Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  Careful not to move too quickly and draw attention, Salim leaned his head out just far enough to get one eye around the sharp-edged stone of the corner.

  Beyond it, the room opened up into a landing similar to the one they’d passed through before when visiting Faldus, with the grand spiral staircase dominating one end as it extended both up and down. Just in front of it stood the man Salim had seen, a Pharasmin brother he didn’t recognize, his dark robes bunched awkwardly underneath a breastplate marked with Pharasma’s spiral. A sword—probably never used before, if the man had been raised to the church since boyhood—hung at his belt, but the crossbow he held had the plain look of a farmer’s tool, and rested easy in the man’s hands. He stood with the straight back and glazed eyes of a man used to long vigils and arduous penance, if not actual combat.

  Salim withdrew and looked to Neila. He mimed a crossbow, then raised both the chunk of stone and one eyebrow. She pursed her lips and shook her head.

  Damn, Salim thought. As if this wasn’t going to be difficult enough. But he’d already given his word, so they’d do this the hard way.

  He nodded and lowered the stone to show he understood, then motioned for her to stay where she was. He took a deep breath, held it, and slipped around the corner.

  The guard was looking in his direction, but Salim understood the difference between looking and seeing. The man had probably been staring down the passageway for hours without so much as a puff of dust to change the view, and in that sort of situation the mind quickly grows complacent, seeing only what it expects to see. Salim was already halfway across the room when the guard’s eyes snapped into focus, and three-quarters by the time the crossbow came up from its resting position and drew a bead on the charging figure.

  Thock! Running flat-out and bent almost double to present a smaller target, Salim swung his chunk of masonry in an underhand arc just as the priest squeezed the crossbow’s trigger. Stone connected with wood, and the crossbow was driven out of alignment, its string snapping home ineffectually and sending the bolt spinning end over end into the darkness. Both stone and crossbow flew from the men’s fingers, hands vibrated into near-nervelessness by the impact, and Salim slammed his newly free fist roughly into the priest’s mouth, bloodying his knuckles on the man’s teeth even as they gagged him.

  The priest’s shriek of alarm came out as a gurgle, and untrained fingers scrabbled for the sword at his belt. Salim responded by yanking the belt around so that the guard’s sword hung in the small of his back—the idiot hadn’t even bothered with a tie-down to keep it in proper drawing position—then swung around himself and pressed hard against the priest’s back, trapping the sword between them. The arm that wasn’t busy clogging the man’s prayer-hole snaked around his neck from behind and locked in place, squeezing the priest’s windpipe between bicep and forearm.

  The guard wasn’t totally without heart—Salim had to give him that. Three times the man’s fists came up over his shoulders, slamming down on the back of Salim’s head in precisely the right spot to send lightning from the already bruised skull screaming through Salim’s brain, closing his eyes and turning his stomach. Yet in the end, it was a foregone conclusion. With each blow, the guard grew weaker, until at last he slumped in Salim’s arms.

  Salim waited a moment and then removed his fist from the man’s mouth, listening. The rasping breath that emerged was weak, yet slow and measured. He lowered the man to the ground, then whispered Neila’s name.

  She appeared at once. She looked first to the man on the ground, then up at Salim.

  “Is he ...?”

  “He’s fine.” Salim forced himself not to touch the aching mass that was his skull. “He’ll wake with a headache, but nothing like the one he gave me.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Thank you, Salim.”

  He waved a hand irritably and set to work divesting the downed guard of sword and scabbard. The crossbow lay a few feet from the unconscious man’s hand, battered by Salim’s chunk of rock but still functional. With a practiced grunt, he stood in the stirrup and hauled back on the string to lock it in place, then slid a bolt from the guard’s quiver and dropped it into the slot. He held the weapon out to Neila. “Can you use this?”

  She reached out an uncertain hand for the weighty weapon, cradling it awkwardly. “I can try. If I have to.”

  Salim moved behind her and reached his arms around, bringing the stock of the bow up to her shoulder and helping her sight down it. “Just point and squeeze. Be sure to make it count, as if it comes to that, there won’t be time to reload.”

  The woman who had responded so handily with a sword—a more aristocratic art, to be sure—looked even less comfortable at that idea, but nodded. She lowered the bow and pointed to the guard’s robes. “What about those? Could you put those on, pretend to be leading me to see Khoyar?”

  But Salim was already shaking his head. “This is a small enough congregation, and they know my face—knew it the minute I walked through the doors. Best we’re not seen at all. And if we are ...” He nodded toward the crossbow in her hands. “No hesitation. These men may be priests, but they’re also soldiers now, and no soldier is innocent. Understood?”

  “Yes.” Her lips were a thin white line, but Salim believed—or at least hoped—she would do what needed to be done if the time came.

  Fortunately for both of them, she didn’t have to. Though they went up the great spiraling stair as quiet and careful as mice in a larder, they didn’t encounter any further guards. Once they came to a landing where another priest had been positioned, but this one had made the mistake of sitting down, and now dozed with his chin resting on his chest, crossbow lying loaded in his lap. There was a tense moment while Salim darted from the shadows of the lower stairs to the safety of the higher ones, and an even tenser one while Neila did the same, bare feet padding against the stone with a whisper that was still heart-stoppingly loud, yet the guard never stirred. A half-turn later, they were gone from view.

  When they came out on the now familiar main floor, it became clear why the guards had been so lax. The sky through the narrow windows in the hallway was the deep blue-black of night’s tail end. The guards had likely held their posts all night without relief—another amateur mistake, better suited to religious vigils than the battlefield. Before long, the men and women of the cathedral would wake for their morning prayers, but for now all took refuge in holy sleep—itself a little taste of death.

  Their timing was perfect, but Salim still didn’t dare take them out through the great receiving hall where he’d entered before. For all he knew, Hasam was still sitting on his stool by the doors, and if not him, then surely Khoyar positioned someone there to receive those midnight callers in need of the church’s assistance. Instead, Salim led them down a series of new hallways, at each branch choosing the path with windows to the outside, or which seemed most likely to lead to such. At one point the rattle of pans indicated a kitchen where someone was already at work baking the new day’s bread, and Salim turned them away quickly. At last, however, they came to what he’d been looking for: a nondescript side door, locked with a simple barred latch. He pulled it open, and they slipped through.

  Outside, they found themselves in the predawn shadows on the southeastern side of the church. Here small gardens gave the Pharasmins a place to meditate and pray, while simultaneously supplementing their food supply. Beyond the rows and furrows was a simple fence of chest-high iron rails, an exposed length of street, and then the blissful cover of close-packed buildings. Salim looked to see that Neila was ready, then led them in a low, silent scurry across the freshly turned plots of sandy earth, boosting her over the fence before setting a foot against the rails and hauling himself over as well. Bare feet slapped cobblestones, and then they were around a corner and down a side street.

  There they stopped, breathing hard with excitement rather than effort. Neila turned to Salim and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder. Her body spasm
ed with relieved, muffled laughter, and he allowed himself to lower his face to her hair and breathe in its scent.

  “Excellencies! Mistress!”

  The whisper was low but urgent. Both fugitives broke their embrace and whirled, the noblewoman bringing the crossbow halfway to her shoulder.

  Farther down the alley, a tarp-covered cart neither of them had noticed sat half hidden in an alley. Next to it, a shadowy shape beckoned them excitedly. Neila recognized it first.

  “Olar!”

  The carriage driver grinned. Even as Salim and Neila ran across the street to meet him, he grabbed up the leads of the drowsing oxen and whipped them into wakefulness, backing the same little farm wagon Salim had ridden in earlier out of the alley. When it was clear, he lifted the tarp on a bed loaded loosely with barrels and other bric-a-brac and motioned for Salim and Neila to climb underneath, which they did gratefully. When they were safely stowed, he took the driver’s seat and tutted to the oxen, sending them lumbering and jouncing down the road away from the church.

  “What are you doing here?” Neila asked the question for both of them. In a space between barrels, she and Salim fit without so much as a suspicious lump. With the edge of the tarpaulin pulled down, they would be invisible, but for now they kept it lifted, creating a narrow space at the level of Olar’s hips through which they could speak to him and see where they were going.

  “I had hoped that one would be able to get you out,” Olar said, not turning around but cocking his head sideways to indicate Salim. “After they took you, I was sent back to the manor to deliver the message of your guilt, and to let everyone know that Amir, as ranking member of the house staff, was temporarily in control of things.” He leaned over the edge of the cart and spat loudly, showing what he thought of that particular proclamation. “The carriage was too conspicuous anyway, but as soon as I could find an excuse I slipped away with the cart.” He patted the wood of the seat. “I’ve been waiting here since midafternoon.”

  “How did you know where to wait?” Salim asked.

  Olar turned to Salim with a grin, eyes bright in the half-light. “How does a man know anything? Luck. Luck and the gods. This alley seemed as good as any.”

  “Where are we going?” Neila asked, and the servant’s smile faded.

  “You can’t go back to the manor,” he said. “Amir is well in the pocket of those lying priests, and most of the other staff don’t know what to believe at this point. I doubt many of them actually believe you killed the master, but they also aren’t about to stick their necks out.”

  “And you?” Salim asked.

  Olar laughed. “My neck is tough as an old rooster’s, and Mistress Anvanory’s been good to me.”

  “So where can we go?” Neila pressed.

  “Out of the city,” the driver said. “I’m afraid the city guard will side with the church, and that means you’re not safe here.” He glanced down apologetically at Neila. “You’re still an outsider, Lady. Without the benefit of your estate, your friends are few. I hope to get you to the harbor and see you onto a riverboat headed north. By the time they know you’re gone, you’ll be too far for them to bother with you. Perhaps you can cross into Osirion, or secure passage back to your home in Taldor. This one looks strong, and carries that sword easily—mayhap he can secure you passage, or at least keep you safe until you can access your father’s funds elsewhere.”

  “So that’s it.” Neila’s voice was bitter. “We run. Khoyar kills my father, steals my estate, and we run.”

  Olar’s face was sad. “I’m truly sorry, Mistress. But I have no other ideas.”

  “I do.” Salim’s voice was deep and thoughtful as he turned to Neila. “But you’re not going to like it.”

  “Does it involve giving in to Khoyar?”

  “No.”

  “Then I like it better already.”

  “Fair enough,” Salim said, and reached out a hand to tap the seat next to Olar. “Take us southeast, out of the city.”

  “With pleasure, excellency.” Olar’s grin returned, and he whipped the oxen into a lumbering trot. Together, the three of them rode southeast toward the forest, the river, and the ruddy glow of the rising sun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friends in Need

  I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Salim turned from where he was busy slashing his hands to ribbons attempting to thrash a path through a dense patch of brambles. He now wore both the guard’s sword at his hip and the crossbow slung over his back on a strip of robe cloth, leaving both of Neila’s hands free to maneuver through the underbrush.

  “You need help,” he said. “And if you’ll recall, you’re remarkably short on friends at the moment.”

  “That doesn’t mean I need to go straight to my enemies!” Neila tottered on a slick-barked log and nearly fell, catching her balance at the last moment before she would have stepped straight into a patch of stinging nettles. This section of the forest was far from the most welcoming.

  “On the contrary. The fey may hate you, but they hate you for different reasons. They’re probably the only ones in the region who don’t suspect you of killing your father by now. Or care, for that matter.”

  “And what makes you think they won’t just kill us for trespassing?”

  Salim held aside the final runners of brambles and let Neila pass gratefully into the clear space beyond. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Just keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

  Neila sniffed loudly at that, but said nothing. She dabbed gingerly at the dirty scratches on her legs—the clothes she’d worn to confront Khoyar were hardly the sort of thing one wore to thrash about in the deep woods, and her skin was paying the price. She craned her head back to follow the boles of the great trees up and up until their branches finally spread out into the canopy proper, the leafy limbs as thick as barrels. There were a few patches of blue sky piercing that green roof and lighting the gloaming underneath, but only a few. This forest was old.

  “I feel like we’re wandering aimlessly,” she said at last. “We’ve been walking for hours, but it seems like we’ve just been going in circles.”

  “That’s precisely what we’re doing.” Salim used the sleeve of his robe to wipe sweat and sap from his face. Even in the relative cool of the trees’ shade, midday in Thuvia was no time for marching.

  Neila turned to him irritably. “And how exactly do you expect to find your new fairy friends?”

  But Salim wasn’t paying attention to her, and Neila fell silent as she saw him cock his head to the side, listening. His face was tense. Slowly, with fingers spread wide to show they held nothing, he raised his hands into the air.

  “We don’t have to,” he said. “They’ve found us.”

  There was a sound of wood creaking, and Neila turned with a start.

  A woman stepped out from between the trees, the bow in her hands bent fully and the arrow’s fletching drawn back to her cheek. She was naked, or nearly so, yet though her skin was brown, it was not the smooth brown of Salim or other desert dwellers. Rather, it was covered in whorls and striations, raised in tiny ridges like the bark of a tree, and rose up to a head of hair that was as much trailing foliage as anything human. Around her narrow waist hung a belt of braided tree bark from which a full quiver depended. Yet though the fire-hardened point of the nocked arrow was pointed unwaveringly at Salim’s chest, the woman was not what captured either human’s attention.

  For when the woman had stepped from the forest wall, a part of the forest had stepped with her. Easily twenty feet tall, the gnarled old tree was vaguely man-shaped, with massive clumps of unearthed roots forming the legs, and the lowest two branches curving and bending into arms. In the center of the bole, twice as high as Salim was tall, the knotted bark twisted into the vague outline of a face with two staring brown eyes, a broken branch for a nose, and a wide scar for a mouth. The scar was not smiling.

  “You have a lot of nerve, humans.” The woman’
s voice was low and husky, and not the least bit complimentary. “Did you think we’d forget what you did?”

  “My apologies, Lady Dryad,” Salim said. “I assure you we would not have come if it were not a matter of direst urgency for all concerned.”

  The bowstring didn’t slacken. “You let Delini live, and for that we haven’t hunted you. Yet now you come trespassing. That changes things.”

  “Yet that’s why we’ve come,” Salim said, talking a bit faster now. “To speak with Delini. We have a proposition that he’d very much like to hear.”

  The dryad stared at him unblinking, moss-green eyes hard. “We don’t make deals with outsiders,” she said. But this time the bow lowered, the string loosening until the arrow was merely nocked. She turned. “Follow me.”

  Salim made to do just that, but right then the great tree-man moved for the first time since entering the clearing, one giant step blocking the humans’ path. Its mockery of a face turned toward Neila.

  “You burned my trees.” Its voice was a bass rumble, the groan of a dead tree as it sways before falling.

  The noblewoman took a step back, and when she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice. “We—we planted new crops. Lots of them. And we care for them.”

  “Crops?” The word was the dry snapping of a branch. “Crops are slaves. My trees were free, and old—old as time. And you killed them.”

  Salim stepped in front of Neila, honestly not sure what he could do that would be of any use if the forest guardian decided to charge them. “Please, tree shepherd—that’s why we’re here. To make amends. At least hear us out.”