Loy bit his lip. It wasn’t as clear-cut an answer as he was hoping. “Where do we go from here?”
Quill sighed. “Just tried to kill you because he believes that you are Silt?”
Loy nodded.
“Then let us go back to Trel. The farther we are from Dekahn, the safer you will be.”
“You think that he will come for me?”
“I think that Just is determined to ruin Fate. Even if he knew that you were not Silt, he might still come after you. At least in Trel, we will have Kindrel’s help.”
Loy didn’t know what to say, or for that matter, who he really trusted, but at least the plan was something.
“But… but what of Fate? Should I not go back? Should I not attempt again to complete the task?”
“I have said already. No matter what choices you make, Clarissa will look for ways to push you toward her goal.” Quill smiled. “Rather than rush back into Dekahn and stand against Just, why not force her to be vigilant? We will find another way.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
It was hunger that made Wilt give in. The chance to spite Just had been tempting, but alone it would not have been enough. Wilt had lasted three days on cloudy water and half a dead rat – the other half caught beneath a fallen rafter. Three days. That was the extent of his freedom. To know that he could be free, to have had it at his fingertips, and then to just let it go, to let it go by choice, was a lesson in humility he was finding difficult to swallow. He had failed, and now he returned in shame, knowing that he was not a slave, as he had prided himself as being, but a follower; because he was giving in willingly, when a braver man would have accepted death. Or at least, had a better plan.
He knew that he should have stolen a horse and taken his chances in the rot, but he had been too afraid, both of the god and Commander Stills, so he had used his broken finger as an excuse. A ruler would not have let his fear control him. Wilt was not a ruler, so he would have to settle for vengeance.
The streets leading to the palace were empty. The streets that circled it were crammed. Cloth awnings, fashioned from any and every spare piece of cloth, had turned the city’s center into a Vandu paradise. Blankets tied to rain gutters, tarps roped to fire pitted beams, bits of pantaloons, coats, and shirts all sewn together and draped over ash-laden ruins, these were the foundations of Dekahn’s mewling rebirth.
There were shops – if the makeshift stalls made of hunks of flagstone and flame-pitted boards could be called such – along every spare bit of sidewalk, lining the outer walls of the palace courtyard and its Legion squatters. Criers called their wares of junk: moldy bread, blackened meat, fractured jewels, melted bits of candle and rubber, tattered boots, and tarnished silverware. Everything was for sale, any wreck that could be pulled from the ruins, even charcoal, because the Legion had all the food, all the swords, all the coin, and all the drinking water. Their sentries guarded the river, and most of the wells.
Settish barges had arrived the day before, an entire fleet as if from nowhere, hauling grain and meat, those two things alone, as if the Settish had known in advance of the city’s impending starvation. The Dekahnians called it a miracle. Wilt called it Just’s meticulous planning.
Wilt pushed through the crowd as if he were a king, only to be stopped by a pair of Legion guards at the courtyard’s entrance. Dressed in mail shirts and carrying twin polearms, the two reminded him of the guards which had stopped him at the same gate only a few nights before. Though they wore different colors and different faces, the look of disdain was the same.
With his robes darkened by ash and filth, Wilt looked pathetic, yet despite that, he threw all his strength into his voice and posture and did his best to seem otherwise. “I am here to see the Grand,” he said. His voice was not as powerful as he would have hoped. Three days of hunger and thirst had left him weak, and though he tried, he could not live up to the infamous Twil.
The leftmost guard, a young Drennish woman with rare blue eyes, laughed in his face. “The Grand Legionnaire cannot meet with every beggar. What do you want?”
He didn’t like this one. She was presumptuous and cocky, an obnoxious combination for a god’s pet. Her insolent tone fueled Wilt’s anger, further straightening his back.
“My name is Wilt, though I go by Priest Twil. The Grand expects me.”
With her free hand – the one not holding the polearm to her shoulder – she stroked her chin, fidgeting with the leather strap that held her skullcap. “Wilt, huh? Might be I’ve heard that name.” She smiled and leaned behind the open gate to face someone behind the wall. “Hey, Dellings,” she shouted. “We got one of yours!”
Wilt froze. It was the worst name he could have heard. Whore Dellings, commanding legionnaire of Derlin Keep, had been Wilt’s superior for the last fifteen years. It was this man’s service that Wilt had deserted.
Today, Dellings did not wear his mask, which should have been a mercy considering the man’s disastrous choice – a stag’s head, complete with horns, shaped from a thin leather instead of the traditional porcelain – but it was not a mercy.
“Steward Wilt?” Dellings’ face allowed for only a single moment of surprise before sinking into disgust. Wilt’s desertion had probably been stewing in this man for months. Twelve years since Derlin’s last desertion, and here was Wilt to ruin his good record. Surely, the man had already condemned him.
It took Wilt’s best effort to force a smile. “Indeed, Commander. I have returned. It seems my days of subterfuge are over, or at least, that is what the whispers tell me. Would you mind informing the Grand of my return? I’ve had it from three different men that she’s been looking for me.” The last bit was not as true as the rest. He had heard that the Grand Legionnaire was seeking him, but it had not come from three Legion soldiers. It had come from a Settish merchant, who upon seeing Wilt flee from the woman who would not sell him grain, had shouted at him that Just and his Grand would find him eventually.
With a slight turn of his head, Dellings glared at him. For a moment his mouth worked silently, his thick, full-mouthed beard rolling with the tongue that skittered between his bottom lip and teeth.
“I thought perhaps the Vandu,” Dellings said, “or maybe Trel, but I did not expect to find you here in Dekahn. Did you flee here in hopes of selling some scrap of knowledge to the Lockish king, or is ‘subterfuge’ just what your incompetent and cowardly ass calls desertion ended by hunger?”
The guards chuckled.
Wilt’s instinct was to mock the two women, but knowing Dellings, polite smiles and a servile manner were likely to be the only thing to keep him from the executioner’s block.
“Desertion?” Wilt said, trying to force humor-laden shock into the truth. “Of course not. I am a spy, selected by the Grand herself.”
A smug, disbelieving smile spread on Dellings’ lips. “Right. You’ll have to forgive my skepticism, but I find it hard to believe the Grand would enlist a man who can barely scrub a toilet to be a spy.”
Wilt tried to be humble when he said, “You are right. Alas, I was not chosen for any particular skill, but for my access to the Vandu. Have you not heard of Priest Twil, the man who infiltrated the Vandu and opened the gates for our soldiers? You’re welcome, Dellings.”
Dellings scowled, a hint of doubt in his crinkled brow. “If that is true,” he said slowly, “then why have I not heard of your involvement sooner?”
“I do not know,” Wilt said, allowing himself a satisfied grin. “But did the gates not open at your approach three nights past? Were the Vandu not there to greet you?”
“They were… But that must be common knowledge by now. How can I be certain you do not repeat rumor back to me?”
Wilt shrugged, hoping for nonchalance. “Take me to the Grand. I know that she is looking for me. She can answer all your questions, and if you will not do that, at least tell her that I have come. Tell her… tell her that Priest Twil has come to see her.”
Whore Dellings hesitated.
“Priest Twil, you say?”
The two guards shot confused glances to Dellings. The whore ignored them, his gaze wandering over Wilt. At last he shook his head, mumbling something unrecognizable under his breath, before beckoning to Wilt and stating, “Search him. I very much doubt this scum might tell the truth, but it will not hurt to test his claims.”
The two guards moved to obey, and in an attempt to appear compliant, Wilt removed the knife hidden beneath his robes and handed it to them. He winced when the blue-eyed woman prodded his broken finger, but instead of the groan she had likely hoped for, Wilt met her gaze with a defiant sneer, which earned him an elbow in the gut and another tap on the finger. Dellings ignored the assault, watching quietly as the two women patted Wilt down.
His molesters found no more weapons, but that did not stop them from shackling his wrists. The moment the heavy irons were fastened, Dellings turned and headed for the palace, as if in expectation that the two women would follow without prompting. They did. The blue eyed Dren yanked the chain, leading Wilt by his outstretched arms and nearly pulling them from their sockets. He cursed the bitch under his breath, though he knew it was Dellings who was really to blame. Much like dogs, followers adopted the mood of their masters.
The courtyard was packed with both Legion soldiers and Dekahnian refugees. It seemed the Legion had begun hiring out repairs, for the Dekahnians worked, and the soldiers supervised. Legionnaires behind a table piled with bowls, kettles, and bread handed out food to a crowd of slouching, sweaty, and dirty laborers. The Trellish had conquered a people, and were now bribing their victims into subjugation with what was bound to be the same awful meals he’d eaten for thirty years in Derlin. The ruthless ingenuity of the deed was incredible, making Wilt feel insignificant. Maybe he was not worthy to be the Consul Death; he had the cruelty perhaps, but not the brilliant ideas.
As Dellings led him through the courtyard, Wilt examined the library tower, searching for the symbol he was supposed to find. He was on the wrong side of the building – Stills had said the brick was on the backside, near the far wall of the courtyard – but that didn’t stop Wilt’s examinations. The distraction helped deter his thoughts from the shame this courtyard brought him. He had failed here, and for once that failure had not been the result of his own pride. This time, despite his reluctance, Wilt had actually tried at something. For the first time since being sold to the Legion, Wilt had made a genuine effort. He would never admit it to the god, but he’d been happier as Priest Twil than he’d ever been as Wilt, and yet, it had still led to failure. It was a sad revelation, for it meant that happiness and willpower were not enough for success, a fact made even sadder since he’d spent his life avoiding happiness out of the fear that his happiness might somehow better the Legion. If he had known the two were uncorrelated, then all this time, he could have had both.
Wilt grit his teeth. And whose fault is that? he wondered. The answer was easy. My parents. Consul ‘Locust,’ that sniveling wretch. The Legion and its god. They have all stolen my happiness. My happiness AND my life. But not anymore.
“I have heard that my efforts” – Wilt made certain to stress the ‘my’ – “have led to the queen’s capture. Is it true?”
Dellings glanced back at him, a frown creasing his brow. The man turned ahead without answering. Wilt went on as if he had not intended for Dellings to respond.
“And that young girl, too,” Wilt said. “Oh… what was her name? Nill? Naill? You know who I mean, Dellings. The young whorespawn.”
Dellings’ back tensed. “Whorespawn?”
“Ah, my apologies,” Wilt sighed. “I have spent too much time with my former brethren, but you know who I mean… The young one with the brown hair. The quiet one… Ah… Nim? Num?”
Again, Dellings turned. “You mean the queen’s young ward?” He seemed both interested and confused.
“Yes. Yes!” Wilt tried to snap agreement with his fingers, but only managed to jerk his shackles taught, vibrating his broken finger. He spoke through the pain. “That’s the one. It seems a shame to put such a pretty young girl in a dungeon, but I suppose that’s the only thing to be done with one like that.”
“She is not in a dungeon…” Dellings spoke hesitantly. “What do you mean, ‘one like that?’”
Ignoring Dellings’ question, Wilt pretended shock. “Not in a dungeon? What do you mean not in a dungeon? A creature like that should be bound, gagged, and stuffed into a room so dark and small she can’t even see the walls scraping her shoulders.” He had no idea if a whorespawn’s magic could be stopped, but that didn’t stop the lie. Just already knew that the girl was a mage, thus, so did his Grand. A little panic from Dellings would not change the girl’s condition or whereabouts, but it might help Wilt.
“What?” Dellings asked. “What do you mean? She is just a young woman.”
“Just a young woman? She is a mage, sir, a demon like those Just warns of in his fables. She cannot be trusted to run free. If not in a dungeon, where is she?”
“With the queen, under guard in her chambers.”
Wilt frowned. Her chambers? Which one is her, you rotted fool?
“Her chambers? You would leave the demon in her nest? She could have all manner of foul things spawning in there. Please tell me she is not in her own rooms.”
Dellings frowned, a suspicious look settling onto his face. “No…” he said. “She is in the queen’s chambers… Why would you know this if the Grand does not?”
“The Grand…” Wilt scowled in an emulation of deep thought. “That is… that is a good point. She does already know this, and if she trusts the girl to gallivant around, then perhaps there is more to it than I know.” Wilt scoffed, shaking his head in a reprimand. “It’s just as you pointed out, Dellings. I am not a spy for my skill, else I would have pieced that together already. I apologize.”
Wilt’s self-recrimination must have pushed the man too far, for as Dellings entered the palace, he glared at Wilt through narrowed eyelids. The courtesan said nothing more, that shroud of contempt which often tightened his lips, returning to his face.
Wilt had pushed too far then, but it was no matter. He had gotten the information he needed, and that was most important. Now it was only a matter of surviving Just’s wrath long enough to send the message to Stills.
The guards led Wilt through sandstone halls smelling of the same bleaching mixture he had often used to clean the kitchens when he was a steward. Judging by the soft pink stains spattered on both the walls and the floor, the mixture had not been entirely successful. As it was, the bloodstains were something of a surprise; he knew the Legion was ruthless, but after the magics he had seen a few nights before, it seemed impossible that his fellow mortals could match the brutality of the gods.
Dellings stopped outside a door so nondescript it seemed out of place in a palace. The courtesan knocked, followed immediately by a woman’s voice from inside.
“Who and what?” the woman barked.
Wilt had heard a great deal about the Trellish Grand, but he’d never met her before, or even seen her, for that matter. The talk at Derlin had always been that she was both indolent and arrogant, a fact proven by her failure to visit Derlin even once in all of Wilt’s years there. If she truly held Just’s ear, as Wilt suspected, then those rumors were difficult to believe. The god was arrogant and incompetent, but having been one of his servants, Wilt did not believe for a second that he would ever let one of his slaves rest long enough to be considered indolent.
“It’s Dellings. We’ve found your Priest Twil.”
A chair scraped in the next room, followed by, “Send him in. Now.”
Dellings did not simply ‘send him in,’ the man grabbed Wilt’s shackles and dragged him in, leaving the two guards to stand outside, both with shocked expressions.
The Grand was about what he had expected; a heavyset Drennish woman with charcoal skin and a stern demeanor. She glared at Wilt as he entered, the same smug smile on her lips as th
at he had often seen on Just. It was so similar, in fact, that he would not be surprised to learn that the god watched from behind those eyes.
She leaned against a long map table, her back firm and her arms folded. Behind her, in red and black, waited the Grand’s Herald, a young woman in her mid-twenties who sat in a high-backed chair, leaning on one arm and studying a map. Beside the Herald was a strange looking guard, who studied Wilt with a look that spoke of either curiosity or appetite, as if he desired to eat Wilt. The look, along with the toothy grin which accompanied it, made Wilt wonder if the man might be a dullard. Either that or a drunk.
The Grand wasted no time. “You can leave us, Dellings. And remove those shackles.”
The courtesan’s mouth dropped open. It was only far enough to show a sliver of teeth, but Wilt savored it.
“But-” Dellings tried.
“He is mine,” the Grand interrupted. “He belongs to our god and our god has decided his fate. You can get rid of those shackles.”
Dellings was obviously confused. His lips mouthed the phrase ‘our god’ as his gaze darted from the Grand to his prisoner.
“The… the key is with the guard outside.” Dellings said the words and then paused, as if still expecting her to revoke the command even though she had given it twice. When she said nothing, and her unamused glare fixed on the whore, Dellings turned and opened the door. He hissed an angry whisper to the blue eyed Dren as she fumbled to unhook the key from her belt.
As Dellings returned and bent his head to unlock the bindings, Wilt offered him another satisfied grin. Dellings glanced up at him briefly, his glare fixed on Wilt like a vengeful promise, then dropped his gaze back to the shackles. The irons clicked as they fell away and Dellings straightened to face the Grand Legionnaire and opened his mouth to speak.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 87