The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  She had not drunk nearly enough to believe that.

  But she could see his shadow in the corner of her eye. She could feel the excited shudder of his breath. She could hear his voice, as dark and cold as the wavering of doubt at the end of every prayer.

  “They will never stop,” he whispered through a mouth made just for her. “The city will drown in rivers of blood.”

  She dared not look at him. To look at him would be to acknowledge him, that he was real. No one else could see him, she knew. He was her demon, her burden, her nightmare.

  She stared straight ahead, forcing herself to watch the Sainites as they peered up. The serving girl was making another round.

  “The children will reach for the hands of their parents,” Amoch-Tethr said, “and brush the fingertips once before they disappear beneath the tide.”

  She clenched her jaw. She watched one of the soldiers reach out and seize the girl by her arm, draw her in tight. She watched the fear behind her smile, growing plainer as she was drawn closer to his unshaven leer.

  “The heathens and sinners will crack open the bones left behind,” he continued, his voice rising in ecstasy, “they will suck on the marrow and choke on their laughter.”

  She felt her heart beat between every word he spoke, and every word was a cold clear sound in her ear. She watched as the Sainite drew a hand up to the serving girl’s dress, intimately fingered a tear there. He tugged sharply, tearing a little more. The dark circle of a nipple was bared. The girl let out a squeal.

  Asper felt her hand tremble, grow warm, burn as bright as the anger growing behind her eyes.

  “And you,” Amoch-Tethr said softly, “can stop it all.”

  The tankard broke in her hand, the copper folding like paper beneath a grip suddenly red-hot. A whiff of acrid smoke hit her nostrils, but she did not care.

  She had but one thought. And it was revenge. On every soldier, every fasha, every thief who ate these people.

  Starting, she thought as she eyed the soldier’s leer, with this one.

  All she needed was one more word.

  “AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DICKHEADS DOING?”

  That was not it. Nor was it just one word.

  And yet it was enough to get her to look up—enough to get everyone in the bar to look up—at the woman who stood in the doorway, eyes ablaze beneath her tricornered hat, gloved hands on hips and dangerously close to the saber she wore at her belt.

  “Did I fuckin’ miss a gods-damned order from High Command that told us all to gather round in a circle jerk?”

  Wing-Sergeant Blacksbarrow stormed into the bar. A Sainite leapt to attention with every step she took. All but the one burdened by the girl on his lap, who merely met Blacksbarrow’s fury with a quiver-eyed gape.

  “You,” she growled, leveling a finger at him. “I don’t remember you havin’ shit for brains when I sent you out here, so maybe you can remember what your orders were.”

  “T-to secure the district,” the soldier replied. “The first twenty buildings.”

  Blacksbarrow cast a slow look around the bar. “Looks like you got to the first, at least. How about…”

  The fury ebbed from her voice as she suddenly laid eyes upon the serving girl. And in one steady stare, she seemed to take in everything: the tears in her dress, the tension in her body, the fear in her eyes as she quickly averted them from the wing-sergeant’s gaze.

  When she spoke again, her voice was cold iron. “How much do they owe you, girl?”

  “Thirty,” the girl replied. As if only now aware of her position, she stood from the man’s lap. “Thirty zan.” She caught herself. “C-coppers, I mean.”

  The wing-sergeant stared her down before slowly reaching to her belt and removing a pouch. She tossed it to the girl, who caught it with a jingle of coins.

  “More there than thirty,” she said. “The rest is for you to get into the back room and not come out for the next half hour.”

  “Y-yes, madam. Thank you, madam.”

  The serving girl made a hasty bow and scurried to the back room, the barkeep cautiously following her. The soldier she had been sitting upon cast a forlorn glance after her, as though he hoped he could likewise disappear. But as Blacksbarrow’s shadow loomed over him, he gave up, rising from his chair and facing her.

  “Refresh my memory,” she said coldly. “What’s your rank?”

  “Crossbowman, first class, Sarge.”

  There was a tremor in his voice. Despite the fact that he stood a good half head taller and likely thirty pounds heavier, the soldier’s posture trembled ever so slightly under Blacksbarrow’s gaze. If Blacksbarrow was aware of the difference in their stature, she didn’t show it.

  “First class?” Blacksbarrow took her hat off, whistled appreciatively. “Must have earned yourself a medal somewhere.”

  “For valor at Temple Row, the W.S.—” He caught himself. “The old W.S. awarded it to me before he died.”

  “Must have thought you deserved it, then. A lot comes with that rank: first-access privileges to chow and beds. That’ll come in handy.”

  “For what, Sarge?”

  “Recovery.”

  The confusion addling the soldier’s face was knocked clean off by the hilt of a saber smashing against the side of his head. The sole sound in the tavern was that of his body hitting the floor. Not a single protest from his fellow soldiers was raised as Blacksbarrow swept a hard stare across them.

  Asper herself was dead quiet, but for a breathless curse.

  “Karnies,” she said. “We’re fighting Karnies. Fucking, ass-tonguing, masturbating-over-their-own-piety Karnies. We’re not drinking on duty. We’re not making trouble for the locals. And we’re sure as shit not grabbing girls like we’re fucking degenerates.”

  She brought one foot up. Then down again, on top of the fallen soldier’s ribs. There was a crunch. He groaned as she pointed the tip of her blade at him.

  “This is a good blade, boys and girls. If I have to sully it by knocking some sense into any more of you, I’m going to be very displeased. Even more than when I have to sully my boot by jamming it up your rectums.

  “You two.” She pointed her blade to a pair of soldiers—a man and woman who crisply stood at attention. “Pick up your friend. Take him back to temporary barracks. Everyone else gets half an hour to sober up and then rally at the northeastern square. Scalps are moving out on patrol at sunset and I won’t have it said Wing-Sergeant Blacksbarrow let ’em walk around like they own the place.”

  “Sergeant!” they bellowed in collective acknowledgment.

  In another moment they began bustling about: securing gear and weapons while their comrades picked up their unconscious friend. Blacksbarrow observed them with a firm nod before she sheathed her saber and turned to depart. She only just caught sight of Asper as she did, and their eyes met.

  What was that behind Blacksbarrow’s iron gaze? Asper wondered. Was it concern for the serving girl? Compassion for the weak and the terrified? Or was it simply concern for her mission and the discipline of her army?

  “Priestess,” Blacksbarrow said. As if suddenly aware of whom she was talking to, she cleared her throat. “Apologies. I hadn’t expected to have to do that today.”

  “Lying,” Amoch-Tethr purred in her ear.

  “Morale’s under strain. The scalps just won’t let up.” Blacksbarrow’s voice contained an edge of unnerving sympathy, as though she genuinely blamed this whole thing on the Karnerians. “But we’ve got the people and the right on our side.”

  “Lying,” Amoch-Tethr giggled, leaning closer.

  “But there’s something coming soon that’ll change things, priestess,” Blacksbarrow said, obviously speaking of the convoy that Asper was not supposed to know about. The wing-sergeant offered her a wink as she replaced her hat. “Then, gods willing, the nightmare will be over.”

  Lying.

  That hadn’t been Amoch-Tethr.

  Blacksbarrow muttered a farewell, ba
rked an order, and led the rest of the Sainites out. The bar was left empty, bereft of any sound but the noise of her own breath.

  She looked to the chair beside her. Amoch-Tethr was gone, as though he had just been waiting for her to admit it to herself. As though his entire purpose was to make her realize the futility of it all.

  The war would never stop.

  Dreadaeleon could carve open heaven and rain fire down upon the Karnerians, Denaos could cut every Sainite throat in every Sainite bunk of every Sainite barrack. They would find more soldiers, more weapons, more bodies.

  How is it, Asper wondered, that they can always find more warriors and I can’t find a single person willing to do something good?

  Teneir’s voice came slithering back into her head, coiling around her brain, hissing into her ears.

  “Assuming you were not lying.”

  Lying. How could she be lying? How could she have poured so much blood into the streets, spoken so many words to freshly orphaned sons and freshly widowed women, gone so many sleepless nights tending to wounds she knew would never heal right, and be lying?

  And how was it, she wondered, that Teneir could have done none of that and still be so much more valuable than Asper?

  How could it be that money was more important than faith?

  “Ah, there you are.”

  She looked up. Dransun came stalking into the inn. He was moving a little more stiffly lately as his new injuries argued with his old injuries over which of them hurt worse. And when he eased himself down into the chair beside her, his groan was louder than the rattle of his armor.

  “I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

  “There are a hundred taverns in Cier’Djaal,” she replied, taking a swig out of her dented tankard. “It’s just dumb luck that you found me here.”

  “A hundred twenty-six,” Dransun said. “I know them all. The Glutted Cat’s right between the Meat Market and the Souk: nice enough for a soldier, not bad enough to get your throat cut in. Perfect place when you want to drink until you disappear.” He glanced around the tavern. “Speaking of, do they have anyone working today or…”

  “War’s on, Captain,” she replied, taking another sip. “People take cover.”

  “No matter. Now’s not a good time for drinking, priestess. We’ve got plans to make.”

  “We tried plans,” Asper said. “Plans don’t work. Drinking works.”

  “I can see how that might be tempting.” He winced. “Aturach told me what happened.”

  She merely hummed at that, not bothering to look up from her tankard.

  “But there’s a way around it,” Dransun said. “See, fashas might be removed from the people, but they still need their trust. Way I see it, we’ve got a golden opportunity to convince them that now’s a good opportunity to show some generosity.”

  He leaned forward on the table, began sketching out a plan with his hands in the air. She wasn’t looking. And by the time she reached the bottom of this tankard, she wouldn’t be listening, either.

  “Right now, Fasha Mejina’s got Silktown on lockdown,” Dransun said. “He’s trying to make a show of force to take up the leadership that Ghoukha held. Some might not be willing to let that happen. If we can convince them that they can earn the respect of the people and show up Mejina by—”

  “I’m converting.”

  The words spilled out of Asper’s mouth. The captain reeled, as if they had struck him. She didn’t mind that; she’d felt the same way when she first came to this conclusion, one day and several pints ago.

  “Teneir’s right.” She held up a hand to silence protest. “She’s a conniving, villainous bitch, but she’s right about one thing. It’s not about faith, it’s not about gods, we’re here to help people. She’s got money, she can buy all the room, food, and medical supplies we need.”

  She leaned back in her chair, breathed out an ale-soaked sigh.

  “The original plan was a good one,” she said. “But we can’t inflict enough losses on the Karnerians and Sainites to discourage them fast enough. We can keep the people safe with Teneir’s money. We can wait out the whole war, if we have to.

  “You just said you knew this city, right? How many people do you think that is? How many hundreds? How many thousands could be saved with just a few words?” The breath that came out next took something with it, something from a part of her that had been soft and tender for far too long. “How could I not?”

  She had expected the words to take longer to come out. She had expected speaking them would be painful. Yet when she heard them, it all sounded so logical, so simple.

  Funny, she had expected the weighty weariness that had been hanging off her for the past few days would simply fall away once she came out and admitted her plan. And yet, as she sat there, it all just seemed to settle down upon her like a blanket tucked up beneath her chin that would smother her and carry her off to somewhere warm and dark.

  Still, she thought, that was all right.

  “I don’t know… maybe if you had some fucking principles.”

  She looked to Dransun. He had recovered his sensibilities quickly enough, his face now knitted in jaw-clenched anger. His voice came out hot and angry.

  “The fuck are you talking about converting. You’re a fucking Talanite.”

  “Yeah? And I’ve heard you swear to Ancaa before. I thought you’d be—”

  “Sister, I’m a guard, I pray to whoever the fuck will keep me from getting carved up in an alley. But you’re a priestess. You’re supposed to stand for sterner shit than I do.”

  She drained the rest of her tankard, slammed it on the table, and rose to her feet. She affixed a scowl upon him. “I told you, this isn’t about gods.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.” He pointed out the door. “It’s about them. It’s about the people. It’s about this city. It’s about the fucking fashas who can’t be bothered to keep people from dying unless it profits them in some way. It’s about telling them—fashas, Jackals, foreigners, whoever—that this is our city.

  “What do you tell the fashas when you convert, then? They control everything already and now you want them to tell us who we can pray to?”

  “If you felt so strongly about this, why the fuck did you become a guard here?”

  “Same reason I’m trying to keep this city from falling apart while Mejina and his cronies are sipping wine behind gates in Silktown,” Dransun snarled. “This is my home. I don’t give a shit who owns it, it’s mine.” He pursed his lips, stared at her intently. “I wanted it to be yours, too.”

  She held up a pale hand. “I’m not Djaalic.”

  “No, you’re not. But I am. All the people you’re helping are. You’re the only foreigner in the city that isn’t killing people. That counts for something.”

  “It does. It’s going to count for a lot more once I convert.” She slammed her fist on the table. “You think it didn’t bother the shit out of me, too? I didn’t just decide to do this without thinking maybe I’d be better off just killing myself and letting everything else work out without me. But saving people is more important than saving face.”

  “You can’t save people’s lives by putting them in the hands of a woman who doesn’t give a shit about them.”

  “I took an oath to help people.”

  “Yeah? Why not break that, too?” Dransun spit. “Seems oaths mean about as much to you as faith does.”

  Her entire body seized up, trembling with contained fury. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to pick up the tankard and smash it against his head until he couldn’t speak for the blood pouring from his mouth.

  No, she realized as she felt her left arm burning beneath her sleeve. She wanted to do worse.

  But she restrained herself. From acting, from speaking, from doing anything except turning around and stalking out.

  Tomorrow she would go to Teneir. She would say some words that meant nothing to a deity that meant nothing. What kind of l
oving god would object to her helping people? What kind of loving god would have let it get this far?

  What gods couldn’t do, she would.

  She would convert. She would save them all. And everything would be better.

  And at that thought, something in that soft and tender part of her chuckled blackly. She felt Amoch-Tethr grinning from within her as his voice slid through her body on wisps of black smoke.

  “Lying.”

  SIXTEEN

  THE HARMONY OF SLAUGHTER

  Admittedly, it looked bad.

  Arrows flew from the southern cliffs, falling in sheaves to impale themselves in saccarii too slow to find cover and tulwar too eager to join the fray. They found wood and flesh alike—suspiciously never finding their way even close to her—and the wail of their flight consumed the screams of their victims.

  And that was bad.

  The wood of the deck shuddered. The Old Man groaned in protest as it was turned into a mobile battlefield. The canopy trembled as gaambols hurled themselves, hooting and shrieking, over the river and clambered over the colossus to take the fight to the shicts, heedless of anyone who got between them and their prey.

  And that was worse.

  But despite the arrows falling and the beasts snarling and the bodies bleeding out around her, Kataria could see but one moment. A moment when Lenk looked over his shoulder and, in his eyes, she saw the accusations that Man-Khoo Yun had hurled at her, of her treachery and her collaboration with the shicts.

  A moment when she saw that he believed them.

  That moment. That was the worst.

  “Your treason was not unforeseen, savage. Sheffu anticipated this.”

  But it wasn’t the worst for long.

  Man-Khoo Yun approached her, stepping over a moaning saccarii, ducking beneath a shrieking arrow. The short, curved blades he wielded in his smaller hands glistened in the dying light of the sun and she could see her own fear reflected in them. His eyes, black and polished, drank in that fear just as the mandibles serving as his mouth devoured it hungrily.