“Deacon Ramona has been an ongoing embarrassment to this seminary. But even pissed up to her eyeballs she was too dangerous for anyone to challenge directly.

Her graduating class failing so spectacularly in front of our visitors was enough to make her rethink how she can best serve our Lord and volunteer for a new assignment. No doubt she will find the northern air sobering. 

This does you no credit.
You did not anticipate this.
You weren’t knowingly serving me.
You weren’t plotting some clever scheme. 
You were just a child lashing out from peasant resentment.

By sheer luck you did so in a way that turned out to be useful. But, you weren’t thinking of the interests of the Church, or those of Asmodeus."

“You scored well as it happens. Even with normal competition you would have been well above average. Though your marks on Discipline, Applied Tyranny and Church Organizational Doctrine leave a little to be desired.  

A supplemental question: Imagine you have the great fortune to survive today, and, after years of diligent service become a Deacon yourself. How would you deal with a subordinate who, while showing some small talent, has problems with subordination?”

The reprimand hurts. But not as much as the actual torture. 

_{That still really really hurts. 
The pain makes it hard to think of anything else.
He's going to die and Asmodeus is going to reject him and he'll never get to be a devil
and he'll be weak and pathetic
and he'll never be safe and....}

Focus. 

"I would, first of all, punish him sufficiently that he knew in his soul he had done wrong. But I think we can take that as read" he said gesturing with his face at the state of the rest of him. 

Give a slight twinge of irony in the voice there. We're sharing a little joke between us. I'm not just a victim here. I'm like you.

But not so much as to seem insubordinate. I recognize your mastery here. Your skill in torture. And your right to do it.  

"Then, if I considered him worth the effort of course, I'd appoint him to a position where he was not alone to behave as he wished..." as in an isolated village or commanding in the... no, too much, "but under the supervision of superior priests who could correct his errors."

Should he suggest something? An intelligence role where he could use his trickery to good effect? He'd like that. That sounded ideal. So it must be the wrong answer. 

Stop trying to answer the actual question. 

"But beyond that I could not say. I cannot simply pretend I am a Deacon sir, because I am not, I could no more play at being a Devil and expect myself to know the true wisdom of hell. I lack the wit, the wisdom, or the experience."

Sergi’s lip quirked in a way that you might interpret as a ghost of an affectionate smile, if you were deeply pathetic.

“Clever boy. You are beginning to understand at last that your superiors are placed above you for a reason, that they are better than you.” 

Sergi let him go, and tossed him a small bottle with droplets of burning red in it. Devil’s blood.

“You are authorized to heal yourself. But not until morning. You will be confined to your quarters for the next few days, while the coaches take most of the students off to their new roles. Your classmates may draw their own conclusions.

It is one of the great joys of teaching to see one’s students develop and follow their future careers. I do hope you keep in touch once you are sent off to your new assignment.”

Ah, blackmail and bribery, this was familiar enough.

“Thank you sir.” He said, and meant it.

He loved Ostenso and he loved being a priest.

Belde was a city on paper, but a backwater inland one, barely worth a dot on the map and a line in an almanac. Ostenso was a true City of the Infernal Empire and it was beautiful. The scripture’s descriptions of the gleaming towers of Dis had never really grabbed Orgull. But seeing Ostenso he was beginning to think he understood a small part of the Glory of Hell. 

The Ostenso Cathedral, where he got to work, was visible across the city. The main chamber where services were held could have fit his childhood orphanage with room to spare, below the high ceiling that must have needed significant magic to keep up unsupported. (He later learned that the vaulted ceiling dated from when it had been an Arodenite temple, but that only made it more glorious in a way, the spoils of his Lord’s slaying of the upstart Aroden.) 

The corridors and offices that made up the rest of it were no less grand for their smaller scale. The work that he and the other new first circle priests were assigned to begin with wasn’t particularly stimulating, cast this spell here, glare appropriately sternly at the staff here to keep them in line, torture a few as an example. He found himself oddly averse to using fire, so came up with creative alternatives. But whatever task he was about, just being able to walk down the marble corridors, past painted frescos and bowing guards made him feel right.

His fellow first circle adepts were from other seminaries closer to Ostenso, he had been sent to the other side of Cheliax, and whatever Sergi’s reasons he was glad of it. None of them knew him as a backwater peasant boy, and the slight lilt to his Standard Taldane that remained of his former accent, marked him as exotic, not contemptible, and could be easily mistaken for Westcrown or Egorian by those not well informed.

He went out with them socially on many occasions, drinking and dining at taverns and restaurants with elaborate menus, their stipend was not hugely generous, but of course the privilege being patronized by Chosen was payment enough for many.

Most weeks they attended the Opera alongside their superiors. Though he’d picked up enough of the basics from Vindenca (who had been obsessed with it) to bluff an intelligent enough conversation he didn’t really understand the appeal, except for the rare occasions they livened it up with an unsimulated death. He supposed there was some praise to Asmodeus in the trickery involved, but nobody was truly taken in by it, so what was the point? But it was a privilege that was denied to most people, so he enjoyed it for that, and watched the nobles in the crowd in the boring parts.

Just wandering the City was entertainment in itself. The Cathedral was, of course, the most glorious of the buildings, but the rest did their best to compete. From the Cathedral you could walk through the Noble districts with their spiked mansions, past the Academy District with shops selling magical items and harried packs of students, and look down on the warren of alleys leading to the docks. Where the masts of the ships in the navy yard stretched out like an army of devils with banners held high. In 5 minutes walking the streets he would see a greater number and variety of people than he had seen in his entire life before being Chosen. At first, he was unsettled by the attention he was given, but then he realized it was just the deference he was due, as even a first circle priest, the crowds parted before him like fish before a shark.

On the occasions he didn’t want the attention he would change into the clothes of a minor merchant, changing his face when he walked through the districts he might be recognized, and wandered the dockside and slums. There was something thrilling in wandering past the kind of petty gangs who would have tormented him as a child, knowing he was utterly safe, and that were they to accost him any that survived his channels and spells would be struck down by fear of the consequences of hurting a Chosen. 

He found the entertainments of the lower classes more appealing. He watched an Owlbear disembowel a dozen captured drow on his first night at the fighting pits, and was hooked. (The ringmaster said they were elite agents sent to infiltrate Cheliax, and caught by the heroic efforts of the Queens Security, but they looked more like confused half blind commoners to him). So attended with regularity and enthusiasm otherwise reserved only for the Bishop’s sermons. 

He endeared himself to one of the more senior priests, not the most important or powerful, they had a dozen supplicants, but a plump looking 3^rd Circle who, while lower in rank, seemed to have much nicer jewelry than the others, who he learned controlled the Port Inspectorate.

What did the church have to do with ports and trade? Naturally there was a Crown body with the remit to take fees, inspect for contraband, etc. But it was important that the Church made their own inspections for heretical material, and any other things they judged to be deleterious to the spiritual development of the population. And if this lead to some infighting and duplication of work, that was pleasing to Asmodeus afterall.

Orgull impressed his prospective superior with his willingness to do, in effect, all of the day to day work of running the office, and inspecting the ships, while still passing on the dragons share of the profits. Leaving the Senior Presbyter able to sleep in until noon before making an appearance, and spending more time with his collection of exotic artifacts confiscated from ships or gifted by pious ship’s captains.

Orgull was convinced half of them were fake, the kind of thing that Osirians sold to credulous tourists claiming they were from the tomb of the Arch-Mega-Pharoah Impressificus XIV. But kept up the appearance of fascinated interest on the frequent occasions when, after attempting to deliver a brief report, he was forced to listen to long rambling stories about their origins or his time as a combat cleric. With a perfunctory explanation of how this of course demonstrated the glory of Asmodeus in the world, blah blah blah. (Perhaps this was a particularly advanced form of torture the Senior Presbyter employed for when he got bored of setting the clerks on fire for wearing unlucky colors, or signing their documents in an insubordinate manner.)  

The role was perhaps not the most prestigious, but it was certainly lucrative. On top of the normal speed money from merchants wanting their papers stamped within a week or impoundments lifted, his inspections for heretical material gave him the right to confiscate items at his discretion. An explanation for why a silver inkwell might pose to the moral fiber of Cheliax was not required by the law. And he was a Lawful follower of Asmodeus.

It was rare to find anything truly heretical. A few books that hadn’t been updated for the most recent round of censorship, hidden idols to various unapproved Gods, etc. The dream was to find a copy of the Acts of Iomedae, or books of another Good god, but despite being pathetic it seemed their worshippers weren’t quite that stupid. Once, when flicking through a book of turgid Abadarian lectures that he’d confiscated mostly out of spite, he did find what appeared to be Norgorberite Scripture (would a God of sneaking thieves even have such a thing? He’d never thought about it). Though by then the ship had left so he didn’t bother reporting it. 

For Chelish captains, and a few foreigners who seemed less contemptible than the rest, he would suggest they meet at lunch to talk through their paperwork before the ship inspection. They would of course insist on taking him somewhere nice, and if after a pleasant meal, a few drinks, and the occasional friendly gift he was too tired to bother with visiting the ship himself he would naturally trust them at their word there was nothing to be seen.

A couple of them he got to know well enough he’d meet with them even when they didn’t have paperwork to expedite. And would be sure to take seriously their reports of rivals who were suspected heretics, and be sure to inspect those ships more rigorously.

(This was Cheliax, the pretenses were not in fact strictly necessary, but he found he enjoyed them).  

He sent regular letters back to Sergi, of course. With reports on what was happening, gossip that he might value, occasional requests for advice, and gifts to show his ongoing gratitude. He wasn’t clear on the nature of their relationship, whether they were patron and supplicant, or extorter and extorted, but it matted little.

He asked after Vindenca one time, it was important to keep an eye on rivals who might still hold a grudge. Apparently she’d been shipped off to the Wound to corral soldiers. So would be little threat for the time being.

A year in, after reaching second circle (a fast but not exceptional time), he began to hint and fish that he was ready for whatever greater purpose Sergi had preserved him for. But Sergi didn’t respond. Which was sensible enough, letters could be read and intercepted, even through Church internal mail. Especially Church internal mail, depending on the enemies. 

He was content to wait for the time being. Orgull was in his proper place at last. Asmodeus was in His Hell. All was right in the world. 

Then the Galtans came.

In theory as the heart of the Chelish Navy, host to a wizarding academy with close ties to the military, and much of the provincial troops, the city should be well prepared. But they’d become lax with drills in recent years.

It disrupts the normal work of the port, that costs money you know. What, are you saying Her Majesty’s forces are weak? That some force of traitors or heretics could threaten the infernal empire?

Most of their preparations had been on the, reasonable, assumption, that attacks would come by sea and target the shipyards. So, when reports came in of a Galtan army being sighted inland, the initial response was limited to mocking, abusing, or (in the case of the Academy Chancellor) immolating, the messenger. 

But once it was established that the messengers were neither stupid, drunk, or part of a rivals scheme (one so obvious it has to be an elaborate insult, its Manohar isn't it, fucking Manohar) orders began to fly, by messenger, Message, trained familiar, and ringing bells. 

Commandant Admiral Rania Laroung took command of the city’s forces, obviously. It doesn’t matter if the enemy is coming from land, she was still the senior military officer in the city. They had plans for a defense with her in command, so she was in command.

She directs her forces from the Ironquay War Academy, the best possible choice: heavily fortified, filled with the best military minds in Cheliax, who’d wargamed even this scenario and in possession of the map table and figurines necessary for proper military command.

From there she directed Harbormaster Cothos to assemble the dockwatchers and prevent the inevitable fire attacks on the ships; Deployed marines and city guard to the pre-planned chokepoints across the city; And sent word to the Academy and Cathedral politely reminding them of their parts in the city defense plans.

Lord-Mayor Idressia Henderthane took command of the city’s forces, obviously. As the senior representative of the Crown in Ostenso and daughter of the Archduke Henderthane she naturally had the authority to do so in his absence. And it was her personal troops on the walls already who’d be repelling the first wave of conventional attackers.

She ordered all troops, dockwatchers, clerics, wizards, and every able-bodied man to reinforce them at the walls and central keep immediately. 

Prelate Athrid Darubec took command of the city’s forces, obviously. As the senior representative of the Church in Ostenso he was the voice of Asmodeus in the city, and as a Prelate he was beholden only to the Archduke (in his own estimation at least).

He ordered all forces to rally at the Cathedral and prepare for a counterattack on the Galtan forces before they reached the city. 

The Chancellor of the Ostenso Royal Academy of Magic, the Para-Countess Asmodia de Senaria doesn't give a fuck about the city, obviously. 

She ordered all wizards, apprentices and porters to assemble in the heavily warded Great Hall, it's the most defensible place in the city. And any sensible enemy would begin with magical hit squads teleported in to strategic locations to start fires. Burnt ships can be rebuilt, and the city repopulated, but the Academy’s books are irreplaceable. 

By the grace of Asmodeus Orgull and his superior were both in their office by the port when the first confused reports and messages came in.

“Boy come here!” the Senior Presbyter bellowed from his chambers.

Orgull was greeted by the darkly comic image of the man in his undershirt trying to stubbornly to fit himself into a breastplate intended for a much younger and thinner man.

“There’s a false bottom in the bottom right drawer of my desk...”

I know that. Even the tea slip probably knows that.

But he obediently began emptying out the drawer.

“There’s potions and rings in there,  take one of each for each of us, and give any spares to the combat wizard, along with the scrolls.”

Their "combat wizard" was barely above laundry standard. His superior had been pocketing the wage difference since before Orgull’s time. 

Possibly the Galtans intended to disrupt their communications with carefully spilled ink, or smuggle Andoran brandy under an illusioned hull to incapacitate the soldiers