by Jon Hollins
“I mean like blackmail,” said Will, who apparently couldn’t take sarcasm the way he sometimes liked to dish it out.
“Was Firkin saying …?” Balur pointed down at Firkin.
“They’re Barphists,” said Quirk. “It’s in their job description to be corrupt. And all the people pissed off about that are already at war with them. And all the people who don’t care are fighting to defend them.”
“Barph’s—” Firkin started a third time.
“Shut up,” Lette snapped. And of course that was when everyone chose to look at her and Firkin.
“He was saying—” Balur started.
“Shut up!” Lette snapped. “We’re not talking about it.”
“There’s a way.” Firkin was nodding to himself. He rubbed at his forehead. “I know a way. I do. It’s in my head being known. By me.” He pointed to himself and looked surprised. “I know the trick. I know the answer. I have the plan.” He clapped his hands. “Me! Not you!” He stood up, one hand still pressed to the side of his head. “I’m the big man with the big plan swinging between my legs. All of you have to listen to me now.”
But that was not an eventuality Lette was willing to let happen. And while she did not have time to extract the knives that the High Priests’ guards had missed on her, she did not need them to shut Firkin up. She stepped across the room and delivered a hammer blow to his jaw. Firkin flew, spindly limbs flying, and crashed to the floor.
Lette pointed at him. “Did I, or did I not, tell you to shut the fuck up?”
“Gods, Lette.” Will was at Firkin’s side again. “He’s not well.”
“I think,” Lette said through gritted teeth, “that there’s room for him to get worse.”
“What’s he talking about?” Afrit, it seemed, had still to learn exactly how willing Lette was to throw her weight around.
“You’re next,” she said, pointing at the Tamathian.
Quirk bristled.
“Barph’s Strength,” Balur rumbled from behind her, letting her down for yet another innumerable time. “He was saying it about three times already.”
Lette turned to him. “Why?” she asked. “Why haven’t I slit your throat in your sleep?”
Balur shrugged. “Because you are being a pussy.”
That was it. Lette decided to get a knife out. It would take a minute, but it would be worth it.
“I’m not completely sure,” Will said, still at Firkin’s side, “but I think we’ve discussed how repeating something is not the same as explaining it.”
Firkin was unfortunately still conscious. “I explain it!” he shouted from the cell’s floor.
“Barph’s Strength,” started Balur blithely, “is being—”
“I explain it!” Firkin roared. Lette almost reeled. His voice suddenly felt like being hit by a thunderclap. The walls seemed to quake. What in the name of Barph’s ball sack was going on with the man?
Firkin was massaging his head again. He sat down on the floor. Will knelt beside him. Lette felt a sudden unexpected stab of jealousy.
“Barph’s Strength,” Firkin said, and now his voice was barely above whisper, “is a drink—”
“It’s a cup,” Balur interjected. He had always been slow to learn anything that didn’t involve his fists. “A big shiny gold cup studded with—”
“It’s a fucking beverage,” Firkin snapped, some energy returning to his voice. “I know my drinks and I know my cups, and Barph’s Strength is a gods-hexed drink. Delicious, and sweet, and rich as honey.”
Will stood up. “A drink. You need a drink. That’s your big plan? You get to have drink?” He sounded disgusted, but more at himself for having believed Firkin’s latest stream of bullshit.
“No,” Firkin snapped. “No, no. Totally different plan. There’s a story. Just need to remember the story.”
Lette went back to trying to extract the needlelike stiletto she had stitched into the seam of her jerkin.
“Barph. And Lawl,” Firkin mumbled. “Barph did something.” He grimaced. “Something very naughty. Spank him and call him Tuesday. Shouldn’t have tricked Lawl into doing it. Because Lawl always did get so precious pretending to give a shit about human life. He doesn’t mind smiting a city because it defies him, but if someone tricks him into smiting somewhere … suddenly that’s a travesty. That’s trickery and bullshit.”
Lette caught Quirk’s eye. The professor shook her head. This was not a story either recognized from any temple or street preacher.
“So Barph tricks Lawl, and a city gets smote. And Lawl gets his rage on,” Firkin went on. “Mounts up on his hobby horse and rides it all about the room. A punishment. A mighty punishment. And not one with whips, and chains, and women in leather outfits. Something serious. Something so Barph learns. So Barph grovels. And so Lawl cuts Barph. Slices his divine skin. And Barph’s blood bursts out like crimson jewels. Blood and wine streaming out of him. And he …” Firkin closed his eyes hard, held on to his temples. “He screams. Barph screams. But Lawl doesn’t care. He is the god of the law, and this is his new law. Because laws don’t apply to him. Oh no. He just takes the goblet out of Barph’s hand. And it’s beautiful, shining and studded with jewels.”
“I was knowing there was a cup,” said Balur loudly. Lette slapped at him.
“And Barph’s blood …” Firkin nodded to himself. “It fell into the goblet. Blood and wine mixing. But more than blood and wine. Blood, and wine, and power. And Barph became the absent god. And Lawl put the cup down on earth where Barph couldn’t get at it. Put it right in the city dedicated to him, taunting him. And he set a guardian over it so no man could rescue it for poor, bleeding Barph. And that was his lesson. That Lawl was the big man. That he did whatever he wanted and no one fucked with him.”
And suddenly Firkin was weeping, great tears rolling down his face. He held his head and whispered, “It hurts, it hurts,” over and over.
“A cup with … Barph’s power?” Will looked confused. “What do we do with it? How do we even get it to Barph?”
But Lette saw. “No,” she said. “That’s not it. Barph doesn’t drink it. We do.” She pointed at them each in turn. “We drink the power of a god.”
“No,” Quirk cut in. “Not just us.” She swept an arm expansively. “All of us. Everyone here. The whole army.”
Firkin nodded. “She understands. She sees.”
“Oh,” Balur groused. “She is being allowed to explain, but I am getting shouted down. That is being totally fair.”
“But it’s just one cup,” Will pointed out. “We can’t have a whole army drink from one cup.”
“Never runs dry, does it?” said Firkin from the floor. Tears had run tracks in the dirt on his face. “A god’s power is infinite, so the cup never runs dry. Can drink, and drink, and drink and there will always be more. It’s a good cup it is.” He nodded. “And it’s good wine. Power for the drinker. A god’s power. Strength. Stamina. Farts that could cause a room full of grown men to all pass out.” He smiled beatifically.
“We feed it to the army,” Quirk said again. “All of them. And so the dragons don’t face a nation that’s exhausted from fighting itself. They fight a group of divinely powered warriors.” She smiled. “And we win. And they lose.”
“My plan,” said Firkin proudly from the floor. “Mine. So all of you can suck it.”
33
Asking Awkward Questions
Lette knew that she should be glad. Because they actually had a plan that could work. They actually had a way forward. But all she could do was stand there waiting for the past’s bloody corpse to pick itself up off the floor and shamble toward her with its arms outstretched.
That it came from Will somehow made it worse.
“Wait,” he said. “Back with the priests. They said … Barph’s Strength was the thing you tried to steal. That’s what they want to kill you over.” He smiled. The bastard smiled. “You must know all about it. What happened?”
“It did
not go well,” Lette answered in a rush, cutting off Balur before he could be an enormous ass about the whole thing. “Our plan didn’t work. We didn’t even get into the temple where the thing is held. We were caught. We escaped. We ran. We were pursued. We wound up in Kondorra and you pretty much know the rest.”
Will blinked. “Well, erm, okay, but …”
He was interrupted by Balur clearing his throat. Lette saw Will’s eyes sliding over to the lizard man and she began desperately to twirl her finger in her hair and make Afrit-eyes in his direction.
Will’s eyes flashed back to hers. She saw them widen slightly.
“Yes?” Lette asked Will, trying to sound as interested as possible.
“Erm …” said Will, who stared around the shitty little cell as if divine inspiration hid in one of its vile little corners. “I mean … what I was going to ask was … erm …”
Balur cleared his throat for a second time. If Lette could have torn it out without prompting any additional questions, then she happily would have done so.
“There’s a temple,” said Lette, still desperately trying to control the story, “in the city’s Eighth District, to the north of here. It’s small, shitty, and heavily guarded. And inside—”
Balur cleared his throat again.
“Are you all right, Balur?” It was Afrit who said it. It was Afrit whom Lette would have to kill once she was done flaying Balur’s corpse.
“I am being okay,” said Balur, massaging his throat like some third-rate actor upon a fifth-rate stage. “It is just I am seeming to have some total bullshit stuck in my throat.”
His eyes flashed and he fixed an accusatory stare on Lette.
“What?” She threw up her hands. “What have I said that is untrue? What lie have I told?”
“The lie of omission,” Balur said loudly, just in case there were any prisoners in nearby cells who wanted to hear the whole shitty story.
“Fuck you, Balur.” And this time she said it with considerable rancor.
And she could see, she could just see the question forming on Will’s lips. He couldn’t help himself, the curious little bastard. He hung around her like the stink on shit, but he just could not spare her this last humiliation.
Then he caught her look, and she saw him bite his bottom lip, and hold his tongue.
Which all added up to it being Quirk who asked, “What did she omit?”
Which meant that Quirk was going to have to die too. Really she should just slash all their throats and be done with it.
Except, of course, this whole story was rather about why she was trying to not do that anymore.
“For starters,” said Balur, “she has been omitting that our plan to infiltrate the temple involved her being dressed up as a holy whore.”
And Will’s treacherous little eyes did go wide at that. And while he tried very hard not to glance at her, she caught it when he did.
“There was being a bikini of fine copper involved, and a whole weird hairdo that she was taking a lot of time to get right.”
“The hair was an important part of the disguise, you ass,” Lette spat. “It’s ceremonial.”
“Was it being ceremonial to be stabbing a guard in the throat fifty paces from the temple?” Balur asked her. “Just because he was saying something disparaging about your pancake arse?”
Lette chewed her tongue. “He shouldn’t have said that.”
“You have been saying worse,” said Balur mildly.
“Not to incredibly dangerous people,” Lette pointed out.
Balur looked scandalized. “Yes you have been doing!”
Lette took a breath. She had to control this story, not get caught up in Balur’s nonsense. “It did not go well,” she repeated. “I was very up front about that.”
“She was killing this guard,” Balur went on, unabated. “And other temple guards were seeing. And we were getting into a fight. But more and more reinforcements were coming. And—”
“And we failed!” Lette shouted. “What else is there to say, gods piss on it?”
Silence.
Silence filled with a lot of people staring at her. And maybe she had gone in just a little strong there …
Balur looked at her. “Erm …” he said. “I … I am not knowing.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”
Lette glanced at him. He appeared genuinely clueless. “Oh,” she said.
He looked about the cell. “What else is there to tell? We ran away. We fired the convents to distract our pursuers. We arrived in Kondorra.”
Slowly Lette closed her eyes. So close. So very close.
Afrit got there first. “Wait … you fired what?”
Even with her own eyes closed, Lette could feel Will staring at her.
What did she care that he was looking at her? What did she owe him? He had no ownership or hold over her.
Except … Gods piss on it.
“Convents,” said Balur, matter-of-factly. “The Vinlanders were getting very touchy about their sacred cup and were sending a fairly significant number of people after us. And so Lette was suggesting—and I was thinking it was a very good suggestion—that as they were being so uptight about religion nonsense, we should be burning down some convents to distract them. And so we were doing it, and it wasn’t working the first time round, but by the fifth time they were deciding they better be backing off, and we were escaping. It was being a good plan.”
“You fired five convents?” Afrit said, and the pretentious judgment in her voice almost lifted Lette’s spirits.
“Yes,” said Balur. “Was that being confusing to anyone else? Is it being the syntax thing?”
“Full of …” Afrit persisted.
“Idiots who had been dedicating their lives to Barph?” asked Balur. “Yes. So we were doing them a favor, I am believing.”
And then Will asked, “It was Lette’s idea?” He even had the audacity to sound just a little bit heartbroken. It was all he said. But it was enough.
“Yes,” she spat. “Fucking convents. Fucking nuns. What about me makes you think I give a shit for nuns? Fools who dedicated their lives to those callous bastards we call gods. Respect the gods? Surely. Bow your head, and scrape? I am with you. They are powerful beyond our imagining; it only makes sense to watch where you step around them. But worship them? Screw you, and your stupid life choices. You should expect your home burned down around your ears.”
She stood there, staring them down, one by one.
Will chewed his lip. Afrit studied the floor. Quirk just looked back, weighing, assessing, being a judgy bastard.
“But if you …” Will’s face twisted in sympathy that she would have loved to carve from his skull. “If you don’t care, then why are you crying?”
Lette blinked. What was he …? Then she reached up and felt the dampness on her face. Gods piss on it.
She stared at him. And the bastard really did want to understand. He was trying so hard. And she wanted right then to cross the room and punch his nose so hard it came out the back of his stupid fucking head.
“You want to know?” she asked. “You really want to know?”
And he even went and opened his gods-hexed mouth to reply, to say yes, and so she had to keep talking just to shut his gods-hexed face up.
“You know where the Vinlanders send their orphans, Will? Do you know that?”
And he hadn’t but then he did. “Oh,” said Will. “Oh, Lette.”
“Yeah,” she said, and she really could feel the tears now, though they felt like something that someone else controlled. There was almost a calmness in her now. “Neither did I.” She shook her head. “Not till the fourth one.”
And that was close, but she knew they would make her spell it out.
“Balur said you torched five,” said Quirk quietly.
“Yeah,” Lette spat. “Yeah, we torched five.”
Will closed his eyes.
“You are being judgmental arseholes.” Balur’s passion surprised Le
tte. “It was being us or them.”
“You or them?” Afrit almost screamed the words. “They were children! You were using them as a distraction! You couldn’t think of a better fucking distraction than burning fucking children?”
“Their homes,” Balur rumbled. “No one was taking hold of a child and holding her over an open flame. That is being impractical on a whole number of levels.”
“Impractical?” For a moment Lette thought Afrit really was going to fling herself at Balur.
“Of course,” said Balur. “You need good kindling to burn people. They are very wet. All the blood.”
“You fucking …” Afrit growled. Quirk put a restraining hand on her arm.
“Your idea?” Will asked her quietly. As if all the rest of the room weren’t there.
She didn’t owe him an answer. She didn’t owe anybody an answer.
Except herself.
“You kill,” she said to him. “And you kill. And you kill. And you make money. So you kill more. And that is how you live. So you kill more. And you are so good at killing. And so many people deserve to die. This world is so full of terrible people who deserve to have a blade slipped between their ribs. So you kill. And you kill. And you kill. And lives become … they are just the irons in the smith’s forge. They are just the flour in the chef’s kitchen. They are just part of the trade. Part of what you do. You are not a killer. You are a merchant, trading lives for coins. Nothing more than that. A life is as meaningless as a bolt of cloth. And the only life that truly has any value is your own. And so when someone threatens that life, that one precious life … why hesitate to take others’ if it will save yours?”
She looked at them. And it was Afrit’s face that twisted in horror.
“Because it’s a convent full of children.”
Lette nodded. “Yes,” she said. “A thousand times yes. That is exactly why you hesitate. I just got there a little too slow. I was so inured to … to killing … I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, why I was throwing up.” She shook her head. “I thought I was sick. That maybe I had a fever. That was where my mind went first. That’s how fucked up I was.”