The Preacher Man

PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
hammingbyrd7
hammingbyrd7
1,369 Followers

"They want you isolated Ilias, and fairly close at hand. Karbala was a perfect choice." Zaim paused for a moment. "When viewed in a certain light though, this could work out very well for you."

I thought for a moment, trying to remember the geography. Karbala was 620 kilometers due east of Jizari. Zaim was right. I'd be close to both the home township of Security and the capital, and yet very isolated. "Yes sir. Given the politics, I should welcome the isolation."

Zaim shook his head. "It's not just that. Being a Royal Overseer will give you an intense exposure to the daily operations of a cathedral. The practical knowledge could be very valuable in the future."

"Yes sir, agreed." I paused for a moment. Zaim looked as if he were about to sign off. "Sir, you mentioned two points?"

Zaim stared at me. I wasn't sure if he were rolling his eyes or not. "Ilias, you have a very poor track record of taking my advice, but on the slim chance you want some more, rarely leave the Karbala cathedral. That is, assuming you get that far." He cleared his throat. "My final point concerns the Asad. Including you, there were a total of 693 riders this year, out of a possible 779."

Zaim knew this now, I thought, a mere two hours after evening Prayers?! It could only be through his combined connections with Security and his newfound status as a Royal Priest. Probably even the Cunif Califar didn't know yet. "Yes sir. Thank you."

Zaim went on. "There are 281 riders targeting Level-4."

I thought of the implications. "Another horrible year sir?"

"Probably. The rumor is that after the disaster last year, many Initiates thought that few riders this year would target Level-4."

"Which," I said, completing the thought, "would encourage many Initiates to target the higher Level. A paradox sir, one that I actually had to write an essay on during my last ride on the Asad."

"Just keep hoping the Lion likes your prose this year Ilias. You know, don't you, that the Lion is notorious for changing its tastes, one year to the next?"

"Yes sir, I do."

And with that, Zaim gave me a quick nod and signed off.

Chapter 19. The Windy City

Time: June 26, 8236 2:15 PM

I was sitting in my spacious office at Karbala, mentally preparing for an unpleasant 2:30 meeting. I sat gazing westward out of large bay windows, admiring the beauty of the snow-covered rocky coast directly below while pondering the morality of the decision before me. The afternoon sun broke out and began shining brightly over the cold blue-gray waters of the South Atlantic.

"Well, that's nice," I thought. "After six days of hiding, you finally decide to make a guest appearance!" I leaned back in my opulent chair, allowing myself to be distracted and enjoying the sunlight while I could. Today was the day of the winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere, and Karbala was even worse than Anqara for winter gloom. Sunrise today was at 7:27 AM, though during this morning's gale, sunrise was a purely mathematical concept. I was optimistic though that sunset today might be the real thing. Perhaps I could look forward to watching the sun complete its plunge into the Atlantic by 3:15.

"Jizari is right there," I thought as I gazed across the ocean, "620 kilometers due west of my office window." Somehow the Security Guild's home township still felt like home to me, even though I had spent so little time there and Security was no longer officially my Guild. I shook my head and brought myself back to the present.

Abigail's archival research has come up with two ancient names for our new island home, Falklands and Las Malvenas. It seems strange to have such different names for two such similar islands, and we can't find a clue which name goes with the eastern island and which name goes with the western, or even if that's the right way to think about the two names. Not that it matters. It's all Karbala now.

Karbala! I knew it had the nickname of "The Windy City", but no one can appreciate what it's really like without living here. The wind never stops! Situated at 51 o 40' S, 10 o 39' E, Karbala is the most diffuse city in the world, many small communities spread over 12,000 square kilometers of the land of two large islands and about two hundred tiny ones. The two main islands are separated by a long, deep sound, varying between two to thirty kilometers across

The city hub is located along the mountainous western shore of the west island and contains less than 70,000 people. The 100,000 people that form the rest of the city are distributed elsewhere around the islands at a hundred sites. Karbala's child monasteries are located 150 kilometers away on the extreme eastern end of the east island, at the ruins of an ancient city Abigail thinks was called Stanley. A massive rail and ferry system links everything together.

And the reason for this unique setup? Sheep! Karbala produces 100% of the wool and lamb meat for the world. Its harsh climate is unsurpassed for generating the very finest wool, and for more than 6,000 years the Sheep Guild here has had an absolute monopoly on the market. The Guild is unique in its combination of having a massive presence in its home township and being non-existent everywhere else.

So much has happened in the first half of this year! I became a Royal Priest in February of 8236, but departing Jericho took much longer than anyone thought. The Royal Priesthood spent a month debating exactly what my status in their society would be. Their discussions dragged on without end, and I wound up riding the Lion at Jericho's cathedral again, making CL-17 and adding blue to the top half of my purple square. It wasn't until late March, the day of the solar equinox in fact, that I was finally transferred to Karbala.

So over the last year, I've been living a lot of time in winter. Someday, I promised myself, I would try to find a post somewhere near the equator and spend my days splashing in the ocean with my two lovely wives... Michal has such beautiful memories of swimming in the ocean at Al Maqwa. Ah, what a pleasant dream...

My wives... Michal delivered her child in early May, a healthy baby boy. By law, she would suckle him for one month, and then the infant would be transported to a nursery either at the capital Bandar Arenas or the northern hemisphere. The storms here were so fierce in early June that there was a ten-day delay before the child could be placed on air transport and shipped out. It was a technical violation of the law, but you can't legislate against physical reality.

It's like this all over the world. By design, the world's population is divided into three regions, the capital, the rest of South America, and finally the Caribbean / North American region. All children must be raised to adulthood in a different region from where they were born. In practice, Bandar Arenas swaps its infants with townships near the equator, and the rest of the North and South American townships swap infants with each other.

There is a grand balance between the South and North American regions, sixty townships in each, and the process runs smoothly. The Priesthood has been running the world this way since the fourth millennium, when the last of the townships were founded.

My wives! It was so difficult for Abigail not to be melancholy when Michal's child was shipped out. But any sign of this sorrow would have been a disaster. Her full burqa helped hide the loss.

Abby and I noticed that Michal was also melancholy in the first days after the child was gone, though she had absolutely no memory of him, knowing of him only through her diary. Abby and I have a private theory that Michal's emotional bonding to the child went beyond physical memory, beyond the hormonal changes at the end of lactation. We're not sure what we could ever do with this knowledge, and we are keeping very quiet about it, not even mentioning it to Michal.

I looked at the clock, 2:24 PM, six more minutes. I stretched and worked to relax my muscles. I had a suspicion about how unpleasant and perhaps even dangerous this meeting would turn out. It involved a top level Priest Commander, the former cathedral overseer in fact. A confrontation seemed inevitable.

All Royals, all except for the very singular exception of me, are based at Bandar Arenas. Together they form the central government of the world, it all of its Holy Bureaucracy. The eleven highest members form the Supreme Executive Ruling Council (The Cunif Califar, CL-31, and the ten Grand Mufeto, CL-28 to CL-30). The next group is the rest of Ruling Royalty (CL-24 to CL-27, currently 75 members who wear the purple and red and are referred to as Glorious Mufeto).

The next group of four classes are the Gallant Royalty (CL-20 to CL-23, about 520 members who wear the purple and yellow), and finally the remainder of Royalty (CL-16 to CL-19, close to 3600 members who wear the purple and are addressed at Great Mufeto.)

I had just made CL-20 four days ago. It's a big jump, to trade the purple, green, and blue to purple and yellow. I went from top fish in a big pond to new fish in a much more exclusive environment. The classes of CL-20 to CL-23, now 521 in number, form an extremely powerful club, second only to Ruling Royalty. Internally it operates as two separate entities, those who have ridden the Asad to CL-4 and thus have the possibility of promotion to Ruling Royalty, and those who don't. Within the group, that distinction is often more important than class rank.

This grouping by four extends down into the eight Commander ranks, and my current problem involved the Upper Commander Priests at Karbala. Without my presence, they would form the core of the executive city government and would, within limits, run the township as they saw fit. Royalty rarely involves itself with township politics. They view it as a step backwards. It was no surprise to me then that some of the Holy Upper Commanders resented my presence here.

The Holy presence in all townships is identical, 3900 priests, evenly divided among the three areas of militia, police, and administration. There are 27 Upper Commander Priests in each town, nine in each of the three areas, with a total of three CL-15, five CL-14, seven CL-13, and twelve CL-12. The breakout among the areas is as even as possible, two sets of 1,2,2,4 and one set of 1,1,3,4. At Karbala, it was the administrative area that had the 1,1,3,4 set, with single administrators at CL-15 and CL-14, three at CL-13, and four at CL-12.

My injection as Royal Overseer of the Karbala cathedral was bound to be a source of friction. Within limits, I've tried to make allowances, and in two of the three areas, I considered myself successful in building solid working relationships. I have gotten along very well with the Militia Commanders, and even my dealings with the Police Heads are mutually respectful, perhaps even borderline friendly.

But with the Holy Administration, I was stomping directly on their turf. The situation was a dried-out forest waiting for a match, and the Holy Admin CL-15, the former Overseer who still reports directly to Jibram, had two strikes against him. First, he had nothing to do, and for someone who felt driven to crawl up the ladder of success, I had some empathy for his unfortunate position. But second strike against him was that he never learned not to play with fire, and in a tinderbox forest, that really is an unforgivable sin.

It was 2:30 PM. My secretary buzzed and informed me that Husam had promptly arrived in my outer office. A moment later he was standing before me across from my desk. I took a moment to study him.

He was maintaining the required silence, standing at attention as appropriate. But his eyes, just a hint of a sneer, nothing I could call him on, but the sarcasm and distain were there. I sighed and stood, walking around my desk and positioning myself as an equal. My mind was almost made up on how to proceed, but in mercy I wanted to give him one last chance to redeem himself.

"Husam, do you know why you're here?" I asked quietly.

"No, indeed not, Gallant Mufeto."

"Yes, CL-20 now Husam. Permission granted to speak freely. What did you hope to gain by defying me?"

His eyes were gleeful. "I am the permanent Overseer, only temporarily relieved of duty. Any issues of defiance have to be presented to the Domine."

"You idiot," I thought. "I'm not about to send this issue into the black hole of capital bureaucracy." I paused before I spoke out loud. "I'm talking about the marchette Husam. I explicitly outlawed the practice shortly after I came here. And yet you willfully defy me! Why?"

"Any issues of defiance have to be"

"Her spleen Husam! There is a woman in the central hospital now with a ruptured spleen!"

The man shrugged. "I was perfectly within my rights to strike her. She resisted me."

"As you are resisting my direct orders against the marchette! I will not let this stand Husam!"

The marchette is a truly ancient practice, dating from the time of Bel'dar. It allows Royalty and the Upper Commander Priests to copulate with any eternal virgin currently unmarried. In ancient times, I think there might have been some issue with population breeding and recovery. But at current day Karbala, the practice had degenerated into pure abuse, the Commander Priests using the unfortunate women as sex toys.

In most townships, the practice of marchette is unheard of. Even in the capital the practice is frowned upon; not strictly forbidden but considered as poor taste.

But not at Karbala. When I arrived here three months ago the practice was rampant among the Holy Upper Commanders, and the women of the town risked a horrible fate if they were divorced by their husbands. Forbidding the marchette was my very first official act here.

Did I have the authority to do that? It's a bit unclear, but the Holies were required to obey me, whether I had the authority or not. The militia and police commanders begrudged me the issue at first, but soon accepted it and did not even file official complaints. Not so with the Holy Administration. They filed a protest with Jibran the day of my edict. And three months later, we are all still waiting for a ruling.

Over the last month, the Admin group had begun to take the lack of a response as a lack of support for my ruling. I made eye contact with Husam for one last time, and saw only smug defiance. I sighed as I realized he would not yield. I made my final decision and buzzed my secretary. "Send in the guard," I said simply.

Husam looked both flustered and insulted as five armed militia laborers and a militia manager entered my office. The guard stood in a line and awaited my instructions.

Husam shook his head as if to say he would call my bluff. The fool!

"Gallant Mufeto! I am still officially the Overseer, merely on administrative leave. Any issue regarding my discipline must be"

"Husam!" I thundered. "For your crime of disobedience to me, I sentence you to death, to be carried out at sundown today! Guards, arrest this man, and prepare for his immediate execution!"

Husam looked stunned, too astonished even to be afraid. "You fool!" he roared back. "You have no authority to"

I cut him off. "I will give you five minutes to write a protest note! As required by law, I guarantee it will be delivered to Jibran by the end of the day. But you will be executed now! Guards! Take him away!" I felt my body completely relax as I roared, preparing itself for what I knew was coming.

I'll give the militia unit credit. They wanted no part of this power struggle. To them, it was a pure matter of CL-20 versus CL-15. All six of them began to walk forward towards Husam. In a shock of realization, Husam saw that his arrogant bluster had just cost him his life.

And by dying in obedience, he could perhaps have made my life very difficult. As Jibran's official overseer, his death would be reviewed by a Royal execution council, and they might conceivably rule against my execution order. But it would be a pure post-mortem victory. Husam's fate was sealed.

Or perhaps not. If he could kill me now, he would be among the three top-level Holy Commanders on the islands. He would eventually have to answer for his actions to a Royal committee, but with me dead, who knows how the politics of that would have played out. Husam whipped his short sword from its scabbard and took a wicked swipe at my gut, aiming to disembowel me.

I had studied several films of Husam's tournaments before this meeting. Fateen's eternal mantra, know your enemy! One of Husam's favorite attacks is a combination slice to the midsection followed by a back-swipe to the head, and I had positioned myself in the optimal spot for just such an attack, baiting him to strike.

Husam had competed for the World Cup in the Short Sword in the early 8200's, and was a master swordsman with the short blade. He hadn't competed in the games for years, but the short sword still never leaves his side.

It's an elegant weapon, the short sword, just under sixty centimeters of a razor polished alloy blade followed by a trim collar and pommel. I've worked a bit with it myself in the gym at Anqara, though I'm no master with the weapon. Husam was though, and I correctly deduced his attack combination. One deep slash across the belly, just to give himself the pleasure of watching me see my intestines spew from my body, and then a finishing back-swipe to the throat. Husam was a powerfully built man. His goal would have been total decapitation on the backstroke.

I began my move the instant he began his, springing forward towards him and rotating my body inside his sword arm. His wrist at my hip, I continued to whip my body into an intense rotation, spiraling and augmenting the stored torsion of my body in series, thigh muscles to hips to torso to arm, spinning my body inwards and ever faster, striking with my elbow full power against his breastbone.

The impact achieved my goal, snapping the breastbone and driving a broken half deep within his heart. His body lifted from the blow and spasmed in mid-air. The sword skated harmlessly across my office and Husam's body crumpled lifeless to the stone floor.

I turned to the six militia men. They were all standing motionless, gaping at the corpse before them. Husam had landed face up, and the large concave area where my blow had landed was clearly visible.

I barked a new command. "Sergeant! My execution order is obviously no longer necessary! Take this corpse to city disposal!"

"Yes, Gallant Mufeto!"

The squad was very efficient in their actions, clearing my office in seconds. Several of the men gave me looks bordering on adoration, and we all crisply saluted each other before they left.

I took a moment to compose myself. Husam was the first person I had ever killed, and with my ambitions for changing the world, I wondered if there were any chance he would be the last.

After a few minutes, I sat back down at my desk and tried to admire the rest of the sunset. I waited for the call I knew was coming. The howling wind outside was muted through the thick stone and tempered glass. I decided I was beginning to find the howl relaxing. It's an acquired taste.

My call from Bandar Arenas came in an hour later, at 3:45 PM. The capital is 42.6 minutes west of my office in solar time, and I could see the last of the sun's setting shadows in the window by my Adjunct's side. I nodded pleasantly as I saw him smiling at me.

"Gallant Mufeto," he began politely.

It was the first time he had called me that, and it felt rather strange. "Oh, I'm alone Zaim. Please speak freely."

"Yes sir. Just a short call to confirm what you must already know. The issue with Husam has been reviewed. It was a clear act of self defense, both from your office video tapes and the testimony of six witnesses. There's nothing else for Royalty to pass judgment on. The case is closed." He kept smiling at me.

hammingbyrd7
hammingbyrd7
1,369 Followers
1...1213141516...46