Free The Wolf Worlds by Allan Cole, Chris Bunch

thought would be mock-salute, and turned into a grab for Sten's mug.
    "Ah knewit, Ah should'a stayed Laird Kilgour." He sighed.

CHAPTER NINE
    ACCORDING TO CHURCH dogma, Talamein had ordered his fleet of emigres to set down on Sanctus because a vision told him that the waterworld was particularly blessed by the spirit of the cosmos.
    Actually. Talamein had diverted for the first E-normal world that swam onto the scopes since he was faced with near-mutiny and his people were developing a moderate case of the cobblies.
    Sanctus had one major city—the City of Tombs—a few minor fishing villages, one minor port, and hundreds of villages. Its population was composed of those in the theocracy, those who exploited the pilgrims to the World of Talamein, and peasants—fisherfolk or farmers.
    And Sten.
    He shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench and massaged the stiff place in his neck. A cold breath of air needled his spine.
    The Prophet's guardsman eyed Sten just as coldly as the breeze caressing his spine. Sten grinned at him and the guard turned away.
    He had been sitting on that bench for three hours, but patience was a virtue learned quickly on Sanctus. Especially in the City of Tombs, with its drab bureaucratic priests, massive monuments to the long-dead, and ghostly cold spots.
    Not exactly soft duty, Mahoney, Sten thought, looking around the ancient anteroom in pure boredom. Like everything else in the City of Tombs, it was constructed of yellowing stone that had once been white. The chamber was enormous, decorated here and there with chiseled faces, gilded statuary, and elaborate tapestries.
    And the room was thick with the scent of incense.
    But like everything else on Sanctus, everything in the room was worn and threadbare. The tapestry had been torn and then mended, the gilded figures chipped.
    Even the guard, with his ceremonial halberd and unceremonial projectile weapon, was threadbare, his uniform far from clean and patched many times.
    Sten, on the other hand, wore the brown undress of the Guards division, his chest hung with the decorations he and Mahoney had decided were appropriate. Conspicuously absent was a Guards Division patch on the sleeve—but there was a dark patch where it might have been ripped off following a court-martial. He stood out in the poverty that was Sanctus.
    Money was the number-one problem on the World of Talamein, far more important than the state of a being's soul.
    Bribery, Sten had learned, was a surer path to salvation than prayer.
    Fortunately, Mahoney had supplied Sten with more than enough credits. He had already been a week on Sanctus, humbly seeking an audience with Theodomir the Prophet, but it had taken awhile to grease his way up the chain of command.
    A helluva way to run a religion, Sten thought.
    He had paid a last big bribe the day before to purchase a bishop. So far the bishop had kept his promises.
    Sten had been ushered through the streets of the "awesome"
    City of Tombs, with its vast monuments and towering chimney-like torches. A few of the torches spouted huge columns of flame. They were turned on, like fiery praywheels, when the
    'families of the very rich made their offerings for the recently departed.
    To Sten, the city looked like a huge valley of factories in mourning.
    Sten eased himself down the bench another half meter to escape the cold. Besides the tawdriness of the place, the cold spots were one of the first things Sten noticed. They seemed to be scattered all through the long hallways and chambers, rising strangely from seemingly solid stone. Careful, Sten warned himself, or pretty soon you'll start seeing Talamein ghosts.
    He heard a click click click in the distance and looked up just as the guard snapped to attention. The clicking footsteps stopped for a moment, and then a huge door boomed open. And Sten rose to greet the man his bribe had bought.
    "Welcome. Welcome to Sanctus."
    And Mathias, son of the Prophet, strode over to greet Sten.
    Even though