A Brotherhood of Crows.

The Ministry of Theological Justice squatted on the Strand as if it were waiting to pounce. As befitted its purpose as the arbitrating body for faith, it resembled in a cathedral, but one designed by a congregation with no self control, or particular loyalty to any one creed. Its great atrium ran the length of the street, as trying to draw passersby into the grand maw of its huge front doors in the centre of a facade that ran ten stories high. Out of a central knaves shot off ante-chapels, domed basilicas, towers that rose in spiky form to pierce the sky. As the hour passed, bells rang, voices cried from minarets and the wind played with prayer wheels. The symbolic architecture of a thousand religious faiths called the hour as they had every hour before, filling the air briefly with noise, before falling silent.

Zularna and I sat across the street, in a scrupulously neat little park, listening to the fading cacophony of prayers.

“Any word from Crucius?” asked Zularna.

I shifted on the park bench. If the Rim had been London at its most absurdly poor, then the Strand was London at its most absurdly rich. The streets we’d walked along to reach here had been uniform, neat to the point of unrealistic; you didn’t see so much as a dropped dog end, or a scrap of paper caught in a gutter. The people we passed were well dressed, almost all white, and had regarded us with suspicion, two somewhat scruffily dressed, booted figures, wrapped against the cold in long coats. Even the park felt artificial - the grass cut to exactly the same height, arranged in little quads that would not have been out of place in an Oxbridge college; a small playpark to my left with immaculate swings and a seesaw, looked as if it were there for show. The idea of any real children playing there was about as alien as I felt, hunched over here. Unlike Edinburgh, London didn’t feel like a city built by people, but a city built for people, arranged in meticulous details based on aesthetics and functionality, before only the brightest young things were bussed in and installed in expensive, Hyde Park flats. I couldn’t read this place in the same way I could read the moods of any street in any part of Edinburgh or Glasgow, or Manchester or Leeds. Here I felt blind, perhaps because I was looking for the city’s soul.

“Shouldn’t be too long,” I said. Besides, there’s someone else we need to meet first.”

Zularna raised an eyebrow at me. “Someone else joining us?”

“No - old contact of mine. Wanted to grab a quick word while we were in town. Told him to meet us here,”

“Oh? Who is he? And why do you have that bag of catnip?”

“He’s a cat.”

“Very funny.”

“Very serious. Here he comes now.”

From a nearby bush, a small shape emerged and began to make its way towards us. It was a large tabby cat, one ear slightly torn, its fur faded from age, but still retaining a certain richness. It bounded up onto the bench between us, and sat on its hindquarters.

“Prrrt?” it said, good naturedly.

“That,” said Zularna in disbelief, “Is your contact?”

“It is indeed,” I gave the cat a nuzzle behind the ears. “Zularna, may I present Methuselah the Magnificent, of the Confederacy of Small Friends.”

She blinked at me. “The what now?”

“The Confederacy of Small Friends,” I repeated. “The Anarcho-Communist Union for cats. Keep up.”

Methuselah glanced between us, and began nuzzling against Zularna’s leg. She recoiled slightly.

“Not a cat fan?” I said.

“No, I’m allergic,”

“Shame,” I blinked into Elsewhere. “What about you?” I asked Red.

“Love Cats,” said Red, with a faint smile.

“Excellent,” I turned my attention to the cat. “Methuselah. Long time no see, mate.”

The Cat (or whatever part of it existed in Elsewhere) turned its face to me, and winked at me. “Sleepwalker. You bring me some of that sweet, sweet green?”

I handed over the bag of catnip. Methuselah took it, and with a practised move, slit it open with a claw, and then snorted a small amount of it from the side of his paw.

“Awwwwww! That’s the stuff.” he rubbed his nose and began licking his paw. “So what brings you to the old Smoke, Sleepwalker? And, more importantly, who is this lovely young thing you have with you?”

“In town for a job. Bit complex but I’ll come onto that in a moment. This,” I nodded across the ghost of a bench. “Is Red. And, confusingly, also Zularna Munro. Not sure if friend is the right term, but if it is, a new friend of mine.”

“I thought we were getting on,” muttered Red.

Methuselah stopped licking his paw and eyed me, beadily. “Zularna Munro, you say? Interesting. What’s the job?”

“Investigating a religious group: the Brotherhood of Crows. Gonna try my luck digging around in Theological Justice, but I’m not holding out hope. Could do with the Confederacy’s aid on this one. You know the name?”

“Rings a bell or two,” replied the Cat, “What do you need?”

“Information. Conventional routes aren’t getting me anywhere. This group, the Brotherhood, is careful, and very well hidden. I need you to put the word out. Any rumours, any mention, anything that might be relevant, needs to come back to me.”

Methuselah nodded, slowly. “Seems doable. I can put some paws on it. But I have to ask something in return.”

“You would not believe the literal shit ton of catnip I have sitting in Edinburgh -”

“As much as I like chasing the Green Laser Dot,” Methuselah cut me off, “It’s a more serious matter than that. To do with her.” he nodded across the bench.

I frowned. “Red?”

“No, the other one. Zularna Munro.”

I hesitated. “Okay...what about her?”

Methuselah didn’t reply immediately, but turned his gaze out into the grey ghost of the city. “You need to keep her safe.”

“From what?”

“Miss Munro...has been known to the Confederacy for some time. She’s someone we think could turn out to be rather valuable, in the long run. I’d had a small squad of my best keeping tabs on her for a few months. Problem is...there’s something after her. Something foul.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Wish I could, Sleepwalker. The thing...has a lot of names, none of them I dare utter out loud...but I know two things: firstly, it doesn’t like cats. Secondly…” he paused, and turned to face me with an earnest glint in his eye, “It doesn’t have eyes. And it wants ’em. Bad.”

“What’s Zularna got to do with eyes?”

“You know about her ability? Seeing the pasts of others. A very rare gift. And one which these...things...very much desire.”

I noticed Red stiffen. “You know about this?” I asked her.

“Maybe.” she said, and I noted the fear in her voice.

To Methuselah, I said: “What do you mean?”

Methuselah shook his head. “I’ve said more than I wish to. But that’s my terms, Sleepwalker. We look into the Brotherhood of Crows for you, you keep Zularna safe. Whatever it takes.”

I nodded. “Okay, well, since you give me no other choice: I’ll watch her back. But if this...thing you’re talking about is so scared of cats, then we have a problem. I don’t have one.”

“Ah,” Methuselah tapped his nose with his paw, a surprisingly human gesture. “I thought of that - which is why I’m assigning you a Small Friend. He’ll stay in your place in Edinburgh, and keep an eye from there. I’ve put my best man on it.”

From the Elsewhere equivalent of the same bush Methuselah had emerged from, another cat burst out and sauntered lazily over to us. It too was old, but mangy, in dire need of a good bath, and also strangely familiar.

“Wotcher,” the newcomer said. “D’you remember to pack those gizzards this time, eh?”

“Oh Jesus!” I cried, “You again! You were the one I met in Cowgate!”

The mangy cat gave a little bow with his head. “Twatmuffin, at your service, mate,”

“That...is a weirdly appropriate name.” I turned back to Methuselah “So now what?”

“Twatmuffin’ll head back to Edinburgh. You still live with that kid?”

“Tobias? Yeah. I’ll let him know to expect...uh...Twatmuffin. And buy some flea spray.”

“Oi, those are my friends!” snapped Twatmuffin.

“I’m happy for you,” I muttered, and returned to reality.

Back here, Zularna was still recoiling, but this time from both cats. Her eyes - somewhat bloodshot - caught mine: “I really can’t breathe. Are you done?”

“More or less,” I got up, “Come on. Let’s go meet everyone’s favourite Cambridge man.”

Relieved, Zularna got up and fell into step behind me. Over my shoulder, I saw Twatmuffin and Methusaleh vanish back into the bushes. My eye passed over Zularna -it doesn’t have eyes - and loosened the clip on my holster.

Across the road from us, the Ministry of Theological Justice loomed. I clocked, even from this distance, Met units on guard around the entrance; light submachine guns slung over their chests, they watched us approach from behind steely visors. Whatever Crucius had planned to get Zularna and I inside, it had better be good; a pitched gun battle on a London street was the last thing we needed. As we crossed the street, I slipped my phone from my pocket and texted Tobias:

Any lead on the front church?

He replied immediately:

Still working it, but narrowing. Soon. You in yet?

Not yet. Meeting C now. Keep me posted. Also: expect a cat. Don’t ask.

Dr Crucius was waiting for us at the beginning of the atrium, a grey impassive figure against the grandeur of the building. “Mr Avaron. Miss Munro,” he said, briskly, and lead us towards the doors of the Ministry.

“Crucius,” I said, “What’s the plan?”

“You’ll be posing as my research assistants,” he replied, “Once we’re inside, follow me as far as the main concourse, then go left. You’ll find the entrance to the Archives there. You’ll have a window of one hour to find what you need.”

“Are the Archives guarded?” Zularna asked.

“Not to my knowledge. If they are, I’m sure you’ll be able to improvise, Miss Munro.”

We entered the Ministry proper, and found ourself is a wide foyer, bathed in a thousand colours. It took me a moment to realise that the light in here was filtering through dozens of high stained glass windows; images of Old Testament scenes, stern saints and burning bushes, fell in reverse upon the marble floor. Our footsteps were very loud here, and the air reverberated with them, churchlike. Crucius led us forward towards a great desk that blocked further passage. At it, sat a single receptionist, with two silent Met officers standing behind him.

“Good morning,” the receptionist said, “Welcome to the Ministry of Theological Justice. Your gods bless you.”

“Good morning,” replied Crucius. “Dr Horatio Crucius, to see the Minister. These are my research assistants, Mr Doppelganger, and Miss Katzenjammer.”

“Indeed? The minister is expecting you,” the receptionist glanced up at us. “Under ministerial regulations, only the faithful may enter the Ministry. I must ask you all to declare your faith,”

At his words, the two Met officers stepped forward, menacingly.

“Of course,” replied Crucius smoothly, “Roman Catholic,”

“You may enter. Ma’am?”

“Muslim,”

“You may enter. Sir.”

I blanked. “Um...er...Jedi?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Interesting,” said the receptionist, “I’m part of the first Church of Wookie, myself. We broke away from the Corellian Faithful some time ago. You may enter.”

As we passed the desk and into the Ministry itself, Zularna shot me a look. “‘Jedi?’”

“It’s a faith...I’m told,” I protested.

“Whatever. And you?” she said to Crucius, “Katzenjammer and Doppleganger? What was your doctorate in, Very Obviously Made Up Names?”

“I’ll have you know,” said Crucius stenly, “My work has been published in the Lent Mays for the last four years.”

“The what now?”

“It happens to be Cambridge’s finest literary publication.”

“Sorry, all I heard was the sound of a home counties boy spraying a beggar with champagne.”

We reached the main concourse; here, there was more activity. Ministerial aides scurrying around, busy with errands, arms stuffed with papers. Clergymen of varying degrees of grand dress and stature mingled, their numbers broken by the occasionally slate gray suited Listener - the closest the Commonwealth had come to a formal religious police. Here, Crucius came to a halt.

“I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” he said, eyes darting left to right, following the frantic footsteps of aides and clergy, “Try to be discrete.”

“We’ll play it quiet,” I replied. “See you in an hour,”

With that Crucius nodded, and turned and flitted away, to be lost in the sea of bodies. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Tobias:

Got a name: front church is called the Cleansing Kiln. Sending you both some info now - good luck.

*

After leaving Elijah and Zularna, Dr Crucius made his way slowly, reflectively, through the halls of the Ministry of Theological Justice. He drifted with great skill through long galleries, cavernous halls and narrow passageways, gradually ascending higher and higher. For all the grandeur of and symbolisms of Theological Justice, it was still a Ministry of Her Majesty’s Government, and thus there was order, albeit a Dantesque order. Crucius noted the names of departmental floors: Ecclesiastical Logistics; Library of Blasphemies; Liturgic Audits; the words of God blended with the bureaucracy of man, and found a uncomfortable balance. Only the Commonwealth could have designed a whole Ministry of State to try to appease - and control - thousands of burgeoning faiths, sects and schisms splinter groups.

And only the Commonwealth, thought Crucius, could have fucked it up so badly.

The Minister himself resided in a splendid office at the very top of the Ministry’s basilica dome, reached only by stairs that ran up the sides of buttresses, glass sided, to give the visitors to the MInister both a commanding view of London and a precarious sense that they were walking without safeguards, to be closer to God. Crucius reached the top of these stairs, and took a moment to check that he still had the narrow device he’d swiftly assembled on Cerberus in his pocket. It was smooth, chrome, and no larger than a phone, but when his fingers touched it, he felt a spark buzz, which an uneducated mind might have attributed to static electricity. Satisfied, Crucius pressed on.

He came to a halt at a glass walled ante-chamber. As back in the main foyer, the light scattered biblical scenes in reverse upon the floor. The under-secretary for the Minister looked up as Crucius entered and said, “Ah, Dr Crucius. You can go straight in, he’s expecting you.”

The office of the Minister for Theological Justice was exactly as Crucius had expected it to be; ornate furniture, high backed chairs, a roaring fire, a great and grave looking desk, and full of pomp and ceremony of a thousand masses. The minister himself, that same increasingly softening man that Crucius had last seen in the Palace of Westminster with Public Decency scuttling after him, rose from his desk as Crucius entered. “Dr Crucius,” he said, his voice already flustered, “I’ll have you know that clearing space in my diary at such short notice is no mean feat, so whatever it is you wish to discuss with me, it had better be -”

“Then I shall not keep you, Minister,” replied Crucius suavely. “I have come to talk to you about the nature of sin.”

Confusion, surprise, and perhaps a hint of fear fought on the Minister’s face, with no clear winner. “Sin? What in God’s name are you talking about?”

Languidly, Crucius began to stroll towards the desk, one hand in his pocket, still on the device.. “You must forgive me Minister, I do not know your faith. There are so many different ones these days, though of course they must be kept a matter of public record, it is hard to keep track...perhaps we might begin with the Christian concept of the Seven Deadly Sins? You know what they are, I take it?”

“Yes of course I do, but what does this have to do with -?”

“Christian scholars,” Crucius cut him off, “Would have us believe that the major sins - the Cardinal sins, as they are called, are the worst transgressions a human could commit, crimes against both God and man...tell me, Minister, do you know what your sin is?”

Theological Justice straight up, trying, perhaps, to stand his ground. “Dr Crucius. I am a very busy man, and I must tell you that if you scheduled this meeting with me to waste my time, I shall personally complain to the Prime -”

“Evidently not,” Crucius continued to prowl, “I’ll tell you mine, then, to start us off. It’s Pride. I freely admit it - I am a proud man. I am, some would say, arrogant, egocentric - ‘big headed’ is a phrase I have heard generations of undergraduates mutter behind my back. But I would argue that my pride is not, in any real sense, a sin. I am proud because I have seen and lived through more than any of you, I have witnessed and played a key role in, events so tumultuous that you cannot even begin to grasp the most minute detail of them... I am proud because I am simply better. “ Crucius came to a halt directly in front of Theological Justice, with only the breadth of the desk separating them. “Which is why I take it very, very seriously, when an insolent young pup like you has the audacity to question me in front of the Cabinet.”

Theological Justice turned red. “How dare you, sir - How dare you speak to me like this - I demand you leave my office this instant -”

“You see, I am very old, Minister. Far, far older than I seem. And with great age, comes a very long memory. I have met men like you, men who did not fully understand me, and thus abandoned all decorum...and, you see, Minister, as a proud man, I have never forgotten a single one of them.”

Theological Justice had begun to move, perhaps reaching for his panic button, or even attempting to physically shove Crucius away from him. In his pocket, Crucius lightly tapped the button on his silver device. Theological Justice froze in place, arm outstretched, with a jolt. A sudden expression, one of shock and a great deal of pain spread across his smooth face.

“...which brings me to your sin, Minister.” Crucius continued, watching the frozen man impassively, “It is a sin that I would consider Cardinal, though the Church may disagree, and frankly, let them. It’s a sin I have learned through all my years walking this Earth, dealing with men like you. It’s disrespect, Minister. And it is a sin I cannot forgive.”

Theological Justice did not reply. The expression on his face twitched, and a small muscle by his right eye was dancing feverishly, but apart from that, he was completely still.

“Nothing to say, Minister? I shall explain. You may recall - though I doubt you paid attention - in my presentation on the nature of absurdity storms, I referred to a case of Chaos energy transforming human tissue on a molecular level. What I didn’t tell you was that this is not a new phenomenon, nor is it limited to the maelstrom. It has long ago been weaponised - by me. In my pocket, you see, I have a small device of my own making, that released a burst of Chaos energy throughout this room. Fear not, Minister, your dear under-secretary is unharmed, and I, I am afraid, I am immune to the effects of Chaos. You however, are not…” he leaned in close to the Minister’s concorted, twitching face, “That sudden pain you’re feeling? It is the weight of your own muscles and organs. You see, I turned your bones to glass. The reason you can’t move right now is because your body is slowly beginning to realise that it can no longer take its own weight. Small bones are beginning to crack as your muscles try to contract and expand. You are, in effect, being crushed under the weight of yourself.”

Theological Justice gave a small, high pitched groan. Crucius waved a hand dismissively. “Now, now, Minister, don’t waste your breath speaking. Every time you inhale and your lungs expand, you are slowly breaking your ribs. You’ll only cause yourself more pain,” he drew back slightly, and examined the pain and fear and horror on the other man’s face. “Now, I could try to claim that this is about business. I really cannot afford to have an ignorant fool like you in a place as powerful as Theological Justice; it would only cause me a headache further down the line. But we both know that’s just correlation, rather than causation. The real reason I’ve done this is quite simple:” Dr Crucius leaned in, and whispered into Theological Justice’s ear, “I simply do not like you.”

He raised his hand, and flicked the Minister squarely on the forehead.

The MInister for Theological Justice shattered. His body seemed to cave in on itself, like a deflating balloon. What hit the ground, with a dull thump, was a foul smelling,empty mess of skin, hair, and organs. Crucius regarded the mess, impassively. He pressed the button on his device, twice. What remained of the Minister glowed softly for a second, and then blew apart into dust.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Crucius smiled softly. He inspected the scene for any trace or evidence, but saw none. Satisfied, he walked back to the doors of the office, and put his head though.

“Excuse me,” he called out to the Under-Secretary, “I think there’s been a mistake. The MInister isn’t here.”

“Oh?” the other replied, clearly surprised. “He must have slipped out, I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m sure he won’t be long. Would you be willing to wait?”

“Of course,” Crucius smiled again, “I have an hour to spare.”