by J. C. Staudt
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He glanced at Gweina the one-handed woman. “I’m not asking you to work for me. I don’t have the hardware to pay you if I wanted to. What I want is for you to be my allies.”
“We our own allies.”
“Alright, yeah, I get it. You’re tough and independent. That’s fantastic for you. Who puts food on your table? I’ll bet you’ve got some garden around here, or a couple of rooftop farmers who give you a cut in exchange for you not beating the shit out of them once a week. I thought I smelled animals when I came in. You got a flock somewhere? Maybe you manage some fresh meat and a thimbleful of milk every now and then. Am I right?”
“Who give a rat-man’s shit ‘bout food? We talking friends and enemies, isn’t we?”
“Yeah, we are. And you’re no different from every other half-starved souther in this Infernal-forsaken slagheap of a city. You live on what you can forage in the ruins, hunt in the wastes, or grow yourself. You catch crows and songbirds, because even one bite of meat is better than nothing at all. You want to know who eats well? Who gets three meals a day and has food leftover to toss out the window for those same crows to peck over? The city north.” Merrick pointed off in a random direction. It probably wasn’t north, but it served his point.
“Northers got it soft and simple, only way they good for.”
“That’s what I’m saying. They don’t deserve it. They just got lucky. I think they ought to share the wealth, so I’m going to be the one to make them do it.”
Peri laughed her derision. “You. I hope you got you-self a lot of guns, ‘cause they Scarred gonna open you up, you don’t.”
“I don’t have a lot of guns,” Merrick said. “I’ve got something better than guns. People. Thousands and thousands of people. They’ll fight for me. Some are willing to die. But we all have one thing in common. We’re all sick of having nothing… and of being treated like we are nothing. I know you don’t like this, Peri. This life you’ve got. You may have it better than some, but in the end you’re the same as we are. Tired. You want things to get better? You want to be there when the walls come down, and the two halves of this city become one again? Join me. Be my ally.”
Peri lifted her chin to study him. “You mean it, or you just some big-jawing kid with a head full of talk and a heavy wanting to get you-self dead?”
“This is the real thing,” Merrick said. “This is what I’ve been working toward for months. I’m going to open those gates and let all the people of the city south through them.”
“What you need from us, then?”
“Most of my followers don’t know how to fight. They don’t have weapons, and they wouldn’t know what to do besides run if someone made a threatening move toward them.”
“You want I teach a bunch of hog-neck sandholers to fight?”
Merrick shook his head. “I don’t need them to be the best fighters in the world. I just need them not to run away at the first sign of trouble.”
“How you figure on doing that?”
“That’s where you come in. I want you to show them what it means to be fearless.” This was a role Merrick had once hoped the Gray Revenants would fill, but since the Revs had made their stance clear, the Klick would have to do.
“You want we fight for you,” Peri said.
“With me,” Merrick corrected her. “I’ll be right there beside you on the front lines. If you can bring every cell of the Klick together, plus any other gangs you have a trading relationship with, I’ll make you all part of my new city. You’ll have all the food and supplies you need to keep yourselves fed and clothed for the rest of your lives.”
Peri considered this. She went to her lounger and sat down, then lay across the pillows and gestured toward a one-piece student desk across from it. “I’ll listen to you, shitkicker. You tell me what you gonna do, how this gonna work. Then I tell you if we’s in… or we’s out.”
When Merrick squeezed himself into the desk and found his gut wedged between the backrest and the desktop, the gangers chuckled. He felt uncomfortable; lampooned. He adjusted himself and started in with his plan.
By the time he was done, Peraluu Zalva and her gangers were fully invested in the endeavor. In guaranteeing them food in exchange for their help, he had promised something he wasn’t yet sure he could deliver. He would worry about that later, though—if and when the invasion was successful. Before he parted ways with them, they agreed to meet with the Rowdies and the Tribe, two other gangs they had allied with in the past and maintained loose ties to.
Merrick returned to the townhome to find it empty. A few telltale scraps were the only signs anyone had been there in the last ten years. Part of him wished the Decylumites hadn’t left so quickly; he would’ve enjoyed browbeating Raith over his successful negotiations with the Klick. Merrick was proud of himself for refusing Raith’s poor counsel, and for braving the encounter without Decylumite bodyguards. I’m done suffering the criticisms and second-guesses of a bunch of dways who’ve spent the last fifty years underground. It’s about time I started doing things my way. Things are going to start getting done a lot quicker around here.
Merrick could’ve sworn he was starting to get tired. It was a distant feeling, though; the start of a faint headache, and the periodic twitch of his eyes going briefly out of focus. Now that there were no prudish Decylumites to look down on him, he might as well keep himself occupied while he was awake. He told Boke to wait up for him, then went next door. He’d seen several women there he hadn’t met, and he was sure at least one of them needed healing.
CHAPTER 40
Her Children
The sky was darkening toward nightfall, golden afternoon light tinged with the starwinds’ green. Sister Bastille was feeding the chickens in the south courtyard when she heard a shout from outside the basilica walls. The rains had prevented her from observing the usual feeding times, so she’d taken the opportunity between afternoon classes and dinner to see that the livestock were taken care of. The shout was nothing to be alarmed about; crazed heathens came around to scream obscenities at the Cypriests often enough. It was the way the Fathers were gathering at the parapet above the gate that made her drop her pail and run for the west wall.
Could this be another attack? she wondered, heart racing. She began to make out the words as she came closer.
“I’m not going to hurt anybody,” called a young male voice. “Just want to talk.”
Bastille reached the gate and peered through the narrow opening between the doors. She saw a man on horseback, coming toward the basilica at a slow walk. Above her, the Cypriests lifted their crossbows and took aim. The man didn’t stop. Another corpse for Brother Travers to drool over, she thought with disgust.
Then she noticed the man was holding something in one of his upraised hands. The object caught the light and glinted metallically. It’s an Arcadian Star, she realized. Why is he showing it to them?
The man didn’t appear hostile, but if he came any closer the Cypriests would dispense with him, regardless of his intent. Father Xan was perched on the parapet above the gates. Bastille made to get his attention, but the flutter of crossbow strings interrupted her.
The rider lurched in his saddle. Bastille saw him drop the Arcadian Star, heard it clatter to the ground. He slipped sideways and crashed down beside his horse, riddled with quarrels.
Bastille heard the first gunshot before she saw where it came from. Further back, another man emerged from behind a building, revolvers blazing in his hands. He made a zigzag advance, steady and purposeful, ducking and sidestepping the Cypriests’ bolts on his way toward his wounded friend.
Father Xan toppled backward and crashed to the yard beside Sister Bastille. Above her, Father Boudreaux’s head tore open in a scarlet mist, and he followed Father Xan to the ground. The other Cypriests took cover and reloaded their crossbows.
There was another cry from beyond the gate, an animal scream that pierced the evening air. When Bastille looked
out again, the rider’s horse was galloping toward the walls with a crossbow bolt in its chest. The man with the guns stood staring up at the parapets, watching for any sign of the Cypriests. Behind him, a woman was dragging the wounded rider away. On the street beside them lay the Arcadian Star, reflecting the dim green light.
Bastille wasn’t sure what to do. Were it not for the Arcadian Star, she would’ve let the Cypriests deal with these heathens like any others. If she ran for help, the Cypriests might kill the strangers before she returned. No doubt the other priests inside the basilica had heard the gunshots by now; perhaps they would emerge to investigate the commotion.
What puzzled Bastille most was how these strangers had come into possession of the key. They obviously knew it belonged here, but not that they could’ve used it to get inside without risking their lives against the Cypriests. Maybe they had only come to return it to its rightful owners. They could be caravan workers, come to report Brother Mortial’s death; or they might be thieves who stole it from him and tortured him until he gave away the basilica’s location. Whatever the answer, she wasn’t inclined to open the gate and find out.
Several priests and acolytes were standing behind her when she turned around, staring in horror at the bodies of the fallen Cypriests. She took one last look through the gate and saw the gunman vanish from sight behind a building. The horse was gone, but for the distant sound of its hooves on the pavement. She stepped away to let Brother Liero have a look.
“What’s happening out there?” someone asked.
“Are the heathens attacking us again?” asked someone else.
“I don’t believe this is an attack,” Bastille said. “They have…” She caught herself, realizing she had nearly revealed the existence of the Arcadian Stars to a number of priests without the privilege. “Kind Brother Liero, may I have a word with you in private?”
“Certainly. What seems to be the trouble?”
They stepped away from the crowd.
“There was a man out there,” she whispered. “He had one of the keys. The… stars. He was holding it up, as if to show us. The Fathers shot him before I could stop them.”
“Is this man still alive?”
“Doubtful. He was struck three times. You know how accurate the Fathers are.”
“And the key?”
“He dropped it. If you’ll notice, it’s lying there on the pavement.”
Brother Liero went to the gate for a look, then returned. “I see it.”
“What shall we do, kind Brother?”
“Let me think.” He tapped his lips with his fingers, staring off at nothing. “It’s getting dark. Perhaps we should send a force of Cypriests to retrieve it.”
Bastille nodded. “I don’t think we can afford to leave it there.”
“No, you’re right. The Order’s security is in peril so long as there’s a chance it might fall into the wrong hands. How this key escaped our grasp, who can say…”
“I think it may be Brother Mortial’s,” Bastille blurted without thinking. “Perhaps these people stole it from him.”
Liero turned to the parapet. “Father Kassic, prepare to sally forth.”
Watching the Cypriests assemble before the gates, Bastille couldn’t help but think of Kassic’s grim prophecy—if indeed that was what it was. The Order will fall to ruin, the Cypriest had said. The Mouth proclaims it. The Order will fall to ruin. If the endangerment of this key was the first step in the prophecy coming to pass, there was no question they must retrieve it.
“All members of the Esteemed may remain outside,” Brother Liero was saying. “Everyone else is to return to the basilica. Go to your bedchamber and lock your door. This will not take long, but it’s best you remain safe.” He waited until the building’s stained-glass doors had closed behind the last of the lesser priests and acolytes, then continued. “Father Kassic, your first priority is to retrieve that iron key in the street. You may engage any heathens who stand in your way. As always, you may recover the bodies of the deceased, so long as you do not put yourselves at further risk in doing so. The Mouth guide you.”
Bastille wanted to know how the heathens had come into possession of the key, but she doubted they would survive a confrontation with the Cypriests. Their intent—and Brother Mortial’s fate, it appeared—were destined to go undiscovered.
Following standard procedure, a pair of Cypriests opened the gates while a second pair guarded the gap to let the excursion party through. Father Kassic and his team fanned out along the street, ever vigilant for signs of danger around them. Bastille stood with the other priests, leaning on their tiptoes for a glimpse through the open doors.
Father Kassic reached the spot where the Arcadian Star lay in the street and bent to pick it up. The other Cypriests advanced toward the corner of the building behind which the three heathens had disappeared. Bastille waited for the inevitable sounds of gunshots and crossbow strings, but those sounds never came.
The Cypriests emerged dragging the body of the man who’d been riding the horse. The crossbow quarrels in his chest were gone, though the wounds remained. They brought him through the gates and dumped the body at Bastille’s feet, then handed the Arcadian Star to Sister Gallica. The crowd gathered around for a look at the mysterious stranger. Bastille thought he was dead until she saw the knot in his throat move up and down.
“Toler?” Sister Dominique pushed her way through the crowd and dropped to her knees, lifting the stranger’s head into her lap. His long dark hair flowed over her robes; his leather clothing was soaked with blood. Even in the darkness, Bastille could see his face turning an asphyxiated blue.
“Toler,” Dominique said again, as if to reassure herself. “Brother Liero, get everyone inside. Everyone.”
“Yes, please. You heard her,” Liero said, waving his arms to usher them all back. “Give them some space.”
The crowd lingered, Bastille included. Eventually Brother Liero and Sister Gallica managed to herd them into the building. Bastille turned back as the doors were closing to see a faint red-orange glow emanating from Sister Dominique’s hunched form. She’s using her powers. She’s healing him.
Dominique had known the man’s name. Could this Toler man be another one of the explorers, like Mortial? Had he found one of the catacombs and returned with news of his findings? Why hadn’t the Cypriests recognized him—or if they had, why hadn’t they let him pass? And if the man had once been a member of the Order, why hadn’t he avoided the Cypriests altogether by entering the basilica through the labyrinth? How many Arcadian Stars were out there, in the hands of everyday people like him?
While the other priests took the left hallway toward their bedchambers, Bastille hung a right toward the conservatory.
“Where are you going, Sister Bastille?” Brother Liero called.
“I was feeding the animals when all the commotion started,” she said. “I fear they’ll starve if they don’t eat soon. Mouth forbid it the rains come back and I’m unable to give them another meal before tomorrow.”
Liero blinked his bulging eyes and nodded.
No sooner was she out of sight than she was off at a sprint, covering the stone floor as fast as her slippered feet would allow. She crossed the conservatory, exited through the south courtyard door, and rounded the side of the basilica for another look at Sister Dominique and the stranger. Pressing herself tight against the building, she leaned out and peered into the west yard.
To Bastille’s surprise, Toler was ascending the parapet steps with the Cypriests. He leaned over the wall and yelled out into the city beyond. “Lokes. Weaver. Hey, I’m fine. I’m okay. You can come out now. No one’s going to hurt you.” He glanced down at Sister Dominique. “No one’s going to hurt them, right?”
“Father Kassic,” Dominique said. “Stand down. Let the two heathens through our gates.”
“Yes, Sister.”
The Cypriests arranged themselves around the gate, opening it at Father Kassic’s signal. Toler de
scended the stairs as the Fathers pulled the gates closed behind the other two strangers. Atop the parapet, the Cypriests held their crossbows at the ready, watching for the slightest sign of foul play.
The gunman was tall and strapping, clean-shaven and thick of jaw. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long duster over his holstered revolvers. His dark-haired female companion’s knee-length boots, leather leggings, and buckled jerkin clung to a shapely frame.
The gunman’s eyes went wide when he saw Toler. “What in the light-star’s name happened to you, Shep?”
“We thought you was a goner,” the woman added.
“I would’ve been,” Toler said, now standing beside Sister Dominique. “Let me introduce you to somebody. This is Victaria Glaive, my brother’s wife.”
“The gal who run off on him?”
Toler gave an uncomfortable smirk. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
“She know?”
Toler nodded. “I told her.”
Bastille seldom cared about the before-lives of the other priests, but Sister Dominique baffled her. These powers of hers—the ones she claimed were the source of her aches and pains, and which she never used anymore except in dire need—could render Brother Reynard’s hospital obsolete. If she could restore a dying man to perfect health as she’d just done with this Toler Shep fellow, why hadn’t she done more to cure the ailments of the other priests?
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” the gunman was saying. “I’m sorry for your loss. Name’s Will Lokes. This here’s Jal Weaver. Now, what’s the big idea? You let them dways shoot everyone who tries to stop in and say howdy?”
“Letting outsiders near our walls is a danger to our way of life.”
“Them crossbows pointed at my ass is a danger to my way of life.”
Bastille recognized the man’s northern drawl. Plenty of cattle ranchers used to come through Wynesring twice a year, retreating to southern pastures as the short season started going long, and vice versa. This one didn’t look like a rancher, though. He looked more like some wasteland scavvy, and so did his female companion.