the Wayfarer mercenaries Magrin were but a small price to ensure Lord Denton of his continued control of the northern fieldlands). Thirteen of his thirty were left in the ground in Denton, and even he has a scar I've not ever seen. Karken is a guildprince (the youngest not only among us, but throughout all the tradeguilds of the city), though, unlike most of his lot, he is not above waiting in the yard to find work for his company.

I can handle a sword, and, in theory, since Karken is a guildprince and a master, and as I am a free journeyman, I could request a place from him. But though I can handle a sword, Karken's clientelle need warriors, and I am known widely as a scout and guide -- and discretely as a... broker of otherwise private information. Of course it crosses my mind: Is it possible Karken needs a whore more than a scout?

I bedded a monk once (professional obligation). Since I could read and had no plans to find a wife, he wondered why I had not monked myself. And I told him: "Good father, I do fine. I work for my board. and earn my keep." To which he shrugged and replied: "Good son" (his face was younger than mine) "I take board and keep in order to be able to do my work."

Karken nods at me, and for a second I wonder if he is summoning me for conversation, perhaps, or possibly even a job, but I realize I've been staring, and he is politely calling my attention to it while politely not taking offence. Though it is not as enticing as I had hoped, it could be worse: Journeymen, especially free journeymen who find work largely through the good opinion of the guildprinces and company masters, must work especially to avoid offending them.

"Davis Arvin?" says a voice, and I realize there is a hand attached to my shoulder in that way that will look friendly, even familiar, to those nearby, but makes it uncomfortable, even painful, for me to look up and see who I am speaking to. The voice is feminine, if deep, and had a certain sneer.

"At your service," I whisper.

"Are you sure? I was told Davis Arvin was the master of subtlety and discretion."

"Indeed he is."

"And yet he gapes at a handsome guildprince with all the subtlety and discretion of a dead fish in a rosebush."

"Ah, mistress, but I was not under employment -- one in my business cannot afford practicing his trade for free."

"Fair enough... then my lady has work for you, and you will find her offer most generous I trust. Come to the House of the Golden Boar on Grand Street at half past one. Tell the propreiter who you are and that you are expected on the private terrace for lunch."

"But who?"

"Discretion, Arvin. Subtlety and discretion." And with a small pat on the arm, the owner of the voice gone and another pat on the shoulder sends me shooting to my feet. But this time it is Karken.

"I was just at the gate, Arvin, the porter said someone left a token for you." He presses a small bronze coin into my hand, marked with the device of a small crescent supporting a stone tower wrapped in a cloth. "He couldn't say who?"

I am still surprised by the man's presence. "Many thanks to your highness," I said and made a slight bow. He started to turn.

"Pah. Don't mention it at all, Davis. I was going to come and see you anyway -- will you be in the hall this evening."

"I can be, why?"

"Come to my company's rooms for supper. I've no business for you right now, but I've heard good things about your work."

"I will be there -- seven o'clock?"

"It's good enough," he answers. I turn to go and get ready for my appointment. "And Arvin?"

"Your highness?"

He points to the coin. "Be careful of the Shrine and Tower."

"I have a history with them, your highness," I reply. "They're good clients."

He shrugs. "All the same, be careful. One hears things. Tonight?"

I nod, and am off.
posted by RR at 8:01 PM

Both of them see this, and each thinks, "I have been lost in a dark field my whole life, and now it is as if lightning has flashed across the sky."

And then one thinks: "What beauty. Yes. I have found myself, I know where I am."

But the other thinks: "No, too much. And now it's gone, and I am more blind than before."
posted by RR at 12:35 PM