In an effort to rub salt in the whore’s wound, Wilt spoke before Dellings could. “Thank you, Grand,” Wilt said. “I am back, but I am afraid I have lost my mask. I’m sure, as a courtesan himself, that Dellings here would not approve, and nor do I.”
The Grand frowned at him, as if uncertain what game Wilt played. “It is a courtesan’s responsibility to furnish their own mask,” Cyleste replied, her gaze flashing to Dellings. “But in this case… I think we can make an exception.”
Dellings made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a displeased whine. To his credit, though his jaw was clenched, his tone was civil. “Is there anything else you require, Grand?”
“No. Leave now, Dellings.”
Dellings bowed, and as he left, the Grand’s stare found the Herald behind the long table. Her tone was softer when she said, “Now would be a good time to continue Mister Acklin’s training, daughter.”
The awkward man grinned wider, his eyes still on Wilt. The Herald stood and saluted; she was wise enough to know a dismissal when she heard one, and if the Grand was truly her mother, it was little wonder.
The two left through the servant’s door behind the table, leaving Wilt alone with the frowning behemoth. I don’t doubt that Just chose this one for her looks, Wilt thought. She’s large, musclebound, and as ugly as I’d expect of the demon’s tastes. Instinctively, Wilt winced. An insult like that usually brought him a shock, but the god’s curse had been strangely absent of late. Not for the first time, he wondered about the god’s limitations.
“Shall we get straight to the point?” the Grand asked. Her face was unchanged. If the god had heard his thoughts, she had not.
“Please,” Wilt said with a sneer. “Am I here to die?” He didn’t think so, if the god had wanted him dead, surely the fiend would have done it already, but it was the question which had pestered him most incessantly since making the choice to come here.
She raised an eyebrow. “To die? I do not know the full details of your arrangement with Just, but his orders to me were explicit: to bring you here alive, and then apologize.”
“Apologize?” Wilt as much as spat the word, his skin rippling with an angry heat. “That demon wants to apologize? I don’t know the details of your arrangement with Just, but the monster could not have said that. You must have misheard him. Perhaps he said he wished to antagonize me? Or maybe, to agonize me?”
Cyleste frowned. “That is… gibberish.” Offense and startlement warred in her eyes; her lips folded in disgust, but her brow remained rigid. She spoke hesitantly. “He said he wishes to apologize.” She paused. “And continues to say so.”
“He is here?”
“Yes. He speaks to me in the way he does all of his chosen.” The pride with which she said those words made Wilt laugh.
“Chosen? Your kind of chosen must have been better than mine. Did he tell you of the torture he gave me? Of the days upon days he forced me to die? To drown in my own pain, till nothing was left of my sanity?”
He had hoped the comment would bring some reaction from her, but instead, she watched him silently. Her eyes rolled up to her forehead, and her lips pursed and relaxed, then pursed again, as if she listened to an unheard voice. Do I look that stupid when the god speaks? Wilt mused. No wonder he gave me the mask.
At last, the Grand nodded, her expression fixed. “A fair fate for criminals.” She stated it bluntly, without compassion. “Indeed, it sounds as if he gave you chances beyond what you deserved. I am surprised that he would offer an apology to the likes of you.”
“I don’t want it,” Wilt said stubbornly.
She shrugged. “He urges you to accept.”
“I don’t want it from you,” Wilt corrected. “If he wishes to make amends, he can tell me so himself.” Wilt knew the apology would be empty, but he had a sadistic need to draw it out of the god anyway. To hear the god ask, to see him submissive for a change, that would be an unmatched pleasure.
“He says that…” She paused. “That he… will not.” The way she paused before ‘will’ made her word choice very deliberate, as if there was another word she had purposefully avoided. Could it be possible the curse is silent because he cannot speak to me? But… what has changed that he can no longer reach my mind? He truly wanted to know.
“Well, why not?” Wilt demanded. He needed the answer, but did not want to give away his suspicions, so he added, “If he can speak to you, then he can speak to me. Why doesn’t he?”
The Grand said nothing, waiting for the god’s reply, and then a beaming grin spread her lips far enough to reveal her teeth. “He asks why he would ride the pig when he can ride the steed.” The grin spread wider. “I think the question is rhetorical.”
Wilt’s gaze ran across the woman’s thick form. For some odd reason, the insult actually stung him. “And I am the pig?”
The Grand laughed, her grin turned to a sneer. It was clear to him already that she had as much cruelty as her god. “He calls it a generous comparison,” she said.
“And he would know the difference?” Wilt mocked, holding up his hand to show the crooked finger. “The fool does not even understand his supposed aspect.”
The woman cringed, her stare darting to the mangled hand then down to the floor, as if she were ashamed in her god’s place. The gods knew, however, that Just would not have been.
Her face paled, but only slightly. Her moment of humor had passed. “And that,” she said, her gaze still averted from his crippled hand. “Is why he wishes to apologize. He knows that what he did was wrong, and that what happened with the book was not your fault.”
Wilt glared at her, wondering what type of woman she truly was. She spoke as if she served the god willingly, as if she had sought him out intentionally and pledged herself to him, like she actually believed in the god and his goals. But Wilt’s pulped and battered finger seemed to upset her in a way he could not describe, and so too the god’s apology. Is this a test of faith for her? Could she have been dumb enough to believe her god infallible? Well… If she had indeed sought Just out, then yes. Of course she is.
“What does he want?” Wilt asked.
“Pardon?”
“Your god is a fiend. His cruelty makes the Farmer look merciful. He does not apologize, because he does not have remorse, because he believes himself right in all that he does. He does not ask forgiveness in hope of redemption, for even if he sought it, he reviles me, and would not value my acceptance. No, my acceptance would bring him no solace, so what is it that he wants?”
As Wilt spoke, the Grand became redder and redder, her brow tensing and her cheeks tightening. She looked ready to explode with fury, but as her mouth opened to speak, a sudden calm washed over her. “He-” she paused as though she had been interrupted. For many moments, she did not speak, and at one point she shook her head, disbelieving whatever it was the god had said to her, until finally her jaw firmed and she nodded agreement.
“He wishes your continued service,” the Grand said. “He claims to need your help.”
“My help?” Wilt was skeptical. “I have nothing to offer him.”
“He needs your skills.”
Wilt could hear the discomfort in her voice. If not outright lying, she was exaggerating, for the uneasy way in which she stood made it clear that she did not believe the words she had spoken. Despite his certainty, Wilt spoke cautiously.
“I have no skills the god did not teach me.” Wilt wasn’t certain that was true, some of his aptitude for deceit must have been innate; he enjoyed it too much for it not to be a natural part of him. Still, he had not had as quick a tongue before the god’s interference. Something had changed, and if the god could change it in Wilt, he could change it in another.
The Grand sighed, and again, Wilt saw something of the god in her, for the gesture seemed contrived, as if to highlight Wilt’s stupidity.
“He will tell you the full reason,” she said, “but he claims that you already know.”
Wilt frow
ned. “And what reason is that?”
“He says that despite your oaths to him, despite your name in his book, you are the servant of another. Unknowingly, you serve the Whore.”
“You mean…” Wilt paused to gather his thoughts. “You mean he still believes that nonsense? The rotter must be out of his mind.” Although Wilt still very much believed the Mother would make him into the god of Death, it wouldn’t help his cause if Just knew it.
“You no longer believe that the Mother came to you in a vision?”
“I do not know whether she has or not, but I know that either way, she has not kept her promise. Instead, she’s left me at the mercy of her son.”
“You might wish to reconsider your lies,” the Grand said. “Should you not be the Mother’s agent, then it would greatly diminish your value to us.”
Wilt bit his lip. “All right, fine. Let’s pretend the Mother is manipulating me. For what purpose? And what’s it to Just?”
“He believes that she has used you to orchestrate her aims,” the Grand explained.
“You mean in creating Death?”
“The very same, though whatever snippets you have overheard from Just, are but a fraction of the Whore’s plans. She intends not only to recreate Death, but to rebuild the entire pantheon, including the gods which predate doctrine. You are mortal, but you claim that she has offered you godhood. All you have done, intentionally and unintentionally, has led to the burning of Dekahn, from the merchant you assaulted beneath that tree, to the summoning of Dydal on the night of the fire.”
“Summoning of Dydal?” Wilt asked. The man had appeared as though from nowhere, but Wilt wouldn’t say he’d summoned the man.
“Yes. Did you not think it odd that he appeared when you touched the book? And then when he appears, he does so to chase Rift from the city, which in turn broke Nikom’s Blessing. In a way, it is you who are responsible for all the horrors that have occurred here-”
“Me?” Wilt rasped.
The Grand continued as if Wilt had not spoken.
“… And Just seeks to know why. Inadvertent death is still death, but surely it cannot have the same power as a tyrant or a Butcher who slaughters his victims by hand… The things she has led you to do are in character, but out of form.”
“So then… he believes that Dydal appeared because of me, specifically?” The idea that he was directly responsible for the burning of Dekahn, the idea that the Mother had manipulated events in order to ensure that Wilt’s actions destroyed the city, was laughable. And yet… all those events had stemmed from him.
“It is his best conclusion.”
Wilt frowned. It was too foolish to believe. “I have no idea what the god’s motive is in pretending I serve his mother, but I can tell you for certain that the only god who has controlled my life is the wretch you call a master.”
“So it seems,” the Grand shrugged. “But nonetheless, if you are her choice, he means to stop it, as we did with the Tyrant of Ternobahl. But this time, if he can, he will use you to stop her altogether, instead of simply slowing her down.”
Wilt paused. It was the same reason the god’s shadow had given him. “Even if I believed this,” Wilt started, “why would I help him? After all, if he is right, then I am slated to be a god. Why stop that?”
“Because, if you do not, he will kill you. And because he can offer you things you want, things no one else can give.”
“Like what?”
“Freedom. Freedom from him. Freedom from his mother. Even though a god, you would be a god under her control. Agree to help us and he will make certain that no god can interfere with your life again.”
“How?” Wilt asked. He wasn’t making any deals without a guarantee that it would work. Gods, can the fool even give me that? Is there anything the rot-touched bastard can say that I would take for truth?
“He will not reveal that,” Cyleste said. “Else he has nothing to barter.”
Wilt considered a moment. He wasn’t sure he believed any of it. He’d known when Just had controlled his actions, the affront on his consciousness had been too glaring not to notice; surely, he would know if the Mother had been doing the same… but then again, there was the god’s shadow. That one had offered Wilt his freedom, and though Wilt was certain such a gift would come with its own strings attached, it was Wilt’s only suspect for how the Mother might be manipulating him… Either way, if the god believed such nonsense, then Wilt might as well use it to his advantage.
“I want more,” Wilt said.
“Of course you do,” the woman sighed. “Speak.”
“I want…” Wilt paused. Gods, what do I want? “Uhm… the consulship he promised me. I… I will lead the Vandu as I was meant to do from birth. Plus…” – Wilt paused again, trying to think fast. His people would love him better if he brought better land with his rule, and he had always wanted to be their champion. – “… I want land. Good land. And not just any land… The Farmer’s land.”
Her look was quizzical. “You want the Fields? And the rot?”
Wilt laughed. “Gods no.” He smiled. “No. I want Nikom’s land. The land he has now. If Just lives, then the betrayer is still out there somewhere, and whatever land he holds, I want it. The blooder’s head, too.”
“He will…” the Grand spoke slowly. “He will give you Lendal… but he will not kill his brother. If your people desire Nikom’s death, then you must obtain it yourselves.”
Wilt thought about it. His people would be easier to control if they had an enemy, and an immortal one would give him a lifetime’s worth of propaganda… however, there was no point in rushing into this.
“I will…” Wilt began. “Need some time to consider. Your god is not known for keeping his promises, and I need some time to think. Some time for you and him to give some assurances that he will do what he claims.”
The Grand eyed him cautiously. With her arms at her sides, and her face unreadable, that scrutiny was intimidating. “Come closer,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me. You want assurances? Come closer.”
Hesitant, Wilt took a single step forward. The Grand’s brow arched. A lone finger began tapping on the wrist opposite, and the contemptuous stare which accompanied it was enough to spur him on. Wilt refused to cower to this woman, for, like himself, she was a pawn in the god’s plans.
Wilt did not stop until he stood within arm’s reach. She said nothing as she offered a hand, the palm facing up to the sky, and nodded to it.
“What?” Wilt asked.
“Grip it.”
Wilt offered his healthy hand and her arm darted for the other.
“The broken one,” she said. Despite her size and demeanor, her touch was soft, almost gentle. She turned the palm upward, resting his hand in her own.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
An invisible presence – a hand complete with fingers and thumb – gripped his wrist. He felt each finger separately, felt their pressure as they curled and relaxed. His finger ached as pain shot through the nerves. With the flow of pain, the bone straightened, popping into place as if someone had yanked the end. Finally it stopped. The pain, the pressure, all of it vanished.
When he looked up, the Grand stared at him with a smug grin. “You have two days to make a decision, at the end of which you will accept or die, and that is a promise you can be ‘assured’ of.”
She let go of his hand – more like tossed it against his chest – and turned to the papers piled on the long table. “Go to Marl. She will find you lodging. You are dismissed.”
Wilt paused. The dismissal had carried such force, that for a moment, he was uncertain if he should ask his question. The unease faded quickly, and when he spoke, he did so defiantly.
“And who is Marl?”
The Grand glared at him. “The Herald. Now get out.”
Wilt obeyed, but not out of fear. The woman was a manipulator, but she was a poor one. Rather
than thought or tact, she depended solely on her station and her threats. It was no wonder the god needed him.
Before setting off to find the Herald, Wilt retrieved a sheet of letter paper and a pen from a Legion steward. It turned out the hidden brick behind the library was easier to find than he would have thought.
The god’s promises were well and good, but Wilt was no fool, and vengeance sounded too sweet to pass on.
As the door closed behind the rapist, Just let his illusion fade. Cyleste smiled at him.
“Do you think he knew you were here?”
“No. The man is a fool, Cyleste, too focused on his own view of the world to think outside it.”
In the corner, wearing the guise of the consort, the heckler scoffed. Just frowned at the villain. Vadesh was not dead, and as far as he knew, Just had done the man no wrongs, making the cretin’s choice an odd one.
Just ignored him and turned back to Cyleste. She was nodding as if Just’s words had made perfect sense to her. She’d had little time to assess Wilt for herself, and to be truthful, her quick acceptance as fact of all that he said, often made Just nervous. She was a fine and brilliant woman, but her devotion was, at times, perhaps a little too strong.
“Have you reasoned yet how the man evades your touch?” she asked.
Just smiled. Always when he was beginning to think less of her, she reminded him of her intelligence. She truly was a fine woman.
“No,” Just said.
“I have,” the heckler said. The thing’s tone was as obnoxious as ever. Of course it would find excitement in Just’s dilemma. Just tried his best to ignore it.
“It makes little sense to me,” Just continued. “I could control him right up until I broke his finger… and then nothing. The thread is still there, along with yours and every other person whose name is in my book, but I can do nothing with it. I cannot see where he is and I cannot hear his thoughts or explore his memories, he is simply… out of my reach.”
“He is pledged to Justice,” the heckler stated.
Just frowned at the creature. Does the thing truly believe I am speaking to it? At times, it’s like an attention starved child in a room filled with adults…
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 88