“Exactly!” said Jarl. “That’s what I’m saying! There are less demons than there used to be, and I’m going to take this chance to go to San Ktari... and do my work.”
“What kind of work?” said Wodan.
Jarl looked about, then said quietly, “I’ve joined a secret society. A very secret secret society. I’m not allowed to speak about it, but it’s the reason I’m making this journey to the East.”
“I see. I won’t ask about it, then.” Jarl nodded, seemingly disappointed. “But you might want to consider giving your old friend Agmar some idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Very well, if you’re going to twist my arm about it,” said Jarl, nearly cutting him off. “I’ve joined… the Entertainers.”
Agmar leaned back in his seat. “My… God.”
“Oh…” said Wodan, nodding slowly, confused.
“Dear God in Heaven,” said Agmar, closing his eyes slowly.
“And they’ve given me a mission,” said Jarl.
“You’ve abandoned your humanity for those weirdos!” Agmar screamed. Wodan, whose attention had been drifting, jerked as if stung by a bee.
“It had to be done!” said Jarl. “For the same reason you used to wander the world, looking for something, looking for an answer to a question you couldn’t put into words. I had to do it. My mission is to go to San Ktari and investigate their gods.”
This is so weird, said Wodan. In Haven, the Entertainers are just a guild of artists looking after one another.
“Their gods!” said Agmar. “They’re savages, Jarl. You should have just asked me before you hooked up with these two nut-balls. All their gods are war gods. Their entire pantheon is composed of psychotic, blood-drinking lunatics. Messer the Reaver, Fat Brahmut, the Red Sisters – they’re all the same!”
The scout with the pomade in his hair, who had been making a great show of ignoring everyone, turned his head even further away to make it clear that he was not listening. Wodan saw him scratch his ear idly, but as he did so he cupped his hand behind his ear so that he would not miss a word.
Before Agmar could say anything else, the fighter slapped his chest and said, “We have new gods! Gods with skin.”
“You idiot!” said Agmar, his voice shrill. “I don’t doubt that at all! You probably have some demon in league with your leaders, telling your people what to do and who to kill. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that’s happened.”
“No!” said the fighter. “We serve Die Engelen. Is much beauty!”
“And that,” said Jarl, leaning forward to stop the two from arguing, “is exactly what I need to see. I’ve been charged with a holy duty. And I mean to do it.”
“So you’re going to cross the waste with just these two?” said Agmar. He looked at the two scouts, said, “How exactly do you plan to do that?”
“Have big balls,” said the fighter, “and big ass guns.” His eyes closed tightly as he smiled, beaming with pride.
“This is so strange,” said Wodan. “Do the Entertainers have to work in secret? Because where I come from–”
“Boy, what are you listening at?” said Agmar, craning his head. Wodan turned and saw a young boy with black hair. He was dressed in rough clothes and wore a collar.
“Sorry,” he said, leaving them quickly.
They said nothing for a moment.
“I should have kept my mouth shut,” Jarl said through gritted teeth. “I’m a dead man. A dead man, for sure!” He turned to the scouts, said, “Tomorrow, leave tomorrow? Haul ass?”
“Yah,” said the fighter. “Tomorrow, haul ass, we go. Another pitcher, now.”
“Fine, another pitcher,” said Jarl, signaling a waiter.
Agmar watched the boy until he disappeared in the crowd, then said, “Jarl, you sure you don’t have any connections that could hook us up with passage on a ship?”
“I don’t even have connections that could get me on a ship,” said Jarl. “You have money?”
“We’ve got horses.”
“If you have several then I’m sure you could buy passage for all your people, depending on how far you want to go.”
“Thing is,” said Wodan, “we need to buy a ship. We can’t have people finding out about my homeland. I can get us in the general direction, I think, but we need to...”
“What?” said Agmar.
“Shit!” said Wodan, slapping his forehead. “Damn, I forgot. Agmar, unless you know how to pilot a ship on top of everything else you know, then we need some kind of navigator!”
“That’s true,” said Agmar. “I was thinking we would just book passage with a few of the horses.”
“No!” said Wodan. “Agmar, my homeland is a secret place! No one but us can know about its location. We have to buy a ship... and, damn, even a captain who will promise to live with us, I guess.”
Agmar frowned and pulled his face into his beard.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think about that,” said Wodan. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Talk to Filius Bilch,” said Jarl. “The dwarf over there. He’s a slave dealer, owns some ships. He might sell you a ship, even a slave crew. But ships and crews cost a right fortune, Ag. I hope your horses piss whiskey and shit silver.”
“What a mess,” said Agmar. “We might as well try.”
Wodan and Agmar left Jarl and crossed the dance floor. An announcer frantically narrated an event happening onstage which included a competition between a musician trying to complete a piece of well-known music on his banjo – without mistakes – while a famous drunk attempted to fill a large glass jar with his own urine before the piece of music ended. “Who will drink the golden elixir!” the announcer shrieked. “The master of music or the master of drinking? Place your bets, the table’s still open until the glass is half full – or half empty, depending on your point of view!”
“Don’t fail me now!” screamed the man pissing into the jar. “Relax! Don’t fail me now!”
We should get out of here sooner rather than later, thought Wodan.
***
The dwarf sat in a high seat at his favorite table, not so near the band and dance floor that he would be jostled rudely, and not so far away that the other merchants would miss the size of his jewels and fat-breasted escorts. His bald head was cracked and scarred, full of shingles and psoriasis and even some eczema; he had poured several small rivulets of molten gold into many open sores to cover his sickness, and scratched at his shining crown constantly. He wore robes of alternating strips of pink silk and purple velvet. He had two half-wits on either side of him, men with bloated muscles and lopsided heads and mouths perpetually hanging open. Pregnant slave girls fanned him and passed around his golden cup, milking their breasts into it for him to drink. It was known that he made the girls consume a quart of strong liquor every night so that he might father a generation of slaves incapable of outwitting or overpowering him.
Agmar and Wodan stood before him.
“Are you Filius Bilch, sir?” said Wodan.
The dwarf’s face was lined with trenches, and when he narrowed his eyes at them his skin bulged as the wrinkles deepened into serpentine runes of age.
“You see before you the most powerful man in the universe,” said the dwarf in a high, croaking voice, “a thing of wonder whom an entire city calls ‘master,’ a god whose single word can destroy families and whose friendship can be the sun in all your days - and then you wonder if it is truly the Filius Bilch upon whom you gaze in awe?”
The two worked their mouths.
“Dumbstruck,” said the dwarf. “Not the first time I have seen the mighty laid low, and, because my greatness is everlasting, probably not the last. Worry not, sweet children, you have found the living treasure that you seek.”
Wodan felt something bump into his legs. He moved, began to apologize, and saw that two armed men were moving chairs under them. He thanked them and sat beside Agmar. One man bent down to Wodan’s ear and whispered,
“He likes you. Watch yourself. One quick move, one false word, and I’ll make you wish the demon had you instead of me.” Wodan nodded.
Agmar cleared his throat politely, said, “If I may introduce ourselves-”
“You may,” Filius said magnanimously.
“My name is Agmar Epemi, and this is my associate, Wodan. We have heard of your reputation for kindness, and though we wish to do business, we have little to offer in the face of your greatness.”
Wodan wanted to laugh. As exhaustion overtook his awareness, the dwarf and his ridiculous entourage became surreal beyond belief. He had difficulty following Agmar’s plea for a ship and a slave crew. To see a man who, until now, had never been anything but paternal and hyper-rational turn into a raging sycophant only added to the dreamlike unreality of the situation. Wodan suppressed a yawn, then smiled at one of the slave girls. She had a mound under her dress, rich black hair, and purple eye makeup that concealed a great bruise. She looked away quickly.
The black-haired boy that Agmar had chased away earlier wandered up to the group. The group paid him no mind. Wodan noticed the boy’s collar again, then saw that Filius’s half-wits and slave girls also wore dog collars. The boy stared directly at Wodan.
“A ship,” said Filius, “and a captain and crew? Not a problem, my friend, and I would be more than happy to oblige. But, you ask for so little - I must insist that you take my entire fortune as well, and perhaps even myself, as your devoted slave.”
There was a long delay, then the slave girls and armed men laughed weakly. Agmar looked downcast.
The crowd exploded with applause. Wodan saw the musician curse wildly, then he turned up the jar of urine. The narrator pointed and said, “The winner! The winner!” and the crowd laughed. The famous drunk cut a neat jig as he held his pants up with one hand.
“You joke, sir,” said Agmar.
“Funny,” said Filius, “I thought that you were the one playing me for a fool. Listen, mortal: Ships are worth a small fortune. A ship costs far more than the amount of gold you can carry around in your raggedy purse. I’m sure such an amount would stagger your comprehension. Furthermore, each of my ships is a vessel worth ten times any other man’s.”
“Ah,” said Agmar, “then perhaps we should seek business with men who have more affordable vessels.”
“Nonsense!” said Filius. “As the richest man in the world – nay, as the richest man in all the history of the world - I have in my fleet ships both expensive and thriftily-priced. Ask any other merchant, and he will hum and haw in indecision, then make fun of your appearance, then refuse to deal with you. I, on the other hand, can offer my wares at a discount, and will gladly get rid of a number of my slaves, who I am sure you will find as worthless as I have.”
This is absurd, Wodan thought. Why not state a price and be done with it? Or is he after something more than money?
“Master,” said the slave boy, “we do have that one ship, you know, the one you’ve been wanting to get rid of...”
“Who pulled your string!” the dwarf raged. “God damn you, boy!”
“You said yourself that it was worth nothing to us anymore, it’s so old.”
“Ten lashes for every impertinent word that slides off your tongue!” said the dwarf. “And ten more for the cost of burying your whore of a mother!”
The boy’s face flashed red and he stared at the ground, grinding his jaw.
“Sir,” said Wodan, “I’ll take that pile of junk off your hands and sink it for you. It probably costs more to keep that thing in port than it’s worth, I’m sure.”
“Spare me your malicious words,” said Filius, turning slowly to Wodan. “That vessel has seen high adventure the likes of which your pale face could not dream of. I will not part with the Hero of Old for less than... well, more than you could ever give.”
“Just listen to us, for a moment,” said Wodan, and Agmar jerked in his seat, terrified that Wodan would say the wrong thing. “We have no cash at the moment, but we have plenty of goods to barter. Specifically, horses and guns. You could supply a small army with them and knock over one of your competitors. Or start a demolition racing league where every rider is equipped with a gun and a single bullet. By giving up a single ship you don’t even want in the first place, you could build a gambling enterprise that would have money constantly pouring out of it.”
The dwarf lowered his face and stared at Wodan. He twiddled his thumbs slowly, almost cruelly. “Not! Interested!” he said.
“I didn’t think you would be,” said Wodan. “That was a feint.”
“What!” said the dwarf.
“I can see that people do not understand you because they see only the material evidence of your power. But you, Filius, are interested in the more obscure manifestations of power. I see now why you speak of gods and money in the same breath.”
The dwarf’s eyes spun around as if he had been caught cheating at a game the rules of which were known only by himself.
“I have something to offer you which no one else has ever offered before,” said Wodan, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Filius, for this ship, I offer you my soul.”
“You wouldn’t!” said the dwarf. His armed men opened their eyes wide. One slave girl covered her mouth while another shielded the child in her belly.
“We’ll write up a contract,” said Wodan, “and I’ll sign it in blood and seal it with my own seed.”
“Demon’s perineum,” the dwarf said, chewing his tongue. “Now that’s something no other merchant in this town ever got before.”
Wodan stood. “I’ll let you iron out the details with my associate,” he said, smiling. “I’m going to get a drink.”
Wodan rose from his seat and a heavily armed man twice his size nearly tripped as he rushed to give Wodan space to move. Wodan walked away with all the poise and nobility of a fearless master of the dark arts; as soon as he was out of view of the others, he leaned against a chair and regained his breath.
Finally! he thought. I beat them at their own sick game!
He looked about to find his friends, then Jarl the Entertainer walked into him. His eyes were glazed and oblivious. He began to bend his legs as if preparing to sit in a chair, then Wodan realized the man was completely drunk and was in the process of falling down. Wodan grabbed his arm and steadied him.
After a long time Jarl finally noticed Wodan beside him, then said, “There you are! I’ve been meaning to tell you something, Wigmo. Did you know?”
“Know what?” said Wodan.
“Did you know that the history of the world is the history of the war between secret societies?”
“Is that a fact?” said Wodan. He looked about to see if there was a place where Jarl could be laid down so that he wouldn’t hurt himself or puke on any dangerous mercenaries.
“Oh yes,” said Jarl. “Oh yes. The people of Pontius hate the Ugly youth who roam the streets, fighting and robbing and running from the Law, but then those same people go to churches funded and staffed by high-ranking Ugly who worship demons and hide hideous mutilations under their clean white robes. The people of Pontius thank the Smiths for guarding technology and making sure that people don’t destroy themselves as the Ancients once did, but it’s obvious to anyone with their eyes open that every gun wielded by the Ugly and the Coil and even the Law bears the mark of the golden gear of the Smiths. People beg the Law to pass more strict laws year after year even though the legal system is already so labyrinthine and complicated that no single human could ever possibly understand it, much less find an ounce of freedom in that sea of restriction, and yet it’s a fact that the Lawmen really only serve the wealthy.” Jarl waited a moment, swaying back and forth, then shouted, “Did you know that, boy!”
“I didn’t,” said Wodan. “It sounds-”
“And my own secret order,” said Jarl, interrupting him, “has in its possession numerous historical documents which date back, we believe, to the time of the Ancients. They were o
bsessed with war and control. Did you know that, boy? I think a lot of people believe that flesh demons were on earth before mankind. A few believe that man came first, and that we should try to recreate the utopian paradise that the Ancients once lived in. But do you know, boy, that the historical records we have from those times contradict one another continually? Wars were fought and were won and lost by both sides, simultaneously. Leaders were murdered in cold blood in one account, and those same leaders were alive and well and quite popular with their people in other accounts. Truth was putty in their hands. We’ve even had members of our own order, respected researchers mind you, who were convinced that the Ancients were time travelers who fought wars against one another by constantly changing events in order to gain an upper hand. Sounds mad, I know, but that’s just how muddled and slippery their historical account is.”
Jarl’s head began to dip and Wodan knew the man was about to go down. Wodan propped him up, laughing as they danced about awkwardly. Someone bumped into him roughly. Wodan steadied Jarl, then turned to apologize to the other.
His heart clenched on a block of ice.
An Ugly was right beside him, covered in scars and seething with an aura of hatred. Jagged pink flesh stretched out around his eyes, and smoke poured from holes that were punched in his cheeks. He glared down at Wodan and gripped the handle of a knife that was strapped to his chest.
Chapter Twenty
Soul Bartering
The sun burned directly overhead so that hardly any shadow was cast by the red rocks of the wasteland. Eighteen killers in black clung to a sloping ravine that sat at the base of a wide plateau. Barkus crept to the top of the rise, then waved impatiently to an Ugly crouched beside him. The man handed him a set of binoculars. Barkus took them, exhaled harshly with his eyes closed, then peeked over the top with his binoculars barely clearing the edge.
Wallach crouched on a shelf further down. “Almost rode right on top of ’em,” he muttered, shaking his head. The Ugly around him gripped the face of the ravine with white knuckles, as if they feared they would fall at any moment despite the ravine’s forgiving and gradual incline. Wallach turned to one and said, “Check the horses again and keep ’em quiet. Don’t let them get nervous.”
Demonworld Page 29