“Yes, very good, Legionnaire, but next time, just stab it a few times with the pitchfork.” Turning back to Bell, Cyleste grinned. “You see, he is better than fine.”
Bell frowned at the Legionnaire’s Mark upon Acklin’s breast. “I am sorry, Grand, I do not understand.”
“No, Legionnaire, you wouldn’t. You see, since our friend Acklin here was the only member of your squad capable of upholding his duties, I have promoted him to my personal guard.”
“That’s right,” Acklin said. “The Grand’s told me all about your traitorous ways, heathen. Can’t believe I sat around the same dinner fire as a buncha savages like you an’ the resta your lot.”
Bell blinked at the man then turned to Cyleste. “Uphold his duty?”
Bell glared at the Grand through slit lids. Would Perval… He could not bring himself to finish the thought. Why would he have wanted to kill her? Bell thought of Kenneth’s words only a few minutes before. If Perval was involved, then Kenneth certainly is too… But she suspects a coup from Taehrn. What do those three have to do with each other? I don’t think I’ve even seen them speak. Gods, it is all so unbelievable of Taehrn that it sounds like one of Trin’s rants.
“Are you listening, Bell Cobbren?”
Bell realized he hadn’t been. Her words refocused him. “You have misread my intentions, Grand, and convict me based solely upon circumstance.”
The Grand sighed. “Surely that must be the case,” she drawled sarcastically. “Legionnaire, you have much to learn of subtlety. I am almost inclined to believe your protestations, if only because I have more faith in the First Legionnaire’s capacities than to employ an assassin so obvious as yourself.”
At the word ‘assassin,’ Hornsman Darl shifted uncomfortably, his eyes bugging out as he stared at the Grand. For a moment, he looked wide awake.
Noticing Darl’s expression, Cyleste sniffed at him. “Oh, come now, Hornsman Darl, do not pretend that you are oblivious to Legion politics.”
Darl blushed, his mouth twitching as if fumbling for words that never came.
“Regardless,” Cyleste continued, “you are dismissed, Legionnaire. Return to your duties as the queen’s gaoler, and just be content that she is not as keen on making a violent escape as I had hoped.”
A nihilistic laugh escaped Bell’s chest. “If you are so certain of my guilt, you might as well kill me already. I’d rather know when and where the knife’s coming than play this game.”
The Grand smiled. “So, you understand why I have kept you alive.”
“No,” Bell said. “I don’t. But if this conspiracy of yours is real, you’re going to get a rather unpleasant surprise while you spend all your time watching me.”
As he turned to leave, Bell barely caught the scowl as it sunk over Cyleste’s face. He heard Acklin sputter, the same sound he’d heard one night at dinner when Trin had said the gods could eat her shit.
As he headed back to the palace, Bell thought about everything he knew of Perval and Kenneth. They served in the Gableman’s Riots alongside the Grand… but not Taehrn. He was a few years too young, and still living in Trel back then. He would have been at the university, still courting Trin and receiving his training from the priesthood before being formally enlisted as a legionnaire… If Perval and Kenneth truly are his assassins – and I can’t even believe I’m entertaining the idea – then they must have met much later…
Gods, this is ridiculous. All of my evidence is supposition and circumstance. I am no better than the Grand. Perval and Kenneth have nothing to do with this. They are simply victims of her paranoia, the same as the rest of us. I will not besmirch an honest soldier’s memory because of a little hysteria.
Bell sighed. Between the Grand’s insanity and the death of his friends, he could no longer hold off his depression. He wasn’t very familiar with death, at least not the deaths of those close to him. The thought that one of his oldest friends might be a traitor – and the inadvertent cause of Skibs’ and Rise’s death – made it all worse. I am not so afraid of death, but the thought of Taehrn as the killer is enough to leave me numb.
“Excuse me, Legionnaire.” The voice that spoke was timid.
Turning, Bell discovered that it was the cooper he had saved the night before. Though she wore the same soot stained and smoke-worn clothing, her face was washed and her smile wide.
“Oh hello,” Bell said, nodding a polite greeting. “You look… rather well.”
“I am,” the cooper said. “And I have good news. My children were returned to me this morning.”
Relief and surprise at her good fortune overcame Bell’s sour mood. “That is wonderful,” Bell said. “How did this happen?”
“Two Trellish soldiers brought them this morning. It is miraculous, both my children were unhurt, and they are almost ecstatic. They will not stop talking of this…” Her voice lowered as her eyes darted to the floor, “…witch who saved them. I have told them to stop speaking of such foolishness, but I am so happy to see them safe that I am almost ready to shout him praises myself.”
Bell’s breath caught. “These soldiers…” he began.
“Ah, of course,” the woman interrupted, thrusting a hand into her pocket. “One of them asked me to give this to you.” The cooper held out a piece of parchment, half-crumpled but folded into thirds.
For the fear that his hopes would be dashed, Bell accepted the parchment warily. It can’t be… it’s too much to hope.
“Your friends are alive,” the woman announced happily. “The same two that ran into the room to save my children, it was they who returned my son and daughter.”
Until he unfolded the letter and saw the handwriting, Bell did not fully believe her words. When he did, his grip tightened, crumpling the letter farther, as he threw his arms around the cooper and hugged her. “This is marvelous,” he said.
The cooper did not look frazzled when he set her down, her smile had only broadened farther and her cheeks flushed. “Before they left, they said that everything was explained in the letter, but I knew that I had to be the one who told you. I wanted to be the one who gave my savior the same happiness that I felt when they delivered my children to me.”
Staring at the letter in his hands, Bell was speechless. The best he could manage was a strangled, “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me,” the cooper said. “It is I who owe you and your friends everything.” Her voice turned somber as her gaze drifted to the surrounding courtyard. “Not many were as lucky as I have been.” Her cheeks reddened further, as if suddenly remembering that she stood in the center of the Legion’s forces. “Regardless,” she continued, “I will leave you to your letter. I am sure that you wish to be alone right now.”
“Thank you,” Bell repeated.
As the cooper turned to leave, she offered him one last smile, barely registered as Bell turned to the letter. Even had he not known Skibs’ handwriting, the use of all the Hornish pronouns, conjunctions, and prepositions would have given the author away.
Bell,
I’m writing this letter because Rise made me. We are safe and well, but we won’t be coming back ter the Legion. Yer were right about everything, friend. There’s more ter devotion than simply picking a god and going on with yer life like it doesn’t mean anything. Last night, Rise and I learned that in full. I met me god, Bell, a young man who saved both our lives from near death with a touch of his hands. I won’t give yer the full details because yer don’t need them, but we’ve decided ter go with him. There isn’t a future fer us in the Legion, not if the Grand thinks us traitors. Ther only hope we see is leaving before we’re dead. Do me a favor, don’t let her kill yer and don’t let her change yer either. Continue putting all the thought yer have inter everything yer do, friend. No one else is going ter do it fer yer.
Please, keep this letter between us. No offense Bell, but yer more trusting than is healthy. I say this because the man who saved us calls himself a god and claims ter be the son of Order.
Sound familiar? I’m thinking the Grand’s certainty goes beyond faith, Bell. Watch yerself, friend. Rise says goodbye and good luck. Here’s with hopes that we see yer again.
- Skibs
Bell felt his hackles rise as he folded the letter to hide its words. I’m not as insane as I thought then. The gods still walk among us. That man is Just… and his Grand wants to kill me.
Glancing around, he found himself standing in the center of the courtyard, in the center of a crowd of people. Inching toward the nearest gate, he exited the courtyard and placed his back to the wall just outside, so that no one could read over his shoulder. He ignored his surrounding as he reread the letter then placed it in his belt satchel.
How does one combat divinity? he wondered. For a moment, Bell considered returning to the Grand and throwing himself at her mercy. He could explain everything he had pieced together and how she had come to a simple misunderstanding. But would she believe me? And will that save me? Glancing up, his eyes found the squalor ahead of him. He gazed upon the makings of a refugee camp. Hundreds of Dekahnians crowded the streets, stretching the whole length he could see. Most milled about the streets with hopeless expressions and eyes that stared at nothing. Others huddled in ashes beneath the palace’s outer wall. Only a handful looked to have any purpose, sifting through nearby rubble, surely searching for lost heirlooms. Or worse.
And is my safety what is most important? Bell asked himself. Must the gods’ existence change who I am? I could not fathom justice before, so what has changed today? Nothing. If Just commands the Grand, then surely everything that has happened here, happened because of him. This dead city is blood on his hands. And the Legion’s.
Bell crossed the street so that he could stand before the wreckage of the building opposite the gate. The four walls of the wooden building still stood, but only just. The upper floor of the building had collapsed into the center, leaving only the halves of four walls on the lower floor. The wall he approached had burned out early, the fire put out by the Legion in order to protect the palace’s defensive walls from further destruction. The lower floor looked sturdy, but the force of the collapse had shattered the large glass window that had filled two-thirds of this wall. Broken beams and roof tiles had filled in the open space.
Most of the nearby buildings were in worse condition, most of the lumber burned down to charcoal, but still, this rubble would need to go. These refugees needed places to sleep, and though black and pitted, these four walls would have to do for as many people as they could hold. Bell stepped to the window and pulled loose the nearest tile. Laying it on the ground beside him, he grabbed the next, and the next, and stacked them beside the first. He and his squad had a room in the palace. If the walls of this building weren’t sturdy enough to live under, then the clearing beneath this rubble would be enough space for his tent and a Dekahnian family. Wrapping his arms around a broken board – carved with an icicle motif, it looked to be a fragment of the building’s rain gutter – he eased it out from under a bent flue pipe and set it in a separate pile beside the tiles. As he worked, he did his best not to think about Trin.
If his gods were real, then what about hers? What about Fate and Death?
CHAPTER FIFTY
One by one, Wilt watched the corpses as they were dragged away. The Legion soldiers used a one-man sling, one end with handles, the other designed to be dragged. The stretchers looked to have been made in a hurry, and if levered improperly, the guardsmen corpses hung off of one end, but what did that matter? The Vandu dead had already been burned. The Trellish dead had already been buried. There were no Dekahnians brave enough to attend to their dead soldiers, so the task was left for the Legion.
Nursing his broken finger, Wilt had watched the Legion drag the dead to their funeral pyres for several hours, but there was only one corpse he had eyes for; the last Vandu, hanging from his neck in the center of the courtyard. The consul’s attending pile of Atheist heads had been left untouched, the candles in their mouths melted to stubs so that the wax ran down their neck-less chins. The word Atheist carved into his uncle’s chest had not dripped much. His blood had stopped pumping before his brethren had hung him from the statue.
For once, Wilt was proud of his people’s flair for the dramatic. He only wished that he had been present to hang his uncle himself. The consul’s eyes were white, the pupils rolled away; his eyelids had been cut off. The noose round his neck reminded Wilt of the torn cloth he’d wrapped around his own to hide his scars. The man deserved far worse. Snail. Locust. The name his uncle claimed made no difference. Wilt’s mother – the real Locust – had not deserved such a fine name either. That the consul would steal it was an insult, but that was far from the man’s worst transgression. Wilt had made a promise, a promise he intended to keep. But the fool was to be conscious for it. To feel the pain he well deserved.
As one of the soldiers exited through the gate, Wilt stepped out of his hiding place and followed. The guardsman on the stretcher had already been stripped, her weapons and chain given to a quartermaster within the city walls. She had been placed on the gurney upside down and her linen shift hung past her navel. Her dead eyes stared through him into nothing. Wilt waited till the man reached the pyre, turned, and dumped her before he cleared his throat.
The soldier turned, his expression distant; as if his mind were absent. With a series of blinks, the man’s focus returned. Wilt opened his mouth and spoke before realizing that he knew the man.
“Excuse me, pike. I have been sent to relieve you.” In the man’s eyes, Wilt saw the recollection strike just as he realized himself.
“Wilt?” the soldier asked.
Shit. “Yes,” Wilt answered. There was no hope in denying it. This man, Hindahl Lim, had lived at Derlin as long as Wilt. When they were lads, he had been one of Wilt’s most ruthless tormentors.
“How? I… I heard that you deserted.”
Wilt’s mind panicked, but his instincts for lying were well practiced and his tongue did not need him. He spoke before the thoughts registered. “Deserted?” he asked, scandalized. “Of course not, I was reassigned.” Wilt forced a scowl. “Whore Dellings was worried that I might defect to the enemy.”
With eyes closed, Hindahl lifted a hand to his brow and rubbed his temples. “Right. Right, you are Vandu.” Hindahl’s eyes popped open, his face blank. “If you were reassigned, then why are you here?”
Wilt frowned; because of the mask, his muscles were not as well schooled as his mouth. The man alone was enough to annoy him, and prying questions did him no favors. “I was assigned to a legionnaire who saw promise in me,” Wilt lied. “He did not question my loyalty to the Legion.”
Luckily, Hindahl must have taken Wilt’s annoyance for disappointment, for his features remained constant. “And you’ve advanced I see,” Hindahl motioned to Wilt’s robes. “A courtesan, right? Congratulations on your marks, Legionnaire.” Surprisingly, Hindahl’s words sounded authentic.
Out of genuine pleasure, Wilt smiled. The compliment was welcome, even if the reason for it was based upon lies. It was no surprise that feeling superior to this man would bring him pleasure – and the fact Hindahl knew that Wilt was superior only made that pleasure all the greater – but Wilt had never thought that a man like this would ever offer him honest praise. He wanted more of it.
“Thank you,” Wilt said. “I did not think I would ever be worthy.” The sentiment was true, but the modesty wasn’t.
Hindahl blinked. The man looked exhausted. “It is good to see you, Wilt. After the night I have witnessed, it is good to see a familiar face.”
Again, Hindahl’s genuine words set him off balance. Unable to think of anything to say, Wilt simply nodded.
“You are here to relieve me, then?” Hindahl asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s good,” Hindahl said. He offered Wilt the stretcher then shrugged to loosen his shoulders. “I did not sleep well, and this morning’s efforts have drained me.”
“It is a hard task,” Wilt agreed.
Another soldier stepped up next to them, emptying her stretcher onto the pile. The woman shook her head before setting off toward the gates. Hindahl’s eyes drifted to this most recent guardsman.
“I thought it would be easier after we had removed our own from the courtyard, especially because I was among the pikes last night, and well, you must have seen what happened… but it hasn’t gotten easier. The piles just keep getting larger. And this is just one courtyard. The entire city… If the Grand’s plan is to rebuild this, then we’ll be clearing rubble for months. The dead will rot before we can find them all.”
Wilt followed Hindahl’s arm as it lifted to point to the city. Had he been more familiar with Dekahn, the lack of a skyline might’ve been more jarring. As it was, he only felt vindicated. He hadn’t liked this city, nor its people. The Dekahnians had treated the Vandu as filth, and in a way, this destruction felt like a personal conquest. He did not know how, but he was certain that his manipulation had led to this and that knowledge made him feel both great and small at once. His tongue had destroyed this city, but it was the god who had guided it. But it was me who led the Vandu to that final moment, even if Just stole it, it was my hand that guided everything to this. Does that not make me worthy enough to be a god of Death? That singlehandedly, I have destroyed an entire city.
“Anyway,” Hindahl continued. “I suppose I should find some rest while I can.” Hindahl’s gaze drifted longingly toward the distant Legion camp. “It truly was good to see you again.”
Wilt mimicked the sentiment as Hindahl turned and left. Watching Hindahl leave, Wilt let his features fall into a grimace. The weak fool. Thirty years of hatred, worn down by loss and grief. We are not suddenly friends because all his others are dead. Does he think that I do not remember his taunts and pranks?
A stabbing pain shot through Wilt’s hand, causing him to lose his grip on the gurney. His hand had tried to bend into a fist and the broken finger had been dragged along with the one he’d tied it to. Just had done this to him, too, and if the Mother existed, it was her that had cursed Wilt to this fate. Furious, he forced his pain and thoughts aside. Hindahl could be added to the list of those he’d repay, but for now, he had another enemy to cross off. Wilt retrieved his handhold, and dragging the gurney behind him, reentered the city.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 79