'Screams, moans, grunts and whispered pleas. What am I describing?' smirked Alistair Haskel as his colleagues set to work around him. "Be thorough," he said below a whisper. The two upstairs didn't notice, their cries of ecstasy drowning out the executioners below.
Haskel's second in command, a lithe former gymnast named Flint, signalled in finger-code. Haskel's people, junior ministers to a body, were dressed in identikit black and were armed according to their own tastes. Flint liked a flexible baton and a knife in each boot.
Haskel signalled back. 'Everybody out'. The juniors obeyed, melting out of the house and taking up the cordon around it. The fuel-oil had been poured over every surface, spreading its flammable reek to every nook and cranny of the expansive Eastfield mansion.
'Thank god,' thought Haskel as he turned to follow his juniors. 'This unlucky bastard has horrible taste in interior design'. He noted the sounds from upstairs were reaching an orgasmic crescendo and snickered. 'Bureaucrats even fuck on schedule'.
Outside, it was a gorgeous summer evening, every house and tree bathed in rich golden light. Haskel noted sadly that all the other occupants in this particularly moneyed neighbourhood had scuttled inside. Shame. He liked an audience.
He nodded to Flint. "Time for my party trick". Flint grinned and brought over a small wooden chest. Haskel removed a flask of milk and swirled it around his mouth, coating his teeth and tongue before swallowing it down. Flint handed him a second flask and lit a long oak torch. Haskel took both and flicked the second cap off and poured the acrid liquid into his mouth, holding the torch at arm's length while Flint readied a thick fabric blanket.
Haskel rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. He had a number of nicknames and monikers, mostly relating to his job, but there was a specific reason for one.
'The dragon of the ministry'.
Inside, someone said "Do you smell something?"
Haskel sprayed the fuel-oil from his mouth and an incredible tongue of flame burst into life, engulfing the front of the house. The accelerant caught with a massive 'whumph' and the heat slammed outwards. Flint tossed the blanket over Haskel. The senior minister towelled himself furiously as screams began to sound. Flint watched anxiously but his boss had not set himself on fire. A window shattered upstairs and a half-naked woman leaned out, waving and shouting for help. The juniors all waved back. 'Sadistic bastards to a body,' thought Haskel with satisfaction. She was soon engulfed in sweet-smelling smoke.
"Gentlefolk, friends, colleagues, welcome tonight's guest of honour, Eva del Reynard!" The announcer had a hefty set of pipes and his rich, showman's tone was near deafening backstage, where Alistair Haskel stood in a flush of triumph.
Eva de Reynard was a woman of power. In polite society, there was no other way to describe her. The gods alone knew how long she had been alive, or what she used to disguise this fact, but there was no denying that power, beauty and intelligence had been combined into an intoxicating personality. She was over six feet, with a figure that wouldn't shame Venus de Milo. Her trousers and waistcoat were sky blue, her buttons and crisp cotton shirt the colour of steel. Her bared forearms showed extensive tattoo sleeves, complex designs culled from a dozen cultures and locales. Her hair was rich cornflower blue and tumbled down her shoulders to complement her clothes. Her eyes were a tiger's vibrant amber. Former mercenary captain, personal bodyguard to the last Holy Monarch and now mistress of the Ministry of Morality, Eva de Reynard had been many things over many years, powerful being the only constant. She took to the podium with a confident smile.
"Gentlefolk, friends, colleagues, you honour me with such a lavish and fulsome introduction. In truth, I worry that I don't deserve it." Her deep, assured voice put the lie to this. "In truth, I have spent all my years, while in many roles and titles, fulfilling the same function. I am a humble gardener." She began to pace slowly, a classic performer's trick to seem at home on stage. "And what is a gardener's role? A mere two tasks. The first is one you are no doubt familiar with." Her supple speaker's tones took on a hint of menace. "To prune, cut and excise that which threatens the garden. In my younger years, I took to this task with aplomb, and I have met with some success."
The crowd rustled in affirmation, acutely aware that one word from her could see most of the crowd dead on the rack.
"But the second is just as important and is, I daresay, somewhat under appreciated. That is to cultivate, to guide and nurture, that you do not have to do your cutting alone. And in that spirit please welcome my own guest of honour, Alistair Haskel."
The shorter, dark haired and brown eyed Haskel had dressed in an elegantly cut black suit with a matching shirt and tie. His waistcoat, socks and soft leather gloves were the colour of freshly spilt blood and his grin was on full wattage.
"Bit warm in here," he chuckled, getting a polite ripple of laughter from the room. "I don't have my mistress's eloquence so forgive me if I get a little flustered. Fuel-oil really takes it out of your tongue." He smirked as he distinctly heard sniggering from backstage. "But there is one thing I would like to say in earnest. I have joked about today's work, and you laughed. I burned a man and a woman to death, I joked about it, and you laughed. Do you know why I did this?" The crowd was silent. Haskel's voice filled the ballroom like thunder before lightning. "Because we live today, in our walled city and sprawling colonies, our trade reaching to every corner of the Silent Sea, because of blood shed for an oath. The Oath, in fact. It adorns the Northern Spire. The original document is in the School of Words, I swore my minister's promise on it. And it's wording precedes every marriage document issued in this country, to be broken on pain of punishment. What punishment you ask? The law answers: whatever the wronged person wishes. And Nigel Horrock's wronged husband wished the death by immolation of both her treacherous husband and his lover. He asked this of the Ministry in good faith, and I was called upon to answer. So applaud us if you wish, I certainly enjoy it. But look to your oaths, good gentlefolk. Look to your oaths." Alistair Haskel stepped down and vanished from the ballroom.
Flint brought the message a few hours later. Alistair was in his spartan senior minister's cell, lounging in a rocking chair with his jacket off and his tie loosened. "How was the speech?" Flint asked, letting himself in without knocking.
"Uneventful," Alistair replied, taking a sip of wine. "Liar," snorted Flint as he poured himself a glass and reclined on Alistair's blanketless bed. He grimaced. "How in the Lord's name do you sleep on this thing?"
"Practice Milo, practice."
"At least the wine's tasty."
Alistair gestured to the bottle, deep red in green glass. "A very nice Lamas red from Lady Horrock's family vineyard. A gesture of thanks for the day's work."
Flint laughed, a clear light sound. "And who says ministers don't get perks."
"Exactly," snorted Alistair. "Forbidden from material wealth, marriage rights and any entry into Heaven but at least the wine's decent."
"Got a message for you by the way, very cryptic."
"Cryptic?" Alistair felt something shift in his stomach and guts but he kept his voice casual.
"One of the applicants said there was a message in your pigeonhole so I went to look. It just said 'report' so I thought it was an internal summons, but it was memory paper."
Excitement started to race through Alistair's veins, crackling in his fingertips and jumping in his chest. He took another sip of wine. "There's been someone abusing the memory paper, apparently Father Jerry's been tearing through the place trying to find them out."
"Not like the good Father to get bent out of shape," observed Flint.
"You know what he's like about records." Alistair stood, tugging the creases in his trousers back into shape. "I think I'll have a word with him."
"Want me to come?"
"No, you stay and finish my wine."
"Can do."
It was late and most of the ministers were either out in the city or in the Questioner's Tower. Alistair crossed the complex (the Ministry was far more warren than building) at a quick stride, sweat beading his forehead as he bounded up three staircases and crossed two walkways and a gangplank before reaching the right door. There were only a few ministers who knew the way and only Alistair was admitted at this time of night.
Eva de Reynard was sat at her desk when Alistair entered. Changed out of her speaking clothes, she was swathed in a loose grey dress that pooled around her feet, a thick hardback book open on her lap.
She snapped it shut and Alistair stood to attention, shoulders back, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back. She stood. He was in heeled boots, she was barefoot and she towered over him.
"Make your report."
Haskel swallowed. There was another woman on the bed.
She lay completely naked, lying on her front with her legs gently kicking the air, observing Haskel with deep black eyes. She was young, about twenty, and lavishly beautiful. Her bronzed skin was shining and smooth, a few small marks and scars marking her short life, and thick brown hair framed her alert, curious face. She had generous features and large eyes, with high cheekbones and full lips giving her a privileged, almost patrician bearing. Haskel swallowed as he saw that her lips were wet and that her full, heavy breasts were pilllowed on the bedspread, shrouded by her hair.
He was rock hard.
"Haskel!"
Reynard's voice was a lash, snapping him back to attention.
"Y-yes mistress," he croaked.
She stepped closer to him. He was eye level with her neck and shoulders and he could smell her expensive perfume.
"I said, report."
"We attended the Horrock's residence in the early evening, three hours before the reception, as you requested," Haskel gabbled, acutely aware that he was talking too fast but helpless to stop. "As the proofs indicated, he was with his regular...companion, at the time."
