Schnitter removed the gauze covering her face last, exposing a grinning mouth devoid of teeth. She stuck her tongue out at Wichtig. It was trimmed it to a nub, leaving just enough to speak coherently. Her eyebrows and hair looked to have been yanked out by the fistful, the exposed skin inflamed. Her eyes were beautiful, the most amazing dark brown.
And then he saw the gaping and wheezing pit where her nose should have been. Mucus leaked from the hole.
That explains the voice, he thought numbly. His mind stumbled, trying to fit the pieces together. Anywhere she hadn’t maimed herself, she was flawless. If she’ll do that to herself… He shied from finishing the thought. Unable to look away from the heart-shaped face, Wichtig realized what he saw.
“You were beautiful,” he said. “Why?”
The Körperidentität, ignoring his question, turned to examine the table of utensils. Wichtig saw her ears too were cut away leaving lumpen scars in the side of her head. People hacked Bedeckt’s ears off while trying to remove his huge wooden chunk of a skull, and still his looked better than this.
Finally, she shrugged. Snot leaked from her gaping sinus cavity. “What is beauty?” she asked. “What is beauty worth?”
The questions were so unfathomably stupid, Wichtig was left stunned. He blinked at the ruin of her face, seeing hints of what she had been. “It’s everything.”
“No, my pretty,” she said, voice coming from the pit of her nose as much as it did her mouth. “I’ll show you the truth.” Selecting a set of what looked like garden shears, Schnitter shuffled around Wichtig to stand at his feet. “Are you a spy?” she asked.
“No.”
She rolled his smallest toe between her fingers and he tried to clench his feet into fists.
Gripping the toe, Schnitter asked, “What does this toe do?”
This isn’t happening. Morgen, stop sticking about! Come and rescue your First Sword! “It plays an essential role in fine balance,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Balance, my pretty?” She nestled the toe between the cold blades of the shears and applied enough pressure to trap it there. “That only matters if you have legs.”
“I’m a spy,” said Wichtig.
“I know. For the Geborene god?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
She watched him, staring up the length of his body, ignoring its physical perfection. “Good,” she said.
“So no need for torture, right?”
Schnitter sniffed, and wiped at her leaking sinuses with a bare arm leaving a smear of mucus and pus. “This pointless toe offends me.”
“How about we leave the useless toe where it—”
Schnitter clipped the toe off. Even missing fingers, Wichtig was surprised by her strength. And then a raging inferno of pain washed away all thought. Wichtig screamed, thrashed about as much as his bonds allowed and howled insults, threats, and promises at the mad woman.
She waited patiently until he wound down and lay panting and gasping, face spattered in spittle.
“I’m going to kill you,” he promised.
“With what?” she asked.
Not wanting to suggest her next target, the Swordsman chose to remain quiet.
Schnitter held aloft his toe, again rolling it between her remaining fingers. “See how ugly this little thing is?” she asked.
“I want it back!”
“Not for long,” she said. “Soon you won’t even miss it.”
Shuffling back to her table of toys, she selected a steel bowl and dropped the toe within. “Arschloch will enjoy this.”
Wichtig’s foot screamed agony, sent pulses of heat up his leg. The foot felt hot and swollen. “Who?”
“My dog.”
“Your dog?” he screamed. “I’ll kill you and your rutting dog you…you…you gods-damned dog sticker.”
Schnitter offered a look of surprised hurt. “That’s not nice. What has Arschloch ever done to you?”
“Aside from eating my sticking toes?”
Frowning into the bowl, she collected a fistful of gauze, and shuffled back to Wichtig’s feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure it’s a very nice dog.”
She ignored him and wrapped his foot. When finished, she struggled back into her gauzy clothes and left him alone, bound tight to a stone table.
Wichtig struggled with renewed vigour, pressing himself against the thick leather binding him to the table. There was no give and he remained helpless.
“I’m sorry,” he screamed. “I’m so sorry!”
Silence answered.
“Don’t optimize me. I like me. What’s left. I can make you happy,” he promised.
Silence.
“What is beauty worth?” he called out, his voice ringing off the stone walls. “I get it now,” he lied. “I understand.” He swallowed, his mind a blur of panicked thought. “Even though you’re—” No, that wasn’t right. “Even after what you’ve done to yourself—” No, that wasn’t quite right either. “After all you’ve optimized,” he said, liking the sound. “You’re still beautiful. I see it now.”
The door swung open and Schnitter returned. The bowl, still clutched in her partial fist, was empty. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You have so many useless bits.” After stripping back to her naked state she limped to the table and selected a saw, nodding appreciatively at its glinting beauty. “The right tool for the job,” she said. Shuffling closer to stand at the table, she examined him with the eye of a carpenter deciding what to cut away to expose the statue hidden in the wood.
“All the beauty is already on the outside,” said Wichtig. “I’m nothing inside.”
“Nonsense.” She eyed his manhood, shrunken with fear. “No use for that.”
“You could have uses,” Wichtig promised, doing his best to leer lustfully at the ruin of her face.
“No,” said Schnitter. “I could not.” She glanced meaningfully down and Wichtig was glad he couldn’t see whatever was between her legs, hidden by the edge of the table. “You decide,” she said. “Lips, ears, penis, or balls?”
“Go to hell.”
She laughed, prodding his manhood with the flat of the saw’s blade. His balls did their best to crawl up into his belly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.
“Please,” he said. Please keep talking. Talking is not sawing. Talking is good. Just keep talking. Anything was better than discussing what she’d saw off next. Gods, which would he chose? He’d be hideously ugly without his lips, and losing his ears wouldn’t be much better. He shuddered at the thought of looking like Bedeckt. Without your balls, it doesn’t much matter what you look like. Maybe Morgen could heal him. If he got out of this alive, Morgen would make him whole again. Everything is fine, he told himself. Nothing to worry about.
For once, he didn’t believe himself.
“We’re already in hell,” Schnitter said as if sharing some deep truth. “Look around you. The world responds to our desires, but whose desire does it respond to most strongly? The mad. The deranged. Why are the beliefs of the sane worth so little? Why can I bend reality but those stupid guards can’t?”
“Hacking someone’s toes off hardly constitutes bending reality,” said Wichtig. “Any idiot can do that.”
She scowled, head tilting to one side. Something leaked from her gaping sinus pit. “Like a child, you sway back and forth between promises and threats.” Dragging the wooden lump of her leg behind her, she stood at Wichtig’s side. Tapping his smallest finger with the saw she said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m a Swordsman,” said Wichtig, pleading. “I need that for a good grip.”
“Fingers are only of use to those with arms.” She gripped the finger, prying it out from the others. “Let’s start here.”
“Let’s not.”
Wichtig twitched and screamed as she sawed his finger off. After holding it aloft for examination, she tossed into th
e bowl.
Terrified, Wichtig retreated into sarcasm. “Guess I won’t need two swords any more.” His life, everything he was and ever could be, drained from the wound in his hand. If she took his ability to hold a sword, she took everything. What was he without that? Nothing. That’s all I’ve ever had. Severing his fingers killed Wichtig more effectively than if she drove a knife into his heart. Or sawed off all his limbs.
Carved tongue jutting between pink and ragged gums in a look of rapt concentration, Schnitter sawed off the next finger. Even as he screamed Wichtig thanked the gods she took another finger from the same hand rather than starting on the other.
When finished, she tossed it into the waiting bowl and stood panting, gasping for air.
She’s tired. Sawing through bone isn’t easy. She’ll need a break. Wichtig held his breath. His left hand was soaked in blood from the severed fingers. If she left him alone, with blood as a lubricant, he might work free of his bonds.
“That was difficult,” she admitted.
Thank gods.
“Something easier this time,” she said.
“No.”
Then she hacked off his left ear and tossed it into the bowl.
“Arschloch will eat well tonight,” she said. “But she needs something soft.” Schnitter grinned gums at Wichtig and leaned in to grip his manhood in strong fingers. “What shall we do about this useless thing?” She squeezed hard and Wichtig screamed. Lifting the saw, she licked her lips with hewn remnants of tongue, staring as if entranced.
Wichtig fainted.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Never tell a friend what you would conceal from an enemy.
—Basamortuan Proverb
Stehlen slid out from under Lebendig’s arm like a Kleptic departing the scene of a crime. Once in the hall, she picked a direction at random and wandered. She had no idea where Wichtig was but knew she’d find him. If she wandered lost long enough to become annoyed, she’d start killing people until someone told her where the idiot was.
Bedeckt would spend days planning this and still get lost.
She couldn’t decide which she preferred, finding Wichtig quickly and easily, or after much bloody mayhem. Shrugging the thought aside as irrelevant, she picked a corner at random and found herself staring down a long set of stairs disappearing into the tower’s basement.
Too easy. She contemplated ignoring them, but that was stupid and she preferred to leave stupidity to the men.
Stehlen descended, relying on her nose and ears to warn her of trouble. The stairs ended in a long cobwebbed passageway lined with iron-studded doors. A lit lantern hung from a hook by the last door. Below the lantern lay a massive hound, wrapped thick in muscle.
This was definitely the kind of place she’d keep a Swordsman.
The hound raised its muzzle, iron grey and painted red with blood. Sharp eyes searched the hall. Ears perked for sound, nostrils flared as it sought to catch the scent of whatever woke it. Stehlen watched the beast until it grunted and once again lay its massive head upon its front paws. She’d seen bears with smaller skulls than this dog.
Sliding a knife from its hidden place, Stehlen approached the animal. She never understood why people insisted on using animals as guards. The beasts only noticed important things. Since there wasn’t a Kleptic alive who thought they were worth of anything, and belief defined reality, guard dogs inevitably failed to notice them. The animals were only useful for keeping out the kind of people who were unlikely to want to steal from you.
Stehlen stood over the hound. It really was a fine beast, the perfect killing machine. Well, perfect for killing rabbits and the like. Probably fairly effective against Swordsmen too. Up close she saw the criss-cross of scars hidden beneath thick fur once black and now going to grey with age. An old killer, this one. It had seen many battles and survived, much like Stehlen. She felt a warm camaraderie for the hound and wanted to stroke it behind the ears. She wanted to wrap her arms around it in a tight hug.
She killed it instead.
Knowing it was not locked, Stehlen pushed the door open and stepped over the dog’s corpse. The room beyond was a stone cell lit with the slagged remains of a dozen candles jammed into empty wine bottles. A naked woman stood with her back to Stehlen, clucking quietly to the World’s Greatest Moron who lay, unconscious, strapped to a stone table. Another table—this one carved wood—sat against the far wall, lined in neatly arranged implements of torture. This woman shared some of the Geborene god’s obsessions with neatness.
The room reeked of fear and blood, a deep, back of the throat cloying stench.
Stehlen studied the naked woman, noting the amputated leg and missing fingers. The remaining foot sported only the largest toe, the rest were cut away. Even the woman’s hips seemed somehow shaved down.
Körperidentität. There weren’t many breeds of Geisteskranken that disgusted Stehlen, but this was one. Even Befallen, with their infestations of parasites and bugs crawling under their skin, were preferable to this self-abuse. She understood the desire for punishment, knew it all too well, but abusing one’s self instead of earning it was cheating.
Stehlen glanced past the woman and noted one of Wichtig’s feet was bandaged as was his left hand. His left ear was cut away.
He always did want to be more like Bedeckt.
The woman lifted a saw and Stehlen realized she had a rather firm grip on Wichtig’s cock.
Stehlen decided there were limits as to what other people were allowed to do to her friends. The only person allowed to carve Wichtig up was Stehlen. This was exactly the kind of theft that angered her most.
“Leave that,” Stehlen said.
Releasing Wichtig, the woman turned. Her chest was a mass of ill-healed scar tissue. A dark and gaping pit, sniffing and snivelling in wet slurps, was all that remained of her nose. The woman—what remained of her—looked calm, unafraid.
“You are?” asked the Körperidentität.
“No one steals from me,” said Stehlen, ignoring the query.
“He’s yours?”
Interesting question, Stehlen decided. Yes, he is mine. Bedeckt too. She would do as she chose with them. She examined the woman, naked and ruined and reeking of infection run riot, and decided she didn’t like her. And she definitely didn’t like the damage done to Wichtig’s beautiful body. “Everything is mine. Just a question of whether I’ve taken it yet.”
“Kleptic,” spat the woman.
“Körperidentität,” Stehlen spat back.
The woman lifted her saw, showing Stehlen the bright edge stained red with Wichtig’s blood. “You have so many useless appendages,” she said, hobbling closer. “Let me take them from you. Let me optimize your mortal coil.”
Stehlen grinned yellow teeth and the woman blanched. “I know you, Körperidentität.” Her own knives hung loose in her hands, thirsty. “I see so much you no longer need.” Stehlen slid closer. “I know you want to be rid of them. They’re a curse.”
The Körperidentität hesitated, licking her lips, eyes wet with tears of longing.
Stehlen took the saw from the woman and examined the blade. Finding it wanting, she tossed it aside. “Your fear holds you back. Your fear betrays you. Let me make you what you want to be.”
“I have to feed Arschloch first,” said the woman.
“The dog? I’ve already carved that unnecessary flesh from your life.”
Crying, the Körperidentität leaned her face into what remained of her hands. Slim shoulders shook as she sucked wet sobs of air into her sinus cavity.
Stehlen watched desire and fear do battle. “What is it the doctors always say?” she asked. “Oh, yes. ‘This is going to hurt.’”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The vast majority of the populace is completely sane and unable to alter reality. At least on their own. Bring a crowd together and convince them of something (through advertising, religion, politics, economics, or any other popular mass delusion) and they become—as a gro
up—capable of defining their reality. The sane are not powerless, far from it. In fact, the sane define most of this reality. Almost anywhere you go things fall down, night follows day, politics is real and important, and there’s somewhere to go after you die. Almost.
The sane are even capable of countering, or nullifying, the beliefs of the deranged.
—Vorstellung - Natural Philosopher
With Zukunft pushing on Bedeckt’s arse with all her strength, he was barely able to mount his horse. Arsehole seemed none too pleased at his return and nickered his complaint, rolling huge eyes to glare at him.
“I don’t like it either,” Bedeckt told the beast.
He waited, swaying in the saddle, as Zukunft collected what food she found in the tavern. The rain let up, but her clothing still clung seductively to every curve and swell.
Fool. Bedeckt turned Arsehole south west, pointing the horse in the direction of the bridge at the Gottlos-Selbsthass border. The town remained quiet as they rode out, the horses plodding through the deep shite and mud. If people watched from windows, Bedeckt didn’t see them. His world collapsed to a narrow tunnel of focus.
“It’s sad,” said Zukunft. “You’re obviously wounded and yet no one offers aid.”
“If you saw us from your bedroom window,” said Bedeckt, “would you venture into the rain?”
“Yes,” she said. “We always offered shelter to those in need. Father…” She sighed, closing her eyes as she bowed her head. “Anyway, you look scary, but you’re a big kitten.”
“That,” he said, “I am not.”
The sun rose, warming their backs as they rode. The leather straps, already wrapped tight, tightened as the leather dried. Bedeckt didn’t complain. They were all that kept him upright and in the saddle.
They rode west. To either side the trees glistened emerald green, sparkling with dew in the morning light. The world smelled alive and healthy, rich and deep. Birds danced circles around them, dashing near as if in competition to see who dared get closest to the riders. A rabbit, fur lightening to the white it would become once winter arrived, watched them, ears perked and twitching. Bedeckt imagined how good it would taste with mushrooms and onions, cooked in dark ale, with a dozen pints to wash it down. The rabbit wriggled its nose and disappeared into the brush.
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