The Shackled Gods

There are only three rules in the Divine Sjlunroca Temple one must follow to avoid the wrath of The Order. Leta Tallum had known them by heart since the day she was incarcerated six years ago. And because of Randy Cole, Leta had broken one.

Leta’s heart raced, and she ignored the unrelenting stitch in her side as she flew up the atrium’s butterfly staircase. It’s not too late to fix this. I can fix this. The low heels of her rancher boots rung against the smooth stone of the stairs, drawing every bleary eye to her dash. She reached the top of the staircase and allowed herself a second of rest, hands on her knees.

A voice from a shadowy alcove quickly ruined her rest. “Will you shut up? The sun is just rising; some of us are trying to wrangle some sleep.”

“Piss…off…Jonan,” said Leta between heaving breaths.

“Ah, Baroness. Sorry about that. Didn’t see you there, miss.”

Leta grunted a reply. She’d long since given up on asking people not to call her that. Her right side complained as she straightened to her full height and brushed her black hair out of her face, the coarse bleached sections framing her face tangled in her sweaty hands. Almost there.

“Now, where are we standing on credit?” Jonan wrested his rakish body up from the ground as smoothly as a freshly birthed twin-legged foal.

“You shitting me, Jonan?” Jonan was famous for paying his debts by beating rather than by coin. He’d get himself killed one day, and by the look of him, it would be soon. Leta shook her head and resumed her run towards the seventh floor of Odin’s tower, the tallest point in the Divine Sjlunroca, and the central keep of The Order.

The next two flights of stairs passed underfoot while Leta practiced her apology. She tried on excuses, justifications, and shifted blame under her voice as she dodged past other prisoners making their way to the first floor for breakfast arroyo. Lord Below, she was hungry. The second and third floor of the ‘Roc held the most upstanding prisoners, the slow-crowders, as they were known. It wasn’t saying much, but they were less likely to trip someone running for sport. On the other hand, they were also less likely to be active tophra addicts and thus didn’t hold the same reverence for her that Jonan and the like did. Many held outright contempt for her and her profession. This meant that she had to weave around irritable strangers as they frowned at her and wondered what trouble she was running from.

Once Leta reached the fourth floor, the crowd was much thinner and she was able to easily sprint up the stairs. The moth-eaten tapestries lining the walls held pictures of the Cattoleiri looking down at their worshipers, and finding Leta instead. She continued up the winding staircase, her annoyance with the contempt of the slow-crowders turning her wheeling apologies to accusations and offensive tactics. Only, Leta knew she was in the wrong and her anger cooled over the next staircase. She allowed herself to walk once she’d reached the final steps between the sixth and seventh floors. She didn’t want to show up at Tarisoff’s office panting—she didn’t want to show up at all. But she was Leta Tallum, Baroness of The Divine Sjlunroca and she’d faced much worse in the past six years. She was no longer a sixteen-year-old girl accepting handouts and praying for safety and she wouldn’t act like it. Leta rolled her shoulders back then took a final cooling breath before reaching out to the thick oak door and knocking three times. The first rap wasn’t as firm as she’d hoped, but she didn’t let it bother her. She had much more to offer than a firm knock and excuses.

The golden ovoid handle turned, and the door swooped in, providing a view of the rooms beyond. Tarisoff had been the head of The Order since before Leta had arrived at the ‘Roc. Longer than any other Honcho in recent memory, much to Leta’s chagrin. The underling who had opened the door kicked his boot heel out and tapped on the floor before him while bowing his head and doffing an invisible hat. Leta didn’t bother to return the greeting. She scanned the room beyond. Tarisoff had pulled down or covered all evidence of the Cattoleiri. No tapestries hung on the walls, and rough-spun rugs were placed around the room, covering any stones with heretical inscriptions. The room was larger than any other Leta had seen in the ‘Roc. Somewhere down the line, a. Honcho had removed walls between rooms, making one giant entry room with several smaller rooms attached. A pair of thugs sat in a corner playing a game of cards; their oversized, blocky hands made the cards look small and fragile. Mostly what Leta notice of the seventh floor of the ‘Roc was the absence of ash. Tarisoff was fanatical about cleanliness and to make his point, wore no neckerchief within his domain. There would be no ash blows here. Anyone breaking his rules was an outlaw, natural phenomena included.

Leta fingered her neckerchief. She wanted to shake it out and retie it on the sixth floor but forgot. The undersized underling to Leta’s right cleared his throat. Leta flashed a look at his annoyed face then walked into the room. The smell of stale tobacco and spiced meat reminded Leta how hungry she was. The underling slammed the door shut behind her against the ash and riffraff of the floors below. “Leta Tallum,” she started before she was interrupted by the unpleasant little man clearing his throat. He looked out of place in his denim, boots, and kerchief, like a little prince playing dress up in outlaw clothes. She examined his face for anything familiar but found nothing.

The little cowboy prince scowled at her. “You’re expected.” His voice was high and sweet, like a woman’s. Leta tried to hide her wrinkled nose. He might be a meager underling, but he was the gatekeeper to this underworld, and best not to be offended.

“Thank you,” said Leta, her stiff smile not reaching her eyes.

The underling walked off without providing her any further information about when she could be expected to be seen, or even where she should sit. She’d been to Tarisoff’s domain plenty of times in the past, but those times, she was invited, not demanded. It was the second rule: “Don’t disrespect The Order” that she would be seen for. Rule breakers could generally expect a thorough beating by The Order’s thugs. These, of course, were some of the strongest and most ruthless prisoners of the ‘Roc. No drug offenses here, murders and rapers, the lot. The thugs in the corner were a good reminder of this. The one facing Leta had a scar cut across a missing left eye and seemed to be scanning Leta for places best injured… or worse.

Leta cleared her throat and nodded at the man, trying to look bored. I am not afraid of you, she said loudly in her mind, hoping the sentiment would come across in her face. Hoping her hands in their tight fists on her hips didn’t reveal their tremor.

“Leta!” The scream was slightly muffled by the stone walls and thick oak door, but not by much. It seemed as though Tarisoff was ready to see her.

* * *

“Leta, Leta, Leta.” Tarisoff pronounced her name like a trot, each “-ta” a snap of his tongue. He was an undersized man who had scaled the ranks of The Order not through physical ability but through cunning and bloody ruthlessness. He was old for the ‘Roc, and he wore his wispy white hair as the badge of honor it was. He was the second husband of one’s grandmother who would run his leg up a young girl’s thigh while calling her “sweetie” and asking about any “little boyfriends”. Leta hated him.

“Tarisoff,” said Leta with a nod of her head.

Tarisoff leaned back in his chair and surveyed her from across his desk. Despite his inflated imperial manner, the room was a far cry from offices Leta had seen in true castles. The “desk” was an alter than had been drug up from the first floor by a pack of careless prisoners. It was dented and missing a leg, which had been reaffixed with oversized tin nails. His chair, which had once been a tightly upholstered maroon was now dirtied by ash and soot—dark brown in some places and a worn-away beige in others. The chair sat upon a rug-covered pallet to slyly provide the undersized Tarisoff a few extra inches. It was a good thing for Tarisoff that so many prisoners in the ‘Roc used tophra, surely no one sober could be fooled by the rouse.

Tarisoff was adequately appeased by Leta’s false humility to hold court in front of her. She held in her exasperated sigh and tried to look contrite. He was just such an asshole. But an asshole that held her future and life in his hands.

“Now.”

If he calls me sweetie, I’m going to shank him I can’t even help it.

“…Miss Tallum,” he said. “Please explain to me why you believe yourself to be here. Be…specific.”

“Of course. It’s my understanding that my operation has disrespected The Order.”

“The Order. Yes.” Tarisoff nodded with his eyes closed.

“Yes. And I would like to first extend my sincerest apologies. While I take full responsibility for my operation and for those I employ, I was not aware of the situation until this morning.”

“This morning, yes. When I had to inform you of your transgression after my shipment was over seventeen hours late.” “Seventeen” came from Tarisoff’s mouth a high keening, full of thinly concealed rage.

“And that is inexcusable. I understand that you have an enormous operation to run and you can’t be waiting on—”

“I run no operation. I run one of the largest Divine Prisons in all of Umara. I’m a born street urchin who scaled the ranks from prisoner to head of enforcement. Those cowards out there,” he jabbed his finger towards the prison walls at the outer guard, the only prison guards of the Divine Sjlunroca who were hired by the state and not just power-hungry prisoners. “They would weep to see the things I have to do every day. The choices I have to make, the number of lives I need to end. Do you think this is easy for me, Leta? Do you?”

Easy? No. I wouldn’t say easy. I’d say arousing. “It’s a job not just anyone could do.” They’d have to be a real heartless bully. If he would just tell Leta her punishment, she could take her lashings and get on with her day. Maybe he’d just ask her a favor, or let her make up the payment with interest.

“That’s right. I am a special type of leader. A leader that understands his people.”

You’re the head asshole of a prison, won through brutality and fear. “I agree.”

“And because of that, I understand you, Leta Tallum, my Tophra Baroness.”

Leta kept her face blank. The nickname was bad enough, but Tarisoff, for all his self-professed knowledge and wit, didn’t even understand the root of the nickname. It had nothing to do with her successful tophra operation, though she suspected many did believe this to be true. Rather, in the royal court of Umara, a Baroness was the very last woman in the royal line of succession and thus the least likely of the royal bloodline to ever inherit the throne, much like a princess who had been thrown in a prison and left to rot.

Tarisoff leaned forward and pointed a finger at Leta. It was almost pure white with fat knuckles and its tip coming to a point. “I know that you would never let this sort of nonsense occur under your watch.”

“Thank you, I like to think so. And rest assured, I will be dealing with Ro.” Ro was a good runner, quick and reliable. He’d never been robbed on any of his smaller deliveries so Leta felt he was ready for “The Big One” as her runners called it. Since she only used the most trustworthy of prisoners to run her tophra and coin, most didn’t have long stays in the ‘Roc and she needed to keep a full stable. But what had happened? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone tried to run off with a large shipment or payout, but she didn’t think Ro was the type.

“He was skimming.” Tarisoff shook his head and waggled a finger at Leta. “Unacceptable. There is no skimming from Tarisoff, or The Order. Seemed to think we wouldn’t notice some shipment packed with root.”

Leta fought the urge to settle her head on the back of her neck and groan. “I am truly sorry. And of course I will be replacing the root with my best stuff with added interest, of course, for your troubles. I’ll make it and deliver it personally. And I will deal with Ro. I have no idea why he’d be skimming.”

“No need, no need, sweetie. Perhaps in the future just get to know your people a bit better. In that, you can learn from me. Had a family, he said. On the outside.”

This time Leta did release a groan to the peaked ceiling. Leta never hired anyone with a family, or at least with a family they support. She paid prisoners enough to live a comfortable life in the ‘Roc, but not enough to provide any real life for someone on the outside. That’s when people got greedy—and foolish. “I’ll fire him today, of course.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve already had him killed.”

Leta turned her face to stone. “Thank you, Tarisoff.” It was what he expected, and it was what she gave. It took a piece from her to say it, but she’d stand a better chance of walking out of his office alive. None of this was about Ro, or the shipment. He claimed the disrespect was disrupting his operations, but of course it was Leta herself. She was getting too powerful, growing too big. It was a sharp reminder that her life her was lived on the edge of an open grave, and all it would take was a careless stumble or shove.

“I’ll have the replacement shipment before the moons rise tonight.” Leta would have to work all day and almost certainly break her word. No one person could make a batch the size Tarisoff was demanding. Zarina was new but was detail oriented and made almost no mistakes. She’d have to run to her quarters and they could get started before the rest of The Hush—

“Oh, Leta. Please, don’t worry about the shipment. After the sixth hour of waiting,” he took a bereaved sigh, “we secured the services of Banqforte.”

Leta’s brain screamed “Banqforte?” but she managed to let out only a curious, “Oh?”

“Yes. He has been courting my business for some time now and I thought this would be a prudent time to see what he can offer. And to see how timely he can be. It is so important to be timely, isn’t it, Leta?”

“Yes, Honcho.” Losing The Order’s business would be a disaster for Leta. She had almost fifty people working with her that she paid for their services. She’d have to let most of them go. The ones who stayed, and Leta herself, would have to go back to hand-selling tophra to those outside of the favor of The Order, or those too far gone to make their way to the buy lines. Leta shivered. Those had been difficult and dangerous days.

“So please remember that in the future. I’m going to expect my first shipment of kavil by the end of the month.”

“Kavil?” Leta nearly yelled, then recalibrated her tone. “Kavil, Honcho? I’ve never made kavil before. I believe it was outlawed in the ‘Roc before my time.”

“You are correct. Before my time, as well. Kavil can be a messy drug when made incorrectly, all the psychosis and aggression, but of course, you would never make anything incorrectly, would you?”

“Of course not.” Leta had never seen algor, or even anyone on it. However, others in the ‘Roc often had first-hand experience with the drug. Tophra was largely favored by The Order (and by the outer guards) as it is a hallucinogenic sedative, showing people what they want to see and keeping them docile. It makes for a prison population that is easier to manage, with significantly fewer riots. But krista—

“If I may ask a question.”

Tarisoff nodded with a roll of his small, pasty hand.

“I was under the impression that the combination of tophra and krista could be quite dangerous.”

“It can be, if used to excess, but I am told that it produces the most meaningful high when used properly. I think it will be just the thing to lift the spirits of the people, and of course, would be useful in helping to fund The Order. There are changes that need to be made for the good of all. And of course… we are becoming overpopulated.”