The crowd chanted and then dispersed. Two women went to the man, lifting him to his feet before moving to carry his wife’s body between them. The two women bowed their heads, and the man, blinking as if woken from a trance, took his place at the head of the funeral procession. Three others, two men and a woman, mounted and set off in the direction of Drought’s horse.
“Wait,” Wilt called.
The three stopped and faced Wilt as Drought’s husband gave him a skeptical glance.
Wilt continued, “Gather the horse, but she will ride my own to her pyre. She has taken my arrow and shall be granted my horse in exchange.”
The husband finally broke, and tears followed the cry that flew from his lips. The woman who’d taken Wilt’s horse offered the husband Wilt’s reins, and the husband accepted. Together, they lifted Drought and draped her over the saddle. Someone offered him ropes, and the husband tied her down before mounting his own horse, leading the other at his side. The two women followed, and then a crowd of men, and then their wives.
“You do him a great kindness.”
With his peripheral vision obscured by the mask, Wilt had to turn his head to see Wither’s face. Several of his followers waited at her side, remounting their horses. Behind them, the New Guard continued at a steady trot, the Vandu horde at the head of the march. Their procession was less a column and more a tree, the Vandu fanned out or riding in clumps, like leaves and branches, with the New Guard riding in rank behind them.
“You may ride with me until the other horse is reclaimed.”
Wilt nodded, but his focus was on her intent, rather than her words. He had not questioned the source of his intelligence for several days – whether it be fledgling godhood or the meddling of some god – because he was thankful for it. He was coming to see the world for what it really was, and people for what they truly were. And they were stupid.
Rulers, followers, and slaves; that was all the world came to. Rulers were like Just, they did what they wished simply because they could. They cheated and stole, lied and manipulated for petty reasons like greed or arrogance or control. The rulers were few, but stronger than all others. Slaves obeyed from the threat of force. They served the rulers because they were made to. Wilt was a slave; a slave who, in the past, had thought himself a ruler, but had always been a follower. For now, he was content to be a slave. Better a slave than a follower, for followers were the worst of humanity. Through apathy or stupidity – by which, Wilt was uncertain – they gave themselves up to the control of the rulers. And they did so freely. At least slaves like Wilt did so grudgingly.
Wilt scanned his followers, all women, who waited for him to mount. These women thought he would make them a better world, that he would reclaim them a spot of honor among the Vandu. He might do such a thing once he was their god, he was not yet decided, but the fools gave him their voice rather than speak for themselves – and without knowing the motives behind his words. Wilt was going to use these women to get what he wanted, and he did not feel bad about it.
The Vandu women were the opposite of him. They had once been slaves, but were now only followers. Had they spoken against their consul, the men would have been forced to listen. Once there had been a time when a woman who defied the rights would have been killed, but Just had spoken true: that time was as long gone as the starvation. The Warrior’s Rights were nothing but an excuse for the men to behave however they wished.
And so, the women were followers. For generations, they’d had the ability to put an end to the rights, but for cowardice or contentment, had chosen subjugation instead. They had turned to little games of who would be the best slave, each woman vying for power under the weight of her shackles.
‘I am better than she, for I am the consul’s wife,’ one would say, but then, ‘I am better than you, for I am the consul’s favored wife,’ the best would counter. The Warriors Rights had become the framework for the women’s kingdom, and for fear of losing their status, they propped it up, keeping a dead culture alive long past its time. This was how Wilt knew the women were no longer slaves, for slaves always questioned; ‘Is there something better?’ While followers were content in their putrid roles. Followers deserved what they got.
Worst of all, Wilt could not tell if they were ready to reclaim their place. When he had begun his sermons, the women had turned to him, expecting him to act in their place. But Wilt was here for his own benefit and nothing more. He had never promised them anything, and yet, they were stupid enough to follow him. And it was no longer the women alone. They had been first, but the men were already trickling into his entourage. Wilt could no longer understand. These fools would give their voices to him, with nothing but hope that Wilt might do what they wanted. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But could he really judge them? He had accepted his parents selling him to the Legion. There had been countless opportunities to leave, but Wilt had stayed and submitted himself to Trellish rule. And for what? Apathy and resentment. He had wanted to punish the Legion for his parent’s deeds. If they would buy a slave, then the Legion would buy an incompetent slave. Rather than resist, Wilt had become willingly incompetent. He had been as big a fool as the Vandu. There had been no threats from his ‘owners’; the priesthood’s shackles were of faith, not of iron. He could have left at any time. Wilt had only ever been a slave to his own stupidity. And it had taken real slavery to see that.
And that was the reason, Wilt now understood, why the Mother had placed him into her son’s care. He had needed to become a slave in order to know what it was to be a ruler, and Wilt was destined to become a ruler. The Mother needed him, and him alone, because most people were too simplistic to be anything but followers. Now that he understood this, Wilt knew that this would be his purpose. When he became the god of Death, it would be his duty to cure the world… starting with his own people. He could make them rulers or slaves, but as of yet, Wilt was not certain which he desired. But that was the beauty of it; once he was their god, he could do whatever he wanted.
“Priest Twil?” a follower asked. “Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Wilt glanced at her and then followed her eyes to the dust stirring behind the western hills. Blond with a crooked nose, her name was Putrescence – or rather, that is what she called herself. Though she wore the clothes of a Vandu, it was clear she was Dekahnian, sent by the commander or maybe the spymaster. Her name was a dead giveaway, assigned by someone who understood the irony of the Vandu, but not the Vandu. His people were few and simply educated. Even if they could understand such an exotic word, they would know an outsider. And yet the women accepted her without question.
“Do not worry, child, the gods will keep us safe.” That was a lie, but followers believed what they wanted. The gods cared only for themselves, but even so, Wilt was certain that they would be safe. Just controlled the Legion as surely as he controlled Wilt. They would follow, but they would not close until Wilt was safely within Dekahn’s walls. Despite his confidence, he crossed to the mount and accepted the reins from Wither. He mounted the horse and was surprised when she pulled herself on behind him.
She was an odd one, but a type he recognized. Wither was a follower who believed that Wilt could make her a ruler. She bothered Wilt. Not because she followed him, but because Wilt did not know her reasons. Did she truly seek liberation for the women? Or was she simply hoping that Wilt would make her the top slave? He didn’t know, and frankly, he did not care. So long as she served his needs, he would keep her by his side.
And perhaps, one day, she would get her wish. When Wilt became a god, perhaps he would give her a nice little throne and fancy crown. He might even make her a priest or a wife, for all that mattered was the fact that she obeyed.
“My children,” he said. As he kicked the horse into a trot, Wither’s arms wrapped about his waist, low enough to be inappropriate. She had come to his tent many times, but he was beyond those desires now. With his other senses, touch had dulled as well, and sex was not what it had been. Yet tha
t too, like all the other gifts the bleakness of the world had brought him, was beneficial, for such things were no longer a distraction. Simply a means to an end. If Wither thought she could gain his favor this way, she was mistaken, but Wilt would let her believe what she wanted, just as he did with all the others. “I hope you do not find me cruel for my patience.”
“We do not,” said Putrescence. “We trust in you as we do in Lock.”
“Yes,” Wither added, her breath warm against his neck. “We know that you will restore the Vandu.”
Wilt smiled a nasty grin. He loved belief, because it was so much stronger than truth. His only promise had been a return to the glory the Vandu enjoyed before the rot, and to the women, that meant equality. But every follower wanted something different from the next, and so it was a ruler’s job to be vague. That was what made being a ruler so easy and satisfying, even for a slave pretending.
You fall into the ruler’s trap, a presence spoke. Wilt took it for Just.
Says every ruler to his unruly slave, Wilt responded.
Ah, but I am not your master and have no reason to keep you chained.
Wilt hesitated. He didn’t know what game the god was playing. He could tell by the voice that this was Just, Unless…
There are always reasons for chains, Wilt tested.
And a million more for breaking them, the voice retorted. The voice was different from the god’s. It was higher, reedier. Wilt knew the speaker, it was the heckler with gray eyes who followed Just; the young man who taunted the god, the same man that had spoken to Just on Wilt’s behalf.
Only to slip your own about the free man’s neck, I’m sure, Wilt stated. You are the gray man who lives in Just’s shadow.
Just’s Shadow? the voice mulled. Yes, that seems to be the name they are giving me. The voice paused, as if in thought, then finally, or is it the name that I have given me? I no longer remember, but I accept it.
What do you want from me? Wilt asked.
I have heard your thoughts and I come to give warning. Do not let Just’s cynicism corrupt you, it only makes it easier for him to control you.
Yes, but what do you want?
I have said it. To give warning and that is all.
Wilt’s flesh prickled. Another god that could hear his thoughts, and this one promising nothing. Any who challenged Just was a friend, and this creature had spoken on Wilt’s behalf, but he did not trust any creature that claimed to want nothing. If ever Wilt could break his chains… No. It was too much to hope. Words were empty.
I do not believe you. Your interest in me is the same as Just’s, the same as all. You seek control.
No, the Shadow replied. My interest in you, is him, and nothing more.
Why? What is he to you?
I am his shadow, what else might concern me?
Do not mock me. I will not trade the master with the lash for him with the carrot until I have seen the carrot. If you wish to turn me against Just, you must speak to me plain.
I do not ask you to turn against him, I only give warning.
Liar. I have heard the way he speaks to you and the way you mock him. You two are not friends, so why are you here?
That is true, the shadow confirmed. We are not friends.
Then why are you here? Wilt repeated. And why do you sound so much alike?
Because one of us mimics the other. I am his shadow, or he is mine. Either way, Justice is no longer who he used to be.
Wilt snarled. Stop speaking in riddles. If you wish to help me, then offer terms.
I do not speak in riddles. I tell you the truth. Just is not the same person that he was.
If you wish to speak of truth, then tell me what I want to know. Tell me why Just has need of me. Tell me why he sends me to retrieve this book, this Teachings of a Whore.
Sure, why not? The ghost laughed. He sends you because of the Mother’s touch. The merchant you attacked, this Trin Cavahl, defiled a copy in Trel. Just believes that the original is the key to tracking down his mother. That is why he sends you, to steal the book that will put the Mother at his mercy.
That made things interesting. If the book was the key to reaching the Mother, then perhaps that was the reason Wilt was here… Perhaps the Mother needed him to steal the book on her behalf instead of Just’s, perhaps to protect it from her son, and in return, she would grant Wilt godhood… And if not, if owning the book might put the Mother at Just’s mercy, then Wilt could use it for the same purpose.
Why tell me this? Wilt asked. In what way does it serve you?
In every way I need, the ghost replied.
Yes, but how? You have spoken to Just on my behalf, told him that it is better to have an ally than it is to have a slave. Do you not want of me an ally?
Perhaps…
Then tell me who you are.
The voice was silent.
Fine, Wilt said. The both of you can rot.
Can I now? the shadow asked. Is that a curse from a Vanduman, or the curse of a man meant to be Death?
Death. So then, this creature did know of the Mother’s promise. As Wilt had considered before, the ghost might even be the Mother’s agent.
What do you know of it? Wilt asked.
I know that you are hardly worthy, but the prospect is amusing. Imagine the irony, should it come to pass…
What irony? How is that ironic?
The creature laughed. Are you quite certain that you’ve been getting smarter?
Wilt grunted. A game. That was all this was. Rulers played by tempting another’s slaves and Wilt was their pawn.
No, Wilt. This is not a game, the creature said. You are my pawn, but this is not a game. The irony here is that he put the idea in your head, that he spoke of Death himself, and have so pushed you toward becoming it.
That was not how Wilt remembered the conversation. It had seemed more as if the demon had baited Just into the conversation, more like the ghost had been intent on forcing the topic, and that in his anger, Just had fallen for the bait.
You think then, Wilt began, that it is true. You think that I will become the god of Death?
Think it? My good Wilt, I do not think such weak words put my knowledge in the proper terms. I do not ‘think’ it. My knowledge goes beyond that.
The ghost’s phrasing seemed dubious.
I suppose it doesn’t matter, Wilt said. Whether you believe it or not, I shall be the god of Death. The Mother has guaranteed it.
Has she now? the ghost asked. I must say, you surprise me, Wilt… All this thought on followers and slaves, and yet you rush into her service with but dreams to prop you up.
I do not rush into the Mother’s service.
Don’t you? In agreeing to be Death, do you not abide her terms, even before she has stated them? Has your life been so sad, Wilt, have you been so powerless that you rush willingly to a future so despicable? You speak of yourself as though you are a slave to Just, but then you look to the Mother as if this future you see for yourself will be granted by her hand. And what if it is… What if she plans to make you into this god of Death you so hope to be? Will she not have done it without consulting you? Will she not have done it while hiding in the shadows? Is that a better kind of master than the one you already have?
What do you know of it? Wilt demanded. You’ve said you have no love for Just. Why would you urge me to be loyal?
Who says I urge you to be loyal? I do not. I simply urge you to question her as much as you question Just. I urge you to question yourself, rather than accept some… ‘truth,’ because it is the one you want to hear. You seek to be this god of Death? Then you accept the Mother’s chains. As you have said of these women here, you compete only to be her favored slave.
The accusation unsettled Wilt. I have not even met the Mother! he said. How could I be in such a competition?
Have not met her? So now the vision you saw beneath the tree means nothing? Make up your mind, Wilt. Ask yourself, is vengeance so important that I will accept th
eir manipulations? That I will accept their torment? That I will accept their chains… And when you realize that you cannot… When you realize that this creature is not what you wish to be… When you have decided to become Death upon your own terms, and of your own volition, then come and find me. Come and show me that you do not want your chains, and I will tell you how to break them.
He felt the creature’s departure; like a tick being ripped from the flesh, he felt the creature go. But he was not satisfied. Not with the creature’s promise, not with its goading, or its ‘help,’ and not with the fact that it had left.
You think I will trade their chains for yours? Wilt demanded. You think that I am stupid? I am not the follower here. I am not pathetic like these around me. It is they who are the fools. It is they who follow blindly! Come back, demon, and face me like a man! You all make me sick!
But there was no response. Only one being rested behind Wilt’s eyes, and it was Wilt.
“They are sickening, are they not?” Wither spoke.
Wilt jumped. Can everyone hear my thoughts? No. No. He was being paranoid.
“Who, my dear?” Wilt asked.
“The Dekahnians.” Her hand flashed into view from over his shoulder, motioning in the Guard’s direction.
“No, my dear,” Wilt sighed. You are all sickening. “They are only lost, just as we are.”
“But they look at us like we are a carcass.” The horde reached the gates, and the mob slowed, parting to follow the New Guard into the city.
“It is their doubt, Wither.” Wilt resisted glancing back at Putrescence. “They have learned new truths about Lock, and they struggle to rationalize it.”
“What truth?” Wither asked.
Wilt smiled, and then allowed himself to glance at the guardsman, meeting Putrescence’s eye as he spoke. He wanted her to know the words were for her alone.
“That is their business, child, they will share it with the world when it is time.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 44