River of Thieves

by Clayton Snyder

  Fire raced across the words, connecting each to each, until the room glowed with it. As one, the dead groaned, and a voice spoke. It filled Qoth's ears, and its sweetness made his heart ache.

  "My love. Bring them to me." In a corner, a rat gnawing at the toes of one of the dead men burst, a spray of gore painting the corpse's ankles.

  Qoth fell to his knees and wept.

  ***

  The doors of the temple of Oros were unbarred. Qoth stood on the steps, passing out fliers, smiling and chatting with passer-bys as they went about their day. Curious, Tvent - chemist by trade - approached. Qoth pressed a flyer into his hand.

  "Opening the temple again, Qoth?"

  "Oh, aye, aye. Please come."

  "Found your faith again?"

  "Never lost it, my good man. Now scurry along, and tell the others. The temple is taking new parishioners. You'll want to hear this sermon."

  Tvent looked at the flyer in his hand and back to Qoth. The man's excitement was palpable, and somewhat infectious. He walked away, and Qoth watched him go. When the last of the flyers had been turned out, he stepped into the temple, closing the door behind him. Candlelight glowed on a hundred bodies, and two hundred eyes watched as he approached Irina and stroked her cheek.

  ***

  They came, one by one and two by two to the chapel. Families and friends, clutching the flyers he'd handed out, chattering of what it all meant. Inside, Qoth hung tall white sheets he'd painted with scenes of family, portraits of Iliana and Irina. The congregation settled in the pews, and Qoth waited patiently for the last of the stragglers to arrive. Children darted between the rows and people chattered while passing around small cakes the local baker made. It was a celebration, after all. A new leaf. A new life.

  He saw a man turn to his wife, his tow-headed children beside him. He leaned in and whispered something to her, and she smiled, a laugh startled out of her. A beat in time.

  ***

  She was in the market. That was where he saw her first, dark hair flowing down her back, her body swathed in a dress that accentuated her hips, sandals with ties that climbed her calves. He was smitten at the first. No - that wasn't right. He was in lust at first. Then she turned. She turned, and the world stopped moving - he swore it did, men haggling at booths, their lips frozen mid-speech. Somewhere a lute played, and now it hovered on one note, hanging in the air like a bird catching a current. He could see a mouse beneath a stall, its paws paused before its whiskers, its black eyes reflecting everything.

  Her eyes were green, her lips full. A small scar carved its way across the corner of one eye - later he found she'd fallen as a child, and cut it on a stone. The corner of her lips turned up, and she smirked at him, then gave a wink. His heart hammered - once. Twice. And the world scrambled to catch up. She was gone.

  He spent the rest of the morning in a funk. He shuffled from stall to stall, not bothering to haggle - to the amusement and profit of the merchants. Finally, he found himself at a small jeweler's booth, fingering a jade necklace and thinking of her eyes. Who was she?

  "That would look good on me."

  The voice came at his elbow. Qoth jumped so hard he jostled the booth and earned an evil glare from the jeweler that he never saw. He turned, and the woman standing at his shoulder stepped back and slipped the necklace from his fingers. He stood, mouth agape, as she looked over his shoulder and smiled at the merchant.

  "He'll take it." She turned to Qoth. "Pay the nice lady."

  Qoth turned in a stupor and dumped out a few coins on the counter, then followed the woman who already had him by the elbow. She was already chattering at him.

  "What's your name?"

  "Q-Quoth."

  "Interesting. I'm Irina."

  "T-this is all very-"

  She turned and put a hand on hip. "Do you always stutter like a buffoon?"

  "Only when I'm nearly truck dumb by beauty." He blinked. He had no idea that was coming out of his mouth. Luckily for him, she smiled, and narrowed her eyes.

  "What a line."

  "I'm quite clever."

  She looked him over, the smile slipping away. "I doubt that. But I'm willing to find out. Come, Sir Stutter."

  She led him away.

  ***

  The memory faded. He'd been lucky. Somehow, he'd remained clever. He always thought himself incredibly fortunate that he'd somehow talked her into marrying him. He watched the crowd a little longer. They still chattered, but they were growing restless, he could tell. Shifting in their seats, playing with trinkets - necklaces, rings, charms. More filtered in, and he watched, waiting. The strains of an old song played through his mind, a breeze tickling the back of his neck. He wondered if it was the choir he assembled. He turned his head to hear.

  Blackened moon

  And bloody sun

  We'll dance when all is done

  Lady Black

  And Jack o' Nine

  Won't let you go

  The sun won't shine

  Scuttle out

  And speak but true

  For ' tis the day

  Your souls are due

  It was an old dance hall piece, a song the minstrels would sing to appease the gods during the harvest and the turning of the seasons. It seemed fitting to him now.

  When they were all inside, Qoth closed the doors, and locked them. He carved a word into the chain of words around the jamb, closing the spell that would ensure nothing short of a giant's axe could open them. He looked around, pleased. It seemed the entire warren showed up. He took his time getting to the pulpit, stopping to greet Tvent--the man brought his entire family--and the baker who had denied him bread more than once for fear the sickness would contaminate his dough. Qoth smiled and shook their hands and asked after their businesses and extended family. Then he climbed the steps to the pulpit.

  ***

  She was strong. She didn't hate. She was smart. Smarter than he was. She could sing, she could dance, and though she had a temper and it occasionally lashed against him like a whip, he never thought he'd live up to her. He was aware of the danger of putting another person on a pedestal. Of making them an ideal instead of a person. Sometimes though, he didn't care. She was an example for him, a way to live that he strived for. He found it ironic in a way. As a clergyman, others expected a sort of paragonship on his part. He simply tried to live his life in a way that wouldn't disappoint Irina.

  He remembered - they were walking through a part of the warren that even the cutters avoided - not because of any danger, but because there wasn't anything worth stealing. Irina paused as they passed a doorway, her face unreadable.

  "Hand me your purse," she'd told him in a tone that asked no hesitation.

  He did so, and she bent down, jingling it once, her hand extended. When she straightened, he saw the girl on the stoop, her cloak tattered, her face streaked with soot. She watched them with frightened eyes. Irina leaned in to him.

  "Say something to her."

  "Oros sends you his blessing."

  "Something else."

  He knelt. "Do you have a family?"

  The girl looked at him, ready to bolt. She reminded him of a wounded and frightened bird. He rummaged in his robes and found a small lump of cheese wrapped in paper. He held it out to her. She took it and unwrapped it, pausing only for a moment to watch him, as if afraid he would rescind it. When he didn't, she devoured it. When she was finished, Qoth repeated the question.

  "Your family?" He prompted gently.

  She eyed him for another moment, still silent, then ran, fleeing from the doorway. He stood and started to go after her. Irina laid a hand on her arm, and he looked. She shook her head.

  "Let her go. You know where we are. You know what this life is like. Be glad you could help, if only for a moment."

  He watched her. "But - we could do more."

  "We will. Another day."

  She kept her promise. They came back week after week. They didn't see that girl again, but there wer
e others. From that day on, he found another trait to love. Mercy.

  ***

  A low humming began in the room, and the congregation sat a little straighter, began to quiet. He took the rope tied to the sheets in his hands, and smiled beatifically. Mercy wasn't present today.

  "Welcome, friends. And goodbye."

  He pulled on the rope. The sheets fell. The screaming began. It did not end until the goddess he had made broke them all.

  ***

  When it was over, Qoth sat on the steps of the pulpit, the bodies stinking in their pews. A low humming filled the room, sweet to his ears. It was the lullaby Irina sang to Iliana as dusk fell.

  Here's the moon

  I'll see you soon

  In the land of dreams

  Don't you cry

  I'll be by

  To see you in your dreams

  So tell me that you love me

  Love me so

  And don't you cry

  I'll be by

  I'll see you in your dreams

  Qoth closed his eyes and listened, and for a moment, he saw the sun-dappled room and his wife and daughter, side by side in the big chair, their heads pressed together as she sang.

  ***

  At last, Frollo finished his tale, his voice fading in echo in the stone hall. Nothing marred the silence, and I looked around. The parishioners sat with bowed heads, and sometime during the reading, more of Frollo's goons moved in, surrounding the interior. The priest let the silence hang, like a hammer dangled from a string, then he spoke.

  "The lesson here, my friends, is suffer not the selfish. Suffer not the greedy. Suffer not the unclean."

  He nodded, and his guards moved. Towards us. Only us. It seemed the church had a problem with newcomers. I don't know how we'd missed the signs. I cursed Cord under my breath even as Rek shoved me out of the pew. He stepped in front, blocking their path. I stumbled and found my feet.

  "Run Nenn!" he shouted.

  The church became chaos as Rek and Cord picked up a guard and tossed him into the pews, causing as much confusion as possible. I stood for a second, torn. Did I help? Did I dare draw blood here and risk the fate of the thieves in the river passage? Then someone's teeth flew by me like a formation of disgusting doves, and I hauled ass out of there, the church doors banging shut behind me.

  Panic clutched at my heart. Where to go? I looked down the village lane, through the neat rows of shops, and deeper into the village, clean little homes in orderly arrangements. At the far end, the Codfather bobbed at anchor. For a moment, the idea of casting off, getting the hell away from this little pisswater seemed the best choice. It passed, and I prayed Camor guide me, or at least keep a knife out of my kidneys, as I sprinted for the inn.

  Luck was with me, and I found a loose window leading to the basement. I opened it with a grunt, falling in amid a clatter of bottles, sending wheels of cheese rolling across the floor. The smells of piss and alcohol assailed me, and I retched.

  "Oh, nice to see you too," Ferd said.

  I picked myself up.

  "How'd the service go?" he asked, and tore a hunk of foul-smelling cheese from its wheel.

  "Piss-poor."

  He raised a dirty bottle of beer. "Welcome to bed down here for the night. Mind Ton and Jer though."

  "Who are they?"

  "My rats."

  I shuddered and tried to find a nice quiet corner, away from the stink, and think.

  Nailed, Screwed, I'm Still Stuck to A Fuckin' Tree

  Life taught me there are two kinds of drunks. The lover or the fighter. The fighter thinks everyone's out to get them, thinks they're ten feet tall and sword-proof. They'll take any slight as an opportunity to prove themselves, their flaws magnified by the alcohol until they needed to prove that voice at the back of their brain wrong. The other, the lover, is convinced their charisma is an all-powerful force, akin to that of a lodestone, drawing everyone near to them. Men want to be them, women want them, and if you just listen—listen—they'll tell you why.

  Thankfully, the man I shared the basement with was a rare third type—the sleeper. Couldn't wake the man if I dropped a small anvil on his balls. On the occasions he was awake enough to move around, he disappeared for small amounts of time, and rarely spoke, as if he'd written me off as another rum-soaked delusion.

  On the first day down, I heard the hammering. Most people hear hammering, they think 'oh, someone's building a house, maybe making a nice fence for the garden'. However, life made me not most people, and my first thought was 'oh, they're nailing my friends to a tree'.

  When I asked Ferd, he disappeared without a word, leaving me to work on the bottle of wine I'd been nursing, and curse the gods that my cigars were upstairs. When he returned, it was with miserable news.

  "Yep, nailed 'em to a tree."

  Nenn one, universe zero, I suppose? On the upside, I only needed to wait. I hoped they didn't set fire to the boat, and said as much to Ferd. He chuckled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "They tried. Ran away screaming."

  I tried to think of what could possibly be so frightening about our boat.

  "What?"

  "Yeah, shit their pants the second they got within five feet."

  "Wow."

  "Just uncontrollable."

  "That's..."

  "Looked like someone had filled their pants with pudding."

  "Okay..."

  "Looked like they'd had a bag of stew in their pockets and it exploded."

  "Ugh."

  "They were building log cabins, feeding the seagulls, giving birth to otters, hanging rats, hatching brown trout, making gravy, riding centaurs, ARSEPLOSIONS!"

  At that last, he fell silent. I peeked over to see he had passed out. I breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into my little nest. I had to give it to Lux. She had a knack with curses. One less worry on my mind, I relaxed into the bottle.

  ***

  Three days in a stinking cellar is enough. I don't know how I managed to avoid the innkeeper, or Frollo's roving patrols. On the third day, he came tumbling through the window, bursting with news.

  "They took your friends down. Frollo's in the square. Got 'em piled up like cordwood."

  As if on cue, the priest's voice echoed through the village.

  "Woman. I do not know your name, but I know your friends have perished. I am offering amnesty. Show yourself to me in contrition, and I shall spare their bodies the flame. You may collect them and be on your way."

  "It's a trap," Ferd said.

  "Of course it is," I replied, and strapped on my blades.

  I didn't know if my friends could come back from flame. Resurrection is a tricky thing. Trickier if you've been reduced to ash, I imagine. I readied myself and exited the inn like a lady, instead of a raccoon. Frollo stood in the town square, a torch in hand. His under priests arrayed themselves around him like an honor guard. Townsfolk crowded in front, dressed in their neat clothing. Surely the gods wouldn’t begrudge them a little bloodlust? They were good, clean churchgoing folk, after all. Behind him, Cord, Lux, and Rek lay on biers of wood. I opened my arms.

  Frollo smiled. "I am glad you have seen the light."

  He motioned to his men, and they surrounded me, taking my weapons and binding my arms. One of the big ones led me to a pole that stood nearby, slipping a loop from the ropes over a hook there, exposing my back. The crowd’s expectant silence broke into an excited murmur, and the part of my brain not anticipating pain hoped I’d have the chance to teach at least one of them a lesson about blind faith. I heard the sound of a whip loosened, and part of me clenched.

  Okay, it was my ass.

  The lash came down. I felt the strike as heat at first, then a searing pain that burned its way across my nerves. It brought tears to my eyes, and I clenched my jaw as it came down again. I screamed, and braced myself for the next lash. Already my sight grew dim. A retching cough stopped the lash from falling, and I recognized Cord's voice as he rasped ou
t a command.

  "Motherfucker, put it down."

  Cord's voice was like ice water. The crowd gasped and took an involuntary step back. Their murmuring, so like starlings at first, had shifted and now they edged toward the octave of a panicked cat. I twisted to look, and saw Frollo and the other priests staring open-mouthed, the whip forgotten. Cord climbed down and straightened his clothing, ran a hand through his hair. He gestured to me.

  "Let her go."

  They moved quickly, unbinding me, restoring my belongings. Cord shot me a wink, then turned, raising his hands dramatically. Lux and Rek rose from their biers, and another gasp went up. Several in the crowd cried out to Oros, and others made signs and wards against evil. The back rows broke and ran for their homes.

  "Oros' chosen!" Frollo said, and dropped to his knees. "My lord, can you forgive us?"

  Cord smirked. "I can think of ways for you to make it up to me."

  The change had come sudden enough that I didn’t know if Frollo played to the crowd, or if we’d missed some piece of lore. I thought back to the story of Qoth, and wondered how deeply the theme of resurrection ran through their beliefs.

  Rek made his way to me, inspecting my wounds. He gestured to Lux, who grimaced, then passed a hand over them. I winced as the flesh knit itself back together, muscle reattaching, the bleeding slowing and then stopping. I hugged her out of gratitude. She stiffened, then relaxed into it.

  "You're welcome," she whispered.

  I turned back to the others. Cord still stood above the prostrate Frollo.

  "Lux?" he said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Make this guy regret killing us. But not to death."