by Jane Fletcher

The great temple of Celaeno was awe-inspiring, or so Chip had been told. She could not remember it ever inspiring awe in herself, only boredom and despair. However, in showing Katryn around the cavernous central hall, she felt she was seeing a different aspect of the place. It was amazing what knowing you were free to walk out did you your perceptions.

The shrines to the Celaeno’s servants, the Elder-ones, filled every centimetre of wall space. Still more were clustered around the supporting pillars. The Blessed Himoti, greatest of the Elder-ones, had her monument in the very middle of the hall. Her eternal flame danced in its crucible; the light flickered over the faces of worshippers.

Katryn appeared genuinely moved by the temple. Without going into religious rapture, she knelt and bowed her head before Himoti’s flame and prayed silently. She also paused to offer a short prayer to her namesake, Katryn Novak, the Elder-one who was patron of bakers. Chip waited for her to finish and then carried on around the perimeter of the hall.

They next stopped at the alcove housing the military shrine. In the middle stood the statue of Natasha Krowe, patron of rangers, with her iron grey hair and green skin. She was flanked on either side by Su Li Hoy of the guards and David Croft of the militia. Again the colours reflected their followers uniform. Su Li Hoy had yellow skin and bright red hair, while David Croft’s skin and hair were both jet black, making her the most monochrome of the Elder-ones. Chip could not restrain the grin which spread across her face, she knew how much it rankled the guards that the rangers’ patron took the central position; but, of course, the rangers were the oldest branch of the military.

The two women went on and paused again outside the entrance to the sanctum. Six guards stood on sentry duty by the hanging drapes that hid the secret inner part of the temple from view. The six women in their dazzling red and gold uniforms stood stiffly to attention, long swords drawn and held upright. Light from candles glinted off their helmets and braid.

"Don’t they look pretty!" Chip spoke just loud enough for the guards to hear. She was rewarded by seeing a flush darken the face of the youngest. The jeering was part of the ritual game played between rangers and guards. Chip did not push things any further. It was unfair to taunt when the guards could not retaliate and, at odds of six against two, unwise to do it when they could.

"Did you used to go in there?" Katryn whispered, pointing to the curtains.

"No. That’s the inner sanctum, only full sisters and imprinters are allowed in. As an initiate I got no further than the outer sanctum."

There was a faint stirring in the hall behind them. Chip glanced over her shoulder and drew Katryn back out of the way. A small group were marching towards the entrance to the sanctum. It was an escort of six more guards; Chip knew they would take particular pleasure from shoving rangers aside if they got the chance. In the centre was another woman, clad in simple blue – an Imprinter.

For the first time something like awe did sweep over Chip. Imprinters were the one great mystery the sisters could not reduce to tedium. They were the ones chosen by the Goddess to receive Himoti’s gift, the gift of calling new human souls into existence. They were the ones so strongly blessed with the healer sense they could not merely cure sickness and injury, or induce cloning in farm animals, but they could imprint genetic patterns on an embryo. It was the gift of Imprinters to copy DNA sequences from a gene-mother onto the cloned cell inside her partner’s womb, creating a new life that was not a soulless clone but a true human, a daughter of the Goddess.

Chip felt her mouth go dry as the woman in blue was ushered by and disappeared through the hanging drapes of the sanctum.

"Did you ever meet an Imprinter?" Katryn asked another question.

"Who me? You’re joking. Despite my parents’ money I was the lowest of the low – especially after I entertained my schoolmates by demonstrating my scoring ability at basketball, using the Chief Consultant’s knickers as a goal."

"You did what?"

"It was one of my failed attempts to get expelled."

"How…?"

"She wasn’t wearing them at the time. I raided the laundry."

"But…"

Chip laughed and pointed to the exit. "Come on. We’d better go if we want to be on time for the briefing."

Katryn was still thinking as they passed under the high, arched doorway of the temple and into the day outside. A soft drizzle was falling, but the weather showed signs of brightening up. The gardens surrounding the temple held the first misty suggestion of sunshine.

"You don’t seem very devout..." Katryn said hesitantly after a few steps.

"The Chief Consultant’s underwear isn’t mentioned anywhere in the Book of the Elder-ones, so it can’t be that sacred." Chip joked, and then became more serious. "But no, you’re right. I tend to be a bit of a sceptic."

"But you were educated by the sisters."

"That’s why." The pair of them reached the exit from the temple grounds and strolled into the street beyond. "Most people in the school wanted to be there. I didn’t, so I tended to ask questions, and a lot of the answers didn’t hold together – not if you probed deep enough."

"Such as?"

"Well… we had a lesson on the teachings of the heretics. It was after I became an initiate – they don’t give the information to ordinary people… don’t want things getting out of hand."

"Why to they tell initiates about it?"

"So we will recognise a heretic if ever we meet one." Chip glanced sideways, wondering at the advisability of saying more before she had worked out the depth of Katryn’s religious beliefs. But eventually she went on. "I wouldn’t put much store in what the heretics say, but their beliefs made me focus on the holes in the sisters’ teachings."

"Don’t the heretics deny the existence of Celaeno?" Katryn sounded curious rather than appalled.

"Worse than that. They claim Celaeno isn’t the physical manifestation of the Goddess. They claim humans originally came from another planet, and Celaeno is just the name our ancestors gave to a boat they built to carry them between the stars."

Katryn looked thunderstruck, and then she laughed. "If the heretics are that insane I shouldn't think it takes much training to spot one."

"You aren't as familiar with Sisters as I am. I fear that some need training to find their own arse in the dark." Chip said in mock-serious tones. Her expression changed to match Katryn’s grin. "Maybe it’s not the heretics’ strongest point. The bit that got me was about the Elder-ones. The heretics claim they looked pretty much like us, with one big exception."

"But it says it in the Book of the Elder-ones – Their skins were diverse in tone, and their hair was yellow and red and black, and all the shades between."

Chip took up the quote. "And some were tall and hair grew on their faces; which the heretics do agree with – it’s the exception I mentioned. According to the heretics the main way the Elder-ones differed from us was they had males as well as females. The males were the ones with hairy faces."

"Like wild animals?" Katryn was dubious.

Chip nodded. "The Sisters teach that the Goddess had to give a different method of reproduction to wild animals because the Cloners couldn’t get near, but something always…" She sighed. "I just felt there was a gap. It was after the lesson about the heretics I went back to the passages that bothered me – the direct quotes from the Elder-ones. If you reread them with an open mind, without imposing the Sisters’ teachings, you’ll see the Elder-ones considered male-female reproduction the norm, and using the healer-sense was the modification, forced by circumstance."

"That would be…" Katryn’s voice died in confusion.

"If you think about it we do divide the Elder-ones into two groups. You’ve been named after Katryn Novak of the bakers, but it’s considered inappropriate to name a baby after half of the Elder-ones – like David Croft."

"The ones shown with hair on their faces."

"Right. Which implies we have something in common with the hairless Elder-ones that we don‘t share with…" Chip had been getting carried away. She broke off sharply. Regardless of how Katryn might respond to the heresy it was not a wise conversation to have in the middle of a street in Landfall. She fought the impulse to look back over her shoulder to see who was listening. "Er… perhaps we should discuss it another time, this isn’t really the place. We could just manage a quick look around the market before we need to get to the briefing."

Katryn opened her mouth as if to ask another question, then she too seemed to realise the risk of being overheard and nodded her agreement.

As ever the market was crowed, sounds, smells and gaudy colours fought in a riot for the senses. They sauntered between stalls laid out with goods from all over the Homelands. If something could not be got in the market at Landfall it probably didn’t exist. Neither of the two rangers bought anything, although not for lack of effort from the traders they passed.

"Do you think the militia will get the warrant?" Katryn asked.

"Kalispera seemed confident, and they stand a better chance without me there. Honesty and I always used to enjoy irritating each other. She’d probably ask for extra information just for the fun of watching me run around."

They walked on further, leaving the market square and heading towards the militia station.. Katryn’s face was creased in thought. At last Chip asked. "What are you thinking?"

"I’m trying to work out what Chip is short for."

"It’s not short for anything. It’s a small fried piece of potato."

Katryn gave a yelp of laughter. "I think not. I’ve just got the handle on your parents’ idea of names – Prudence, Constance, Mercy, Honesty. I just can’t see how Chip fits in."

Chip bit her lip to hide her smile. "I’ll give you a clue. Chip has nothing to do with what my parents called me. I got the nickname when I was six and I’ve clung onto it – it’s a big improvement."

"That isn’t much of a clue."

Chip’s smile escaped. "How about… my mothers’ picked names to help us in our careers. They felt the merchants would like entrusting the guild to someone called Prudence, and you couldn’t doubt the fairness of a magistrate called Honesty. Now remember I was headed for the Sisterhood…"

"I know," Katryn exclaimed. "Faith."

"Oh, they probably would have liked to, but I’m afraid great-aunt Faith disgraced the family some while back, and the name has been out-of-bounds since."

The lines on Katryn’s forehead deepened. "Chastity, Devotion, Diligence…"

"She’s the tax auditor." Chip interjected.

Katryn dissolved in stifled giggles. "No, I can’t guess."

"You don’t have to. Prudence called me it when we meet. Obviously you weren’t paying attention. They named me Piety." Chip was fighting with her own laughter. "My parents were cruel bitches."

Chip felt light-headed, standing close by Katryn, sharing laughter. She did not know whether she totally believed Katryn’s story, but could not bare to let the doubts surface. She suspected there was more to come out, Katryn was still holding back on her for some reason. Yet Chip knew, from the depths of her being, that she trusted Katryn as a ranger should trust her comrade – with her life.

**********

There were over twenty women crammed into the briefing room at the militia station. Captains Gutmann and Kalispera stood at the front, giving the necessary background and assigning roles. Most of the assembled squad of black-clad militiawomen were squashed onto benches; others lined the walls. The two guild accountants sat to one side. Their faces looked as if they were trying to project ‘serious professional’, but were at risk of lapsing into ‘kids on a picnic’. Chip and Katryn were in a corner at the back. Chip was resigned to the militia taking control since they were providing the manpower, but she had been angered at initial suggestions the rangers would play no part in the raid at all. In the end it had been an unexpected piece of news which had settled the issue.

Gutmann was moving on to the discovery. "Wright and Paulino have kept their noses clean since they’ve been in Landfall, so we haven’t had dealings with them. One of our regular informants is a delivery girl who works in the area. We decided to tap her, see if she could tell us anything interesting. She knew who we were referring to, couldn’t say much about the pair, thinks they’ve spent a lot of time out of town. But one thing she could say, they aren’t out of town at the moment. She saw Wright at Drummond’s place yesterday morning – so much for their visit to relatives."

Gutmann gestured towards the back of the room. "Since they know our colleagues from the rangers are in town looking for them we’re think they’ll be staying out of sight, so we’ve got good hopes of finding them in Drummond’s house. But they might try to bolt when the raid starts. There are two rear exits. We want to have people waiting outside both, and we want someone there who will recognise our suspects. Unfortunately their faces aren’t known in Landfall, but we have Captain Kalispera from Woodside and ranger Private Nagata, who are familiar with the pair. Captain Kalispera will be on the gates to the stable block. Private Nagata will be on the scullery door. Ideally we don’t want anyone to leave, but our top priority is to catch Wright and Paulino. If they are spotted make damn certain they don’t get away."

The militia captain went on to name the members of each group, and to allocate specific duties. She finished, "We go on the first strike of the noon bell. Any questions?"

"Are they likely to be carrying weapons?" one of the women called from the centre of the floor.

Gutmann turned to Kalispera for an answer. "They’ll both fight if cornered, and Paulino often carries a knife, Wright usually relies on talking her way out of things. If they’re forced to make a run for it they won’t have time to grab anything nasty on the way out."

"Why didn’t they use false names in Redridge?" someone else asked.

Gutmann snorted. "We’ll ask them when we catch them. My guess is it kept the paperwork above board. Remember it was a real long shot that they were recognised."

"Do we have a description of what this jewellery is supposed to look like?"

"It’s in the contract. The accountants have it. But it’s likely the jewellery has never existed and Drummond just pocketed the money."

Chip looked around the room as the questions continued. The only one that interested her was the first. The militia traditionally went armed with long batons, although swords and bows were issued on occasion. Because of the triple murder this was judged to be one of those occasions, it was probably what had prompted the question. However Chip wondered how proficient the militia were with the weapons. She would have liked a few more trained rangers. Her sweeping scan of the room finished on Katryn, who was passable with a sword – just.

Chip leaned over and whispered. "You know you said you were better with a bow?"

"Yes ma’am."

"A lot better? A little bit better?"

"A lot better, ma’am." Katryn said confidently.

"Take your bow with you."

**********

The scullery door to Drummond’s kitchen opened onto a small yard, which in turn had access to the side-street via an iron gate. Both gate and door were currently ajar, although nobody had gone in or out for a while. Chip waited with Katryn and three militiawomen in the shadow of a nearby alley, at a point where they could see the gate without being visible from the house.

The militiawomen fidgeted with their weapons while they exchanged comments, excluding the two rangers from the conversation as much as possible. Chip considered them. The sergeant appeared competent but, like her subordinates, over-eager to show that she was just as good as a ranger. Hopefully they would not do anything stupid in a crisis. Katryn looked calm but preoccupied. She had checked her bow and arrows once, and now stood with her eyes fixed on the gate.

The side-street was no more than three metres wide and virtually deserted, although the sounds of passers-by echoed from the main thoroughfare at the end. The cobbles were worn, some were missing. The walls on either side rose high, with few windows and less ornamentation. Signs of the area’s new prosperity had not yet spread down this back-way. A group of labours had been busy at the junction with the main street, although they were now quiet, presumably at lunch. Several of their larger tools were leaning against the wall.

The temple bell struck the hour of mid-day. Like runners in a sprint the militiawomen surged forwards. Chip and Katryn followed more slowly and by the time they had reached the entrance to the yard the three militiawomen were lined in front of the scullery door, swords drawn. Chip stood in the gateway. The enclosed cobbles were four metres square; the space empty apart from two broken barrels and a small heap of rotten sacking. She looked up just in time to catch someone leaping back from a upstairs window.

Chip turned her head to speak to Katryn who was directly behind her. "Our friends can mind the door. I’ll stay here. You would be better some way back, where you can get a clean shot, if necessary."

"Yes ma’am." Katryn retreated several steps.

Chip continued standing in the gateway. For a while there was no sign of anything happening. Then she heard the sound of shouting inside the building, but it was impossible to make out any words. The militiawomen were getting twitchy again. Abruptly the scullery door was wrenched wide open, a head poked out, saw the militia, and ducked back in again. The door slammed shut. The militia privates seemed unsure of whether to pursue the attempted absconder, but the sergeant ordered them to stay put. Chip mentally gave a nod of approval. The waiting went on.

"Sergeant!’ Katryn called urgently.

Chip twisted around. Katryn had positioned herself on the other side of the street, in the mouth of the ally they had just left. She was pointing passed Chip’s shoulder, up towards the junction with the main road. Chip’s head turned, following the direction of her outstretched hand.

There were figures moving on the roof. A blur of motion showed where a rope had been lowered. One woman was just reaching ground level and a second was preparing to follow, clambering out over the edge.

"It’s them." Katryn shouted.

Chip didn't need the confirmation. She yelled to the militia and charged up the street.

The first woman was on the cobbles, holding the rope steady and looking up. At the sound of Chip’s cry she backed off a step, then turned and ran. The second woman flung herself down the rope, using her hands merely to slow the speed of her descent. She let go two metres from the ground and dropped the rest of the way.

The woman hit the cobbles hard, her foot twisting, sending her staggering sideways. She recovered her balance immediately and turned to follow her companion – but too late. Chip made a diving tackle and hurled the fugitive to the ground. The impact must have driven the air from the woman’s body, but desperation gave her strength. There was a moment of struggle and then Chip saw the knife.

Chip cracked the heel of her hand up under the woman’s chin, snapping her head back. She grabbed the wrist and smashed the hand down onto the cobbles. Still the woman clung to the knife and fought on, but Chip had gained the mastery. She sat astride the woman’s chest, pinning both her wrists against the ground. There was sound down the street of the militiawomen coming to her aid. Then Chip heard other, closer footsteps. She looked up. The first woman was returning, brandishing above her head a long iron crowbar, no doubt taken from the labourers’ discarded tools.

Time dropped to a crawl. Chip watched the attacking woman seem to float closer, at the same time aware of the other woman beneath her, who was also armed and struggling. There was no way to avoid the iron bar without releasing the hand holding the knife. I’ve got a choice, the words came to Chip, I can sit here and get brained, or try and move away and get stabbed. She had hours to make up her mind, but no sensible conclusion. The sound of the militiawomen was very close, but not close enough to matter.

Suddenly feathers sprouted on the chest of the woman with the bar. She shuddered to a halt, looking just as surprised as Chip. But Chip’s confusion faded quickest – she had seen such things enough times before. She did not need to wait for the patch of red blood to seep through the woman’s clothes, or for her ears to recognise the hiss as the flight of an arrow. The shot woman still looked bewildered, unable to work out what had happened, but her legs were failing her. The crowbar twisted and slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground at the same time as her knees. And then the militiawomen arrived. Two of them needlessly hauled the dying woman back, the third joined Chip and tore the knife from the hand of the woman on the ground.

The militia were shouting to each other in three disjointed conversations. The sergeant shouted the loudest. "This one’s finished. Help Sergeant Coppelli get the other tied-up."

The women was dragged to her knees and her arms pulled behind her back. For the first time she saw the state of her companion and screamed, "Clary!. You bastards! I’ll fucking kill you. I…" she broke into sobs.

"Too late, you’ve missed your chance." The sergeant was smug. She looked at the dead woman lying on the ground and then to Chip. "I hope that wasn’t just a very lucky shot from your private. I felt the arrow go past."

Chip turned her head. Katryn was still standing by the gateway, her bow hanging loose in her hands. It was a distance of, at most, twenty metres – a close range shot. But the sergeant was right, it wasn’t what Katryn had hit that was impressive, it was what she’d missed. With three women running up the narrow street, and Chip herself kneeling in front of the target, shooting the woman must have been like threading a needle by throwing cotton at it. Chip remembered the confidence in Katryn’s voice when she’d said, ‘a lot better’. She hadn’t been idly boasting.

Chip’s gaze narrowed to Katryn’s face. What she saw prompted her to stand, leaving the captive in the care of the militiawomen, and walk back down the street. Katryn did not move. Her eyes were fixed on the dead woman, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. It was an expression that Chip was also familiar with – the spontaneous gut response of a woman who, for the first time, has killed another human being.

continued in chapter 7

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