Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Trin’s predecessor had been an old blooder. At ninety-six, the woman had insisted on marching to war, but her heart had given out on the way to Lane. Trin admired the woman’s persistence and spirit, but not her stupidity. At that age, a person should be enjoying a fine retirement, not killing themselves for the sake of old times. From the ledgers and logbooks that Trin had read, it was clear the woman had loved this posting and the Legion. She had served for eighty years, since the age of sixteen, and in that time survived two wars and the Gableman’s Riots. The woman’s mind had survived all of it and her logbooks reflected her agile wit and determination.

  On second thought, maybe her persistence had not been stupid. Trin hoped she’d be able to enjoy as many years as a caravan merchant as her predecessor had in the Legion. It was easy to see why the woman would have wanted to march one last time. At the moment, Trin was envious of that freedom to choose. With Fate’s meddling, she’d never had much of that, at least, she never knew if she was truly choosing or if Scryer Fate had set her course. Sadly, even if she survived this war, she would have to return to Trel and manage the estate. Her time on the road was probably over. There would be no more searching for a solution to Fate’s curse. Not that she needed it. She already had the only solution she was likely to find.

  The thought of returning home depressed her. Oh gods, Trin thought. The first thing Mother’ll do is try to find me a husband. Maybe she should keep an eye out for a man that would be easy to handle. Better that than her mother’s endless nagging.

  Trin dismissed the idea out of hand. She didn’t like the thought of marrying for someone else’s sake – that was the problem in the first place – so finding a husband to spite her mother sure wouldn’t solve anything. But what about a husband to spite Fate? Shit, I should have married Taehrn after all. He’d probably be dead already and I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Glancing up from her ledger, Trin let her eyes wander the tent. The setting sun peeked through the flaps of the tent’s entrance. She closed her eyes as a yawn overcame her. So far, her assignment had been pretty basic. The Legion used the term quartermaster quite literally and Trin’s only responsibility was to manage lodging. In a city the size of Trel, that might be a harrowing task, but on the march, it was simple. Every fourth soldier carried a tent large enough for five, so her only responsibility was to hand out replacements and make a note in a ledger when she did so. Her presence here was unneeded, but Taehrn always found a way to disrupt her life. Sometimes she felt the butcher wouldn’t be happy until he’d crawled inside her brain and controlled her manually. Of course, given Fate’s meddling, that might be rather entertaining. Who knows who else the blooder would find in there.

  Trin’s posting was uneventful, and her only company her lone subordinate, a tailor named Gin. She loved the name, but the man himself was a bit dry – and not in a good way like gin. He spent all his time sewing tents in the corner and never spoke. She had tried to make conversation the first day, but the man had trouble talking and sewing at the same time, and often paused in the middle of his sentences.

  To fill her time, she had taken to reading her predecessor’s logbooks, if only to avoid the page from Teachings of a Whore. She was used to spending time alone on the road, but with thousands so close it made her jittery to sit alone with Gin.

  Soon she might need to make this role a little more active. She had plenty of ideas, the first of which was to solve her gin problems; right now, she had too much Gin and not enough gin.

  The days were a lot easier than the evenings. She had been assigned a cart and ox to haul the quartermaster’s inventory – her own cart and ox, no less. The brainless blooders had actually bothered to confiscate the two on the third day and then reassign them to her on the fourth. It was the kind of logic that would drive a woman to drink, but they’d taken that on the fifth day.

  Her booze had not been returned, but Acklin, who had been a tallow merchant back home, had promised that he could build them a makeshift still. Unfortunately, they were still looking for someone with the knowledge to brew moonshine without blinding everyone, but there were plenty of drunks in the Legion, so Trin figured they’d find someone eventually. It might even be worth a spare tent to the right person and she couldn’t think of anyone that didn’t want a private tent. Except for maybe the courtesans who ironically – though for practical reasons – did have their own tents.

  Trin had never been with a courtesan before. Access to the Whore’s priests was usually restricted to cult members, other priests, and Legion soldiers, and although she was often called a harlot, she’d never been wanting enough to join the Whore’s cult. A friend who had joined told her that membership was more about intimacy and spiritual healing than carnal needs, which had immediately squashed what little interest she’d had – she was really only interested in the carnal needs part. Besides, how intimate could it be from behind a mask? Now that she had the opportunity, she might have to find out. Maybe while she was teaching the courtesan about real pleasure, she’d ask the guy why a whore was good and a harlot was scum. The insult didn’t bother her much, she had always taken it as a compliment, but she was still curious.

  It was true, some people might sleep with anything, but her flirtatious nature didn’t mean she had no filter. The difference between her and most Trellish women was Trin’s priorities. She had as high of standards for potential mates as any other person, but she wasn’t considering every man she lay with as a candidate for marriage. And frankly, she wasn’t looking to marry anyway. If she wanted a husband like all the women in the capital seemed to be aiming for, she’d likely be as conservative as they. But she wasn’t. That just wasn’t what she wanted and people could liken her to an unsanctioned whore – though she’d never been that kind of merchant – but it wouldn’t bother her. The men and women who judged her were just the ones denying themselves pleasure in favor of convention. That or they didn’t understand that not everyone wants the same shit as them. Trin was successful. She didn’t need any support on the road, nor did she need anyone to manage a household she never visited anyway.

  That was her biggest problem with her friends in Trel. They were always looking down on her for being a merchant and for her promiscuity. Once she had even been told that she was a bad role-model. To say that Trin was a bad role-model was to say that any person exercising choice was setting a bad example – after all, she had never done anything immoral, at least not by her own standards. Her decisions had never harmed anyone and it was bullshit to say she could be held responsible for what others thought or felt in reaction to what she did. Anyone that had a problem with Trin’s life had exactly that: their own butchering problem.

  A bad role model would have married Taehrn and given up her own ambition and desires. Trin would rather be thought of as a skank and a harlot than trade her happiness for approval. That didn’t mean Trin might not marry someday, she just wouldn’t be marrying a man like Taehrn. She would save that promise for the right person, for a man who wanted to share her choices, not make them for her.

  Come to think of it, that was why her sister and Taehrn were such a great couple. They were both so busy trying to manipulate everyone else that they didn’t have time to manage each other. The two were like-minded and single-minded; a winning combination. For them at least. For everyone else it was horrible. Particularly for Trin, who had to deal with their damned meddling.

  Although, their meddling was much easier to deal with than Fate’s, though no more welcome. It was difficult to plan a life under the curse’s influence. If Trin didn’t break Fate’s hold on her, there would be no point in married life. Trin let her eyes wander to the logbook, and the page she had pressed between the cover and the front page. She did not want to read it again, indeed, she had spent the past few days avoiding it, but it was finally time. Truth be told, it might not do her any good. She had already read the damned thing a hundred times since she had stolen it from the libra
ry, but she had to try what she could, even if she didn’t have much hope left.

  She had lied to Jem, and to everyone aside from Bell, frankly. She had not broken into the library on a drunken whim. There had been no friend ‘Nimble’ that had convinced her to go looking for Bell. Trin had broken into the library for a very specific purpose: to steal Dydal’s Teachings of a Whore.

  She had not gotten as far as she had wished, indeed, she had been caught before she could steal the damned thing. Instead, she had been forced to settle for a single page. In order to cover her theft, she had… gotten creative. With the guards pressing in on her location, Trin had done the only thing that had come to mind: Oh shit. And so she had.

  Sighing, Trin leaned back and stared at the passage. Things had been different since she had first read this page. For months, she had been as lively as a walking corpse. Certainly, she had put on her best face, especially in Bell’s presence, but she did not feel the same as she had. It was the hope that had left her, the feeling that there was something she could do to beat Fate. Unfortunately, it turned out Trin had been right. There was something she could do to beat Fate, but it was not something that Trin was willing to do.

  Despite her apprehension, Trin read the page.

  But before the girl is alone, there are others. And there are enemies. Fate and Death. Death and Fate. Two sisters of a sordid sort, linked not by blood, but still invariably. From creation to extinction. The fools had it wrong. It was not Life and Death that must be forever wed. It was Fate and Death. From the moment Fate met Death as a child, she and Death were two forces opposed and intertwined, one dependent upon the other, each the other’s foil: Only Death can end one’s fate, and only Fate can combat Death.

  And Death’s story is so close to the girl’s. It is Thought who finds her, Life that chose her, but Fate that binds her. Death is young, too young to know what she is, but the Reader has read the girl’s fate, and knows her future. She is to bring Death into the world.

  And so she does.

  Had Thought been wiser, he would have stopped it, for Fate is to design as the divination of stars is to science. He sees the path the Fatereader has set her on, sees the type of Death Fate has devised. And he does nothing. He knows that Death must be tempered, that Death must be compassionate, that Death must be humble, but the woman Fate shepherds is none of those things. She has created a plague. A force that kills not for stability, but for its own sake.

  And yet, despite the similarities between them, it is with Death the girl must contend…

  And as ever, Trin saw that single phrase, and hated her fate and the circumstance that bitch had pressed her into. Only Death can end one’s fate.

  Trin needed another solution, one short of ending her own life like some sad, blood-addled neurotic. But the fact that it had been nearly twenty years and this was all she had found, was beginning to wear on her. Trin didn’t have the resiliency she’d once had… In a way, knowing nothing had been better than having the knowledge she’d gleaned from that damnable passage. At least then, the possibilities had been endless, endless enough to give her a smidge of hope. But now, she was embedded within an army, on the path to war.

  Trin sighed and set the book aside. As she did so, the tent flap swung inward revealing the Grand Legionnaire. Trin’s chair plummeted to the floor as she jumped to her feet, saluting. She wasn’t exactly sure if she was supposed to or not – the protocols were confusing – but she had seen others do it in the past and there was nothing lost by mimicking the gesture.

  Grand Legionnaire Cyleste Kantren was taller and meatier than Trin. She wasn’t overweight, simply muscled in places that most women weren’t, which made her seem thicker. Her face was blockier as well, probably because of the way she cut her hair; short and almost spiked. That was not a fashion Trin would choose, at least not for herself; she liked the weight and look of her own braid.

  Gin didn’t notice Cyleste’s entrance, lost as he was in his needlework. The Grand Legionnaire cleared her throat. She spoke as Gin was dropping his needle and canvas to gain his feet.

  “Excuse us, soldier.”

  Gin bowed and yelped a short, “Yessum,” before moving to comply. He was out of the tent in less than four seconds.

  Trin studied the Grand Legionnaire, her arm still crooked to place a fist against her heart in salute. Despite Herald Marl’s orders, Trin had not gone to see the Grand Legionnaire the night Trin and Jem had been conscripted. She’d been expecting something to happen for a few days now, wondering if her insolence would be met with a night in the stocks, or another summons. This, she had not expected.

  “You didn’t come to see me.” Considering her stature, the legionnaire’s voice was higher and more feminine than Trin would have expected.

  Trin swallowed, still holding her salute. “No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

  “A pity, there was much I wanted to discuss.” Cyleste’s features were calm, but there was sharp disapproval in her voice. After a long glare, she rolled her eyes. “You can relax, Miss Cavahl.”

  Trin dropped her arms to her sides, frantically trying to think of a reason the Grand would have anything to say to her; aside from skipping their first meeting, of course. As Trin was pondering all the horrible possibilities that reason was bound to be, the Grand Legionnaire stepped past her to examine the shelves lining the far wall. They were stocked with canvas, thread, rope, and iron poles. Cyleste pulled a spindle of rope off the shelf and began unrolling it.

  “You load and unload all this every day before and after the march?”

  Trin paused. It was an odd start to their conversation. Trin was expecting threats and the promise of discipline; the good old Legion staples. Why wasn’t the Grand yelling?

  “Yes, ma’am, as well as assembling and disassembling the shelves.” Trin spoke in her formal attendant’s accent. It was one of many she used. This specific voice was for interactions with those of higher status than her. It was much like her true speech pattern just with more politeness, servility, and a modified vocabulary. She had not been entirely honest with Jem on this point. Her natural cant was in the priests’ dialect, but there were many who found the parlance of Trel’s upper city unsettling. Trin knew well how to pick her crowds.

  The Grand rerolled the spindle and replaced it on the shelf.

  “Seems a waste.” The legionnaire leaned forward and ran a hand across the shelving. It was an interlocking design for easy assembly and mobility. The design was quite ingenious, but it still didn’t make sense to be setting them up every day. The majority of the tents were the same, and if needed, Trin could pack the wagon according to size and type to allow easy retrieval whenever someone wanted a replacement. The only person who really needed this tent was Gin, who spent the mornings asleep and the evenings sewing. She could easily give him his own tent, he’d as much as said that he enjoyed his privacy anyhow.

  “I agree, ma’am. I’ve been considering a different method.”

  The legionnaire gave a terse nod. “Make it work,” she said. “And feel free to make any other changes to the position as well.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. This job isn’t quite as cumbersome as I was led to believe.”

  The Grand Legionnaire stood, glancing at Trin before turning back to the shelf and removing a metal rod. “No,” she said bluntly. “Your presence here is political.”

  Trin sighed in relief. It was reassuring that the Grand knew of Taehrn’s bullshit. That might make it easier to come to the woman should he try to force her into anything, like signing those damned papers making him arbiter of the estate and Father’s business. Assuming of course, the Grand wasn’t in on Taehrn’s scheme.

  “I figured as much, Taehrn always-”

  “Actually, Miss Cavahl, it wasn’t the First Legionnaire that brought you here. It was me. As I said, we had much to discuss during the meeting you skipped. Though, I hear you and Taehrn had a lively conversation in lieu of ours.”

  “You?”
Trin dropped the servile tone. That accent was for people who deserved it and this bitch had just lost the privilege. “You conscripted me? Why?”

  “The First Legionnaire was part of the reason. The other was our shared loyalties, Trin.” Cyleste lifted the rod in her hand, tested the balance, and then replaced it on the shelf.

  Shared loyalties? Oh gods, Trin thought. Is she hitting on me? It wouldn’t be the first peach Trin had split, but that wasn’t really her tastes. Yet how would she say no to the Grand Legionnaire? Hopefully, this isn’t going where I think it’s going. Although… she’s got that coloring I like. Unlike Taehrn’s olive coloring, Cyleste’s skin was the rare Drennish charcoal, darker and more vibrant than Bell’s.

  “I’m not sure what shared loyalties you’re talking about.”

  The woman smirked. “No, of course not. Perhaps I can explain. Have you ever read the Book of Just?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve read his Fables, but not that one.”

  Cyleste looked surprised by Trin’s answer. She turned back to the shelves and began examining a piece of canvas, running the fabric between her thumb and pointer finger.

  “Let me recite a quote,” the Grand said. Her voice became clear and impassioned. “‘First is my Grand, who shall be my mortal arm and strength. Next is my First, who shall be my advisor. After is my Second, who shall be my Executioner. Last is my Third, who shall be my Herald.’ Is the quote familiar, Trin?”

  “Not at all, what’s that supposed to explain?”

  “It speaks of the Legion’s structure. Particularly, it outlines the duties of myself and the numbered legionnaires. It is important because it is one of two passages that mention Just’s Executioner. The only other is the text’s final line, which warns against trusting him. Together, these two quotes are of the utmost importance to the Cult of Justice. Traditionally, our cult takes it to be a warning about allowing your subordinates too much authority. Others have posited that the quote speaks of one of Just’s apprentices, who is the reason for Just’s current absence. Personally, I choose to take the quote as it is: a literal and prophetic warning.”