Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  Fires. The fires of death. They brought a familiar pain, but it was their source that Lu knew best. He was familiar with death, for Lu had already died. Many times he had died. Many lives he had lived, but only one was his. The fires burned behind his eyes, above his brain. It was his skull. He remembered. A hammer. A Smith’s hammer. But it was not the Butcher. The Butcher was gone. A madman to herald madness. The Smith was first, but far from the last. Because there is no Death. Death is dead. Because I killed her.

  Me? he asked. Yes me, he answered.

  Guilt is another form of pain. A form worse than mortal wounds. It stings in places unfound by most. It dwells in dark corners, corners so dark they can house only evil. But guilt is not a thing of evil. It is a thing of good, which punishes wrongdoing.

  No, Lu corrected. Perception. Guilt punishes perception. But for his crimes, there was no question of perception. Not in his eyes. He had done wrong and there were crimes that must be repaid. But first he must live. Death is not repentance. It cannot undo misdeeds. But I can. If only I can stop them all.

  The moon was not his first crime. Perhaps the biggest? A difficult claim. An inaccurate claim, even for Lu. Biggest measured absolutes, but he did not know the future – though pretending was useful – so how could he know if it would be his biggest?

  There were places between extremes. Possible. Impossible. The future lived between. Time lived in between. Lu could only see glimpses. Glimpses of things that he could never know, but did, because he could not know them. The biggest yet? he corrected. He could not know that.

  The pain burgeoned in the wound. Death was impossible, for he had killed Death. Me? he asked again. Yes me, he answered. He claimed certainty, but he did not feel it. He had spoken true to the liar’s essence; he was the greatest lie of all. But greatest was the same as biggest. It too, was a lie, because greatest was not necessarily strongest, for Conviction persisted. And Conviction blamed a whore, when it should blame itself, for Lu had not killed Death. Conviction had. Of that, Lu was certain.

  His body shivered. The feeling returned. Lifting a hand, he felt the wound. Someone had wrapped a towel around his brow. The bleeding had stopped. The wound had healed. He had dreamt of the Assassin. Of Rift. There was guilt every time he thought of Rift. Two crimes he had dealt the man. The same crime, in different ways and different moments. Death and death. Galina had gone mad. It was Lu’s fault. Rift’s children had died. Conviction blamed a whore, but Conviction hid from the truth. It could not face guilt. It was not like Lu, who had given in. Lu knew his crimes; he did not hide from them. Instead, he worked to fix them. Me? he asked. Not yet, he answered. Death and death.

  A clanking hammer sounded in the yard outside; annoying, but beneath notice. An impossible occurrence, and therefore possible; the essence of Lu had its downside. He thought of the hammer. Walter was not his crime. Not wholly. The madness, yes. The deaths, yes. But Walter’s choices? No. Walter had made his own decisions and Lu could accept that. Free will was a gift. A gift beyond the grasp of gods and Fate. Though the bitch might try.

  Conviction’s need was blind to free will, for free will made him culpable. The Whore had made her choices, also. She too was culpable. There was no denying what she had done, and she had committed her crimes in full knowledge of her wrongdoing, but Lu had acted in ignorance.

  There was no mercy in that. Not from guilt. But it did allow for an understanding that allowed him to continue on.

  There was understanding in the Whore’s actions. But understanding was not justification. Not for her crimes. Not for his own. Conviction could not forgive them. Lu could not forgive them. Even Not Lu had not forgiven her. And Not Lu understood. He understood everything, which was why Lu was him; Who is Not Lu, and is not Lu, but Lu is. Not Lu had given him a gift. The gift of Thought. If there are any worthy of emulating, it is he, who is Not Lu.

  The dream had been of a city. A dying city, but it was not the city of Death. The dream had been of Rift. Lu had followed him. He had been witness to his own mistakes. The gift of Thought had not been enough to foresee the Blessing’s end. The flaw of Thought is that it is not Truth, Lu quoted. And a copy of Thought is even less. He had seen the Assassin take the book from the city. Guilt was not enough. Guilt had driven Lu to action, when it should have halted him. He wished it had, but it had not stopped him from killing his apprentice. It hadn’t stopped him from killing Gemm.

  The memory sparked and Lu sat on the floor of the Mother’s Temple, a razor-thin blade clenched in a bloody hand. His apprentice’s neck wept blood onto Lu’s shoulder, the boy’s cheeks and tears still warm against his face. He watched the Mother appear. Lu heard her words, and felt the pain of what he had done. He had loved the boy as a son, and the boy had tried to kill him.

  Me? he asked. Lu thought of the razor thin blade tearing into his flesh. He recalled the world he had created. Yes me, he answered.

  Ignorance did not excuse guilt, but it lessened it enough for him to continue. He had sent Rift into the city to steal the book, thinking the distraction would buy him the time he needed. It likely had, especially now that the city lay in ruins, but had it been worth the cost? Conviction spills, Lu noted. He had convinced himself that need was sufficient to justify his schemes, but that need had made him reckless. He could not stop Conviction if he became it. Do I wish to stop him? he wondered. He did.

  Me? he asked. Yes me, he answered, but he did not remember why. Memory was not Thought, and Thought was not Truth, and Lu was Not Lu.

  Did I follow Rift from the city?

  Me? he asked. Yes me, he answered.

  Lu opened his eyes to a thatch roof and pine eaves. He was in Vale. The hammer blow hadn’t killed him, or at the least, Death had failed. But Death never failed. Except with Lu, always.

  He lay on a cot, his staff resting beside him. He liked his new staff. It was more himself than the wooden bird; the erratic yellow, the flashy light. The staff was foreign. It didn’t belong. The jay had been appropriate, but the orb was better. It was proof of the impossible and Lu was impossible.

  He liked to believe that lie, but he knew it must be false. He existed. That was proof enough of possibility, and Lu did not like justifying himself. The staff did not try to justify its existence, the staff simply was. He liked that, also. But objects are not me, and I am not them, for they are not Lu and I am him, who is Not Lu, who is not me.

  Lu chuckled. There was plenty of time for self-reflection, but not now. He still had enemies. Taehrn, Godahn, Fate, and oh so many more. Reflection must wait, for understanding must wait. If his enemies knew him, they would finally understand and he couldn’t have that. If they understood, then they would understand, but that would be terrible, because then, they might understand, which might be worse than understanding. And they might realize he knew about their attempted coup… and knew how to use their plot against them.

  Understanding had bought Lu time, and time was all he needed; the time to make certain that Fate and Just and the Mother could not interfere with Death, and finally, to repent for all his crimes.

  Repentance? Lu wondered. Do I want that?

  Me? he asked. Yes me, he answered.

  He owed his people much. To fix them, he must hurt them. And that was the worst of it. They were already broken. Broken by his hand. He had to admit, Conviction had its uses. All of the men and women who acted in Lu’s name; Rift, Bell, Jem, the merchant Trin, and the Grand Legionnaire – each did him a service, and he used them without regret. The last had been a struggle. To convince her, he’d been forced to enact his power as Sovereign. It had been a lie, of course, for Cyleste herself was Sovereign, and they both knew it. Lu could not be the Sovereign of Justice, for although he knew the man, he did not believe in him.

  He who is not himself, can believe in nothing.

  Lu was aware, but he did not want to be. He sat up and leaned on his knees. His feet were bare and the floor chilly. His surroundings were plain; a simple home with a bed, a tabl
e, a few chairs, and a fireplace. A woven tablecloth shrouded the table, stitched with a floral motif. He recognized the shape; the Smith’s Blossom, a flower often used when quenching steel. The Young Smith. Walter’s son.

  Lu paused, taken by a sudden revelation. All of this ruminating, it was unnatural for him. Why should he feel like this? Why should guilt hound him, when he had nothing to be guilty for? It must belong to another.

  Guilt? he snarled. Do I have guilt?

  Yes, Lu declined. No, he affirmed. His mind roiled and his head rocked. It was not a shake or a nod, but an obsession; an intense need to rid his thoughts of false memories. I did not kill Death, he knew. I have betrayed no one. To be the gods’ voice, one must know their thoughts, one must see their memories, and know their feelings.

  Thought. Yes. The archaic poetry, the guilt, the self-obsessive ponderings; these things are Not Lu.

  Are you sure?

  Lu giggled. He wasn’t sure.

  Is my lie my lie, or is the lie about my lie the lie? He coiled his beard around a finger. Neither, Lu reasoned. No, both, he decided. Can it be both? he wondered. Lu smiled; his aspect allowed.

  Lu considered his options. The Young Smith had struck him over the head. Best to sneak away. Windowless, the far wall had only a single door near the left corner. The sounds of the anvil and hammer came from there. He glanced over his shoulder to the opposite wall and estimated the window’s width. Satisfied, he eased open the shutters, then with staff in hand, scrambled through into the cold morning air. He landed face first in a pile of charcoal. Ash kicked into the air and an ill-timed breath swept the dust into his lungs. He coughed violently as he rolled off the pile into the green grass. Gasping for clean air, the coughing stopped. The pounding hammer continued its toll. Lu sighed his relief.

  Lu regained his feet and retrieved his staff. He felt his brow. Bandages. Bandages? Lu panicked. Where is my hat? Lu hopped onto the pile then dropped to his stomach to hide underneath the windowsill. He had just barely come from the window – But barely is relative, he decided. Anyone could be in there!

  He peeked over the sill and saw his hat lying within reach, at the foot of the cot. I have to save it, Lu decided. But how? Windows are for escapes, not rescues. He spied the lone door along the far wall. Yes, there. I must go in through the front. Sidling along the wall, he made his way to the front of the house. The hammering grew louder and he saw the source. A middle-aged man, wearing simple clothing, leaned over an anvil. The Young Smith lifted his head and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Feeling capable of a hearty hello, Lu waved to the man, then opened the door to retrieve his hat. Frowning, the Smith glanced up from his anvil.

  “Hey,” the Smith called. “Don’t go in there.”

  Lu ignored him and entered.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Retrieving my hat,” Lu said.

  The Young Smith followed him to the doorway. Lu sidestepped the table with the embroidered tablecloth and arrived at his cot.

  “But you’re tracking soot into the house!”

  “Soot?” Lu asked. He surveyed the room with a mad grin. “I don’t see any soot.” Satisfied that the man was a liar, he retrieved his blue, pointed hat and donned it with a flourish of his cloak. A cloud of black dust appeared from nothing, buffeting his eyes and throat. The coughing returned and his eyes burned. “Vile creature!” Lu swore. “You’ve trapped my hat!”

  “Look what you’ve done,” the Smith yelled as he charged at Lu.

  Fearing for his life, Lu dove out the window, to land in a pile of charcoal. See? For escapes. Footsteps pounded on the pine floorboards. Terrified, Lu scrambled to his feet. A hand materialized from the window and snatched his collar, yanking hard.

  “Are you blood-addled, man? What were you thinking?”

  “You hit me over the head with a hammer,” Lu complained, though in truth, he had enjoyed it. Lu enjoyed most things.

  “Of course I did, you were playing with the birthright in ways no one should.”

  “But I am Lu, High Cleric of Trel. I am above such laws.”

  The hand loosened. “High Cleric, huh? I thought you looked familiar. You’re the Whore’s Priest…” The Smith’s face drooped and for a moment he stared at nothing. As his eyes refocused on Lu, a fire burned in them. “Why are you here?” the Smith demanded.

  Lu ignored him. “You’re the Smith.”

  The Smith scowled. “No, I’m not.”

  “The Young Smith,” Lu corrected.

  “That’s not my title and I won’t hear it.”

  Lu liked the answer. Things were what they claimed to be, never what they were. “And I am Not Lu,” Lu agreed.

  The Smith’s scowl turned into a frown.

  “Of course. I know that’s not your name. Everyone knows your real name, at least any godkind worth his salt. But… you’re the High Cleric again? I mean, the actual High Cleric of Trel? I thought you had left with your daughter. Why have you come back?”

  Left with my daughter? he wondered. He thought back to his former life. Me? he asked. The memories were all there, but were they his…

  “Yes me,” he answered.

  The Young Smith looked confused. “What?”

  “Yes.”

  The Smith stared at him, his frown returned to a scowl. “Meet me out front,” he said. “I’m not going to hang my head out of this window all day.”

  All day? Lu shrugged. He decided that was okay. He had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do – at least nothing he hadn’t conveniently forgotten. He climbed off the pile, and as a courtesy, brushed away the dust. He wouldn’t want to track dust all over the Young Smith’s fancy, dirt walkway. Deciding to do one better, he thought of a spell that would clean him. Being in two places at once, he chimed, and the birthright came. With warm, pressed robes and an unwrinkled hat, he strolled to the front of the house.

  The Young Smith waited in his smithy. Upon seeing Lu, he pointed to a pile of logs.

  “Sit there,” the Smith said.

  Lu pulled a suitable seat from the pile and set it upright. It looked like a log, but the man had said it was a chair. It wobbled slightly as he sat, which chairs should not do, so to show the man a kindness, Lu fixed it.

  He watched the Young Smith put away his tools and quench his smithy. The man looked relaxed, at home. It reminded Lu of another memory that may or may not have been his own; that of his brother Walter cleaning his forge in Vigil. The Butcher had been meticulous in his craftsmanship, even after he’d lost his sanity. He remembered the bodies of the dead, lined along the gutters, hanging from lamp posts, and stacked along the waterfront, all sorted according to the type of maiming which had been inflicted upon them. It is good that Silt arrived before me, else I would have killed him myself.

  Me? Lu asked.

  This time, he didn’t answer. Another memory came; he saw himself standing over Walter, with his hand on his uncle’s neck as his sword swung ever closer. He remembered putting the body with those stacked along the waterfront; the beheaded. The memories conflicted. They were two different viewpoints occurring at once, in different places. One cannot be in two places at once, Lu repeated, and the magic came to him. At least one of the memories did not belong to him. Probably both.

  Not me, he answered. He watched Walter’s son hang his leather apron on a hook. Lu had too many crimes to take responsibility for another’s. Lu did not want to hurt Walter’s son. Maybe he should hear these memories…

  Oh yes, Lu mocked. A brilliant idea. My dear Kalec, such a lovely forge you have. Your cleanliness reminds me of genocide. Your papa would be proud. Lu giggled in spite of himself. He decided to keep the memories to himself. Lu was not unmerciful.

  The Young Smith pulled closed the two heavy doors to his forge. As he turned, a look of surprise settled on his features. “Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to Lu’s lovingly crafted, four-legged, deluxe garden chair with awning and cup holder attached.


  “Your chair was wobbly,” Lu said.

  “It was a log,” Kalec protested.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The Young Smith frowned. For several moments, he stared at Lu without speaking, his gaze scrolling across Lu’s face. Finally, he shook his head, pulled a log from the pile, and sat. “You were about to tell me why you’re here,” he said.

  Lu shrugged. “Because of the boy. Is he yours?”

  “Mine what?”

  “Your son.”

  Kalec Rin shook his head. “Jem? No, he isn’t. I tried to find out, but the boy rarely spoke to me. His father says I reminded the kid of some farrier he’d known at Liv. Most I learned was that his mother left after he was born and never came back. I figured she was the godkind in the family.”

  “He has the Whore’s scent.”

  “He does at that,” Kalec agreed. “Is that why you’ve come? You seek the Whore?”

  “I do.”

  Kalec grunted. “Well if the Whore’s priest can’t find her, then what hope do the rest of us have?”

  Lu shrugged. “I don’t know, I have not asked him.”

  The Young Smith frowned.

  “Tell me all you can of the boy,” Lu said.

  Kalec scratched his chin. “Well, I suppose I could, but first you need to tell me why you’ve come back to Trel.”

  Lu pondered the question. He often wondered that himself. He had an answer, but reasons not to share them. Fate watches. Her insurrectionists needed no more advantage.

  Lu settled on an ambiguous truth. “I was needed,” he said. “When I became Trel’s ruler, I took up the mantle of stewardship. I have returned to save it.”

  “From what?”

  A good question, Lu noted, but he did not share the Smith’s uncertainty. “Conviction,” Lu said, “and Fate.”

  “No need to be cryptic,” the Smith said. “If you don’t want to tell me, you can just say so.” Despite Kalec’s words, Lu saw a twinkle of disappointment in the Smith’s eyes.

  A bored hermit? Lu wondered. Yes… but why? Lu’s gaze wandered the little hamlet. The Smith’s house was the third largest, but only because of the forge. The biggest building was the inn at the end of the lane, and the temple next to it was only larger than Kalec’s home because of the vaulted roof. Most of the homes were simple and looked unkempt. Many looked as if they hadn’t seen care since the snows melted; the winter lodgings of woodsmen. The guilt I feel, Lu considered. Perhaps it does not belong to Thought. His gaze fell on Kalec.