The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Bastille had heard enough. “Okay. That’s all I needed to know. You did not consent or give him permission to do this. Is that right?”

  “Not that first time, no. After… he said he could help me get an early priesthood and move me up in the Order like he had done for Sister Gallica, and that if I didn’t want to show him my devotion, he could have me expelled.”

  “Devotion?” Sister Bastille scoffed, but she held her tongue. A trusting young girl mustn’t look very far to be taken advantage of, it seems. Far too trusting, this one. That flaw may suit my needs, though. Interesting, that bit about Sister Gallica. I’m fairer than the she-mutant, but Brother Soleil has never so much as laid an errant hand on me. Perhaps his tastes are stranger than they seem. I’ll have to look into that bit about Gallica…

  “My Devotion to the Mouth, yes,” Sister Jeanette was saying. “He said it was part of my initiation to let him—”

  “Enough. It’s the truth I wanted, not a detailed account of everywhere he touched you.”

  “Will I be expelled?”

  “Give me some time. It’s clear that you were forced into these… situations, to some degree. I don’t think anyone could blame you for that, beyond the fact that you clearly haven’t been reading the scriptures if your understanding of devotion to the priesthood is so misinformed. More than anything else, it was your lack of common sense that was your undoing in this instance.” Perhaps that lack was the ‘talent’ Brother Soleil saw in you.

  “You’re right, kind Sister. I should be better about my studies.”

  I couldn’t care a whit less about your studies. “Yes. Well, there’s quite a deal more you should be better about as well,” Bastille said, eyeing Jeanette’s chamber with vague disapproval, “but this isn’t a discussion of your shortcomings. I’ll speak with Brother Reynard in the hospital and arrange to have you excused from your duties for a further two days. Be sure you’re feeling better by then. Best not to raise any further suspicion until we’ve sorted this out. Time is of the essence, now. Don’t speak of this to anyone unless I’ve given you leave to do so—not even Sister Adeleine. If she asks, tell her I have the situation in hand. And for the Mouth’s sake, stay away from Brother Soleil. By whatever pretext is required.”

  “Even lying?”

  “Lying, in this case, when it’s to save yourself from his exploitations until something can be done, is… permissible.”

  Sister Jeanette looked unconvinced. “How?”

  “Tell him you’ve got an awful infection.” No, he’d offer to examine her. “Say it’s your monthly time.”

  “I’ve tried that. He doesn’t care—”

  “Tell him you’ve had one of your seizures, and you ought not to be jostled about or you’re apt to have another.”

  “I’m not sure that will work, kind Sister.”

  “Make it work. If a woman can deny her lover his advances, surely you can deny an old man his abuses.”

  “But my priesthood…”

  “You have bigger problems than that just now. Brother Soleil may have influence, but he won’t be one of the Most Highly Esteemed forever. In fact, he won’t be long in his place if I have anything to say about it. He has other secrets that I’ve come to learn recently, and they do not bode well for his standing. Have faith, kind Sister. When I become one of the Esteemed, I will remember your plight.”

  Sister Jeanette licked her dry lips and gave a pitiful nod.

  As Bastille stood and turned toward the door, the acolyte said, “Thank you for the soup. And for all your help. I’ll find a way to repay you, someday.”

  Bastille looked over her shoulder and gave the acolyte her best attempt at a smile before closing the door behind her. “You certainly will, kind Sister.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Orbs in the Outskirts

  When Captain Robling came to visit Merrick in the infirmary, he’d mentioned the possibility of punishment for future misdeeds. What he hadn’t mentioned was that he’d already decided on a different punishment to impose in the meantime.

  Merrick reported to the personnel office to get his work schedule the afternoon they released him from the infirmary. He groaned when the secretary handed him the timesheet. “Someone made an error. These are the wrong shifts.”

  The secretary didn’t look up from the form he was filling out. “Not my problem. Take it up with your C.O.”

  Merrick calmed himself. “I’m sorry, but you’ve made an error. These are not my shifts. I’m a birdhouse man. I’m supposed to be going up next to the Row in a couple hours.”

  The secretary put down his pen and glowered at Merrick through a pair of thick handmade bifocals. He snatched the timesheet from Merrick’s hands and looked it over. “You’re with the Sentry Division. These assignments just came down from Captain Robling this afternoon. I was here when he delivered them. I watched him sign the coffing things myself.”

  “Alright, no reason to get excited,” said Merrick. “I wanted to be sure I didn’t show up in the wrong place. That’s all. Thanks.” For nothing, he almost said.

  He looked over the timesheet again. No longer was he a birdhouse man—which, for its part, could be considered the best job in a division known for having many of the worst. Instead, Robling had chosen to shuffle him around between various guard duty positions reserved for first-year privates; brig security, barracks sentry, and borderguard, among others. This isn’t a clerical error at all. It’s Robling’s deliberate ploy. Is this supposed to teach me a lesson or something?

  Merrick may have complained about his birdhouse, but at least there he had a nice view of an elderly couple who wanted to bang but never got around to it. Plus, he had the opportunity to put his marksmanship skills to use on the off chance that they were needed. If he hadn’t felt like a true failure before, he certainly did now. Maybe it was more in principle than in fact, but to Merrick it felt like he was being demoted. He was descending the ladder, rather than advancing toward another shot at getting back into Mobile Ops. Robling had reduced him to performing a series of jobs that required the combined posture and mental acuity of a toothpick. Like it or not, he was in for a desperate struggle to save himself from bottoming out.

  Merrick arrived at the borderguard station well before his scheduled start time in the early evening. Every street north of Bucket Row was blockaded at ground level as a means to discourage would-be intruders. Some blockades were built out with guard stations, sturdier gateways that served as added barriers to anyone who got past the birdhouses. This particular station was built at the site of a swanky uptown block, complete with boutique storefronts, an old movie theater, and two cafes with outdoor patio dining. Despite its upscale history, however, this block was in no better condition than most of the others.

  Merrick could see the ramshackle blockade from half a horizon away, a two-story mass of plastic, metal, and plexiglass sheeting nailed to a wooden frame. A staircase climbed the inside wall at each end, peaking at a one-man lookout perch. The gatehouse was at the left end of the blockade, a tower of brick and plywood with a corrugated metal awning supported by a pair of rotting two-by-fours.

  Something didn’t feel right. If there were comrades on duty here, both of the empty lookout perches should have been manned. It wasn’t until Merrick had come within half a block that he heard, and finally saw, the three soldiers playing a game of cards beneath the gatehouse awning.

  One of the comrades looked up to flick away his cigarette butt, then returned his attention to the game. Merrick didn’t know any of them by name, nor did he recognize the game they were playing. They looked beaten to hell—both the playing cards and the men, though the cards had had the worst of it. Merrick couldn’t imagine how a manufactured stack of paper had survived for so long without disintegrating in mid-shuffle. The men sat on stools made of found objects—a folding auditorium chair with cup holder armrests and ripped blue upholstery; a pair of chipped gray cinder blocks; and a wrought-iron cafe chair, which its occupa
nt looked to be having plenty of fun with, leaning from side to side and making the strained supports squeak.

  The lumber that made up the simple plank table was rotting. The table stood off-kilter, and it rocked whenever the blond-haired soldier sitting on the cinder blocks propped his elbows on it. At the table’s center was the pile of oddments that comprised the game’s wager, Merrick guessed. Lengths of copper wire; an old broken wristwatch; rows of cigarettes, hand-rolled in lightweight book paper; a small wooden box with a sliding lid, packed with fresh tobacco; a set of hand-carved bone dice; and an ancient cigarette lighter of transparent green plastic, with a few drops of fluid left inside—a hot commodity, and much easier to use than a striker.

  “Corporal Merrick Bouchard, reporting for duty.”

  “Great, we can leave,” shouted the blond on the cinder blocks.

  “After this game,” insisted the man in the movie theater chair, the one who had flicked his cigarette away. The big brutish lout had already lit up another cigarette and was deep in contemplation, studying his cards.

  “What’n the world did you do to your fingers?” asked the moon-faced man in the wrought-iron cafe chair, whose puff of gossamer brown hair was overdue to be cut.

  “Get in a fight with a flock of hermit crabs?” asked the blond as he drew from the deck. He studied his cards, then tossed them face up onto the table. “This game is over.” He held up his arms, gloating. The other two men leaned in to study his cards, then scowled and cast down their own.

  The winner must have thought it best not to prolong his moment of triumph, because he lifted the hem of his shirt and scooped up the wagers before hoisting his rifle and hurrying from the gatehouse. The other two gathered their belongings and followed, heckling him and calling for another game.

  Merrick stood alone, perturbed. He was still early, and he didn’t know who else was supposed to join him at the station. Playing cards littered the table and the sidewalk beneath it, some so worn with spots and creases that they were almost unrecognizable. Smoldering cigarette butts were heaped in the corners, lingering threads of smoke still twisting up toward the ceiling. Merrick took a seat in the ripped-up theater chair, the most comfortable-looking of his three options, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.

  There was a brisk rapping at the gate, so loud and sudden it made Merrick jump. He was on his feet in an instant, slinging his rifle to bear and listening for another sound.

  “Please, let me in,” came a man’s voice from the other side, shrill with panic. “I need to speak with the Commissar.”

  Doubting whether he should make his presence known, Merrick scoured the long block behind him for signs of his shift-mates. There were none. No one had taught him the protocol for this kind of situation. Nobody had ever come to his birdhouse asking to be let inside. Merrick wondered how the man had found his way past the birdhouses to begin with. “What’s your business? And who are you?”

  “My name is Dashel Thomrobin. I’m Pilot Wax’s cousin.”

  Merrick bounded to the top of the staircase. If this was a trick, the barrel of his rifle would be the last thing the man on the other side ever saw.

  “Say that again,” Merrick said when he had reached the perch, panting and out of breath.

  “I said I’m Pilot Wax’s cousin. My name is Dashel Thomrobin. Please don’t shoot me. Or at least let me in before someone else shoots me. I need to talk to him.”

  The man was tall and slender, with a bowed posture that was visible even beneath his robe of muted gray wool. There was a slight family resemblance, Merrick had to admit. The man had the same green-gray eyes and oatmeal-blond hair as Wax, though he didn’t look as healthy as the Commissar.

  Merrick didn’t know what to do. Without other comrades to help him operate the gate, man the lookout posts, and tie up this Dashel Thomrobin fellow, he didn’t have much flexibility in how he handled the situation. He couldn’t take the risk of messing up again, but he’d be a fool to let a souther play a trick on him. Fools who messed with southers wound up dead fools, most of the time. I should just shoot him and be done with it. But if the man really was Pilot Wax’s cousin, killing him was as good as committing suicide, once Wax found out. There were few jobs more menial than this, and there were only two things below the bottom rung of Pilot Wax’s ladder: banishment and death.

  “Do you have any way to prove you’re related to the Commissar? And if that’s true, what are you doing in the city south, dressed like a Mouther?”

  “I knew this would happen,” Dashel muttered. “No, I don’t have proof. I’m dressed like a Mouther because I am a coffing Mouther. You can tie me up if that’s what you want to do, but I’m not going to hurt anybody.” He laced his fingers together on top of his head, then spun around to show Merrick he had no weapons outside his robe.

  “So, if we open this gate and two dozen of those armed warrior-priests of yours come running around that corner, then do I have permission to kill you? I’m sorry, but we just can’t let you through.” Merrick turned to the imaginary comrade he had decided was standing on the ground below him. “Keep the gate closed, Corporal. Under no circumstances are you to open it.”

  Dashel Thomrobin frowned. “Excuse me, but isn’t that a Corporal’s insignia you’re wearing? Are you borrowing someone’s uniform, or did I just witness one Corporal giving orders to… another Corporal?”

  He knows our rank insignia. Strange for a Mouther, unless he’s spent time in the city north. “I’ll tell you what. Wait right there. I’ll have someone go run a message. If there’s a chance you’re who you say you are, then we’ll know soon enough. If not, we’ll give every station for ten blocks your description, along with clearance to shoot you on sight. Of course, you can save us both the trouble if you run away now.”

  Dashel took a step back. After a moment, he straightened and stood his ground. “I am who I say I am.”

  “Perfect. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Merrick plodded down the steps and reclaimed his seat in the movie theater chair. By the time the other guards showed up, he’d begun to worry that no one was coming. The first to arrive was an older gentleman with tussocks of gray hair growing from his face, neck, ears, and nostrils, who identified himself as Sergeant Ladiphar. The second was none other than Keller Henderthwaite, the lanky, goose-necked gate guard who’d made a report of Merrick’s fight at the Boiler Yard. Merrick greeted them each in turn and apprised them of the situation.

  “I’m gonna take him to the Hull Tower,” Merrick told them. “If he’s lying, maybe Wax will want to keep him for questioning anyway. Let me go up and check on him. If he’s still there, open the gate when I give you the signal and tie him up as soon as he’s through.”

  Sure enough, the Mouther was still there, seated in the shade of the building opposite the gate. If his continued presence wasn’t reason enough to believe him, Merrick didn’t know what better evidence there could be. Before they tied him up, Merrick made him lift his robes, which were sweat-soaked and bore a large brown stain on one shoulder and a few spatterings of mud along the hemline. Underneath the robes, he wore the most uncomfortable-looking white woolen underclothes Merrick had ever seen. Merrick’s guess about the skew in his posture had been right; Dashel’s spine was curved and twisted, leaving his shoulders at differing heights.

  It was about half an hour’s walk from the gatehouse to the Hull Tower, a circular pillar of steel recognized as the centerpiece of the city north’s downtown district. The building’s curved face was littered with shattered window panes, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The two men hardly spoke for the whole trip. Dashel held his robes with bound hands and tiptoed through the rubble, while Merrick followed, prodding him with his rifle whenever the pace slowed.

  At the tower, they approached the revolving doors and Merrick stopped to speak with the guards. “Prisoner to see Pilot Wax.”

  The shorter of the two guards stopped them. “What’s going on with your hands?”<
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  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Merrick said.

  “Looks like he lost his nail clippers and used a pair of pliers instead,” said the taller guard.

  The short one laughed. “What about the Mouther, what’s the story with him?”

  “He came in at the Olney Street gatehouse. Claims he and the Commissar are family.”

  The guards shared a look.

  “Okay you’re fine. Bring him in.”

  The taller guard whispered something to Dashel as he passed. “Family, huh? Aren’t you creative.”

  “What was that about?” Merrick asked him once they were inside.

  “That dway just likes to give me a hard time,” Dashel said. “Say, what did you do to your hands?”

  “I crawled through a room full of mousetraps,” Merrick said dryly.

  They found themselves in a windowed five-story atrium, with a marble floor covered in broken glass and bird droppings. An elegant information desk curved in mimicry of the building’s exterior, with a faded Hull logo etched into a slash of blue plastic behind it. A faint rush of wind made the room sound like the inside of a gigantic seashell. Daylight fell through the broken windows and made odd shadows that moved amid the echoes of flapping wings and chirping sounds. Merrick would’ve expected the Commissar’s headquarters to be in better shape. What do I know? Maybe he likes a good mess.

  The long corridor of elevators jutting off the atrium’s north end looked pristine by comparison. Merrick goaded his captive into the sweltering concrete stairwell, and together they trudged up the sixteen flights of steps to the ninth floor. They made it past another pair of guards with little more than the obligatory questions about Merrick’s hands, and entered the reception area of Pilot Wax’s offices through a set of heavy ironwood doors with burnished brass handles.

  A slender brunette in a striped blouse and a pencil skirt shuffled papers at a desk, and a third pair of guards stood at the mouth of the interior hallway.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked. Her hair and skin were soft and clean, free of oils and blemishes, as though she’d just bathed. She was as close to a picture on a billboard as any live person Merrick had seen in a long year.