by Bill McCurry
I lifted my spirit into darkness and tried to bring Desh with me. If he made the trip, he had been born a sorcerer. Most likely he wouldn’t, and he’d bleed out in the dirt like millions of other young men. Hell, even if he was a sorcerer, he might bleed to death. Plenty have.
It would be inaccurate to say it was just darkness, like you have when there’s no light. It was an overwhelming preponderance of nothingness, filled with not a solitary sound. No wind, no grass waving, no insects or birds. I couldn’t hear my heartbeat or hear myself breathe.
I had figured I could get to this place, although I hadn’t been positive. This was where the gods did their trading, and I had brought Desh to trade with the Goddess of Mercy for his life. No one I knew of had been able to reach this place for years, but getting here was clearly still possible in the Denz Lands. The reason for that would probably improve our understanding of magic and the gods in unexpected, profound ways, but I didn’t really give much of a damn. I’ve never been scholarly.
“Did I die?” Desh asked from out of the nothingness. He didn’t sound concerned.
“You tried, but you’re not very good at it. Time isn’t passing for you back home, so you have a minute to collect your thoughts.”
“If I’m not dead, what is this?” I heard the boy’s voice catch. Then words started tumbling out of him. “I hope you know what you’re doing! I hate to tell you this, Bib, but I haven’t seen you do a single thing yet that’s worked out very well!”
“Desh, you’re at the market, and the sale is starting. You need to decide how much you want to live. If the answer isn’t ‘a whole hell of a lot,’ then we can go home now.”
“Damn it, Bib, I don’t know what I’m doing! Of course I want to live. I guess we’ll find out how much.”
“That’s fair. Don’t be afraid to swagger around a little and bang them together, but don’t forget what I told you, either.”
Desh didn’t say anything.
“There are no good deals. Right?”
“Right.”
“Hush now,” I announced, not quiet at all. “I sense a bunch of assholes approaching.”
A rich, precise but clipped voice said, “My dear murderer, is that an appropriate greeting for an old acquaintance, absent these many years? One to whom you are obligated in such an overwhelming manner?”
“My apologies, mighty Harik. I amend my observation. I sense a bunch of squabbling, grasping assholes with the morals of back-alley drug addicts approaching. Your Worship.”
Ten
“You might cause me to forget how profitable our little discourses have been, Murderer.” The voice of Harik, God of Death, drifted to me from the void. In this place of trading, the gods had willed that sorcerers have no physical form. That includes no physical eyeballs. No sorcerer in history had seen, smelled, or felt anything in the Home of the Gods—if that’s where that place really was. It could be the divine equivalent of a dank, piss-soaked alley for all I knew.
In the trading place, a sorcerer could perceive only the thoughts of other beings, so I had never beheld Harik himself. I had come to imagine what he must look like, though, based on his repellent thoughts that would embarrass a rutting toad. I saw him as a balding, pinch-faced bookkeeper trying hard to appear smooth, wearing poorly cut silk garments.
Harik continued, “Be thankful I remember the profit and choose to allow your continued existence.”
“Pretend I said thank you until you blushed, Harik. Was that you creating hell and confusion with all the fog just now? That was a lot of hard work just to get my attention. Do you like me that much? I like hemorrhoids more than I like you.”
Desh hit a shrill note. “Bib, is that the voice of the actual God of Death? Shouldn’t we be… humbler or something?”
“He’s a mighty god, Desh, and he doesn’t care what us insignificant nits think. We can’t hurt the fussy little moose-crotch’s feelings. Can we, Harik?”
“No.” I swear I could hear his immortal teeth grinding.
“So, where have you boys been all these years? Big hangover? Misplace your thunderbolts?”
Silence drifted on to the point of embarrassment.
“That’s all right, I don’t really give a shit. Just making conversation. Besides, I didn’t call for you, Harik. I called Gorlana, so why the hell are you here?”
“I own you, Murderer. Nothing happens involving you unless I sanction it. I must approve any exceptions, and until you fulfill my debt—”
I imagined rolling my eyes. “Oh, shut that festering gash in your face, you long-winded fart!”
Desh said, “Just to be clear… should you be talking that way to the God of Death? I mean when I’m… I mean on the other side, things are…”
I didn’t bother answering. The truth is that when you bargain with gods, if you act like you give a crap about them, then you have no hope at all.
“Fine!” Harik said. “We’re not fools. I know what you want. No one can help you, Murderer, because you cannot pay. I hold a lien on everything you have.”
“I’m not here to make an offer. I’m just here to advise Desh on his first deal. To make sure he doesn’t get completely violated in a bad place by you jackals.”
Harik paused. “You may not negotiate for the other one. Go away.”
“No.”
“I command you to leave!” Harik boomed.
As conversationally as possible, I said, “I command you to screw yourself, your sister, and your pet goat. See how far that command goes.”
Harik paused again. “Fine. You’ve always been a difficult case. I’ll allow you to remain, if you promise to be respectful and quiet.”
“Thank you.” I had no intention of being respectful or quiet. “So, will you make Desh an offer? Please, O great Harik, who can topple mountains with one quiver of one hair on your masculine, hirsute backside?”
“No. I cannot deal with him.”
“Do you mean you’re wasting our time with all this prancing around? I was nice to you for no reason at all? Come on, Desh, let’s go.” I started to lower Desh and myself back down into the world of men.
Another voice spoke, nasal and slow. “I can trade with the young fellow. Happy to do so.”
“Why, that sounds like Fingit! How have you been, Your Worship? Built any good chariots lately?”
Fingit laughed, but it sounded forced. “Murderer, I own exclusive rights to the Nub here. All of his trades must go through me.”
Desh said, “What? The Nub?”
“Yes, that’s our name for you,” Fingit said. “We have to call you something evocative. Who can remember all these sorcerers by their sad little human names?”
“Bib gets the Murderer, and I get the Nub? Why the Nub? Why not the Crafter, the Falcon, or something like that? No one’s going to respect a sorcerer called the Nub.”
“We could just call you the Corpse,” Harik purred like a gigantic, immortal tomcat.
I felt like I was losing control of this negotiation. “None of this matters a damn if we can’t make a bargain. Let’s get on with it!”
“Quite so!” Fingit said.
No one spoke for some time. It was hard to tell exactly how long, since that place where sorcerers and gods trade always seems beyond time and space. I feel safe in saying that it was “a while.”
I finally said, “Desh, they’re waiting for you to tell them what you want.”
“Oh!” Desh yelped.
There was a long pause in which I expect he was thinking about not dying, and getting his leg back, and getting some extra power to build magic doodads and burn all his enemies to ash. He was probably smart enough to keep his first trade simple, but if not, then his career as a sorcerer would be short and awful.
Desh said, “I want to be healed, and I want my leg back.” Desh bit off each word with precision.
“Ah, I’m sorry, but that’s kind of a problem,” Fingit said. “You may trade for power, but it becomes your power. How will you the
n use it? Nub, you can’t just wave a stick or some chicken entrails at the stump of your leg and expect it to be healed. You must cede the power to the Murderer so he can heal you. For that, you have to deal with Harik.”
I said, “Pig shit on apple pie! Are all of you bastards trying to get a cut of this deal?”
Harik said, “Murderer, I know I’ve taken a firm stance in the past on clearing your current debt before any more deals, but I am prepared to waive that restriction, this one time only, to assist you in this dire situation.”
“Really?” I tried to load it up with sarcasm.
“Truly!” Harik said, oblivious. “I am prepared to offer you a substantial trade. I will grant power enough to completely heal the Nub. I also offer power beyond that, which you may use to heal, bless, call the forces of nature, or anything else within your talents. This will be a large block of power, five complete squares. Just make an offer.”
“Just kiss my ass,” I said. “If you have an offer to make to Desh, make it.”
“I’m asking very little of you, really. In addition to the many murders you have already accomplished for me in such a fine fashion, I would require that within the next week you murder the one person you care about most. Easily done, as I’m sure you’ll agree, since those whom you love tend to annoy you beyond all reason quite quickly. My own wife comes to mind…”
I laughed. “No. Definitely no.”
“Ah, that is a shame. But as a bit of incentive, I will reduce your open-ended debt in addition to my current extremely generous offer.”
“That doesn’t mean a damn thing. You could say the debt’s cut by a hundred, but only you know how many I still owe. It might be a thousand, or ten thousand.”
“Or one hundred and one.” I heard the smile in Harik’s voice.
“I don’t trust you, so forget it.”
After a long pause, Harik spoke, but his voice had lost some of its richness. “Very well. I’m making a tremendous sacrifice here, but I’m prepared to cancel your open-ended debt completely—paid in full—if you kill the person you care about most within the week. I will also deliver five squares so you can save the Nub.”
It might be smart to explain what Harik’s terms meant. Power is the currency of magic. It’s like money that can blow your head off if you’re lax about using it. Magical power’s denomination is the square. Roughly speaking, a square is enough power to perform one major feat, such as saving a person close to death, or burning a damn big house to ash in just a minute.
I don’t mean that power is square in some literal way. A square shape is easy to imagine dividing up, so everybody calls it a square for calculating purposes. The gods made this shit up, not me. A sorcerer doesn’t have to use a square all at once; instead, he can slice the power up to perform smaller feats.
I hadn’t foreseen anything like Harik’s offer. I was a murderer. If I killed just one more person, then I could be free of Harik. I wouldn’t have to kill people at all. Hell, by murdering this one person, I might save dozens, or hundreds. It might be the most moral thing I could do.
“I, might…” I squeezed the words out like tears.
It would have to be Ella. I guess it was foolish to say I cared about her, since we probably hadn’t spoken more than a thousand words to each other. But I felt more for her than I did for Desh, who was putting me through a hell of a lot of trouble, now that I thought about it. Maybe I should first promise her I’d bring the prince home, since she’d be dead. It wouldn’t be a good act to kill her, of course. I had to admit that. However, few of my undertakings have been noble, or even justifiable, these past years.
Desh said, “Say no. Nothing’s worth that. Let’s leave.”
He went on to say that I was a whiner and a gutless sack of maggots. He didn’t use actual words, and he may not even have been thinking it, but I heard it anyway.
“All right. Harik, I say no.”
“You should reconsider. You will never get a better offer. You'll never even get this offer again.”
“On second thought…” I silently called myself a vile, slime-licking rat fornicator with bells on. “No. Drop it. My answer will always be no.”
“A shame. Very well. I don’t see what we can do for you.”
Desh didn’t speak, and I didn’t either. I grabbed him and began drifting back to our side.
Fingit said, “Wait! There may be a way for us to help, but it won’t be cheap.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Desh trades you something you fancy, then you peel off part for yourself before passing it on to that impotent leech, Harik. He snatches off a taste for himself and then delivers the power to Desh, who gives him permission to cede it to me. How am I doing?”
“Quite well. It’s been a while since we worked a four-cornered deal, but we can certainly manage it. So, Nub, make your offer.”
I hoped Desh would remember not to make the first offer, but I couldn’t get in there and bargain for him. I started whistling a nonsense tune, in case he might hear it and remember.
Desh said, “You should offer me something first. I want something good, and don’t try to trick me. Please.”
“Murderer, shut the hell up!” Fingit yelled.
I stopped whistling.
Fingit said, “I will deliver, by proxy, two squares of power for the price of—”
Desh interrupted, “Bib, how much power do you need?”
That was an excellent sign. The boy was thinking. “Two squares are far too much. We need half a square at most.”
“I want half a square, Fingit, no more.”
Fingit sniffed. “All right. I’ll deliver one half of one square in exchange for the removal of your capability to father children for the rest of your life.”
“What? You damned… you…”
I said, “That is a bit expensive, but understand that Fingit is just taking a tough bargaining position. Desh, as your advisor, I suggest a counteroffer of forgoing one orgasm some time within the next year.”
“Yes, that one! The orgasm one! That’s my offer!”
Fingit laughed. “That’s hardly an offer at all! Did you come here to waste our time? Here’s a different offer then. In exchange for the power, you’ll become a compulsive gambler with horrible luck.”
“No!” Desh yelled. “Bib? Do you have any advice?”
I tried to nod, failed, and grinned instead. “Yes, I do, son. I’d offer these snakes one bad but temporary rash in the next year.”
“All right… I see what you’re saying.” I realized I hadn’t noticed Desh was panting until it started slowing down. “I offer one bad but temporary rash in the next year.”
“Hah! I don’t think you came here to bargain at all.” I heard Fingit’s sneer. “Is this a social call? Would you like me to send for refreshments? Here’s my counter. I’ll give you a nasty mean streak. Not cruel, mind you. Just nasty. How about that?”
“I don’t want that! Um… I offer having bad penmanship.” Desh stumbled over the words.
That was silly, but Desh was beginning to understand how this worked. He might still get cheated, but at least afterward he’d understand how it happened.
Fingit said, “Every woman you ever love will cheat on you.”
“Uh, pigs will make me sneeze.”
“You’ll cheat on every woman you love.”
“I’ll forget my wife’s anniversary—two years in a row.”
“You lose your childhood—all memories gone,” Fingit said with a certain solidity in his voice.
Desh paused. “I… my knee will ache when the weather changes.”
“No. All the childhood memories, or no deal.”
“This is crazy! Is this really all you’ll accept? Bib, can you advise me?”
I thought hard about other lines of bargaining Desh could take, but in truth, he was stuck. “That may be the best deal you’ll get, Desh. He knows it’s live or die for you.”
“How about I just lose my memories of my mother
, not the whole childhood?”
“No.”
“My mother. That’s what I can offer.”
“We can’t come to an arrangement, then. You may go.”
“Come on, Desh, let’s leave.” I expected that Fingit would give a bit, but he was a god, so who knew why he did things? I grabbed Desh, but he resisted. It was decent control for a sorcerer on his first visit to the gods.
Fingit said, “Wait! Maybe we can arrange something. I’m moved by a young man with such promise.”
“So, we have a deal with my memories of my mother?”
“Well, no. But for just those memories, I’ll offer you one-tenth of a square.”
“Desh…” I wanted to tell him to stop.
“Quiet, Murderer!” Fingit said.
“Bib, can you advise me?”
“Son, one-tenth of a square will heal you, but you’ll still lose the leg.”
“I… I can’t believe this! This is insane! Bib! Damn it to hell and halfway home!”
“Was there an offer somewhere in that rant?” Fingit asked.
“No! If I ever find that bastard with the spear, I’m going to beat him to death! All right, I’ll settle for—”
“Wait!” I yelled.
“Yes?” Desh sounded pathetically hopeful.
“If you’re taking the lower offer, hold out for an extra hundredth of a square and keep it for yourself.”
“You didn’t find some clever trick…”
“Sorry, Desh. Remember, there are no good deals.”
Desh said, “I want eleven-hundredths of a square in exchange for all memories of my mother. That’s my last offer.”
“Impossible!” Fingit said.
“Make it possible!”
“Well… all right, we have a bargain.”
“Send a tenth of a square to Bib and the rest to me!” Now that the deal was done, Desh’s voice was warbling like a bird.
“Agreed. We could make a separate deal for the leg, you know. An offer you might like better?”
“No. This is plenty,” Desh said.
“We’re leaving now,” I said. “We’ll let you boys get back to kissing each other’s asses.”