Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  There was no need to ask who she meant. “Out,” Ivan shrugged.

  “In the field with his troops?” Her eyes were filled with anger as she stared down at him, her back straighter than the trunk of a Gellin redwood and her arms crossed beneath her breast.

  “His troops?” Ivan drawled. “The old fool can barely command himself. I doubt he is with the Legion.”

  “Where then?”

  “No idea, he didn’t tell me and I didn’t care to ask.”

  “Are you not his servant?”

  “Ha!” Ivan laughed. “More like his babysitter.”

  Sighing, the woman turned and paced to the balcony rail. She looked out over the dark mound that was the observatory, to the city behind it. Candles, streetlamps, and torches were flaring to life all over the city. This was Ivan’s favorite moment in the day.

  “What is your name?” she demanded.

  “Ivan.”

  “You are mentioned in the letter.”

  “Letter? What letter?”

  “The letter he sent to my young ward, demanding one of Dydal’s texts.”

  “You mean he actually sends those?” Ivan exclaimed.

  “You did not know?”

  “No,” Ivan said. He was shocked. “I thought they were for my benefit. He once wrote a letter addressed to the Mother in which he proclaimed himself to be the supreme creator of the universe.”

  Ivan watched her face and tried to remember if he’d ever seen it before. Her mannerisms, and the way she spoke, were somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Where had that letter been addressed? he wondered. Lock, for certain. That’s where the Cleric had sent the merchant. But who cared, if this woman was one of the Cleric’s gets, then most like she was someone as obnoxious as him.

  She turned and studied him. “What can you tell me of the book?”

  “You mean Teachings of a Whore?”

  “Yes, what can you tell me of it?”

  Ivan stared at the balcony beyond, remembering back to his night spent sobering the merchant. “I can tell you that I do not think that Trin Cavahl destroyed it on accident.”

  “She destroyed it on purpose?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…” Ivan rubbed his leg as he thought back to their conversation in his sitting room. She had drunken heavily, and so had he. “Because her questions that night were too specific.”

  “Specific?”

  “Yes, like she was looking for information, rather than to make amends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, at first, she seemed mortified. Desperate to make up for her crime, as well she should… but then she started asking questions about the text itself. Questions very specific to the book.” Ivan glanced up at this thin, yet apparently imposing figure before him. “And also, she told me so.”

  “She told you so?”

  “Yep.”

  There was a long silence, in which Ivan was fairly certain the woman was hoping he would continue. He did not.

  Finally, the woman sighed. “What questions did she ask?”

  “Ahh…” Ivan paused. “Have you read it before?”

  “Once,” the woman said. “A long time ago.”

  “I see… well, it’s… an odd text. Vague and misleading, frustratingly poetic. Trin Cavahl’s questions seemed focused on a story near the beginning. The story of a young girl blessed by the gods, who is destined to become one herself. Some say it tells of the Mother’s childhood, after all it is called Teachings of a Whore, but that idea seems to contradict everything we have ever known.”

  “Because the Mother was first of the gods.”

  “Yes, exactly right. The story is of a young girl who meets a god, a god who then makes her into a god. Yet how can it be the story of the Mother if the Mother was first? It’s complete nonsense.”

  “Then who is it about?”

  Ivan shrugged. “I couldn’t say for certain. Likely, no one. Likely it is all made up.”

  “Then why would your Cleric want it? Why would this merchant have purposefully destroyed it? There must be something in there that is of value.”

  “Well… I can tell you what the merchant said to me.”

  The woman prodded him to continue with a perturbed glare.

  Ivan sighed. “She said that she did not think that Teachings of a Whore was a history. She thinks that it is a prophecy.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Her theory is admirable, I’ll give her that. Think on it. The story begins from the perspective of a young woman, born in a place bereft of gods, or at the least, where the gods are few and far between… not unlike our current circumstance. And then she meets one. A god named Fate, who brings her into the world, and suddenly all the other gods appear as well. Gods never mentioned before… Thought and Absence. Life and Death. Truth and Tragedy. Hundreds of gods never mentioned in Dydal’s Pantheon. Gods not mentioned anywhere at all. The merchant seemed to think that these gods aren’t mentioned elsewhere because they do not yet exist. That the story is a prophecy foretelling the return of the gods. The rebirth of the pantheon.”

  “But there is no such thing as prophecy.”

  Ivan shrugged. “So I’m told. But Trin Cavahl was convinced. She even…” Ivan bit his tongue. Perhaps he should not be sharing this. The merchant had seemed embarrassed when she’d told him; more embarrassed even, than to have been caught in the Cleric’s private library.

  “What is it?” the woman demanded.

  “You will not share these words with anyone?”

  “Is it some secret?”

  “It is something private, which might destroy Miss Cavahl’s life, yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Only if you swear that these words will not leave this roof.”

  The woman grabbed his tea mug from the table beside him and threw it off the balcony. It had been empty. “You stand between my people and war. Tell me or you will be next.”

  Ivan released a slow breath. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt. Who would she tell? She clearly wasn’t from Trel. “The merchant believed… that she was the girl in the story.”

  “What?”

  “That is what she said. She believed that she was the girl mentioned in the story, and that it, in truth, told her future.”

  “So, she’s a madwoman.”

  Ivan shrugged. “She shit in a library.”

  “Yet… the Cleric seems to have believed her.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The Cleric wasn’t present when she told me this. It was only she and I. Yet… he sent her to retrieve another copy the next day. And now here you are.”

  The woman was silent for several moments. “Tell the High Cleric that I will give him the book if he promises to pull back his troops.”

  “That will not work,” Ivan said.

  “This aggression is about more than the book?” The corner of her mouth twisted in distaste, but the rest of her face remained calm. Her eyes looked almost sad.

  “For him, it probably is about the book,” Ivan said. “But as I alluded previously, he does not control the Legion.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then who?”

  Ivan shrugged and closed his eyes while leaning back into his chair. A loud crack sounded as his whole body began to vibrate. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t determine what had made the loud noise, but her foot was placed between his ankles on the end of the lounger. She glared down at him, the threat written on her snarling face.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “I can only give you my opinion,” Ivan offered.

  She waved her hand in a rolling motion, urging him on.

  “I have served two High Clerics in my time and neither actively administrated the Legion. My master seems to ignore it completely, and for Iraskle, it seemed an afterthought. I always suspected that the deacons o
versaw the armies, with suggestions from the Grand Legionnaire, but the current deacons have been…” he searched for the proper word. “Cowed,” he chose.

  “So, the Grand Legionnaire acts alone?”

  “No,” he said. “Cyleste is a strong leader and an able commander, but she has never been political. She is devoted to only one thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Her god.”

  She scoffed. “You truly believe that Just is behind this?”

  “Hasn’t he always commanded the Legion?” Ivan asked.

  “He is gone, and even if he were here, we have always agreed that Lock is mine, Settin is his, and Trel belongs to the Cleric.”

  “So doctrine claims.” He offered her a dismissive shrug.

  “You do not believe so?”

  “The lines are well defined, but in the context of history, Cyleste and her predecessor have made almost identical decisions. So too her predecessor’s predecessor. If Just meddles only in Settin – or if he has returned to the heavens as doctrine says – then his Grand Legionnaires can hear his shouts from there.”

  The woman looked frustrated. She said nothing for several seconds, her eyes staring past him. “And who shouts to your High Cleric?”

  Ivan paled, then remembering his master, laughed. “Only a fool would think they could penetrate his thick skull.”

  She smiled and then Ivan was blinded by a flash of light. When his vision cleared, the woman was gone. He leaned back into his chair and sighed. With a snap, the chair split down the center, emanating from where her foot had been. In a cloud of dust, he collapsed onto the stone bricks of the balcony.

  Women and High Clerics, he reflected. Both have a habit of ruining my peace.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Minnerva was anchored outside the harbor, obscured from mortal eyes by the morning fog. It had taken Niece Kindrel half a bell to row the small dinghy into Trel’s port. It was possible that with Loy’s help they could have made better time, but he did not know how to row, and although his niece had offered to teach him, he had refused. Rowing was outside his role and it was only proper that he leave such menial tasks to Niece Kindrel and her ilk. Taking up the duties of another was dishonorable, especially those so far below his station.

  He would give Niece Kindrel credit though. She had attained an admirable level of comfort in her role, and was quite capable. Still, she was his lesser. After all, he was fifty-third son of Order and a member of the Second Generation whilst Niece Kindrel was merely a member of the Third.

  In the two months it had taken to travel across the ocean, she had been acceptable company, but he would much rather have been at home, sharing wine and words with Sister Spade. Contrary to his role, and Father Order’s assertions, Loy was not one for sailing or travel, but to become a god he must fulfill his father’s wishes. This was the way of the world and Loy had no intention of changing it.

  “Niece,” he began, ignoring her discontented frown. The first time he had called her niece, she had laughed in his face. He had made certain to use the designation liberally ever since the affront. “Cannot you go any faster?”

  She scowled at him. “I am six hundred years your elder,” she said. He had been waiting for this moment the entire journey. Finally, he’d gotten under her skin. It had taken long enough.

  “Yes, of course, Niece, but that does not answer my question.”

  “You’re welcome to row yourself,” she said, offering him the oars.

  Though she’d been rowing nonstop for half a bell, she seemed unaffected by fatigue. Not even a single drop of sweat cursed her brow. Such stamina was impressive.

  “Or better yet,” Kindrel went on. “I can stop here and you can swim the rest of the way.”

  Ah, he bemoaned, an unfortunate time to break her. “Thank you, Niece, but that will be unnecessary; I was only inquiring.” He did not understand why she found the word ‘niece’ so irksome. As a member of the youngest brood, Loy had a great many nieces and nephews that were older than he, and these honorifics were customary.

  Niece Kindrel was far from normal, however. Like Sister Wanderer, Niece Kindrel was often thought of as an eccentric. Now that he had met the woman, Loy was inclined to agree. For some odd reason, Niece Kindrel had chosen a life aboard a ship rather than one in Lendal. Because she was often away at sea, Loy had been unable to learn much about his niece, but the longer he watched her, the more he felt that he understood her.

  Niece Kindrel gave him a wide smile. Perhaps understanding was the wrong sentiment.

  “Why do you smile?” Loy asked.

  “Just thinking of all the lessons you’re about to learn,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “What do you know of Trel?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  Loy studied her between narrow slits. She seemed to be leading him into a trap, but it was too early to identify her motive. For now, he would play along.

  “The city or the peninsula?” he asked.

  “Both.”

  “The Trellish Peninsula is our former home and birthplace of the gods. What more is there to know?”

  She scoffed. “Who are its peoples? What are the nations? What do those nations stand for?”

  “There is only one nation,” he spoke with pride. What she asked was basic history. “The Nation of Trel, which has two states. Trellahn in the west and Atherahn in the east. Both are sworn to the Mother’s rule and wish only to serve her.”

  “Certainly,” she chuckled. “Perhaps if this were five hundred years ago, that would be a great little summary. But I am talking now. What is Trel like today?”

  Loy grimaced. Truthfully, he did not know. Niece Kindrel and Sister Wanderer were the only two members of the family capable of crossing the ocean, and whatever knowledge they had of Trel, had not been shared with him.

  “I cannot say,” he admitted. “Enlighten me.”

  “Mmm,” she hummed. “No. I do not think I will.”

  “You will not tell me of Trel?”

  “Nope. I’d prefer to watch you flounder.”

  “Then why have you agreed to this task?”

  “Lack of choice. Grandfather is hard to refuse.”

  “Then I will be certain he hears of this.”

  Kindrel shrugged. “Go ahead. After all, I do not think he will mind my behavior. In fact, I am only denying you knowledge which he has already refused you.”

  He studied her with skepticism. “Explain,” he commanded.

  “What’s there to explain? I thought this should be rather obvious. Your father knows more of Trel than he’s told you. For example, did you know that you are the second spy I’ve ferried across the ocean for him? The last one, him I threw off my ship directly onto the pier.”

  A cold wind came up from behind, blowing Kindrel’s brow length bangs out of her face. As Loy huddled into his damp hide jacket, she rowed unnerved, her bare arms dotted with gooseflesh. Maybe he should have been more cautious with his words. He may not like her, but she had lived far longer than he. It was becoming clear that she knew things he did not and perhaps Father had chosen her for a reason. He should have been more thorough in his investigation of this woman before his journey…

  No matter, if she would not share her secrets then he could accomplish his tasks without her. He was not without his own abilities. And his own knowledge.

  He mimicked her crude grin. “Ah, but I do know, Niece. Why do you think I am here?”

  She was sitting in the front seat, her back to the bow of the little vessel. Letting the oars drop, she leaned forward. “I doubt even you know the reason,” she whispered, her tone one of feigned severity. Even without her strength pulling them forward, the dinghy glided ahead at the same pace.

  He glared at her as she leaned back into her seat and retook the oars.

  “Why do you live aboard a ship instead of in Lendal?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “One such as you wouldn’t understan
d.”

  He gave her an annoyed glare. “I afford you the respect due a god. You could give me the same courtesy.”

  Niece Kindrel roared in laughter. His flesh tingled in discomfort; the woman continued to shame him with that accursed cackle.

  “You think yourself my equal?” she said.

  “Greater, I am a member of the Second.”

  She laughed even harder. “That may have meant something once, but no longer. If it were Harvest, or Planner, or her brother, Kalec, before me I’d be inclined to agree, but you are not them.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I am not. But at least I call my betters by the titles they have earned. I do not shame Sister Wanderer by calling her Harvest.”

  “And yet you call me Niece Kindrel.”

  This woman was infuriatingly brazen. Now she tried to call herself a god when they both knew that very few achieved that station? What absurdity.

  “You would claim godhood?” he asked. He had tried to frame the words as disbelieving, but that is not the way they sounded. Instead, he sounded petty and childish.

  Niece Kindrel did not answer; she smiled a mischievous grin. “It’s cute how your father leaves his children in ignorance. Have you never wondered why so few of the older generations live amongst you in Lendal?” She drew the oars out of the water and placed them at her feet. The boat skimmed across the waves.

  “They are dead or fallen,” Loy asserted.

  “Ha!” she laughed. “Many of us perhaps, but most are like Harvest and myself. We remember a better past than the future your father promises.”

  The words were sour. He did not have an answer to them.

  His niece smiled as she put a hand out to her left, and out of the fog, a wooden beam materialized beside it. When the dinghy came up parallel to the pier she grabbed it with her outstretched hand and the boat halted. The pier, surprisingly low in the water, was only an inch higher than their small rowboat. He scurried to his feet and lifted himself out of the dinghy. She did not rise to follow him.