Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  With the news of Planner’s flight and the Guard’s attack on the city, Just was beginning to wish that he had been the one to burn it all down. He couldn’t believe it. Atep Rin running off, then sending her army to attack him – and after he had fed her people with Settish grain and purchased the barges with Settish coin! His niece was ungrateful, traitorous even, and when he found her, it would be her death. There were no second chances for those who betrayed family.

  From behind Cyleste’s eyes, he watched the courtesan leave with subdued hope. With the fire having destroyed the city’s resources and defenses, he had been counting on Atep Rin to bring peace. Unless he acted quickly, this ambush would go poorly for the Legion, and he was unwilling to lose them here. If he was going to march toward Atherahn and Fate, he needed them still, and he needed Cyleste.

  Did you hear all that? Cyleste asked. He could feel her worry building. As she often did, she feared for her soldiers. It was one of the reasons he trusted her. Because she had a good heart. She was easy to relate to.

  Yes, Just answered. And I feel a fool. Atep must have planned this from the start. Just paused a moment as Cyleste’s eyes panned the room. They stopped on the legionnaire, on the one she called Bell Cobbren. She did not have to voice the thought directly for Just to know what she was thinking.

  You should kill him now, Cyleste, he warned. You know that he is a threat. Simply think of it, he has been working alongside the Dekahnians this whole time. He and his peers were the only ones with access to the queen. I guarantee he ferried messages to her dogs outside.

  But he is willing to sign, Cyleste said. Her gaze wandered to the crackle of the fire. With a set of metal tongs, her Lanish pet, the Scout Acklin, was attempting to fish a fresh coal out of the fire pit. As with everything the fool did, he was doing a lousy job of it. Why she had chosen to take this one under her wing, Just couldn’t fathom. The man seemed dull-witted and clumsy, but perhaps that was exactly the reason; she’d always had a soft heart for accidental criminals, especially those who murdered her would be assassins.

  Just sighed. Forget the book, Cyleste. We have enough proof to-

  Just stopped as Cyleste’s eyes panned over the table. What was that? Just demanded. Go back. Let me see the table again.

  Cyleste glanced at the wounded soldier and the two scouts tending his leg. No, Just instructed. Not there. The tray. Quickly now.

  As her eyes focused again on the man Acklin, and his tray of assorted items, Just panicked. The candle. The Lanishman stood over one of Mystic’s devices, over one of the candles his sister had once used to train the young mortals of the Assassin’s cult. And the man was just about to light it.

  Cyleste! He warned. Stop that man!

  Who? she asked. What?

  Acklin. Do not let him light tha-

  The thread snapped, and the image ripped away, and once more he saw the world from behind his own eyes. He was in his quarters, his modest little home outside the Settish Conclave. His warning had come too late. The man had lit the candle, snuffing out the birthright’s flows. It would take Just at least thirty minutes to reach her by skipping, but he had to try. He couldn’t let her die.

  The first skip took Just to the outskirts of Ging. With the second, he stood in the Settish countryside.

  He’d known the candle the moment he had seen it. It was one of Galina’s earliest creations, one of the focusing devices she had designed early in her godhood to allow mortals the use of the birthright. At first, they had been used for trusted priests, then for training younglings before allowing them to touch the birthright, but in her final years, Galina had turned them to a darker purpose. That Acklin had one, meant that he was a member of the Assassin’s Cult. That he knew what the candle was, and how to use it, meant that he was one of the Cult’s tallow mages. Just should have expected it. He should have prepared for something like this, but the Gelliners were a reclusive folk, and the Assassin’s Cult even more so. He had not expected a tallow mage in the Magistrate’s employ.

  There was nothing he could do about it now. At least not directly. The candle would block him from Cyleste’s mind, and keep the birthright out of that room, but it wouldn’t keep him from those nearby. It wouldn’t keep him from Wilt.

  As he skipped, Just searched his mind-threads for the one that would give him access to the rapist’s thoughts. It was faint, writhing like a fevered dog amongst the neat little rows of patient, eager friends. Just tried to grip it, tried to follow it into Wilt’s head, but the thread did as it had done for the past few days; it eluded him. Something was keeping him out, but he didn’t think it was the rapist. As long as the man’s name was in the book, he should not be able to resist, but somehow, he did. The way the thread struggled, it was like the birthright itself was fighting him. Desperate, Just tried again, and again the birthright rebuked him. It wouldn’t cooperate.

  Just found another thread; Kingsley, the Settish merchant he’d sent to oversee the grain shipments. Unlike the rapist’s thread, his did not resist. Their minds joined easily.

  Vin! Just barked. Rather than settle in behind the merchant’s eyes, he kept himself distant so he could guide his skips. Where are you? How long would it take-

  Oh, thank the gods! Vin replied. His thoughts were panicked. I need your help, Just. About four dozen men just stormed onto the docks and slaughtered the Trellish. They’re demanding we relinquish our ships or they’ll start burning the sails.

  Kingsley’s predicament was bad, but it could wait. Cyleste was more important. Can you get to the palace? Just asked.

  What? Kingsley asked. Right now? I’ve got other-

  Can you get there! Just repeated. Kingsley was a man who second guessed everything. It was near impossible to get a direct answer from him without asking the same question a million different ways.

  It can’t be done, the man said. There’s an army between here and there.

  “Fuck!” Just spoke the thought aloud. Cyleste needed him and he needed her. Gods, what would he do without her?

  They just want the grain, Just said. Take off the labels and throw it overboard. The grain first, and then the oil barrels. If they still want a fire once they’ve got the grain, set the barrels bursting and run.

  But that’ll-

  Do it, Just grated. Save what you can. I don’t have time.

  With that, Just fled the merchant’s mind. If the Guard had already taken the docks it was likely they were already storming the palace. The Magistrate may not have needed an assassin, Just had probably killed Cyleste anyway.

  Did Atep know about the assassin? Just wondered. Was she working with the Magistrate? Surely it had to be a coincidence.

  Coincidence? The heckler’s voice appeared without any warning. Do you even believe in coincidence?

  You! Just hissed. Help or get the fuck out of my head.

  Why? it mocked. He could sense the creature’s sneer.

  Because she’ll die!

  The heckler fell silent. It wasn’t gone, somehow Just knew the thing was still there in his head, watching but silent. He almost regretted the silence. He was out of options, and if the creature could help him, he would accept it gladly.

  Just threw himself at Wilt’s thread, trying with all the power the birthright had ever allowed him, to force himself into Wilt’s flesh. Again, he failed. It was like swimming against the current, or pressing the like ends of two magnets. The birthright simply resisted him. Repelled him.

  It won’t work like that, the heckler said. You may as well struggle against your own honing.

  And what do you know?

  The thing paused. The birthright, it answered simply.

  What does that mean? Just asked. Not for the first time, he wished he could kill the evasive creature.

  Tell me, it said. Why do you want to control him?

  To save her.

  But why?

  What do you mean ‘why?’ Just scoffed.

  Why? the thing repeated, this time insistent.


  Because I need her, Just answered.

  Pah, the creature balked. The man is sworn to Justice, not Conviction. Be yourself, not this mongrel you’ve become. Try again. Why do you want to help Cyleste?

  Because I need her help in stopping Fate. I need her competency to assail Atherahn and keep Trellahn whole.

  You can do better than that! the heckler accused. Keep going. Wilt is lost to you because you were unjust.

  Just shut up and help me!

  I am trying, fool! You are Justice, yes? Then prove it to the birthright. Prove that this man is sworn to you, and not some other! Why do you want to save her? Speak the reasons plain!

  Because it is right, Just urged. Because it is Just. Because she is good, and she will die if I do not. Because it was my foolish belief that allowed the assassin in her presence.

  Though he could not see the creature, he could feel its smile. Very good, the creature mused. Now try the thread.

  Just didn’t ask why, he simply did as the thing suggested. Again, he used all the strength he could muster and drove his consciousness into the thread. As he touched the chord, it did not resist as it had; it pulled him, and things went dark.

  “Mother!” Marl paused in the doorway. That Bell and the others were present and armed didn’t seem to alarm her. She ignored them, ran straight for her mother, and dropped down beside her.

  Cyleste breathed in bursts, the air flowing in loud, reedy spasms as if the pain were too great for her, like it held her lungs immobile until that last possible second when they could no longer stand the emptiness.

  “Is Just keeping you alive?” Marl asked. There was hope on her face; between the eyes which moved too quick and the tight line of her lips, there was a shred of hope.

  Cyleste’s head moved so minutely from side to side that Bell wasn’t certain he could call it a shake. “Can’t,” was all she managed, then after another rasp, “Wilt?”

  Marl was already pale, but somehow, she paled further. “He’s gone, Mother. There was a struggle. Sella and Ness are dead.”

  The Grand fixed a tight smile and closed her eyes as a resigned sigh rasped through her nose. Her fingers pulled at something propped on her waist, and as Bell stepped closer and eased his head to see around Marl, he saw what it was. It was the Book of Justice, the black cover pristine and spotless despite all the blood on her.

  The Grand’s eyes watched him. “You have to sign,” she said.

  Marl nodded and reached for the book. The Grand pulled it away, not out of Marl’s reach – she was too weak for that – but far enough to make the gesture clear. “Not you. Bell.”

  “But, Mother-”

  “You will earn it the right way,” Cyleste hissed. A spot of blood freckled Marl’s cheek.

  Marl didn’t argue, but for a moment her face was defiant, as if she might do it anyway once her mother passed, and then the look relaxed, and again, Marl looked devastated. She nodded. “I will, Mother.”

  Cyleste’s smile came slow like it was a struggle for her; like maybe it wouldn’t come and instead, she would simply die. She didn’t. Not yet.

  Her gaze turned to Bell. “Sign,” she said.

  Bell took a step back. “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  “I… No-”

  “You must!” Though weak in volume, her words were strong in spirit.

  Bell stared down at her, down at the book in her hands, and shook his head, disbelieving. “You know I am innocent,” Bell said. “How could you want this?”

  Cyleste’s hands shook. “Wilt is gone,” she said. “Kingsley is Settish.” Her voice quivered. She paused, her breath shallow, but she forced herself on. “Just needs eyes. And a mouth. Sign.”

  “I-”

  “He needs to see. He needs a general, else the Legion will die.”

  Bell gaped at her. “I am not fit for that.”

  “If you want to protect Trin Cavahl then you will sign. Just has already protected her once. He can do so again, but he needs your assistance now.”

  Marl huffed and grabbed the book. “If he will not sign, then I will.”

  Cyleste’s hand dropped the book and closed on Marl’s wrist. “Not you,” she said again. “Bell.”

  Marl broke then. The tears finally came, streaming down her face and patting gently on her mother’s tabard as Marl sagged into her mother’s chest. “Why can’t he save you?” Marl asked. “Where is he?”

  Cyleste’s eyes were sad. They watched her daughter’s scalp as a slow hand lifted from the floor to pat her daughter’s hair. She didn’t answer Marl. Though she spoke into her daughter’s hair, it was clear her words were for Bell.

  “Sign,” she said. “Or we all die here.”

  The Grand’s eyes closed. The grip on her daughter loosened. She wasn’t dead, she still breathed, slow and shallow, but neither was she conscious. Marl wept against her Mother’s chest, her eyes watching Cyleste’s mouth as if hoping for another word, but it didn’t come.

  “Tel,” Bell ordered, “go inform Dellings of what’s happened. Make sure they’re okay in the courtyard, and if you can, help Bern to a courtesan.”

  “What about you?” Tel asked, pointing to his arm.

  Bell frowned and glanced down. Acklin’s knife was still lodged in his bicep, just under the shoulder blade. It hurt, but the pain was distant. It couldn’t compete with the issue that crowded his thoughts. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Tel’s mouth fixed into a crooked line, but she didn’t argue. She did as Bell asked, helping Bern onto his feet, and out of the room. As they left, Marl turned and glared up at him.

  “Who did this?” she demanded.

  “Acklin,” Bell said. It was a halfhearted answer. He knew she wanted more, knew that it was a paltry explanation, but he couldn’t focus. His heart was racing. It all seemed surreal. He stood in silence for several minutes – or at least that’s how long it felt; it was likely only a few seconds – listening to, and watching Cyleste. He knew he had to do it, had known even before he stepped into this room. He had a better reason now, a better reason to swear to Just – an entire Legion’s worth of reasons – but still, he hesitated.

  At last, the guilt consumed him. Trying his best to avoid Marl’s gaze, he retrieved the book and signed his name.

  Cyleste had not yet died when he left the room, but he couldn’t stay any longer. Right now, he hated the woman, hated what she had made him do and the god that had made her do it. But he was too kind to let that hatred ruin Marl’s final moments with her mother. He had to leave.

  Unsure what he should do with it, Bell took the name book with him and went looking for a courtesan. He didn’t know what Cyleste meant when she had said the god needed his eyes and ears – or what she’d meant that Just had already protected Trin – but if there was supposed to be any outward sign or any change within him to signify the god’s presence, there wasn’t. Whatever was supposed to happen when he signed his name, didn’t happen.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Wilt dove into the palace and slid across the floor as another bolt from those damnable crossbows struck the wall where he’d been. He had thought the library gate off the main courtyard to be a better option than the dark, empty passage in Erin’s chambers, but he’d thought wrong. Upon approaching the courtyard stables in hopes of stealing a horse, he had stumbled upon a group of Old Guard, the lot of them exiting from another tunnel beneath one of the stalls. His terrified screams had pulled the Legion’s attention, likely saving the fools from an ambush, but the screams had also made him a target. And he’d spent the last fifteen minutes seeking a way back into the palace for shelter from the blades, bolts, and arrows that chased him.

  The accursed voice had pestered him through the whole of it. He’s coming, the voice warned.

  The guardsmen?

  No. Him.

  Him who?

  Just’s presence poured into Wilt with malevolent force, causing Wilt’s limbs and chest to convulse in
violent spasms, as though his body resisted the pernicious takeover. Though his body shook, he had no control over it – no control over anything. He was paralyzed; once again the god controlled him.

  Fuck! Wilt cursed. So that’s what he meant? The shadow said you would come.

  Just’s presence resounded with a wash of anger. Silence, rapist. You must listen to me carefully now. In the hall you were taken to when you arrived, in the council hall where you met the Grand, there is a table and bench near the fireplace. On it, should be a candlestick with a black candle. You must extinguish that candle.

  Then why control me? Wilt protested.

  Listen! I am not done. As the god spoke, Wilt’s feet took him toward their destination. The candle might be guarded. Once it is extinguished I can help you, but you must be quick, else Cyleste will die. If that happens, you had better hope you die first.

  Wilt saw the room ahead, the door closed but unguarded. The not knowing made him nervous, he had only to extinguish the candle, but how many of the god’s foes might try to keep him from it? And foes that could make the god so flustered, at that.

  Who is in there? Wilt asked.

  I do not know. Just get the candle, then I can help you.

  Wilt thought back to the only time he had seen the room. He remembered the fireplace, and the bench, both on the right wall upon entering, and neither very far from the door. As Just placed a tenuous hand on the knob, Wilt decided his best option was to simply make a run for it, to extinguish the candle as fast as he could, and hope he survived long enough for the god to save his life.

  Are you ready, Wilt?

  Wilt hesitated before answering. The god’s voice had been urgent, too severe to ignore. He had not yet mentioned Wilt’s betrayal, but if the god could once more access Wilt’s mind, escape was hopeless. His near death by Beda – and again in the courtyard – had shown him that he was not ready for death. His only option was appeasement… at least for now. At least until he had a plan.

  I’m ready, Wilt said.

  Just opened the door, and then Just’s presence vanished without further warning, exactly the moment Wilt’s body opened the door and stepped into the room. The change was so abrupt, Wilt staggered a moment before he regained control of his limbs. The god was simply gone. He was gone, his control over Wilt’s body completely vanished. It was miraculous. Wilt had not thought such a thing possible.