Palanti-Aarbo: Pears
Palanti-Aarbo found his first acolyte pinned under a cartload of purloined pears.
In what he privately called Palanti’s third miraculous intercession on his behalf, the runaway cart had sped by him so closely that it tore at his newly embroidered sleeve, ripping the gilded thread and leaving his heart pounding like he’d climbed through an open window and, rather than hitting the sleeping homeowner with a custard-filled pillowcase, found a gun pointed at him instead.
He watched the old wooden cart sprint down the hill. A screaming Draeg was desperately trying to apply the brake, which had long since dissolved into a shower of sparks and plumes of smoke. The brake lever snapped off in the Draeg’s hand, and even at this distance Palanti-Aarbo could see him looking at the broken piece of wood with total confusion.
Then the cart struck a curb, leapt 10 feet into the air, performed a remarkably lazy somersault, and landed on its back. Only the overly ripe pears’ inherent squishiness saved the poor Draeg thief from a painful death.
A leatherjack riding a black juvenile dragon spiraled overhead before descending on the scene. The dragon’s growl smothered all laughter as the beast seemingly snapped to the ground in an instant. The crowd backpedaled quickly as the dark-scaled Draeg guard dismounted. Palanti-Aarbo ran toward the scene. He needed to see this bold, remarkably stupid Draeg who decided to steal that much fruit in the middle of the day.
Only the Draeg’s head and shoulders stuck outside the mound of pears, while the cart’s wheels still slowly spun above him. As the leatherjack strode toward him, the now-nicked thief began protesting his innocence.
“Good day to you, officer,” he said as smoothly as possible, what with the massive weight pinning him to the street. “The cart freed itself from its owner, putting the entire street at risk of injury. I leapt upon it with haste to save not only my fellow citizens, but also these remarkable peaches. They must be the cream of their crop. As it were, of course.”
The leatherjack cocked a scaled eyebrow—the most emotion Palanti-Aarbo had ever seen in one of the city watch’s mounted guards. Shifting her gaze down, the leatherjack examined a graying mound of mush that was once a pear. As the guard nudged at it with the toe of her heavy boot, Palanti-Aarbo could see the shallowest of smirks twitching on her face.
“Incredible,” the Vijari muttered to himself. He heard similar exclamations all around him, including a shouted: “Don’t smile, stoneface, you might break it!”
The leatherjack’s head snapped up, eyes squinting at the gathered citizens, and many of them flinched. A general murmur of apology met the guard’s gaze.
“There’s an Outcast in every crowd,” Palanti-Aarbo muttered to the stuffed chicken on his head. It bobbled in agreement.
Pushing through the now-quieter multitude, the short priest squeezed to the front just as the leatherjack yanked the unlucky Draeg from his pearish prison, presumably with the intent to put him in one made of stone. Indeed, she slapped energy cuffs on his scaled wrists, and said something about first degree theft. On the other side of the cart, a slave shrieked about his master’s nearly fresh pear harvest going to waste thanks to a damned thief.
In that moment, Palanti-Aarbo realized what he needed to do. He straightened the stuffed chicken on his head, righted his robes, and gave the golden medallion on his chest, embossed with Palanti’s voluptuous and barely clad figure, a final polish with a sleeve.
“Guardswoman, excuse me, for I am but a humble priest, but I must say: you cannot arrest this man.”
The leatherjack scanned the rabble at first, looking for the voice, but then looked down. First she took in the massive mustache, then the chicken, and finally the mostly naked woman the priest—is this a priest?—was wearing. Words failed her.
Palanti-Aarbo straightened himself, mustache somehow bristling with indignation. (He’d been training it for months since entering his priesthood.) “I said, you cannot arrest this man. He was performing a holy duty, and ritual law specifically restricts arrests in such a case. You must release him at once.”
The gathered crowd alternated among staring at the chicken, the priest, and the guard in charge. Even the suspect couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing for this strange little man to be sticking up for him or not. It could all just lead to a smaller cell when he got back to jail and a reduced wine ration. Finally, after realizing the priest wasn’t intimidated, the guard spoke.
“Your name, purpose, and ethnarch.”
“I am Palanti-Aarbo,” Palanti-Aarbo said in his most official voice. “I am the priest of the goddess Palanti, protector of thieves, miscreants, and those who would do mischief.”
“I do not acknowledge your supposed god. Leave immediately.”
It occurred to Palanti-Aarbo that he needed to do more advertising. His temple had been open for three months by this point, and people still didn’t know Palanti. “Goddess, you see. I am her loyal priest and this man is one of her worshippers. You cannot take him to jail for exercising his religious rights and benevolent belief.”
“Wait a second,” screamed a voice from the other side of the cart. A Human wearing the tan, mud-splattered clothes and glinting ear stud of a Valtir slave, stormed around the plinth of spilled pears. “You’re saying this-this-this—thief—is going to get away with ruining all these pears? How is that fair? Someone—Ter—yeah, Ter—should strike you down now. Smite him! I—”
Palanti-Aarbo cut the raging Human off with a practiced flip of his voluminous sleeve. “My good sir, far be it for a devout priest of my faith to incur the wrath of Ter, God of the Earth. Whenever Palanti takes, she—”
“Quiet.”
Although said softly, the leatherjack’s tone cut through the noise. The crowd went silent, and Palanti-Aarbo caught the first few ranks of rubberneckers take a step back.
The guard waved her fingers in the slave’s direction, and part of the ear stud detached. The tiny silver orb floated through the air and landed softly in the guard’s cupped palm. A thin beam of light played across one of her eyes before the space Draeg levitated it back toward the slave’s ear—even reattaching it smoothly.
Palanti-Aarbo tried hard not to be impressed at the skill. He chose to be envious instead.
“This Human belongs to Morthakite. You know who that is, priest?”
“I do, so—”
“Then I cannot allow you to walk away with a suspect in that lord’s debt and displeasure, regardless of ritual law,” the leatherjack said, straightening the thick, heavy leather tunic that gave her division its nickname. “I am taking this suspect into custody. I suggest—”
“I suggest you wait,” Palanti-Aarbo shot back. The leatherjack’s hand clenched, exposing a row of solid iron studs sewn into her gauntlet’s knuckles.
Palanti-Aarbo plunged onward all the same, coating his words with priestly indignation, ignoring the swell of renewed murmuring, and pretending he didn’t see the clenched fist. “I was saying: whenever Palanti takes, she is perfectly willing to give as well.”
A yil chit appeared in the slave’s hand. It was gold, with a matching image of Palanti from the priest’s medallion printed on it. The enslaved Human stared at the gilded piece of plastic, along with everyone else.
“You will find 125 yils on that card, good sir. Certainly that compensates you and your master for both your pears and the cart. In fact, take another 125 for being a good sport.”
“Well. It is a lot—thank you. But,” the slave held up the cards for the guard to inspect, “is this legal?”
The leatherjack pursed her lips, mind racing through the hundreds of city strictures. The loud priest then upended her line of thought.
“It’s perfectly legal, my friend. Perfectly aboveboard in all respects,” Palanti-Aarbo said, reaching for the Draeg thief’s cuffed hands. The Vijari seemingly wiggled his fingers over the locks, and they popped open. The energy constraints dropped to the ground, buzzing against the pavement. A few in the crowd gasped, the guard stood dumbfounded, and there was even scattered applause.
Palanti-Aarbo bowed toward his audience, and then grabbed his new recruit by the arm. “Now, we must depart. If you have any difficulty in retrieving your funds, good tiller of the earth, please visit me at my temple.”
He turned toward his appreciative audience.
“It’s on Fordunsrunner Lane on the other side of town. Please feel free to stay for evening services, which start at 7 p.m. sharp. We offer a fully functional temple with all the necessary religious accoutrements.”
No reason to waste an opportunity for self-promotion.
While the leatherjack flipped through her pocket edition of the city’s strictures to determine the legality of the priest’s actions, said priest guided his potential acolyte through the crowd and out into the open street. The leatherjack would later produce a small, electronic, and easily searchable stricture notebook, thanks to this event. She named it after herself: Sonae-Vaio.
It never caught on.
Palanti-Aarbo pulled the taller Draeg into the first conveniently secluded alley he found. The Draeg turned to him immediately.
“Account for yourself, priest. Why did you set me free?”
“There’s no need to be demanding, my friend,” Palanti-Aarbo said, brushing at his robe. “I am who I said: an Aarbo—a priest—of the goddess Palanti. She protects people like you. Thieves, malcontents, those who try to redistribute wealth in ways the law may not appreciate.”
“I am unaware of such a divinity.”
“She’s the latest goddess to be discovered. Her first miracle occurred just months ago. It’s not as though gods and goddesses always come down from on high accompanied with burning shrubbery and a fleet of angels to do their bidding. Sometimes they prefer more subtle approaches, such as rogering a woman while disguised as a farm animal or saving a Vijari from certain death. Palanti is one such goddess.”
“She rogered a woman whilst disguised as livestock? Wherefore?”
Palanti-Aarbo’s mustache twitched. “Quite by accident. She had hoped to make off with a herd of cattle, but got distracted. Now. I am in need of an acolyte to spread her mischievous word. Will you be my temple’s first devotee?”
“What is required of me? Devotions? Ah. Thieving? I’m an accomplished, light-fingered villain, I assure you,” the Draeg said, leaning forward.
“My greatest apologies, friend Draeg, but your performance today does not engender confidence in your thieving abilities.”
The Draeg grimaced. “It was a most unfortunate coincidence the cart lacked a hover engine, of which I was unaware. The slave’s master is quite, shall we say, cheap.”
“I see.” Palanti-Aarbo stroked his mustache in thought and absently patted the stuffed chicken on his head at the same time. He needed an acolyte because spreading religion was easier when it looked as though more than one person actually believed in it. The Draeg before him was a thief. Although he wasn’t a good thief, he could put on a show, and both were rare traits in any Draeg. The short priest nodded, bobbing the chicken on his head as he came to a decision.
“You shall be my first acolyte, my thieving friend. Your duties will include taking part in every prayer session, providing purloined gifts of offering, and learning the rites of Palanti’s mischievous texts. You will be provided with room and board, but will not receive any monetary reward until our religion has received an appropriate amount of tithing, donations, or kickbacks. Will you join me in mischievous worship?”
The Draeg bowed at the waist as he said, “Yes, Palanti-Aarbo. I am humbled to be your first acolyte, and I am eager to learn my newfound goddess’ teachings.”
Palanti-Aarbo stroked his mustache, plainly pleased. “Now. What is your name, my acolyte?”
“Houserflaz, your holiness.”
“Houserflaz?”
“Indeed.”
“We shall call you Acolyte H. for short. It provides more mystery.”
“Is that desirable, sir?” A hopeful note sounded through Houserflaz’s voice.
“It is in this case, my acolyte. It is in this case.”