“And what, what did they do?” Hael did not want to know. He really didn’t but he needed to know.
“They r-r-r-raped me. They raped me with the hilt of my sword.” Bral let out a wail then clamped down on it, terrified someone would hear it through Bral’s door. “And, and, and,” he paused and took a deep breath and continued, “And they all laughed afterwards and called me a coward and a catamite.”
“Oh Bral, I had no idea it had come to this. Who was it? Who was the instigator? Someone must have been the leader. Tell me.”
“You cannot tell the Marshals; they said they will do it every night if I tell. They won’t expel all of them. It will be easier to cast me out.”
“Bral, look at me. I promise you, I will not tell. But you need to trust me with the name of the leader or this will happen again and again and again. Silence will only seal your fate. Who was it? Was it Samael?”
Bral looked up and nodded once.
“Thank you for trusting me, Bral. Leave it with me. I will send a message. They will leave you alone. I swear on the Debt that they will.”
“But what, what about when you leave? I have another two years in this abyss.”
“Listen to me Bral, my message will be heard and its effects will be lasting. After I deal with this, say nothing about it. Do not claim responsibility but do not appear surprised either. Make them think you dealt with this, but do not admit it. If we keep quiet the Marshals will not be able to prosecute us. They like Samael no more than we do. I know they see him for the grasping parasite that he is.”
As Bral was leaving Hael said, “Keep a blade ready in case they come for you before I have time to act.”
“Get out of bed, you lazy slug.” The prefect’s shout did not even cause Samael to stir. The prefect was annoyed; he was often annoyed. He considered laziness the grossest of infractions, as he was never able to indulge in it himself. He reached down, grabbed Samael’s blanket and pulled. The blanket came up with a sound halfway between a slurp and a rip. It felt sticky.
Samael flipped out of his bed and landed on the opposite side of the bunk from the prefect.
That was when the terrible stench hit the prefect, a wall of gaseous feces and some other smell mixed in that he could not immediately identify. The prefect was disgusted. The bastard must have soiled himself.
The prefect waited a few seconds, fuming, waiting for Samael to jump to his feet, so he could knock him down again. When Samael did not rise, he came to the realization that something was seriously wrong. The prefect rounded the bunk and looked at Samael. He then glanced down at his hands, they were crimson. The blanket was soaked with blood as well as shit.
He turned his head and shouted. “Call the Marshals, boys, we have a fucking shit storm on our hands.”
“So let me get this right, you did not notice the sword blade jammed up his anus until you flipped him out of his cot. Is that what you are telling me?” The prefect nodded. He was a Nineteen. All those ranked Twenty and above in year five and six also served as prefects, keeping the younger and lower ranked boys in order for the Masters. Mi Donta thought the boy’s family must have paid someone off to get him to Nineteen, as he seemed to be particularly dim. Bribery was strictly forbidden, but hard to detect. As with anything forbidden, unless people thought there was a good chance of getting caught, the practice would thrive. Usually a boy’s family paid off another boy’s family to lose in the arena or to score poorly in some other challenge, so that their own son could advance. There had even been an instance a couple years ago where bribery failed and one boy’s family had kidnapped a member of a rival’s family. That attempt to influence the rankings had come to light when the young girl who had been kidnapped died. The kidnapper’s line had been ended. Donta seemed to recall that most of them had been sent to work on the New Prime Temple — the Mason Curse. They would all be dead by now. Building was hazardous work.
“And no one knows how said sword became lodged in Samael’s anus. No one was woken by a struggle or a scuffle or even, say, his screams of agony as someone pushed a sword into his bowel and left him to bleed to death in his bed. Is that also correct?”
“I’m sorry, Mi Donta, I don’t have any answers. It’s a puzzler.”
“A puzzler. I see. Tell me, what are your main responsibilities as prefect for this barracks? Can you refresh me? I have not looked at the regulations for a few years.”
The prefect closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to remember the exact words. Donta sighed. Bribery had to be the answer for this one being ranked so high; he really was an idiot.
“A prefect’s duty is to ensure all the boys in his care behave and do not breach the Academy regulations. A prefect’s duty is to ensure there is a safe, conflict-free environment for the boys in his care to rest and recuperate after their lessons.” He opened his eyes and smiled, proud of himself for remembering the words verbatim.
Donta stared at him. The boy’s smile started to falter.
“Tell me, does having a boy disemboweled indicate a safe and conflict-free environment? By the Emperor’s shaven right nut, do you think that sticking a sword up someone’s arse breaches the Academy’s regulations?”
“Well, sir, I have my regulation book over at my bunk, let me –”
Donta cut him off, “Let me give you a clue, boy, the answer is no. One is not allowed to stick two feet of sharpened bronze in another’s boy’s arse. It is against the regulations to kill another boy whether by a sword in the arse or by decapitation or by poison or by any other way you little shits can think of to kill each other. You will be demoted to Last effective immediately. Now get out of my sight and send in one of the other boys.”
The prefect’s mouth was moving but no words came out.
Donta shooed him away with his hand; this was going to be a long day.
Even half trained, the fifty other boys who bunked in the same barracks as the dead boy were all capable, strong young men. They would not have been accepted otherwise. Whoever had killed Samael had managed to keep them all from waking, a tremendous feat of Compulsion. His interviews so far had ruled out the boys covering up for someone. One or two of them may have been able to get away with a lie, but there was no way that the twenty or so he interviewed so far could have all lied convincingly. Based on everything Donta knew about the boys bunking in Samael’s barracks it was pretty obvious that none of them was strong enough to Compel the others to remain sleeping while he murdered Samael. There were a couple of real talents, but none that strong.
He heard his next interviewee come in. He looked up and saw Bral.
Bral, Hael’s brother. The pieces fell into place.
Donta ended the investigation after a few more interviews. His official finding was that Samael had been sexually experimenting with the sword, when his hand had slipped. Samael had been mortified and so had not called for help. He had preferred to die than live as the butt of his peers’ jokes.
No one believed the story, which did not matter in the least — it was the official version so it was accepted. The Academy arranged compensation for the boy’s parents while not acknowledging negligence in the affair.
The rest of the boys in Samael’s barracks did not sleep well for weeks, knowing that someone could murder them in their sleep with no one knowing. Except for Bral; he slept like a baby.
“Hael is the one we have been waiting for.”
Zabab –> Donta: Well, I will admit that my concerns about him not being ruthless enough appear to be unfounded, if you are right about him murdering that Samael boy. He may be the one we have been waiting for.
Donta and Zabab were again in Zabab’s chambers. It seemed that they always met in Zabab’s chambers these days. Zabab claimed that, as his chambers were larger and better appointed, they would both be more comfortable there. Donta knew that this served Zabab’s purposes in two ways. First, it made Donta the supplicant, putting Zabab in a position of power. Second, it was a reminder that Zabab’s rooms were l
arger and better appointed. Donta was well aware of the power games, but he never acknowledged them. He needed Zabab, for now.
“May be the one. You are joking, right? How can you not be convinced? Have you not been paying attention? He was able to keep the entire room asleep while he dealt with that boy. I have never heard of one of the Guest exhibiting that high a level of Compulsion. Not without the use of a Lens. It would be a stretch for a Host Adept.
Zabab –> Donta: Let’s not get carried away now, Donta. Maybe it would not be the easiest thing for one of the Host to undertake, but a “stretch,” that is taking things too far.
Donta was constantly surprised at how petty Zabab was. As one of the leaders of the Enlightened Party, you would think he would exhibit a little less of the typical Host superiority and prejudice against the Guest.
“I also uncovered some hints that the victim had led a sexual assault on Hael’s younger brother on the day of his death. It looks like our candidate considers himself a righter of wrongs. That should be useful for steering him, as he does not seem particularly interested in the usual rewards.”
Zabab –> Donta: Yes, yes, most interesting.
Zabab rudely projected boredom and impatience in his mental sending as he stroked the powerful ruby Lens on the pommel of his sword.
“Am I keeping you from something?”
Zabab rubbed his knuckles. They were scraped and bruised. His eyes flicked to the side towards the heavy wooden door barring the way to his sleeping chamber.
Zabab –> Donta: No. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.
It appeared that Zabab had not become bored of having his own personal Nightfeeder in the four years she had been bonded to him. Donta shuddered a little inside to think of what that creature must have endured in that time.
Donta would tear it all down and rebuild with whatever tools were available. It mattered little whether the tools were as pristine and shiny as Hael or as flawed and twisted as his colleague Zabab.
He left Zabab to his hobby and returned to his quarters to plan for the next stages of the revolution.
Chapter 7
Edinburgh, Scotland, 2015
Finn moved as quickly as he could down the street, angered and mortified by his fall. Even though he was broken, he should be able to walk down the street without falling flat on his face.
As he approached the door to his home he pulled out his phone and instructed his home system to unlock the outer door. He slipped inside and placed his back to the outer door and took a few deep breaths. He was tempted to throw his phone at the inner door in frustration. Slowly he regained control of himself. He walked over to the inner and lined up his remaining eye with the retinal scanner set to the side of the door. The slight grinding whirring sound of the bolts sliding home indicated that the scan was successful.
His hand was reaching for the handle when he heard a soft sound behind him, the sound of the outer door closing.
He had forgotten to lock the outer door.
Someone was in the hallway with him. He looked up at the curved mirror over the inner door and saw a dark figure standing a few feet behind him. He froze, unsure of what to do.
“Finn, is that you?” Her voice was barely audible.
His heart lurched in his chest. He spun around. “Bex,” he said.
She looked the same as she did when he saw her last, twenty-one years ago on the beach in the ancient University town. Her hair was shorter, but otherwise she was the same. Not broken as he was. She was untouched by the passage of time. His heart lurched in his chest. “Bex,” he said again.
“Bex.” She looked thoughtful. “No one’s called me that since, since …” she trailed off. “Call me Rebecca. Please. I can’t bear to be Bex, not anymore.”
Darkness like a black ink dispersing through water flowed around her, obscuring his view of her. When it cleared she was gone, the outer door open to the street.
He smiled; he found her and she was alive. When he had found Charlie, at the back of his mind he hoped that Bex was nearby, but to have her seek him out, that was more than he could hope for. Maybe she was not completely beyond redemption.
Donald and Lewis had been in the flat for two days, taking turns sitting by the window and watching the building across the road. The subject of their surveillance had not left his abode since they had saved his cowardly ass at the Festival.
“Ach, so boring,” said Donald. “Shall we see if there’s anything left in the kitchen?” He could not be bothered to communicate directly with Lew mind to mind, so he spoke.
Lew grunted in what Donald assumed was the affirmative, not that he cared what Lew’s response was.
Donald left Lew at the window and went through to the small kitchen area deeper in the flat. The flat was tidy but felt cluttered due to the large number of knickknacks scattered across all the horizontal services and attached to the walls. They were mostly of ceramic ducks and pigs with the occasional troll thrown in for variety.
The kitchen was cramped. The yellowish-brown wallpaper soaked in the light and made the dingy room seem smaller. There was just enough space for a small table made of tubular steel and white plastic and four matching chairs. The table was pushed to the side, trapping one of the chairs between it and the wall. Sitting rigidly upright in two of the chairs were the tenants of the apartment, an older man and woman. Both were worn, grey and naked. They looked to be in their mid-eighties. They had looked considerably younger two days previous when they had first answered their door to Don and Lew. The man had one eye swollen shut and the squashed shape of his nose suggested it had been recently broken. Crusted blood stained his chin and chest. The woman appeared to be less damaged. She had a trail of bloody drool running from the left corner of her mouth.
“No, please don’t get up, I can help myself,” said Donald to the couple, then he chuckled. Their eyes had swiveled wildly towards him as he entered the room. He gave a silent command and they both collapsed onto the table, taking great, heaving gulps of air. “That hurt, didn’t it? So sorry for the discomfort,” he said.
He pulled out the remaining chair, reversed it and straddled it. “I just wanted to say to you that you have been great sports, letting us stay here and providing such wonderful hospitality. My partner and I, we really appreciate it. Well, I really appreciate it. I am not so sure about him, dour bastard that he is,” his voice was kindly and warm. The man, who had started to recover first, raised his head a little and took a peek at him out of his one good eye. When Donald met his gaze he flinched and ducked his head.
“Now, now, no need to be like that. I know we’re not the best house guests. We don’t always tidy up after ourselves, we haven’t really said thank you, and the torture of course. No, not very good guests at all.”
The woman started to shake and snuffle as he spoke. The man closed his eyes and his lips moved silently in prayer.
“I’ve been talking to my partner and we think that we may be able to let you go when we are done here. You know, as a kind of thank you for letting us stay here.”
The man lifted his head and peeked again; his lips had stopped moving. Donald could feel the stirrings of hope in the man. The woman was past caring. She was burned out, not even listening. Her misery provided a background trickle of emotion to Donald and Lewis, nothing too special. The man looked like he still had some spirit left. That was good, very good.
“You would need to promise to never say anything to anyone. Could you promise me that?” asked Donald. The man nodded vigorously. Donald could feel that he was not convinced, but he was getting there. “But how can I trust you? For all I know you may run off to the police and give them a description of us.” The man shook his head. “Hmmm, how can I trust you?” Donald put his finger to his lips, appearing deep in thought.
The man was starting to look desperate, this was something he could hold on to, and his hope was growing.
“Maybe, if you did something that would get you in trouble with the pol
ice if you turned us in. Hmmm?” The man still had some hope, but it was starting to curdle into nausea; he could tell something bad was coming. “I know. How about this? If you cut the throat of your darling wife there, I will let you go. That would be bad, so bad that you would never turn us in. Sounds fair, don’t you think? No reason for both of you to die, is there? Look at her; she’s ruined now anyway.”
The man buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Donald could feel a delicious vortex of emotion roiling through him. Hope was still there, but it fought with fear and despair. There was also disgust, disgust with himself for wanting to take the deal, for wanting to live. The emotions were delightful.
Donald pulled a bread knife out of one of the drawers under the counter and put it on the table in front of the man. “Here, why don’t you think about it? And, once again, thanks again for the hospitality. People just don’t take the time to say thank you anymore. It’s disgraceful, it really is.”
He tilted his head to the side, gave the man a jolly wink and stepped out of the kitchen.
“What did you do in there?” said Lewis. “I didnae think they had anything left, the emotions are divine.”
“Thanks. My ingenuity surprises even me sometimes.” Don crossed the room to look out the window.
Suddenly the flow of emotion stopped. “Shit,” said Don. He stepped across the room and looked into the kitchen. The man had killed his wife and then himself. He had put the knife under his chin and slammed his head down on the table, impaling his brain.
“Ah well, you win some and you lose some,” said Don.
Lewis -> Donald: Donald, come through here. He broadcast contained urgency.
“Look, it wasn’t my fault, he was stronger than I thought,” said Donald as he re-entered the family room.
Lewis -> Donald: Not that, I don’t care about the snacks. Have a look, across the road. Can you think of a reason why our sister in arms, dearest Baby, would be visiting our surveillance subject?
Ancient Evil (The First Genocide Book 1) Page 17