The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  His humanity had been scooped out of him piece by piece by the demands made by his former masters. His own greed concluded the process. He wasn’t a man born with a surfeit of kindness anyway. Perhaps he could be no other way, and his path in life was inevitable, but Filden wasn’t introspective enough to think about all of that. Questions that would have kept a more moral man awake all night went unasked.

  Filden slept very well.

  And so, for reasons that he almost grasped but never would, he found himself pursuing murder yet again, many years after he thought he would be done with it.

  Guider Jolyon had been smart enough to leave the dig in Farthia, but not smart enough to go very far away. Nor was he as holy as his office suggested. Filden followed him from a low-class tavern in the Locksides, down the stepped streets that led eventually toward the sucking mud of the foreshore. In the warren of warehouses and boarding houses crowding the cliffs there were many brothels. The order of business for most sailors coming into Karsa city was drink, sex, and sleep, in that order. Other men in need of discretion took advantage of the facilities that sprang up to service those needs.

  A series of unseasonably high tides had spurred a flurry of trading, and the port was crowded. Filden followed Jolyon at a distance, but without undue care. He behaved as if he had business in the thronging quays of Karsa’s port. Skipping from shadow to shadow was the easiest way for a man to be noticed. He’d exchanged his gold and green suit of clothes for a merchant’s garb, and he walked with purpose. The outfit was deliberately plain. He wore no obvious indicators to show what he might trade in to lessen the chances someone might stop him to attempt a deal. Not that anyone would, one stern look from the ex-soldier had most men hurrying on their way. No one noticed him. As a precaution, he trusted to the glamours of a Tyn-made amulet to blur the memories of those who did. Such was his skill that he rarely needed to call upon the magic.

  Jolyon was similarly disguised. Filden admired his careful skirting of the Guider’s Law. His robes were covered with a waxed cloak; the distinctive haircut of his order hidden under a hat. It was forbidden for a Guider to hide their calling. Dying unghosted was the greatest fear of most Ruthnians, and the Guider’s oath was strenuously enforced. They were required to act immediately in the case of sudden death, and so Jolyon had been careful to wear clothes suited to the weather that just happened to conceal what he was while he headed to his appointment.

  Jolyon’s hypocrisy made the assassination easier for Filden.

  There was a rickety building jammed between a chandlers and a wine warehouse down the street, narrow as the truth and tall as a lie. It had no signage describing its trade, but it obvious it rented out flesh by the hour.

  The Guider was almost as skilled at hiding himself as Filden. He walked toward the brothel without looking like he was heading for it, turning at an abrupt right angle and stepping neatly inside. Had Filden been less focussed, he could well have missed that. He smiled at the Guider’s cunning.

  Filden waited a few minutes nearby. He bought a loaf of bread and ate it leaning against a wall in the watery sun. He was hungry anyway.

  A shower of rain pelted him briefly. The warm streets steamed after it ended. When enough time had passed for the Guider to have chosen a consort for the afternoon, Filden crossed the street and went through the brothel’s open door.

  A bead curtain hid a small waiting room that smelled of sweat and frustrated sailors. A fat woman sat on a stool behind a scuffed counter which had once been painted gold. There was one other man in there, an Ishamalani bosun, by his dress. Filden gave him a level stare. The man looked away.

  “Good day, goodfellow,” said the fat woman. Her face was as badly painted as her furniture. Cracked powder failed to hide old sores.

  “I am no nobleman,” he said.

  “You’re whatever you pay us to treat you as in here, my love. What is your passion? We’ve got everything here. Holes for every taste.” She smirked lasciviously.

  “I don’t like whores,” Filden said. He leaned over the counter, the woman flinched as his face came close to hers. “The Guider, where is he?” he whispered, too quietly for the sailor to hear.

  “There ain’t none of the Dead God’s quarter in here.”

  Filden drew back. He pulled out a silver thaler piece from the pocket sewn inside his coat, and pushed it deliberately across the counter. It scraped on the wood.

  “This one is for your silence,” he said, pulling back his coat enough so that she saw the brace of pistols at his right hip. He took out a second coin and pushed it after the first. “This one is for you. Now where is he?”

  She licked her lips. Fear and greed tipped the scales. “Upstairs, third door on the left.”

  The sailor was making a show of not listening, which meant he had heard. The amulet should cloud his mind sufficiently to make identification impossible. Filden fixed the man’s face in his mind in case he needed to deal with him later. The looks Filden gave the house madame and sailor carried enough threat to silence both. Filden doubted the man would talk, the Ishmalani were close-mouthed, doubly so when breaching their religious rule. She was more of a risk. Chances were she’d call the watch anyway, seeking to profit as much as possible from a murder she couldn’t stop.

  He had to be quick. He drew his first pistol as he walked up the stairs. The building was badly built and the treads creaked underfoot. Sunlight shafted through gaps in the walls. The sounds of desultory lovemaking came from a couple of the rooms, otherwise the stuffy landing at the top was quiet, the hubbub of the docks muted. Water from the a leak plinking into a chamber pot at the side of the landing was the loudest sound of all.

  He pressed his ear to the door. Talk came through the boards, a man and a woman’s voices. He grasped the handle lightly and pushed it open. The small room behind had a window of cracked panes, letting onto the street outside and lighting the room with a deceptively romantic glow.

  The Guider was speaking.

  “He died. He put his hand on that machine and he died. I’ve always tried to do the right thing. I am pledged to my cause, truly, and that was not right. Zeruvias was no provincial ghost talker, and he’s dead! If Vand finds me—”

  The whore saw Filden first. Her squeak had the Guider turn and leap from the bed. He stood naked in front of the assassin, holding out his hands and hunched a little in a pleading, submissive posture Filden had seen dozens of times. Jolyon was contemptible in his nakedness.

  “Wait!” said Jolyon.

  A magister’s mark carved in the butt of Filden’s gun flared as he shot the Guider in the head. Magic swallowed the sound of discharge. The silenced round sprayed the Guider’s brains out over the window and the room turned red.

  Filden swivelled on the spot, drawing his second ironlock pistol on the girl. She was young, late teens. Her lips were cracked and her arms covered in fingertip bruises and puncture marks. She whimpered and pulled the sheet up to cover herself. Filden wrenched it away on a whim, to better see her.

  “He told you what he saw in the Barrens.”

  “He told me nothing goodman!”

  Her eyes were wide but somewhat dead. The emotion she showed was a facsimile of fear, as put on as her charade of love. He doubted she could feel much of anything. Moonflower addiction was common enough among whores like her.

  “He told me nothing at all,” she lied. “He’s a regular client, comes here all the time, talks me half to death about the dead. He thinks I’m his girlfriend. It’s sad.”

  “No,” said Filden. He held up a single finger in admonishment. “No. I heard him speaking.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “That is unfortunate for you.”

  The girl sank into the pillow behind her. She seemed resigned more than scared. Filden raised his gun. He was probably doing her a favour.

  The girl’s life was cut short by another silenced shot.

  Filden shut the door gently behind him and headed for the rear of t
he establishment. There was a back entrance, but he favoured a rotting window on the landing that opened onto the sloping roof of the neighbouring warehouse. He wrenched it open, wriggled through, and was away over the tiles.

  There were whistles and running feet coming from the street as he lowered himself into an alley a hundred yards from the brothel. He rejoined the main road, where he blended into the crowd without much fear of arrest. There were hundreds of murders every year in the Locksides, and Filden, despite being responsible for more than his fair share, had never been caught.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Temple of the Brass God

  DAYS PASSED WITHOUT incident in the camp of the modalmen. They greeted every sunrise with song, then danced away to the moot. Rel accompanied them a few more times, but his inability to understand their language discouraged him. When he realised no one objected to his remaining in camp he stopped going, glad for a respite from the giants.

  While the modalmen were at their debates, Rel explored the barren valley. There were signs of building foundations on the banks toward the mountain, and the eroded remains of an ancient jetty protruding into the dry lake. One day he followed the lake as far as he could. At the far end the bed was broken into a series of shallow steps that lifted toward the mountain. Beyond this anomaly was the dry course of the river that had fed the lake. He followed it, and the mystery of the lake grew more perplexing. The river ended abruptly at a wall of rock where the cliffs of the mountain rose from the ground.

  Puzzled as to how this could have happened, Rel returned to the Gulu Thek camp and checked on Aramaz before going back to Shkarauthir’s hearth. There he sat staring into the fire until the king returned. Long clouds streamed over the mountain peaks, obscuring more than half the sky. Without the sun, the high desert was chilly, and Rel shivered under his blanket. Maybe the mountains had been made after the lake. He could recall no legend that told of such things, and as used to works of magic as he was, Rel found the creation of a mountain range in that manner incredible.

  He agonised about breaking out his countrymen from the cages, but he could see no way. His own position was perilous. Shkarauthir allowed him his explorations, but had forbidden him from wandering into the man-eaters’ camps. Fearing his actions would lead to a direct confrontation between Shkarauthir and Brauctha, and dismayed at his inability to help, Rel avoided returning to the cages, and occupied his mind with questions of geography.

  In the evenings the modalmen left the moot subdued. They did not dance or sing, and few of them spoke. The first day Rel had seen this he assumed some awful thing to have occurred. When it happened a second time, he realised it was simply another manifestation of their peculiar ways.

  The giants came back exhausted from the moot, and quietly made their meals. Sometimes Drauthek would speak with him, and they would exchange stories as best they could. Rel worked to improve Drauthek’s Maceriyan, and from the modalman Rel learned a little more of their language.

  Four nights after their arrival, Drauthek was trying to teach Rel how to describe past events in their tongue, his efforts causing Drauthek no end of hilarity, when a heavy hand touched the shoulder of the modalman, and he got up and left without a word. A serious-faced Shkarauthir took Drauthek’s place at Rel’s side.

  “The moot goes badly,” Shkarauthir said. The firelight blended with the light moving in his whorled skin. Shkarauthir’s deep, animal smell enveloped Rel. Not unpleasant, but strong as a bull-dracon’s odour during musth.

  Shkarauthir picked up a piece of dung and tossed it onto the fire.

  “Those who despise your kind see no value in your people as warriors. Even those who are favourably disposed toward you do not think an army of yours could best a horde like this. For the last hundred years, at the command of our god, we have largely maintained a peace. That is changing. The iron ones come to make war. The man-eaters say you will side with them as many did the last time, or get in our way. They say strike now, and be strong for the coming fight against our enemy. I say you lesser men are good warriors, with many new machines. That you will kill many of us before we kill all of you, and we shall be weakened. That way, the iron Draathis win.”

  “Doesn’t he realise how many people there are in the Kingdoms? This is a large horde, but we have cannon and many, many guns. Any war between us would cost the Kingdoms dearly, but you would be destroyed.”

  “This is so,” agreed Shkarauthir. “I have said all of this. Those of my opinion cannot convince Brauctha’s followers that you will join us gladly, and there are smaller clans between ours and the man-eaters who fear your betrayal even if you open your arms in friendship. They see no choice but to fight.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” said Rel. He looked into the fire.

  “There is something,” said Shkarauthir. “It is why I have come to speak with you.” He looked at the mountainside. “Up there, in the cliff, is a cave. Within is a temple from the long ago times. Should a worthy man go to it, the Brass God will speak with them.”

  “The statue is not the god?”

  “It is a statue,” said Shkarauthir. He looked at Rel seriously. “You think we are savages, creatures without understanding?” He was offended. “To us, you Forgetful are the savages.” He shrugged. “This is the way men are, always full of suspicion of each other. We are not how you think we are. We know many things you do not. The Brass God dwells in the mountain. His effigy allows him to see all we do in the moot. He will not come down until the decision is made, and the time is right. To this moot, I think he might not come at all.”

  “Because of Brauctha.”

  Shkarauthir nodded. “Because of Brauctha. Much of his talking at the moot has been blasphemous. He says the Brass God has lost his way. The god will not come to advise unbelievers, and this makes it easier for Brauctha to deny his power.” Shkarauthir’s clan patterns gleamed. He looked thoughtfully down at Rel. “You are fated, small one. There is magic in you. I can smell it. In the Y Dvar armies in the old days, mages of your kind fought by our side. You are like them. You have power of your own.”

  Rel hunkered deeper into his blanket. “I have no power. I am a soldier. I’m a good shot. That’s about it.”

  “Then your talents must be hidden,” said Shkarauthir. “My kind have no ability to manipulate the force of Will. We have no mages, but we have an affinity for magic. We can feel it, it flows in us, in our marks,” he patted his arm. “It allows us to run the Road of Fire. I see it in you, as clearly as my own clan patterns. Tell me truthfully, are there ones strong with magic in your family?”

  Rel stared into the flames. There was Aarin, there was Guis. There was their mother, or so he suspected. Her addiction to moonflower was telling, and his brothers’ abilities had to come from somewhere. He didn’t like to talk about their mage taint. Most of the time he ignored it. Aarin was in command of his senses, but madness had seeped from their mother’s veins into Guis. He nodded, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

  “I thought so,” said Shkarauthir. “You are here for a reason, small one. The Brass God only reveals himself to those that are worthy, but fate has put you here. You are worthy. He will speak with you, I am sure.”

  “You want me to go and speak with your god?”

  “I do. And I want you to do whatever he tells you to,” said Shkarauthir. “And I want you to get him to come down off his mountain, before Brauctha makes good on his threats and brings disaster on all our clans.” He stood. “Now. More lessons from Drauthek. If you could speak our tongue, things would go easier.”

  “THIS WAY, LITTLE Rel,” said Drauthek. He pointed at the rough trail winding up the fault. What appeared as a clean line from the valley floor was an unstable crack cluttered with stone blocks and floored with gritty sand that rolled under their feet. The trail was forced to swerve around these obstacles accordingly. If it had been clear the fault would have been broad enough to carry a highway. In practise, the various hazards left
only enough room for a goat track. Smooth rock dropped off to their left thousands of feet to the valley floor. The height made Rel’s head spin. The cliff above was set back from the path, but in many places it leaned out, half covering it over. The weight of a mountain was supported by nothing, ready to drop and squash them.

  “You are sure it is safe?” asked Rel. He was discovering a new fear of heights, and of being crushed.

  “Path safe.” Drauthek spat over the edge of the drop. “Cave not safe.”

  “Great,” said Rel.

  Drauthek grinned at him. “You want talk with Brass God, you talk with him this way. There no other way. You go in cave, go temple. There he talk.”

  “It was only a comment,” grumbled Rel.

  “Huh?”

  “An idea, a thought, a picture in my head given voice. A joke to control my fear! A comment.”

  “No fear. Keep good picture in head. My picture is little Rel speak with god, god come down and put an end to Brauctha’s shouting. Good picture, so when Shkarauthir tell Drauthek, ‘Go help little Kingdoms Rel,’ Drauthek go help.”

  The climb was steep, and Rel’s skin was slick with sweat. Once the sun was up the desert warmed, though if Rel stopped moving he started to shiver. Hot sun, cold air, like spring in the isles, only more extreme. It was a recipe for catching a chill. He scrambled over a cube of rock. A socket in the cliff above showed from where it had fallen.

  “You know, I thought the god was in the moot place.”

  When Drauthek laughed he snorted like a dog. “That not god, that just statue. God is in the mountains, god is in heart, in head. You find him here, in old place.”

  “That’s what Shkarauthir said. I understand why you people think I am ignorant.”

  Drauthek stuck out his lip. “You know nothing. Is true.”

  Rel looked ahead. The trail went on as far as he could see, leading steeply upward. “How long until we get there?” he said.

  Drauthek managed to shrug with all four of his shoulders. Modalman anatomy was bizarre, the uppermost parts of a man’s torso doubled and stacked. It shouldn’t have functioned. Somehow it did. Each of Drauthek’s arms was as thick through as Rel’s chest. Heavy gold armlets circled his biceps. He had taken his sword with him, a weapon so big the modalman needed two hands to wield it. It was taller than Rel, and as wide as Drauthek’s forearms. There was nothing in the mountain close by that necessitated such a large weapon; he had admitted he carried it to protect Rel from the other modalmen. Some of the looks Rel had received on their way through the camp had been hungry.