The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  Qurion and the countess watched from atop the tower. Morian ran out onto the causeway, a white flag in his hand. He noticeably slowed as he caught full sight of the drowned man.

  “Come on Morian,” muttered Qurion, peering through the scope. “Keep yourself together. If he frightens you, you’ll be useless in the fight.”

  The dead man and the live man conversed a moment. Morian gestured back up at the castle. The emissary nodded. A moment later Morian turned back. The emissary of the drowned followed him.

  “Well then, goodlady,” said Qurion. “To business.”

  LUCINIA AND QURION awaited the emissary under the shelter of the outer gateway. The first gates were open, the inner gates closed. The smaller, outer bailey was pristine, cleared of junk, accreted soil dug away, the paving swept by the soldiers, and the walls cleaned of years of grime and whitewashed. The countess wished that there’d been time to get the pointing redone, not that she’d been able to see the walls for the last fifteen years.

  She would have been mortified to receive the emissary into the mess that was there before.

  The rain fell heavily. The hiss of it on the flat sea rising around the island reached as high as the castle.

  They waited in the damp silence. Sheets of falling water shortened the horizons. The land retreated into the gloom.

  Morian came out of the tunnel through the rock with parade ground dignity, though his face was as white as his flag, and his eyes so firmly held forward his expression resembled that of the dead man he escorted.

  The leaden click of the unliving dracon’s claws echoed up the passageway long before he emerged onto the low stone bridge leading to the gates. The emissary brought his mount to a halt before the countess and the captain.

  Morian stamped twice upon the bridge. “Sir, goodlady,” he said in a clear voice. “His Excellency the Emissary of the Drowned King.”

  “You are dismissed, infantryman,” said Qurion.

  The merest suggestion of relief quirked the edge of Morian’s eyes and he marched into the outer bailey.

  “Captain, goodlady,” said the emissary courteously. He bowed his head. Dried sinews snapped and crackled in his neck. His skin folded stiffly, threatening to crack. “Forgive me if I do not dismount. I find the movement awkward.”

  Leather bindings enwrapped his legs, fastening him to the dracon’s saddle. The dead animal stood as still as a child’s wooden toy, as a neglected museum exhibit.

  “I see that your government have taken the threats of my master seriously,” said the emissary. He looked up at the gatehouse towers, where several ironlocks were trained upon him. “You have repaired the fortifications. There are soldiers here where there have been none for years. See the benefits peace between our kingdoms brought. It is a pity the Three Houses did not take the rest of my master’s message to heart.” The rain wet his skin, making it glisten like seaweed. A melange of smells rose from his preserved corpse, heavy perfume failed to mask smoked meat. A chemical tang stung Lucinia’s eyes, but most prevalent was the potent smell of brine.

  “The message you delivered to the mission in Perus?” said Garten. “You chose to speak with Garten Kressind, and not the ambassador.”

  “It was his brother who caused the original offence,” said the emissary. He moved like a badly made puppet. His black lips, drawn back over shining white teeth, precluded any meaningful expression, but he managed to convey an urbane air. He spoke reasonably, and with good humour. “Who the message was delivered to is a detail. The message was delivered. Your government was slow in responding, and you gave an answer that was unsatisfactory. The Drowned King is offended.”

  “The ambassador died,” said Qurion. “The continent is in uproar. If you were to contact the Ministry of Karsa-in-the-Hundred here, your concerns would have been addressed more quickly.”

  “You say this, captain. But we have had our answer. You are the leader of an armed force stationed here, in the sea, the territory of my master. That is a further provocation.”

  “Mogawn is part of the sovereign territory of Karsa, and is the property of Lucinia Vertisa, Countess of Mogawn,” said Qurion. “We are a token force, here to oversee the renovation of this castle as part of a general programme of works to overhaul Karsa’s fortifications.”

  The emissary managed to stretch his brittle lips wider over his perfect teeth in a hideous smile.

  “You dissemble, captain. We both know this is at best a bending of the truth.”

  “Do you call me a liar, goodfellow?”

  “I intend no slur against your honour, captain. If it is a lie, it is not yours. You and I are but servants of greater powers. I will not insult you.”

  “You are willing to insult our nation,” said Lucinia. “That is an insult to me.”

  “Goodlady, you nation has insulted ours. I agree these are trying times, but the Drowned King is not the ruler of some minor kingdom to be fobbed off with excuses and insincere apologies, and he will certainly not accept a simple reiteration of arguments he has already stated he regards as non-valid. The Drowned King is the lord of the ocean. He has been trespassed against, and his reasonable complaints have been ignored. I will speak with the Minister of Karsa-in-the-Hundred, naturally. But only to say to him what I am telling you. The demands of the Drowned King have changed. He will uphold the peace, and forgive the insult of Trassan Kressind’s illegal crossing of the Drowning Sea in the Tiriatic Ocean, and the further insult of governmental inaction, upon the surrender of Mogawn Island and castle to his nation, to be garrisoned by his soldiers, and to be an inalienable part of his realm for all time.”

  “Never!” said Lucinia. “This island is my home.”

  “That is why I am asking you, goodlady. You could surrender this island and save a lot of bloodshed, for if it is not given freely, the Drowned King will declare war upon the isles and take it.”

  “It is impossible,” said Qurion. “You know that. She can’t. It is a part of the realm.”

  “I admit, this meeting is more of a formality than a genuine attempt at negotiation.” The emissary scratched his sunken nose in a ghoulish imitation of life. “But one can always hope that cooler heads will prevail, and sense will out. Alas, it is not to be. Perhaps my master will be more convincing.”

  “The Drowned King is coming here?” said Lucinia.

  “Why do you think your dashing young captain has been sent to you? Of course he is coming here. His superiors are well aware that the Drowned King covets this place. Before the king’s coming to us, it was the great bastion against our people. After his arrival, and the creation of our kingdom from so many disparate bands of lost souls, it was Karsa’s bulwark against the sea. It is a place of neither land nor water. He desires it. Give it to him.”

  “No,” said Lucinia.

  “So be it. Then I regret to inform you that the kingdom of the Drowned is now at war with the kingdom of Karsa.” The emissary bowed his head to the awful creak and pop of dry muscle. “Goodlady, it has been a pleasure to meet you, having missed you in Perus. I would speak with you further, for I hear many good things regarding your science. When this altercation is over, maybe we shall have the chance. I shall see to it that you are not harmed.

  “Captain, may victory go to the noblest cause.” He turned his dead mount around. “Now, if you will excuse me. The tide is rising, and although I can tolerate a little rain, the changes made to me to enable my presence on dry land mean I can no longer allow myself to get soaking wet. I am leaving. I trust you will not shoot me in the back. It would do you little good, in any case.”

  He headed over the drawbridge back into the tunnel. Qurion looked upward and shook his head. Guns were withdrawn from the parapets and through loops in the tower wall.

  “Sir!” shouted one of the men. “Out to sea! The drowned are here.”

  “They are here already?” said the countess.

  “They never expected us to hand it over. They’re cutting us off before I can get
a message out. Come on, we better get inside. I need to see what I am up against.” Qurion guided the countess back into the inner bailey. Men shouted orders. The inner gates opened. A squad of soldiers ran out, running a light cannon between them, and headed off into the tunnel. “Get the drawbridges shut and the gates closed!” shouted Qurion. “Let’s show these dead bastards we’re ready for them.”

  “Lieutenant! There’s more of them, west and north.”

  “Shit,” said Qurion. “Come on.”

  “You knew this would happen!”

  “It was likely,” he said. “We’re in a bit of a bind. We couldn’t have too many soldiers here, for fear of provoking the drowned. Too few, and they could walk right in. We just need to hold out a while until reinforcements arrive.”

  “How will you summon them.”

  “There are scouts on the foreshore. They’ll get the message back.”

  “The strangers Umi mentioned?”

  “Those are the ones. Idiots weren’t supposed to be seen. All this subterfuge is part of war, I’m afraid.”

  From the inner bailey, they went into the gatehouse and ran up the narrow stairs to the top of the tower to where the telescope was.

  Around the castle, men were moving.

  Qurion reached the telescope first. Lucinia waited as he panned the glass back and forth across the horizon. She decided to go to her observatory later, and train her own equipment upon her enemy.

  “Take a look,” said Qurion.

  The countess bent to the glass, and drew in a sharp, short breath.

  The drowned were rising from the ocean all around the castle. Armoured knights upon the backs of juvenile anguillons cut sharp wakes in the water. Ramshackle siege engines bobbed to the surface upon boiling waters, rocking to stillness on beds of floatstone. Waist deep in the shallows was the Drowned King himself, a behemoth composed of rotten corpses and shattered sea wrack. Qurion’s men shouted and pointed in consternation at the arrival of the giant king. The countess put a hand to her mouth.

  “Be calm,” said Qurion. “They’ll not take this place, I swear.”

  “Sir, I have a small group within range of the forward battery,” called one of Qurion’s men.

  “Give fire at will,” said Qurion. “Let’s show these dead bastards that this island belongs to Karsa!”

  Three cannon boomed, their discharge rocking the ancient stones of the castle.

  Mogawn knew war again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  A Temporary Farewell to an Ersatz God

  REL FACED THE Brass God across a carpet of woven gold. Qurunad’s soulless glass eyes stared unblinkingly back. The god sat immobile. Perhaps he was not present in his brass body, or perhaps the tics he had exhibited the first time they had met were part of his elaborate deception.

  No longer did the Brass God lurk in his citadel. A great pavilion had been erected at the centre of the lake bed. Its fabric was of metal, stronger than steel but lighter than air, and provided the same directionless illumination as the citadel walls. For six days the god had sat enthroned within, surrounded by machines like him, all bearing weapons. For several days the elders came and went, bringing him tribute and asking his counsel. They were all gone now. Rel had demanded that he speak with the god alone, and his request had been granted. When their king and their god commanded, the modalmen were eager to obey.

  “You needn’t look at me like that,” said the Brass God. “I saved you from certain death, gave you a power not known since Res Iapetus walked the earth, and made you a king.”

  “Is that what you did?” said Rel. “I’d say you tricked me, manipulated me into risking my life and afterlife, and killed the men I came here to save to suit your own agenda.”

  “There is truth in that,” admitted the Brass God. “But it is not the whole of the truth. You came here of your own free will. Every choice you made was your own. I would go so far as to say that the other options open to you were not optimal for your survival. You did what you had to do. You made the right choices. You will return to your kingdoms with a powerful asset against the enemy. Your civilisation will survive, if fortune smiles on you.”

  “And so will you.”

  “Naturally. I have been honest with you, Captain Kressind. Your kind were employed by mine as warriors, little better than slaves to begin with. I could have been far more ruthless in my use of you.”

  “Could you? I do not think I am the only one who had limited choices.”

  The Brass God tapped the arms of his throne. “That is true. Look at yourself.” He lifted his hand to gesture at Rel’s new raiment. Rel wore a full suit of armour of Morfaan steel, its plates inset with black panels bearing glowing script. He bore a sword that hummed with magic when it was drawn from its scabbard. It was broad bladed but lighter than a small sword. “These armaments are of ancient make. No mortal man has borne such tools of war for millennia. You are honoured.”

  “Honoured for a slave.”

  “Your kind began as slaves. At the end, you were anything but. I was sincere in my hopes for the future. We can build a new world together.”

  “How can I trust you, I—” Rel twitched. A sharp pain threaded itself through his innards. Agonising while it lasted, but quickly gone.

  “The pains will worsen. The armour will help.”

  “How long do I have?” Rel said.

  The Brass God was annoyed that Rel was not more grateful for his gifts. “I cannot say. The mageblood in you was weak. The machine had to change you greatly, and so your book of life has too many pages, parts of it are written upon one another, and it has become illegible in others. The book of life contains the spells, if you will, that are read by a mage who determines your fate, he—”

  “You are the most condescending person I have ever met in my entire life,” interrupted Rel. “Wizards reading my fate from material written in my flesh?”

  Qurunad made a mechanical noise. “Yes, well. The concepts are somewhat beyond you.”

  “Try,” said Rel. “Please.”

  “If you insist.” Qurunad thought a moment, and once again adopted the schoolmaster’s tone he favoured. “Your body is made up a variety of chemicals, some of which would be recognisable to your alchemists, if they were isolated. Four of these chemicals combine in a certain way within you. These are letters in what I refer to as the book of life. Their various combinations determines the synthesis and employment of other chemicals, which in turn influence the creation and catalysation of further chemicals. In essence, your body is a factory for chemicals, where everything it requires to function is created from the raw materials you ingest—your food and drink. All this meat,” he gestured at Rel, “is the product of chemical reaction upon chemical reaction. Where it becomes very complicated, instead of simply complicated, is the way in which the life spirit of the world interacts with said chemicals. It is the interface between the universal soul of all creation and the base chemical reactions of your organism that makes you you, rather than merely a very clever wet machine. Were it not for that, you would have no soul, and there would be no ghost to go on from this place, and no will to exert upon reality.”

  “See? I understood that.”

  “Greatly simplified,” reiterated the Brass God.

  “There is no need for imaginary, miniature wizards reading books in my bowels,” said Rel.

  The Brass God continued, ignoring Rel’s jibe. “We Morfaan changed the way these chemicals express themselves by modulating the effect of the world spirit. Magic, in essence, is the disregarding of natural law in favour of an artificial weighting of spiritual influence. Nature and magic are complementary to each other, they arise symbiotically from each other. The former is an expression of Form, the latter of Will. Life could not exist without both. The universe creates life, life changes the universe. By altering the balance, we alter reality in our favour. There is the empiricist’s approach, used by our scientists and your magisters, and the brute approach, which you are no
w capable of; the changing of the universe by exercise of thought alone. You are a mage.

  “In your case, the functioning of these chemicals—and we really do refer to them as letters in the book of life, before you become completely unreasonable—has been disrupted by a surfeit of magic. You are out of balance. The disruption will spread. In time, the informational content of your body will become too corrupt for you to live.”

  “Magic will not keep me alive?”

  “It could, but ironically only while accelerating the process. The armour you wear will help you keep your form. You possess great power Rel, but wielding it will hasten your death.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “If you do not exert your gift, you may live twenty more years. At the other extreme, if you rely upon your new talents, you will be dead before the end of next winter. If you are careful, you will function for a good while yet.”

  “So much effort to secure a straight answer,” said Rel.

  “You must think of the larger situation,” said the Brass God. “You are not alone in this. Many people are going to die. If you use your gift wisely, it will be fewer than if you do not. You may think yourself unlucky, but truthfully I do not think it could have been anyone else but you who came here. These events, though exploited by myself, were set in motion by a higher power. We are all the pawns of fate. No one is free, least of all myself.”

  Rel’s head drooped. He was dismayed by the transformation of his fellow men into the giants, and although he attempted to see a noble purpose in it, upset by his shortened lifespan.

  “You make a lot of assumptions about me,” said Rel. “You assumed I would not abandon my countrymen. What if I had gone, and taken the message?”

  “Either outcome would have been useful. This is more so. I like to make sure my schemes bring me benefit, whichever plan is realised.”

  “Like your brass body.”

  “Just so.”

  “You also assumed I would help you once you were rid of Brauctha. I could have killed you. I still could.”