River of Thieves

by Clayton Snyder

  I lit a cigar and sat back, ignoring the dirty look the innkeeper shot me.

  "You guys feeling religious?" Cord asked.

  "I sometimes pray when I've got the shits," Rek said.

  "About what?"

  Rek shrugged. "Mostly for it to stop."

  "Nenn prays when she's getting laid," Lux supplied.

  "What?" The word came out of me like an arrow.

  "Oh gods oh gods," Lux whispered with a crooked grin.

  I shot her the bird to hide my blush.

  "Anyway..." I said, trying to turn the conversation back to Cord.

  He wore a shit-eating grin. "Anyway. Get some sleep. We're going to church in the morning."

  We groaned.

  "It'll be good for your souls."

  "Ain't got one," Lux said.

  I looked at her. She wore a serious expression. I'd have to remember to ask about that some time.

  A Sadist Tells A Story

  We passed an interesting night, the cats having discovered dry land. They spent most of the night yowling and hissing, screaming while they fucked in the street. We rose before dawn and made our way to the temple, amid a stream of red and white clothing and wary glances. Men wore tunics and trousers trimmed in red, the women dresses of the same. The bells in the temple tower pealed out their song, beating against the air like the wings of some terrible bird. Above, clouds lowered—the first signs of fall weather, the air sharp and clear despite the gloom.

  The temple was a massive stone structure, the walls sloping toward a top that split itself into several peaks that broke off at odd angles. What looked like arrow slits decorated the top half of the building, the lower only broken by a simple set of double doors.

  Cord paused to inspect the entrance. Crude likenesses of the gods stood out in bas-relief, the most prominent that of an unknown figure in the center, the robed statue grinning from its bony skull. A poster, like the one we’d found in Midian, fluttered beside them.

  "That's not ominous," I said.

  “The poster or the carvings?” Cord asked.

  “A little of both. Put the two together, and it’s like a creepy sign. ‘Kill these assholes’.”

  "Death comes for us all, Nenn," Cord said.

  "Not you."

  "Well, yes, she just can't hold on to me."

  "Maybe she just doesn't want you," Rek said. "Doesn't know where you've been."

  "You people are ugly in the morning," Cord said.

  Movement caught my eye, and I caught a glimpse of Ferd rounding the corner, but before I could point it out, Cord pushed us in. We entered the temple, rows of stone pews stretching out toward a raised dais. A pulpit stood on it, and behind that, an open apse filled with a shimmering pool. Frollo stood behind the pulpit in his black and red, his goons to each side of the dais. Hung behind him was another image of the strange figure, driven through with swords. Patrons filled the pews to the front, the entire village turned out for morning service, and we filed into one of the last in the back.

  Frollo looked out at his congregation, noted our presence. He gave Cord a nod that while hard to read, was belied by the small smirk that played on his lips like a bedraggled weasel. A massive book lay on the pulpit before him, and he turned his attention to it, opening it to a place he'd marked with a red ribbon. He drew a breath and spoke.

  "The Book of Oros tells us that death is natural. A gift that comes to everyone. It also tells us that those who only care for themselves, and through inaction cause undue misery to their sheep, should be punished.

  "I have prepared here for you a story, one that lies close to my heart. Attend now, my children, and hear."

  He took another deep breath, a windbag loading itself full, and began to read.

  ***

  Qoth hated the sound the dead men made. He scuffled his feet in the dust and stone of the yard between buildings, the creak of the Wheel drowning out his meager noise. Frustrated, he sighed and looked up, the Wheel filling his vision. It was a massive contraption of solid oak boards, pegs running its circumference. Each of the pegs held a noose, though only one was occupied at the moment, and the boards underneath the nooses were stained deep brown and yellow, remains of the men condemned there. The man currently attached to a noose made thick gagging sounds as the Wheel turned, almost matching the pitch of the bearings that smoothed its motion. His feet kicked, the black hood billowing in and out over his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

  Qoth shuddered, the sight still hard to see after so many years. He wondered which sadist cum mystic first thought of the Wheel, the idea that dying men might, in their last desperate moments between life and death, gasp out visions from the other side. The Wheel turned another click, and the man in the noose sucked in a breath, then keened it out as his trachea was pinched, the sound like a fleshy teakettle. The boards beneath him took on a darker hue, the contents of his bowels spilling into his trousers and soaking through, and red-robed seers and the motley collection of peasants leaned in close.

  This was it. This was the moment of prognostication. Or bullshite. The talkers that actually broke through on the Wheel tended to mutter incomprehensible trite, a fact that never bothered the seers as they carefully recorded each word and frenetically pored over every syllable afterwards - at least until the next poor cutter was hung. Qoth wasn't sure what they intended to learn. The gods were mute, blind, and deaf as far as he was concerned. He knew. He had once been a priest, a man of Oros. At least until the pox caught his family in its black grip.

  The square drew quiet and Qoth glanced at the Wheel. It reached its apex and stopped, the man on it hanging at the noon position. A slight breeze stirred, rippling the hood over his head and then, a voice, creaking like branches in the wind, spoke.

  "Ashen hearts

  Lost and black

  Do not

  Grow old

  Family calls

  From Winter's halls

  And swollen tongues"

  The last came as a strangled whisper, hard to hear, and yet the words reached Qoth's ears anyway. The fabric of the hood darkened as blood gouted from the cutter's split throat. Qoth looked away even as the seers pressed in, urging their scribes to write faster. The peasants were already turning away, and Qoth joined them, heading in the general direction of the warden's office. There, they would have a wagon and the body. There, the dead would be still, and his work could start.

  ***

  Qoth watched a spider crawling in a corner of the room, rolling something wrapped in webbing ahead of itself. The spider rolled the ball up the wall and affixed it with a strap of web. That done, it crawled into the center of its web to wait. Qoth thought that was the envious life - eat, mate, and sleep. He wondered how things would be different if he never met Irina, if they never had Iliana. Would he have turned down a different path, been more like that spider, perhaps? Would he even now, be lounging in a sitte den? Would he maybe even be a predator, waiting in the alleys and warrens of the city for his next prey? He didn't know. Because he was what he was. As he had been, because of Irina. Because of Oros.

  The warden that approached him was short and thick, a tree stump of a man who wore the typical leather and steel of the wardens, a dagger at each hip, and a small crossbow on his back. He cleared his throat when Qoth didn't look up right away.

  "Body's ready."

  "Thank you." Qoth stood to go, heading toward the door in the back that would lead to the small yard and the wagon with the body.

  The warden gave him a look, one eye squinted. "What do you do with 'em anyway?"

  Qoth shrugged. "All things served Oros in their time. Perhaps they will serve his soul in the afterlife as well."

  "Better you than me."

  Despite the fracturing of his faith, Qoth knew that the proper application of a platitude, or the appearance of a man sweeping the steps of his temple kept most from questioning him, especially if he kept that temple shuttered for some time. Some viewed him as eccentric, others
necessary - handlers of the dead were rare in an age of superstition - even if everyone knew his faith had collapsed.

  Qoth spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I do what I must."

  The warden grunted, and handed Qoth a sliver of steel. It was meager payment, but it would do. Qoth slipped it into his vest and left the room as the warden busied himself at a small desk with a pile of parchment and a quill. Outside, the sun was still and hot overhead, and the yard here as dusty as in the Wheel's square. A small row of tarps lay against one side of the building in shadow, the bodies beneath waiting purification from the surgeon inside. Behind them, a wooden cart, handles long enough for a man to step between, stood with another piece of canvas covering it. Qoth approached and situated himself between the wooden poles, grasping one in each hand. With a grunt, he kicked off, and the wagon began to roll behind him. He maneuvered it into the street and down the hill, keeping to one side of the road. As he went, men and women avoided him. Death was commonplace in the city, but no one liked the reminder. Heedless, he continued.

  ***

  His mind drifted. It was a bit of a trot to his temple, and between the weight of the cart and the sun overhead, he wanted only to occupy his thoughts with anything other than the heat and the labor.

  "What do you desire?"

  They curled up in their bed, a great goose down mattress under them - a gift from the parishioners. Irina snuggled in next to him, her nose and lips against his neck, sending thrills through his chest. He shifted a bit, and looked at her, nestled in the crook of his arm.

  "You."

  She smiled, and her hand traced the hair on his chest.

  "And you, my succubus?"

  She lowered her lids and the corners of her mouth curled up, mischief shining in her eyes. "This." She rolled herself onto him and pushed off his chest until she was straddling him. He watched the muscles in her arms and belly, the inward pucker of her belly button. He grinned back at her and opened his mouth, thinking to quip at her. She leaned in, her hair falling around him like a curtain, and her lips found his. They were soft, and tasted of strawberry and wax. He closed his eyes, and-

  "Watch it, you gobshite!"

  Qoth blinked away the memory and stopped. A man was pacing away, gesturing, his fingers held up in a vee, muttering curses as he went.

  "Forgive me, sir," he muttered, then sighed, and continued on his way.

  ***

  The body was starting to stink. The heat wasn't helping things, but it wasn't like winter, when you could pack the dead with ice and snow and dally for hours before the first signs of bloating appeared. Qoth stopped and walked to the back of the wagon, lifting the sheet that covered the man. He was an odd blue-yellow, the whites of his eyes shot to blood, his tongue protruding at an angle. Livid bruises surrounded his throat, and a rend in the flesh by the man's voice box was puckered like overripe fruit that had burst. Qoth poked the naked skin of the man, and it took a moment for the dent to recover. Bloating already set in. He'd have to hurry. He picked up the handles of the cart and began to move faster, trotting a little to set a quick pace. After a while, his mind drifted again, and he forgot the stink.

  "I feel like a yak."

  "You look much better than a yak."

  Qoth curled his arm around Irina's swollen belly and pulled her close, his lips finding her neck. She swatted him away, laughing, and stood.

  "That's how we got in this situation in the first place, you great horny goat."

  He chuckled and watched her as she tooled around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and setting a kettle over the fire.

  "Will you do the meat?"

  "Will you do the meat?" he asked.

  She shot a look over her shoulder, and he joined her at the table, pulling a thick shank of beef from its paper, then a knife from the block. He set to work removing the fat and slicing it into thin strips for the stew. As they worked, Irina began to hum. Qoth joined her.

  "Miss Manner

  So proper

  Lift your skirt

  But mind the copper

  Mister Hammer

  So randy

  Drop your trousers

  Mind your dandy"

  They burst into laughter, and laughter became tears as they fed each other's good humor. Qoth looked at his wife, smiling, her eyes wet, and his heart ached.

  The shadow of the Spire fell over Qoth, and he stopped the cart for a moment, glad to be from under the sun's thumb. He stood that way for a time, wiping sweat from his brow, letting his heart ache. Oros would have approved. Through grief, joy. Through joy, service.

  He waited until he had his breath back, and tears no longer stung the corners of his eyes, and moved on.

  ***

  He was close. Qoth entered the warren where his little temple stood. Small homes and hovels stood side by side, often wall to wall, their graying stone and rough wood competing for every inch of space. Once, this had been the heart of the city. But as the city grew, the warren grew dim in the planner’s minds forgotten. As are all things, Qoth thought. He thought again of how Oros abandoned him. How he ran, desperate and mad with fear, from temple to temple, begging anyone - any god - to help him, and how only silence met him. His faith and family died that day. It took him a long time - a year, maybe more - it all blended in the end. Finally, he took up care for the dead. Someone had to do it. Someone had to let the families of the lost know their loss was not in vain.

  He rounded a corner, and saw the chemist's shop. Memory flooded in again.

  "Please, I need wort for my family!"

  "Seven shims."

  "I don't - look, when your sister was ill, who brought her soup every day? Irina. You were at Iliana's baptism - this is a community, for gods' sake!"

  The chemist looked at him. "Wort is expensive, preacher. I've got a family, too."

  "Then loan it to me - you know I'll pay when alms come in!"

  The chemist shook his head. "I cannot. Please go before I call the wardens."

  Qoth let out a strangled cry and turned, fleeing from the door. He ran the distance home. He'd left them alone too long. He burst into his home, but it was too late. His daughter - Iliana, who had only been two summers, who he sang lullabies to when the moon was just growing in the sky - lay in her crib, still as a stone. Grief constricted his heart, and he managed to stagger to the bedroom he shared with Irina. He stopped in the doorway, a scream escaping his lips. Only flies moved in the room, her eyes frozen to the ceiling. He'd fallen then, on his knees, and begged for the gift of resurrection. For the ear of a god - any god - to numb him, to take him, too. No answer came. No quarter came for the grief he felt.

  In the end, he decided if he could no longer do for the gods or the living, he would find solace in the dead. That was where his family was, that was where he should be, or at least he thought. Yet every time he held the knife to his breast, fear stayed his hand. So, he collected the dead. He studied each one. And he made use of them, for the day he would be brave enough to join his family.

  Not this day. Maybe not the next. But one day, surely.

  ***

  Qoth rounded another corner, and the temple was before him. It was a small thing, clapboard and brick, with a steepled roof and the symbol of Oros - an open hand - on the peak. He aimed the cart for the back of the temple. He'd kept the place because it was perfect for his work. Being a religious institution, it was somewhat secluded from the bustle of buildings shoving each other for room in the warren. It had ample room on either side, and a spacious cemetery in the back. He reached the fence surrounding the cemetery, and dragged the cart in, then shut the gate behind him. That done, he dropped the handles and made his footsore way into the rear of the temple, where his living quarters were.

  It was simple inside, a small living area, a kitchen, and a bedroom. Behind the temple stood a small water closet. The church had a little money for luxuries, usually reserved for promising students, and before they installed him as preacher here, they en
chanted a pipe above the sink. It brought him warm but clean water from the well, saving him some work pumping. He touched it and a stream started, trickling into the basin. Qoth ran his hands under the water, watching it come away muddy as the dust was stripped from his skin. Next, he splashed his face, washing away more of the silt and sweat that seemed to make up so much of the city.

  He touched the pipe again and made his way to the living area. He sat on a small chair and looked around, listening to the buzz of flies and the drip of water. A slow throb in his feet signaled a sleepless night, but it would be that anyway. He had work to do. He stood again and took down his knife, a simple sturdy blade, made for this kind of work, and went to the yard. He uncovered the body, the smell strong, but not overpowering. Someone forgot to close the dead man's eyes, and he stared to the heavens. Too bad there's not much to see there, Qoth thought, and got to work.

  ***

  He dragged the body into the chapel proper. Two hundred eyes stared at him. One hundred mouths hung open, their muscles slack. It was a side effect of the words he'd carved into their chests. Calach - speak. Menoch - see. It took him some time to gather the bodies, each a hanged man from the Wheel. This one he pulled to an open spot on the wall, beside Irina. Her eyes saw nothing, and her lips were still, yet he felt as if she'd approve. He hoisted the body and nailed it in place with a steady hammering - spikes through the wrists and ankles. When he was done, he sat back, sweating. The bodies formed an unbroken chain that covered the walls and ceiling of the chapel, a tapestry of flesh he had meticulously gathered.

  It had been work, keeping the stink down. He'd had to use a small battalion of charms to keep the decay and stench to a minimum. There was nothing he could do about the flies, though. Qoth stepped back and surveyed his work. Each word carved on the dead connected to other words, but for one - Iliana. Qoth moved to her, and with shaking hands, raised the knife. He could hear her small laughter in his mind. He carved the final word. Yanoch - live.