I hope you heard that, bastard.
Just’s answer came in a laugh. Yes, and I like his style, the god said. Succeed or I will have you replaced.
Rotted whorespawn, Wilt swore. The shock that answered was mild. Wilt waited for more, but nothing came.
The god’s vague and elusive answers were growing tiresome. Wilt couldn’t wait to kill the bastard. Wilt winced as he realized the implications of what he had been thinking. For a second there was nothing, and then right when he thought he was in the clear, pain ravaged his scars.
The god was playing with him. He knew it was true. The god truly was omniscient, how else could he have taken control of Wilt’s body? He knew Wilt’s mind, he knew everything. Wilt had free will because the god allowed it, because the rotter wanted to play with him, to test him and punish him. A terrifying thought struck. I am beneath the tree. None of this is real. It is all fashioned by the god to punish me.
At a sad whine, Wilt looked to his feet. He stood in his own vomit, a camp dog sniffing at his leg, desperate to eat. Wilt raised his leg for a kick, but the dog’s sudden growl stopped him. It was a large mastiff, and Wilt recalled a childhood memory in which one of the same breed had ripped off a grown man’s face. He stepped aside and let the dog at his filth.
Wilt had to wonder if the Mother had truly promised him godhood, and if she had, why she would have put him at the mercy of her son. Surely, a death like the one he had lived beneath the tree was a fitting rebirth for a god of Death – indeed, so fitting it was that he was certain no other could become a god of Death, if not him – but he had to question why she had not come for him herself. He could only surmise that the Mother must have intended for her son to oversee Wilt’s rise to godhood. He could not fathom why that should be the case, but for the time being, he had decided to go along with Just’s requests. If the Mother intended for him to be here in service to her son, then he would be here. Such knowledge did not make Just likeable, and he had no intention of pretending to be a good little slave, but he was certain on a single point: that when he did become the god of Death, that Just would be the first on his list.
You hear that, rotter? Wilt asked. You shall be the first god I kill!
Pain wracked Wilt’s scars, and yet, emboldened by rage and satisfaction, Wilt managed to keep his feet.
You will have to do better than this, fool! Your curse cannot hold me forever. As was foretold while I lay beneath that tree, the agony is but preparation for my soul. Each dart of pain does nothing but bring me closer to my destiny, and your demise!
Trust me, rapist, the god’s voice said. Trust me when I say, that you shall not be a god of Death. Know that if you ever should become it, that should you even get close, that I will end your life. On the spot, I will kill you, with no remorse and no pity.
The pain built, the fury of it raging behind Wilt’s eyes. His vision blurred and the world rocked. For a moment, he saw that young, shadowy face in that ethereal world. Just was nowhere near, but there before Wilt, was the young man who had mocked the god on previous occasions. And the creature was laughing.
Now who put that idea into his head? the creature asked. Gray, misty, shadows stirred in the thing’s gaping maw as its laughter continued. As Wilt’s vision cleared, the mysterious figure vanished, and so too did the villain’s laughter.
“Priest Twil?” a woman asked. The voice was soft and uncertain. Looking up, Wilt found himself in the New Guard camp. Most of the tents were cloth, nestled at the base of the hill, but a handful were hide – those tents which had already been taken by the rot, replaced by Vandu charity. Though it was midafternoon, the camp bustled as soldiers rolled bedding and pulled stakes. The woman who spoke was the young one with the black, feathered hair and hazel eyes. The one he’d seen with Entaras Null. The New Guard Commander.
“Yes, my child?” he said. With the flippant use of ‘my childs’ and ‘my dears,’ the god had done an adequate job of mimicking Wilt’s own acting, or maybe Wilt’s concept of a priest was so stereotyped that even the gods shared in the cliché. “How can I help you, my dear?”
“When I passed earlier, you were speaking of Lock. Do you mind if I ask some questions?”
Interesting. “Of course, child,” he motioned to the ridge overlooking the camp. “Come, dear, let us speak in private.” And in a place where all will see. He placed an open palm on her back and led her toward the hilltop. “Tell me, child, what is it you wish to know?”
“You are a courtesan, yes? A whorepriest.”
Strangely, the word was not an expletive from her lips like it was with many of the Lockish. Her eyes were troubled, but her voice did not waver. Her arms sat at rest, one hand on the hilt of her belt knife, the other rested at her waist with the thumb looped through her belt.
“Yes, child,” his eyes wandered her form. Most who asked that question were looking for the Whore’s touch. She wasn’t unattractive, her face a little stern for his tastes, but she was lithe and confident. The short hair was off-putting, a Trellish habit too reminiscent of the Legion, but hers was still much longer and wispier than the Legion crop-cut. “Why do you ask?”
“Is it true that Lock worshipped the Whore?” Behind the bleak veil of his new world, the colors of her face did not pop. He noticed the rosy cheeks and red tipped earlobes of chill, but they did not stir emotion the way they once would have. Nothing seemed to, except for the deceit and the thoughts of vengeance.
“It is, child.” He’d never heard such a thing, but his instincts told him to lie.
The corner of her mouth quirked into a frown, gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Lock was the Whore’s loyal servant,” he lied. “Even in the most dire years of the Succession, when the Atheists had taken his cause hostage and burned the Faithful in their homes, Lock stayed true to his patron.” There were many Vandu legends of entire villages being burned and their people slaughtered, but it was more often his own people doing the killing, than the Atheists.
The lies were delightful, better even, than his week in the wild. There was something about lying to another’s face that made Wilt feel powerful. The Mother’s promises need not come true, so long as he could continue this role.
They crested the rise and Wilt turned to look over New Luddahn. Even if the rot was fading, these people would fail. None but a Vanduman was hardy enough to live in the Fields. She stepped to his side and together they stood over the city and camp.
“You are a priest and Vandu both,” she said. She looked expectant, but the way she’d said it, it was not a question. He answered anyway.
“Yes, I was taken from my home as a child, and raised in Derlin, but I did not forget my childhood. I missed the land, and my people, and swore to myself that I would return. I finally have, but there are many things the Trellish taught me that I would not forsake, such as my love for the Mother.”
“You are not a good spy.” The words were blunt, not accusatorial.
For once he was glad for the mask, else she would have seen the shock written plain in his features. Still, he wasn’t certain his sudden change of breathing did not give him away.
He didn’t bother to deny it. “I could be, but better the spy you know than the one you don’t, eh?”
“It is no coincidence that you came here now, just before the Legion marched out of Derlin.”
“It is not,” he agreed. The god had been very specific on what he should do if this happened. “But if I am a spy, it is not for the Legion.”
“Who?” she asked. “Atherahn?”
“There are other options, surely? I have been frank with you, but none other. Why do you think that is?”
“You serve the king?” she asked.
Wilt was struck with a brilliant lie.
“Of course, child, I am surprised you did not know. The spymaster is here with you, after all. I am surprised he has not said anything… but then again…” he trailed, pretending to be deep in thought. He thought to lift his mask so
she could see the truth in his face, and then remembered his scars. Instead, he put a hand to where his mouth would be, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have. “I am sorry, child, you know how court intrigue is, I’m afraid I might have spoken out of turn.”
The commander frowned. Good, let her think they’ve kept the spymaster ignorant.
“If you spy for the king, then why do you dress as a priest?”
“To ensure the loyalty of the Vandu, dear.”
He motioned to the Vandu camp. A few here and there were looking up at him and the commander. A knot of horse warriors gestured to the hill, arguing with one another. He thought of what the spymaster had said to Uncle Snail.
“The Vandu once followed the gods,” Wilt said. “But turned away at Nikom’s betrayal. Or at least, so they believe. They might call themselves god hunters, and they put on a fine show, but they are desperate for faith. Look at how they adorn their tents, with bone idols and fetishes. They seek a replacement for their lost god, and I am here to make certain that if they should fall to faith, they worship Lock and his heirs. That they worship their king.”
In reverie of his own genius, Wilt had an odd thought. Have I always been this smart? he wondered. But as he said the words, he thought not of a people loyal to Lock. He scanned the idols of bone, and the fetishes made from feather and hide – all constructed of parts taken from the dead and rotting – and he thought only of himself. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his people would embrace his godhood. He shivered, and the commander seemed to notice. Hopefully, she believed it the result of the shaking disease he’d made common knowledge, rather than the joy he felt.
Have I always been this smart? He wondered again. The implication both chilled and excited him. The god had heightened everything else… but it could also be that he was on the cusp… that the Mother was keeping her promise, and that soon he would be a god.
“That cannot be true,” she said.
Wilt waved her comment aside.
“Of course it is, child. It would do us no good to have them swayed by Trellish influence during this war. I must ensure that it doesn’t happen. If you doubt me, you may ask the king when we return to Dekahn.” For good measure, he added one final comment, but instead of the priest’s dialect, he spoke in his normal tone. “But ah, please girl, do me a favor? Don’t tell the spymaster what I’ve said. If Erin has kept this from him, I don’t want to be killed because I opened my fat mouth.”
Once in his mind, he couldn’t shake the doubt about his intelligence. Is this the same as before? he wondered. When Just had spoken to Entaras Null, Wilt had felt the god in his flesh. He had become a tangible presence, but what if that had only been for Wilt’s benefit? He could be playing with Wilt’s head even now.
Wilt started to panic. You’re a blooding rotter, he screamed to his god.
Just didn’t answer.
Wilt blinked as he realized the commander had been speaking.
“I’m sorry, what girl?”
“I asked if what you said about Lock was true.”
“I think so child. I don’t think the king would lie to me.”
The commander nodded, then “I will be watching.” She began for the ridge, then stopped. “Would you like help with your cover?”
Relieved, Wilt sighed. “Of course, Commander Stills.”
The fist struck so fast he did not see it. Curling over, his legs collapsed. He looked up at her, desperate for an explanation. The laughter of the horse warriors drifted up the hill.
“The Vandu do not respect friends of the New Guard,” she said stepping over him. Heading down the hill, she spoke over a shoulder, “Do not fail your king.”
“Do not fail your king,” he repeated. Lying in the dirt, the pain was already forgotten. Gods, he pleaded. Let my mind be my own.
A voice drifted up the hill, angry and vicious. “Are you finished with him?” his cousin asked.
He saw Lilt’s head top the rise as he stopped before the commander.
Commander Stills shrugged, motioning to Wilt as if she did not care what happened next. “Be my guest.”
Lilt kicked him in the gut, in the same exact spot the commander’s fist had struck.
Damned rotters. Must they fight me at every turn?
“Why did you ask of my father?” Lilt demanded. The boot struck again, catching Wilt in the ribs.
The force rolled him onto his back and Wilt clenched shut his eyes, biting back his urge to shout. “I…” Wilt tried. “I only wished to know how he fared.”
“You are a priest; his death is not your concern!”
Lilt’s foot swung back, aimed at Wilt’s head. Wilt rolled away and onto his feet, gasping. Crouched, Wilt flung up his hands, begging the man to stop. I should kill you right now, Lilt, Wilt thought, you butchering traitor.
“Please,” Wilt said. “Please stop. I did not mean insult. I had heard that Locust was the second in succession after another, and when I heard he had a brother, I assumed it was he. I only wanted to know why Slug is not consul instead of him.”
“His death is not your business, outsider.” Despite his words, the anger in Lilt’s face eased. “Who told you that Locust should not be the consul?”
“I do not recall… some woman… It is true then? Your father was Vermin’s heir?”
“No. My father is the younger. It was my cousin who was the heir.”
“Your cousin?” Wilt feigned. “What happened to the poor boy?”
“He is dead, drowned by his parents.”
Is that what he told you, the damned liar? I am not drowned, you fool.
“Drowned?”
“Yes, and his parents dragged till death for it.”
Such a sad, unrealistic lie. His parents were more the ‘sell one’s own children into slavery’ type. They would not have drowned him when there was a profit to be made.
“Odd…” Wilt murmured.
Lilt’s eyes narrowed. “Why is that odd?”
“Well… when I last lived here, I recalled a woman named Locust, and a younger brother named Snail… This explains much. He has taken her name?”
Lilt’s nose scrunched. “What is that to you? Your name is not Vandu, you know nothing of us.”
Shrugging, Wilt rose to his feet. “Names can be changed,” he dismissed. He paused a moment, then; “Can you tell me please, child – ah, forgive me, – Warrior Lilt, what happened to your father? Please, I have heard that he was a great warrior, and you said that he died…”
As he met Wilt’s eyes, Lilt’s shoulders relaxed. “My father died many years ago… taken by illness.”
Wilt faked a gasp. “Not the same illness that took Consul Vermin, I hope.”
“How did you know?”
“Just a guess. Two heirs die… and then Snail takes his sister’s name…”
“It was a name unbefitting a woman,” Lilt hissed. “Especially one who would kill a child.”
“Of course,” Wilt said, lifting his hands to show he meant no offense. “Of course, I do not mean to imply anything. I am just trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why the women scoff at their consul.”
Eyeing him, Lilt scowled and turned away. “Do not speak so boldly, priest. The horsewarriors are proud of their consul.” His footsteps kicked up dust as he stormed away.
Hah! Wilt laughed. My intelligence might not be my own, but maybe it does not matter. Rubbing the bruise on his stomach, Wilt smiled.
One doubt at a time, he reflected. Each is a pointed tooth ripped from Snail’s head. One day, I’ll do it for real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Ah, Jem, perfect timing.” Glancing up from a ledger, Taehrn motioned to a bundle of letters on the edge of his desk. “Could you open it for me please?”
As Jem entered the tent, he felt the pervasive presence of the two lit candles above the entrance. Taehrn had already lit them; out of distrust for Jem or the need to s
peak privately, Jem wished he knew. Either way, his magic did not work.
Opening a bundle of letters seemed a mundane reason for Taehrn’s summons, but Jem crossed to the desk and sat regardless. With his new belt knife, Jem cut the two strings holding the bundle together before setting the letters on the desk. Taehrn’s lips mouthed silently as his eyes scrolled the leather-bound book in his hands.
Taehrn’s gaze flashed up then back to the page. “You may begin with the top one, it is the oldest.”
“But it bears your private seal.”
“I’m aware of that, Jem. It is quite all right.”
Wary, Jem studied the letter’s seal before obeying; a four-pointed star in black wax. The same color wax as that of the candle which capped the Well. Always arriving in the dead of night, Jem had never seen the messengers that delivered such letters, but he had witnessed Taehrn open, read, and burn several.
Jem didn’t like where this was going, for he didn’t want to be any more involved with Taehrn than he already was. The deeper into this conspiracy he was pulled, the more liable he would be when it all came crashing down on Taehrn’s head. Who knew, for Taehrn’s talk of marriage contracts and power, perhaps Jem’s true role in this was to take the fall should their plan go wrong.
Lowering his knife to pry open the seal, he found the wax already opened. Confused, Jem met Taehrn’s eyes for confirmation.
“Go ahead,” Taehrn smiled. “I already know what they say.”
Frowning, Jem unfolded the letter. Written in a tight hand, the first letter seemed innocent.
Heard their words the night before we left. Nothing of import, but the Grand seemed interested in Bell’s purpose here. Asked that we accompany her to Derlin. Now she ignores him. We will wait and see.
“I don’t understand,” Jem said, glancing up to Taehrn. The letter depressed him. Bell’s purpose here… For Trin’s sake, Jem had been hoping that Bell was as noble as she claimed. It seemed Jem was right about everything.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 42