Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  Rise turned to Trin for an introduction, “This is my husband, Skibs.”

  “Hey there,” Trin said without pretense.

  “Achk,” Skibs grunted. “I’d hoped by ther ox yer’d not be another northerner.”

  Jem frowned at the man, for in his speech, he used the Hornish ‘ther’ and ‘yer.’ Clearly the man was from Gable, but even so, it seemed very lazy to speak Trellish with the Hornish words interspersed.

  Trin beamed upon hearing the man’s accent. “A Gableman, eh? I love me a good Gableman. You’ve got some good taste, Rise.”

  Skibs winked past his wife to Trin. In answer, Rise slapped the man’s available knee.

  “Well, he’s good enough I guess,” Rise said, smiling at her husband. “Stupid though.”

  “Say,” Skibs began, his eyes focused on Trin. “Don’t I know yer?”

  Trin looked thoughtful for a moment. “Ever own a pig farm?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tailor’s shack?”

  “Nawh, just the Legion the last twenty years.”

  “Where you been posted?”

  “Scout’s training, then the Settish border, and then ther university with Bell.” Skibs snapped his fingers. “That’s it, say ‘Where’s Bell?’ fer me.”

  Trin’s cheeks flared red, but she acceded to the request anyway. “Where’s Bell?”

  “Drunker,” Skibs demanded.

  Trin cleared her throat then launched into one of her imitations. This one seemed to be of herself. “Where’shh Bell? I needa talk to him, damnit.”

  Skibs roared into laughter. “I knew it. Yer ther one we caught in the library.”

  “Aye,” Trin conceded, bowing her head with an embarrassed smile.

  “Ivan was about ready ter kill yer,” he said over his own chuckling. “Best night on watch I’ve had in years. Yer ever find Bell that night?”

  “I did.” Trin’s spacing was slowed, her face thoughtful. “Spent the rest of the evening with that old codger feedin’ me soup till I passed out – Ivan, you said? Angry as he was, he actually turned out to be a fun guy. For every bit of soup I drank, he’d drink some whiskey. Said it was because we had to even out. Good soup too. And to be fair, that night wasn’t my fault. My friend set me up, the blooder. We’d run out of liquor and he said that Bell owed him a drink, so we thought that if we went and found him, he’d set us up. ‘Course we found out some things. One: there’s not a lot of public toilets at the university. Two: there’s a surprising lack of guards on the night shift. Three: it’s really easy for a couple of drunks to break into the library. And four: my friend Nimble is a rotten-toothed, cowardly blooder who’ll pull the nicest book in the library off a pedestal, tell you to wipe with it, then run for his butchering life at the first sign of getting caught. Never seen someone move that quick. One second he was there and the next his coattails were flapping their way outta the window.”

  Trin paused. “Although… I was drunk so it coulda been twenty minutes I was in there watching him scamper away. I may or may not have passed out. Worked out in the end though.”

  “I’d say it did,” Skibs laughed. “So, is that the reason yer here? Another errand fer the High Cleric?”

  “Not this time,” Trin said. “I’m the new quartermaster.”

  “Ha,” he laughed. “Me father’s right then, a good career’s just about knowing where ter shit.” He paused then added, “Where’d yer get that ox by the way? Mother don’t sell many ter northerners, what with the Rorish stables being between us and the resta yer.”

  “Mother? You the deacon’s son?”

  “Her fifth and final.”

  “How else do you think he’d get a posting as prestigious as the university?” Rise asked. “It’s not his personality.”

  “Yer don’t know what-yer talking about, woman,” Skibs said.

  Rise tapped his leg again, but this time, it was more of a loving pat than the training slap of a houndsman she’d given him previously.

  “The ox is a long story,” Trin said. On her lips she held a conspiratorial smile. “Bought her second hand. Near Lane. How long’ve you got?”

  “Not as long as I’d like,” Skibs sighed. “I only come ter get me wife. Bell’s needing us.”

  Rise nodded affirmation then stood and used a hand from Skibs to transfer to the horse. As she did so, she spoke to Trin.

  “Thanks for the lift, Trin. We’ll talk later.” She gave a kind of half wave to Jem before they rode away. Skibs didn’t even bother to acknowledge him, which was fine by Jem. It was easier to hate what he didn’t know. Trin knocked on the now empty seat beside her.

  “Get up here, boy. It’s time we spoke.”

  Jem did as he was told. To be honest, the wagon bed wasn’t as comfortable as the bench. For some reason, the bench just felt softer and more welcoming. Once he was seated, Trin continued.

  “Look Jem, I know you’re not happy about this and I ain’t either, but you’ve got to stop dwelling. It’s not going to get us outta here.”

  “What will?” Jem asked.

  Trin gave him a serious look. After a moment, her face softened. “I wish I knew, but I’m afraid we’re stuck till the war’s over. We’ll just have’ta hope the work’s enjoyable.”

  “It’s not the work that bothers me.”

  “I know, it’s the people, but Bell’s already told ya. You can’t catch ‘em all in the same net. Look at Rise and Skibs. They’re good people.”

  “So were the soldiers at Liv,” Jem grated. “Right up until the day they weren’t.”

  The look in Trin’s eyes as she watched him was devastating. She looked as though he was killing her hope, or worse, like she thought he was hopeless. He didn’t want to be hopeless, not in her eyes. She was his redemption, and if she did not believe in him, then he had no chance because he certainly didn’t believe in himself.

  With soldiers in front of them and behind them, Jem spoke softly so none would overhear. “Legion thugs are Legion thugs, Trin. You’re either Legion or you’re not.” He kept the last of his thoughts to himself; that the lot of them deserved to die, every Legion soldier.

  “Hrm,” Trin sniffed. With the sounds of horses, footsteps, rattling canteens and scabbards, and the chattering ahead and behind, there was little worry someone might overhear. Still, Trin matched Jem’s volume. “Is that so? Well then what about Bell?”

  “He’s chosen this life. He chose the Legion.”

  “He isn’t Trask and he didn’t beat any miners.”

  “But he let it happen.” In truth, it wasn’t Bell’s position in the Legion that made Jem distrust the man, it was his friendship with Taehrn. Trin, at least, had proper sense when it came to the First Legionnaire.

  Trin hesitated a moment and the silence grew cold. Though he felt he’d won the argument, it didn’t feel like a victory. If the price for his anger was Trin’s respect and warmth, perhaps it wasn’t worth it. Maybe he was being foolish. Bell had been the first person he’d had a serious conversation with in years. He felt like he should be able to trust Bell, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. After all, although Bell seemed compassionate and kind, those seemed the exact qualities one might exhibit when seeking to gain another’s trust for nefarious ends.

  Finally, Trin broke the silence.

  “When my father was your age he decided that he wanted to sell scrap metal he’d collected from the trash heaps. He was given two options. The first was that he could give the metal to the priesthood as a donation. Because of the Writ, they owned all the precious metals of Trel. Even the discarded garbage he’d collected from hours of digging through dumps and sifting through piles in the streets of Trel’s lower city, belonged to the priests. His second option was to apprentice himself to a member of the Smith’s Cult and try to gain entrance into the priesthood so that he could make his own claims. My father was born poor, and the only poor in the priesthood were those who’d destroyed the family wealth within their lifetime.”
/>   “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Jem interrupted.

  “Hold on damnit, I’ll get there. My father had no hope of getting into the priesthood. He asked three different smiths, but to apprentice it costs money. To join one of the cults it costs even more. To join the priesthood, it costs your soul. Anyway, the smiths were running low on ore – a shortage due to some political trouble with the Deacon of Liv, you know, the one before Trask, and so my father decided to sell what he could without the claims. It didn’t last. Within the week, my father was arrested and taken to the stockades for stealing from the priesthood. He lived there for three years before High Cleric Iraskle died, and he’d have lived the rest of his life in there if not for the next High Cleric ending the Writ.”

  Jem waited expectant. When she didn’t continue, he was confused. If she had made a point in that speech, it hadn’t landed. “What’s your point, Trin?”

  “My point, boy, is that change can happen, but it takes time and the right people. You want to hate the Legion, go for it. You want to hate the priesthood, I’m right beside you. You want to hate Bell, then you’re on your own because Bell’s one of those people who is doing his butchering best to make things better, and even though you know in your heart that he’s a good person, you’ve written him off because of his loyalties.”

  “But he knew what they were. He chose them knowing full well what they’ve done.”

  “Do you want the Legion to be different than what you’ve experienced?”

  “Of course.” Frankly, he wanted it destroyed.

  “Well, men and women like Bell, Skibs, and Rise are the answer. Each of them has lived in both worlds or known and loved people who’ve lived in both worlds. Priests and not. Legion and not. They’re fighting every day to make the Legion a better place and the priesthood a better place. Have you noticed the way they treat that man Acklin?”

  “No,” Jem answered.

  “They’ve moved the damned world to make him feel welcome in a life he’s been forced into. And he’s got it even worse than us. Where you and I will be doing support work, he’ll be on the front lines, fighting and maybe dying for some cause he doesn’t give a shit about.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “You know what, you’re right. It shouldn’t. But do you want to know one of the reasons I’m still friends with Bell but hate Taehrn? Because Bell is genuine. He wants to make a difference and he works for it. Taehrn is in it for himself, which isn’t a bad thing except that he pretends not to be, and worse, he’s willing to harm others to get what he wants. Do me a favor the next few months. Hate anything you want to, but watch for me. See what Bell does; see what Rise does, and Acklin, and Bern, and all those others we’ve met. At the end of that, you tell me if, after all that time spent with these people, you can still hate them, because I guarantee you won’t be able to.”

  Jem didn’t want to agree with her. His mind wanted to avoid anything that contradicted his conviction. If he couldn’t blame Taehrn and the Legion for what had become of his life, and for the horrible things his father had done, then he could only blame himself and his father. And that was a thought his mind wouldn’t face. Instead, it stopped. And it grasped at straws. And when it found one, it pounced.

  “Trin,” he said. “You’re speaking in perfect Trellish.”

  Trin blushed, but her words were defiant. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. You’re gonna have’ta explain it to me, boy.”

  He stared at her with his mouth ajar.

  “All right, fine. Ya caught me. You know my family’s rich. I’ve been educated. It’s just that I’m more comfortable talking like I ain’t. It feels more honest to me than all the rest of it. Who’s to say which is ‘perfect?’”

  “So, you can read then.”

  “Ehh, I’m not great, and it takes me some time, but I can do it. But that’s not the point. You gonna give Bell a break or not?”

  Despite himself, he nodded. Bell had given Jem a chance to vent, and like Trin, Bell was a release and distraction from all the things Jem hated about himself. “I’ll trust you,” he said. He wasn’t ready to say he could trust Bell, but he could say so about Trin.

  “Well that’s a butchering start.”

  Though he didn’t have the steam, on some level Jem still wanted to argue. “It’s just that…” he began.

  “Hmm?” Trin asked.

  “Well, when Marl forced us into this, Bell gave up so easy.”

  Trin ran a hand over the bruise on her eye. She hadn’t done so in a few days and it surprised him when she did so now.

  “I know, boy, and I gave him shit for it, but there’s not much he could’ve done. When Taehrn wants something, he gets it, and it looks like Marl’s on his leash.” She added something under her breath that he didn’t catch.

  Trin started to speak again, but was stopped by a shout coming down the line. The voice was Marl’s. Trin stopped Old Nance and the cart came to rest.

  “Halt!” Marl shouted. The horse she rode wore a saddle blanket that stretched the animal’s full length. It covered the horse’s face in a tight hood with plenty of room around the eyes. At the bottom, the strange blanket hung loose in strips. The whole length of it was covered in Trellish heraldry. Seemingly, the horse denoted that Marl was to be listened to, and the soldiers did.

  “Begin camp!” she ordered. She rode along the column’s right, off the side of the road. As she passed, she repeated the order and soldiers parted in her wake, breaking into groups of five to arrange the Legion’s standard camp formation. When she reached Jem and Trin, she slowed.

  “Jem,” Marl said, “report to the First Legionnaire’s tent at the head of the column.” With that she was gone, her horse continuing down the line as she passed the encampment order to those at the rear. Jem climbed from the bench while avoiding eye contact with Trin. This was the moment he’d been dreading, and Trin’s words made it worse:

  “Don’t scuff your chin on his belt buckle,” she said.

  Jem knew it was a joke, but he was afraid that the root held truth. He would be working for the man she hated most – the man he hated most – and that was bound to strain their friendship. He wished that he could simply kill Taehrn and be done with it, but until he knew what Taehrn wanted with himself and Trin, Jem had to be patient.

  Trin seemed to read his mind, or maybe she had seen the tension in his face, for her next words were a mercy.

  “I’m joking, boy. I talk a lot of shit, but I know you didn’t want this. I won’t hold it against you.”

  Even though her words brought solace, Jem acknowledged them with a half-hearted wave. Still not meeting her eyes, he started for the head of the column.

  With his thoughts on Taehrn, the Well grated. And the thoughts rose.

  He wants to put his faith in Bell, but he cannot. He can’t bring himself to trust the Legion, let alone a man who puts his faith in Taehrn. As is often the case, the thoughts repeat. If he must exempt Bell then he must exempt Skibs and Rise and Bern and all the others he has met. It means judgment based on action rather than hate. A disgusting idea for one looking only for hateful distractions; for one looking to redirect all blame. A mind such as this cannot face reality. It must deny it at every turn. It must make excuses.

  “Jem.” He hears the voice, but the Well’s grasp is strong and not yet ready to break. Bell is ignored. Jem keeps walking. A city afoot scrambles to Marl’s command. They choose to listen. This is the hurdle he cannot jump. The choice made willingly. Is Trin right? Must he become them to change them? Is that the course? Could that be his redemption? Should he tie his weight to Bell’s cause? He doesn’t know. Hate is easier than thought. Better to choose it instead.

  The landscape is dust rising to scrambling feet. All he sees are ashes. Better to cut them down. Hate is easier than understanding. Hate is easier than accepting facts. Better to cut them down.

  He has a sudden revelation. Both, the Well knows, it is a
n easy option too. He marches to the head of the snake – and this is a point upon which all agree. Taehrn can be the font of his anger. Taehrn can be the font he so greatly desires. Forgive Bell, but strike the head. Make room for the criminal’s replacement. A second road to redemption.

  “Jem,” another voice calls. This one is the voice of his enemy. There is a smile within the ireful mind. The Well lets the fervor lapse. It is time to re-enter the world.

  Jem waited as Taehrn approached. The man carried a saddlebag and a canteen held hesitantly to his lips. Taehrn took a quick drink before continuing. “It is good to see you, Jem. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet with you earlier. It must have come as a shock when I requested your skills.”

  Internally, Jem laughed. He was not here by request. He was here by force and Taehrn knew it.

  This man set him on edge. In days past, he had been a snake. Now, he was a snake with authority… ever before, Indaht had had the upper hand. But now, Jem’s father was dead and there was nothing to combat Taehrn’s power. Lissahn may have helped him, she had ever been a closer ally to his father than Taehrn… And what if Taehrn knew? What if he knew that Jem had killed Indaht?

  “It was, but I’m glad to be here.” Jem was shocked to hear his own words. The lie came so easy.

  Taehrn beamed, his teeth perfect and shimmering. “Yes, I imagine you must be. Come inside, my boy, we’ll get out of this insufferable heat.”

  Jem followed Taehrn into the tent. It was large, and though they had just stopped for the day, it was already furnished with a cot, rug, and desk. Two chests had been placed against the far wall and three rolled maps waited on the desk alongside an assortment of pens and a jar of ink. It seemed the servants thought Taehrn was a top priority at day’s end. From the way Taehrn walked straight into the tent, to his desk, and sat, it was clear that Taehrn thought nothing of this oddity.

  Taehrn watched him, remaining silent. Jem figured that Taehrn was expecting something of him. He knew what – a flash of recognition, perhaps an expression of loyalty or gratitude – but he wasn’t about to make the man’s job easy, so he said nothing.