Church council minister Mardan Freeman disliked getting up early. Today, however, he was covering the morning shift, cruelly robbing him of choice. This meant he couldn't legitimately be angry with the two men sitting before him, despite their intrusion upon his peace. The dull light lurking in the windows told him it was still an obscenely early hour. Only bakers and the supremely untrustworthy inhabited this half-light, and he was neither. Still, he couldn't hold that against his visitors, just resent them quietly.

It was a lucky for them, he thought drolly, church ministers were known for their patience. He was sitting behind his desk, the plush office with its mahogany furniture arrayed around him. Books adorned most of wall space, doors the rest - an ostentatious display of wealth and power; none of it Freeman's. A scroll tray sat full on one side of his desk, another empty on the opposite side, and the two visitors rested in chairs sitting across from him. One looked obviously worried, the other cold and unreadable. Under the circumstances, Freeman thought these expressions were a role reversal.

Whilst he considered the day ahead, he was rotating his pencil in the fingers of his right hand, tapping each end alternately on the desk top, and observing his intruders from beneath lowered brows. Arran Cartwright sat dead still and matched his stare coolly, perhaps conducting his own evaluation. He was younger than he looked, Freeman decided, aged by a thick beard and webs of worry lines. When a man cared too much, he lost his hale to concern - this, the minister knew all too well.

"I hope, Mr Cartwright," he said eventually, "that you and your wife have thought this through very carefully."

"We have, Minister." The words came out clipped, economical, as if rehearsed.

"And you are aware that the process of disownership is a permanent and irreversible one."

"Am I required to answer that?"

"Please."

"Yes, I am," replied Arran.

Freeman slid a pair of parchments across the desk. "In that case, Mr Cartwright, I will need your signature and that of your witness on both sheets, if you please."

Cartwright took the proffered pencil and proceeded to sign each document firmly, without hesitation. He then passed them to his friend, who read his pre written declaration before signing. Yes, to the best of my knowledge the above signed is of sound mind and thought at this time. No, I have no record with the Church Law Enforcement Agency. No ... No, I do not know of any reason why this procedure should not be allowed to go ahead. Yes, I will stand witness for the above signed should any further proceedings be entered into.

The bulky friend finished scribbling and passed the pencil and parchment back across the table. He sat taller than before he'd signed, as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Freeman checked the signatures, and then stamped both parchments with an ink press. He rolled them, waxed them, sealed them with the twin ball symbol of the moons in harmony, cased them both, and handed one to the ex-father. Inwardly, he let go of a big sigh. This was a relatively rare procedure, but common enough that he remembered it without reference to protocols. Some things, he thought, should never become routine.

"This is your copy. Keep it safe. At any time during the next year the church reserves the right to interview any member of your family regarding this matter and immediately revoke this settlement if new circumstances come to light. After one year, the agreement is forever sound. If possible, please try to see the boy delivered into Church custody within a week for individual assessment." He smiled, though it felt wrong. "I'm sure there will be no difficulties." He stood and offered a hand, which both men shook in turn.

"Thank you," said Cartwright. "You're a fair man. If anything ... untoward happens, I hope you aren't dragged into it."

What a strange thing to say. Affecting a casual walk, Freeman followed the two men until they left so he could listen to their conversation.

"I liked him, Don. I think he's a good man."

"You can trust the church, Arran."

A snort. "I trust you. Let that be enough."

A brief silence.

"It was the right thing to do, Arran. You really didn't have a choice."

"Hmm?"

"I said you did the right thing."

"Oh. Oh yes, I'm pretty sure I did."

*

Minister Freeman's face slammed against one of his bookcases with a loud thud. He caused several more as he crashed to the floor, priceless volumes fluttering in the wake of violence. His nose snapped, bleeding on several more bindings and across his wood slat floor as he was dragged back over to his chair and sat down forcibly. He shot a look full of hatred at the huge bald man who was holding him down firmly by the shoulders. Not that he knew who this person was; apart from some unimportant lackey with a fat round face and sunken eyes. Not to mention his giant fists, painted in my blood.

The all in black, moustachioed figure at the door wearing riding boots and a wide hat, now he was easily recognisable. He was also someone you never wanted to meet in his current capacity. He was on duty.

"Don't give me that look, Freeman," said Derwin Crescent, sneering. "I hate it when someone gets that 'rebellious turd' expression on their face." He leaned in, all fetid breath and menace, eyes gleaming like eager embers. "It just makes me want to hit it more."

Derwin Crescent was a nasty piece of work by almost anybody's standards, and he just happened to work for the government. Every major organisation needs one person to keep the cesspit smelling of perfume, Freeman thought to himself; somebody to do all the little unpleasant jobs such organisations inevitably consider necessary, but don't want anybody to know about. This was Crescent's function for the Lord Church of the Two Moons. Cloaked in mystery and violence, his reputation preceded him. Freeman took in the lean figure, long, skinny fingers, and pointed facial features. Who are you? The only confirmable fact regarding Derwin Crescent was that he never denied anything said about him.

"I don't understand," moaned the minister, tasting blood in his mouth. He sniffed hard and swallowed painfully. "The agreement was signed first thing this morning, before any official notice that the murder occurred."

Crescent nodded over Freeman's shoulder, and suddenly his forehead was being smashed down onto the desk. He saw the solid wood coming and closed his eyes, but that didn't stop the bright lights from bursting in his vision. His shattered nose ground together against the surface, blood mixing with snot and spittle. Freeman couldn't help but sob with pain. Then the back of his head hurt and reality tilted as he was pulled back up again by his hair. Derwin Crescent leaned forward. "I want that agreement rescinded, and I want all the documentation destroyed."

Freeman smiled, not at all sure why but following the whims of instinct. He looked through the window at the steadily darkening twilight. That was, of course, if it wasn't his vision failing after that blow to the head. He'd worked two straight shifts today. He was tired, so tired. "Drown in the depths Crescent, it'll never happen."

Another face smash, and then he was lifted bodily and thrown into a corner of the room. Somehow, as air wafted his hair and clothes, he mustered the presence of mind to brace his hand against the fall, but succeeded only in breaking his fingers on impact.

"You pathetic turdlump!" Crescent was twisting the end of his moustache as he shouted. "I want that depthsworn DOCUMENT!"

Freeman laughed - he couldn't help it. Choking on his own blood, welling up from within one of his lungs, he pointed with a back bent finger at his desk. "It's still on the desk, fool, in the out tray." The scroll case rested alone, awaiting transportation to the archives, rocking slightly after the violent motion in the room.

Crescent lunged towards the desk but paused when Freeman giggled sarcastically. The minister held a hand over his chortling mouth as Crescent stalked towards him. This was all just too funny.

"You're hysterical," said Crescent, bending forward and sneering. "I see it a lot in my line of work. In fact, I try to force people to it. You see, you've given up when you turn hysterical; one could say that's what it is. You laugh a lot, often in an annoying way, but you tell me what I want to know. So, Minister, I'm going to ask you once, and only once. What's so funny?"

"It doesn't matter anyway; Arran Cartwright has his own copy, and there's a witness."

Crescent's features froze in place. "Who?"

"Get dunked."

"Lenny, hold him."

"Fat, bald bastard! I bet you eat more in a day than I get through in a month. Ouch!"

"WHO? Last chance."

Freeman cackled manically. "That is one crap moustache."

A short, curved blade appeared in Crescent's hand from some hidden sleeve compartment, its three-inch length glinting in the torchlight. Freeman felt his head pushed back against the wall, held tight by the big brute. There was a flash, and searing flames penetrated a half-inch into the left side of his neck, two inches under the lower jaw. He wanted to scream, to yell insults, to laugh like an insane animal. The razor edge scraped across things inside his neck and his body flopped and jerked in an automatic physical reaction to immense neural pain. Tears streamed from his eyes, mingling with blood from several sources to drizzle from his damaged face. Freeman tried desperately not to move his neck, feeling the blade between the folds of his flesh, held firm against his life.

Derwin Crescent's eyes danced.

"Last chance. Who..?"