“That is not true!” a guardsman shouted.
“Oh no?” the god challenged. “Putrescence. Come.”
The woman stared horrified, but a hundred hands pushed her to Wilt’s side. Though Wilt had never been tall, the god towered over her, the green eyes piercing into her terror-stricken mask. “Putrescence,” the god said, “tell us King Erin’s secret.”
“I…” she stuttered. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Come, Putrescence. It is no secret that you serve the commander. We do not begrudge your loyalty. We love all who serve Lock.”
Locust opened his mouth to argue, but the god silenced him with a finger. Wilt felt the fear seal the man’s lips.
“Please, Putrescence, tell everyone what the commander told you.”
“She said…” Putrescence released a resigned sob. “She said that Lock worshipped the Whore.” The woman broke into tears and slid to the ground, unable to face her own words.
Locust’s anger boiled to the surface. Whatever bound him could no longer hold. He rounded on Wilt and stabbed a finger into his chest. “What do you know of our people?” he yelled. “You are not even Lockish, your name is Twil. Twil! And you are a whorepriest!”
“Yes. For I have ever served Lock’s patron.”
“Liar,” Locust howled. “Warriors! Seize him! He speaks treason and lies against King Lock and King Erin.”
Two warriors, one of them Lilt, moved forward to grab Wilt’s arms. The crowd roiled, screaming for his blood. The god’s gambit had failed. They didn’t believe him. Both guardsmen and Vandu wanted him dead, and even his faithful – even Wither and all the others – watched in silence, mulling in confusion and disbelief.
I told you they were not ready! Wilt hissed. You have killed me. But Wilt did not care as much for that as he did the failure. You have spoiled my ruse! Now I shall never become the god of Death!
“Halt,” the god spoke calmly, and for a moment everything stopped.
Confused by Wilt’s lack of fear, Lilt and the other warrior paused, glancing to the consul for confirmation. The god continued.
“If you do not believe me, then you need only look to the sky.” The god raised Wilt’s head, and he saw what the god spoke of.
There were no cries of anguish or fear as Wilt expected. The Vandu were silent, every eye transfixed on the burning moon. Even the guardsmen, with the possible threat of a Vandu insurrection, seemed absent-minded. Hands were pressed to mouths, to eyes, to bolas, ears, and hilts, for it was not a sight to be taken empty-handed; to be taken without disbelief or denial or the need to feel safe by clutching some object of comfort.
A spitting, rabid snake writhed in the moon’s murky waters. It devoured, tearing apart what was once pristine, stripping away an iconoclastic symbol as certain as the rot. If this familiar friend could change in a single breath, unheeded and without warning, then no certainty was certain and old beliefs could be cast away in the same moment. An old friend could become an enemy and an old enemy a friend; all it required were the perfect words, and in a moment such as this, the perfect words were the first spoken.
The god’s voice was an inch above a whisper. “This is not a warning. The gods do not seek to punish your insolence. They wish only to remind you, to remind us, of the bonds we once formed in their names. Trel, Lock, Dekahn. Not places, but peoples, forged from those ties of faith and the loyalty we have long forgotten. The Farmer betrayed us, and like petulant children we betrayed our bond to the Trellish. To appease our gods, we must rebuild those bonds. We must accept the Trellish into our hearts and call them brothers once more. And we must fulfill Lock’s final wish.”
Every person listened. They waited, silent, still staring to the sky. Only one face looked on in contemplation, and only one had the courage to speak.
“How?” Putrescence asked. With recriminating hands, she had disheveled her hair. Red had conquered the whites of her eyes. Her voice was more helpless than a drowning babe. But with that one word she caught every eye. “How do we reclaim our gods? What can we do to make them happy?”
Just lowered Wilt’s head to meet the eyes of a woman still kneeling under the weight of guilt. He spoke not to the crowd, but only to her, as if their hearing was purely coincidental and unimportant. “By granting Lock’s final wish. By taking this city in his name and the name of his gods, and by expelling those who betrayed him. By expelling those who would deny our gods’ existence.”
“The Atheists,” Putrescence murmured.
“Yes,” Just affirmed. “It was they who took advantage of Lock’s goodwill. It was they who drove the Trellish and the Vandu and the Dekahnians apart. It is they – and their spymaster – who abuse the Vandu now. They must be cast out, given up as a sign of our faith!”
Her mouth flat and her face bereft of feeling, Putrescence closed her eyes, and as the crowd shuffled, wordless and attentive to her alone, it seemed that their sentiments rested solely on what she did next; this lone woman, not Vandu, but a guardsman in deplorable and admitted disguise.
Her cheeks flattened. Her eyes squeezed taut. And then she nodded, a single drop of her jaw, but the gesture was unmistakable for the certainty written in her features. “Then we must begin with the Chapter Houses,” she said. “And with any guardsmen who will not lay down their arms.”
The Vandu broke into murmurs. Uncertainty still gripped them. And then, that uncertainty turned to restlessness. Each person’s gaze darted to their neighbor on either side, as if each waited for the first to act.
From belief in the god’s words, or the realization of an opportunity to settle an old grudge, a guardsman in the back row, spoke.
“Compridge,” the guardsman shouted, his finger angled at another man in uniform. “He’s an Atheist. He’s wearing the Atheist armband.”
Compridge spread his arms and took a step back as if to protest, but in doing so, he stepped into the drawn blade of another guardsman. His strength buckled, and Compridge collapsed. Two other guardsmen drew their blades and struck down the man who had accused Compridge. A Vandu war call pierced the night, and then a war horn, and then those two guardsmen were surrounded, Vandu steel chopping them down.
“Hold!” Locust cried, finally realizing that he had held his tongue too long. As he stepped to Wilt’s side, he thrust his hands into the air, fingers splayed in a vain effort to halt the insanity. Standing not far from Wilt, the consul’s fifth wife, the one who had visited Wilt’s bed on more than one occasion, shouted over him.
“The consul has met with the spymaster in his tent! I have seen them together. He serves the Atheists!”
Fear washed white on Locust’s face, and as he glared at his wife, the crowd broke. Shouts of anger and disbelief flew from the mob, condemning the consul and his betrayal. And then something else flew from the crowd; a horsewarrior’s bolas. End over end, the bolas flew, until it reached the consul, catching him in the neck and coiling around it like a snake. Wilt heard the consul gag before his neck snapped, and as the life fled his body, the god stepped to the consul’s ear, and whispered: “It is me, Uncle, your dear nephew Wilt.”
Wilt had never seen a man survive a broken neck so long, but he survived long enough to stare into Wilt’s eyes. The look on Snail’s face, the understanding in his eye as he collapsed to the floor, it would have been the sweetest thing, if only it had been Wilt who had whispered those words.
What have you done! Wilt demanded. That was my moment. That was my vengeance. The god simply laughed as Wilt’s followers looked on, immobile as if stunned, the other Vandu rioting behind them.
“It is time,” the god shouted as he stepped forward. “Tonight, we shall reclaim this city in Lock’s name; in the Whore’s name! And then we shall do as Lock requested, we shall drive the Atheists from the city and avenge our Trellish brothers. They wait outside the walls to accept our gift. We must let them share in our worship! Storm the gatehouse. Kill any who stand in our way!”
Perhaps they had t
ruly believed the god’s sermon, or maybe they simply wanted vengeance for Famine’s death, but it was Locust’s horsewarriors who drew their blades, running and screaming for the Chapter House next to the gatehouse. Most of the crowd followed, even the handful of surviving New Guard. Only Lilt stood motionless, standing over the consul’s corpse. He was the only one; not even the consul’s favored wife stopped to mourn Snail.
Putrescence stood beside Wilt, moving as if to follow the others, but instead, she went a different direction; toward the barracks.
“Where are you going?” the god asked her.
“They will rally the rest of the Guard soon. I will lead the charge, if only to spare what guardsmen will follow us.”
The god shrugged, and strangely, three Vandu and two guardsmen followed her, as if they had been waiting for her signal.
What now? Wilt asked the god.
Take the gates, you fool. Then retrieve the book. Must I do everything for you?
I could ask the same question, Wilt mocked.
Just be happy that you live.
It is not a life if you take my prized moments from me. They were mine to turn and Locust was mine to kill. Can I have no happiness?
You refused to act. I will take more than your happiness if you delay again. Just’s presence fled in a cackle. Do not fail me, rapist. Remember the book.
Wilt sagged under the newly returned weight of his form. His control had been returned, and he found himself once more behind his eyes. Relief flooded him. He would not forget the book, but it would serve his ends, not Just’s.
Wilt kneeled over his uncle’s corpse, and with Lilt’s eyes upon him, pulled his uncle’s scabbard and sword from his belt.
“That is not yours,” Lilt said.
“No?” Wilt asked, bitter over the vengeance that had been stolen from him. “I would say that I killed him, did I not?”
Lilt scowled and turned away, disappearing into the crowd before the barracks and gatehouse. A soft voice spoke beside him.
“You have taken the consul’s blade,” Wither said. “Does that mean you shall take his seat as well?” Wilt’s followers stood behind her, listening patiently as the world burned around them. Sneering behind his mask, Wilt forced his voice to a soothing tone.
“Do you believe in our cause, Wither?”
Looking surprised, her shoulders slumped. “Of course, Priest Twil.”
“Good, then I must ask of you one final task. Our people will take the gates soon. When they do, you must stay here to hold them. You will wait for a woman named Cyleste, the Grand Legionnaire.”
“Hold them? Us? What about you, where will you be?”
“I must go into the city before the New Guard realizes what has happened.”
“But you must lead us,” Wither protested.
“In time, but first there are things I must attend to.”
“What could be more important than our people?”
Wilt shook his head, uncertain of what to say. His chance at godhood, for one. “Will you do as I have asked?”
“Yes,” she said, grudging.
“Good.” Looping Locust’s scabbard onto his belt, Wilt headed for the inner city, leaving her without an explanation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Leveraging his foot between the grated iron and stone, Loy swung himself over the gate. He had tried the latch, chained shut with a large padlock, and decided it would not be too presumptuous to admit himself. He knew it was impolite to drop in unannounced, but after his last meeting – with an old woman wearing rags and coughing all over him; who had known nothing of godkind – Loy had lost his patience for courtesy. The people of this land had none, so the obvious route was to pretend the same.
A walkway cut through the estate’s garden to the main compound; a three-story home with an attached stable and three other buildings, all fenced in by a ten-foot stone wall and an arched, iron gate. Loy crossed to the front door and knocked. The aura was close, so he shouted through the door.
“Mr. Clerahl, I wish to speak with you please.”
Loy waited several minutes, but no one answered. The aura hummed behind the timber framed window on the door’s left. As Loy was not an uncouth savage, he resisted the urge to peek in and discover why the owner had made no move to respond. He knocked again.
“Mr. Clerahl, I can feel your aura, I know you are home.”
The aura fluttered as the source rose from a sitting position and crossed the hall to the door. A shadow flickered over the peephole and then vanished. The aura hovered in the doorway, but the door remained firmly shut. All was quiet in the house.
“You are just behind the door,” Loy shouted as he knocked a third time. “Your aura is very strong, with the taste of copper and the scent of peat. You and I have important matters to discuss.”
“Go away,” a man’s voice called from within. “You and I have nothing to discuss, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Clerahl, I have questions about the city and its godkind. As fifty-third son of Order, I demand that you answer them.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There are no godkind here. Sorry and good day to you.”
“I have lost my patience tonight, Mr. Clerahl, if you do not let me in, I will let myself in, even if that means sending the slabs of this footpath through your front door.”
“Leave before I release the dogs,” the voice called. “There will be no talk of witchcraft on my estate. Mages are not welcome here!”
“Are you calling me a witch?” Loy bristled. “I am a member of the Second Generation and a noble godling, not some swamp rat, bucktoothed mortal who dabbles in herbs and worships beasts.” Loy pounded on the door. “I know what you are, Mr. Clerahl, I do not mean you any trouble, I just wish some words.”
“I’m nothing but a coal merchant. Please leave.”
“You are a godling, Mr. Clerahl!”
A rush of air swept past Loy’s ears as the door swung open. A clean cut, middle aged man in velvet evening robes scowled in the doorway. The man’s hand thrust to Loy’s collar before it pulled him in and slammed the door.
“Keep your voice down, boy. I’m no mage, but I’m not keen on living the rest of my life under the spymaster’s thumb like those poor sods in the palace just because some fool’s flapping his lips where he shouldn’t be.”
Mr. Clerahl looked like a man to be noticed. His sideburns and eyebrows were well groomed and his face free of dirt and grime. His shirt was pressed, his hands were clean, and his home was akin to a proper Lendish estate, with grand staircases – the balustrades gilded with silver – tiled floors, and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Beneath the staircase was an alcove that enshrined an elaborate vase engraved with a symbol of three parallel lines, a vase so stunning that it looked to be carved of abalone shells.
“Your home is magnificent,” Loy said, proud to be in such an estate. “Worthy of our kind.”
“Our kind?” the man asked. “I told you, I’m not a mage and I won’t accept any accusations to the contrary. I pay my dues to the Chapter House on Willow Street, you can go and ask, and they’ll tell you I’m one of their most generous contributors. You want to go making trouble and it’ll be you tied to a stake awaiting the stones, not me.”
“I’m not here to threaten you, Mr. Clerahl. As I said, I am Loy, a Second and a son of Order.”
Mr. Clerahl squinted a stare. “Is that some kind of cult? Religion isn’t allowed on my premises.” The man pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and patted his brow. “How’d you know my name?”
“It was posted on the gate, Mr. Clerahl.”
“Of course,” the man said. “Of course. So, what do you want? As I told you, I’m not joining any religion. I’m an Atheist and I pay my dues as such, anybody’ll tell you the same.”
“I’m not here representing any religion. I am new to the city and was hoping to make the acquaintance of fellow godkind before settling in.”
Clerahl’s eyes widened, his pupils completely surrounded by white for a fraction of a second. “There are no godkind here, and if you are such, you’re not welcome in my home. Butcherspawn are not welcome here.”
“Butcherspawn?” Confused, Loy tasted the word. “I think you are mistaken. I am the son of Father Order, not the Butcher.”
“I don’t know who that is and I don’t care. Just get out and stay away from my house.” The man pushed him toward the door.
“The Farmer then, or Nikom, whatever you mortals call him here.”
The man stopped, and nearly tripped, catching himself on Loy’s sleeve. Regaining his stance, he looked Loy in the eye. What he searched for, Loy couldn’t say.
“Nope,” Clerahl said after a time.
“What?” Loy asked.
“Nope,” Clerahl said, shaking his head. “Just nope. Get out. I’m not falling for it. Tell the spymaster that he’ll get that coal he asked for. I sure as shit don’t have what he needs, but you tell him he’ll get it and that he’ll get it for free. My prices aren’t worth this, so you drop this act, you tell him I’ll cooperate, and you get out of my house.” He opened the door and shoved Loy through.
Losing his calm, Loy flipped a stone from the walkway and flung it at Clerahl. The man ducked and dropped his grip on Loy’s shoulder. The stone whizzed over his head, shattering the vase in the alcove beneath the staircase.
Clerahl stared at the vase and then back to Loy. “You really are a mage. Gods, what are you doing screaming it in this city? Don’t you know what the Atheists will do to you?”
“I have never heard of these Atheists, nor do I care what they do. I am godkind and I will be treated as such.”
The man gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know how mages are treated where you’re from, but you don’t want to be treated like one in Lock.” Mr. Clerahl sighed and waved Loy in. “Come in and shut the door. Maybe we do have something to discuss.” Despite his words, Mr. Clerahl pushed Loy aside and hung his head outside the door. “And as I was saying,” he shouted as his eyes scanned the courtyard and the street outside the gate. “If it were up to me, mages would not be given sanctuary in the king’s court. It is past time that we returned to the days when mages were hung and quartered for their evils!” With the final word, he pulled his head in and slammed the door. He offered Loy a sad smile. “Sorry, must keep up appearances.” He waved a hand to the room adjacent to the stairs. “Come, let’s speak before the hearth.”
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 56