The big man nodded, “It’s good to be good at things. Hey, Nicks, I ever tell you about how good my uncle is with a shovel? Why, when he’s not in his cups—”
“Which he always is.”
“Right. Well, I’ve seen ‘em dig a whole grave in less than a turning. Why, once I even saw him dig a dozen holes half as tall as I am in a less than a day.”
“Aside from the fact that I can’t imagine what would possess a man to do such a thing—”
“It was on account of he was in his cups.”
“Right. Well, aside from that, you reckon your uncle’s ever killed anyone with that shovel of his?”
The big man’s face screwed up, “Well, no, of course he ain’t. That is,” his expression brightened, “there have been a couple of close calls. There was one time he was convinced my cousin, Tom, was dead. He weren’t of course—it was why he kept complainin’ every time my uncle tried to bury ‘em, but—” the big man hesitated then and, after a moment, nodded and turned back to stare into the rain-swept street. “I catch your point.”
CHAPTER THREE
Inside the temple, the floor and walls were of a marble so white that it made Cameron’s eyes ache after the relative darkness of the poorly lit streets. Along the walls, dozens of portraits hung, like tabards in King Arafel’s castle. Cameron knew all of the faces of those commemorated along the wall, had spent hours looking at their visages, hung proudly for all those who entered the temple to see. Just now, however, the presence of the dead man in his mind was an alien, unwelcome thing that muddied his thoughts, many of which were becoming increasingly not his own, and he wanted to be sanctified as soon as possible.
People stood in groups of two and three, talking quietly or admiring the portraits on the wall. At first glance, from the size of the room and the fine dress of those standing within it, a man might have mistaken the temple’s hall for a castle’s throne room, might have mistook the men and women in its confines as noble courtiers or wealthy merchants idling in their lord’s presence. However, upon closer inspection, a man couldn’t help but notice the assortment of weapons—spears, crossbows, throwing knives, maces, axes, and swords—which all of those present wore upon their person. If the abundance of such tools of destruction wasn’t enough to reveal to a man where he was, then the eyes of those present surely would be. Pupiless all, ranging from the faintest orange—the mark of a new Harvester—to the dull, bronze stare of experienced Harvesters to the blazing golden stares of those who were, even now, waiting to be sanctified.
Some of those standing in the corridor waved or nodded their head at Cameron, but he was tired and—as always after performing the rites—he felt stained, unclean, and he walked on with only the most perfunctory of nods.
The image of the dead man breathing out his last on the filthy floor of the tavern kept returning to him, and he pushed it away with a will. He knew that what he felt was nothing more than misplaced guilt—after all, it was him, and those like him, that kept the city safe—but no matter how many times he told himself this, it didn’t change how he felt.
He’d asked Marek about it once, after his first, and the older man had told him that it was normal to feel that way after his first Taking, had told him that the feeling would go away. But if anything the feeling had grown worse, so he had continued to do his duty, never mentioning it again, and doing his best to ignore it. But just now, that feeling of guilt, of shame, coupled with Falen’s words from earlier in the night, niggled at him, worming into his mind, a doubt that should not be there, one that was no less than blasphemy against the Divines, and he wanted nothing more than to be Sanctified and to go home and sleep.
He was halfway down the hallway, Falen walking beside him, when a familiar shiver ran over him, and he froze. The dark-skinned man paused too, an expression of curiosity on his face, “You alright, Cameron?”
“Wait.” Cameron said, trying to pinpoint what had made him stop. Something felt … wrong. He’d felt such feelings before, and they’d saved his life more than once, so when his right hand began to drift to the hilt of his sword, he let it.
Falen, who had been Paired with Cameron since they’d both been chosen for the Harvesters, looked at him closely, “Is it your Sense?”
Cameron grunted. He hated it when Falen called it that, as if he were some psychic, one of the hucksters and charlatans that stood on street corners promising the gullible and the desperate that, for a small, small price, their customers could speak with a dead loved one, or find their child’s missing dog, Fluffy, or whatever other brand of bullshit brought in the most coin. He’d tried to explain to Falen that it was survival instinct, nothing more, but his friend insisted on acting as if he were some magician performing a particularly useful magic trick. At a different time, he would have corrected him but, just now, the feeling was growing stronger, his skin beginning to break out in gooseflesh, and it was all he could do to keep his sword in its scabbard.
“Are you sure?” The dark-skinned man asked, “I mean we’re in the temple. What safer pla—”
“Quiet,” Cameron said, and his friend, having had his own life saved by Cameron’s instincts, subsided. Cameron scanned the room, but there were no would-be murderers charging toward him with a knife, no screams of rage or fear to justify his disquiet. Men and women Harvesters and priests—all of whom he knew, at least in passing—talked in quiet, respectful tones or gazed at the portraits along the wall. He cursed under his breath, the feeling growing stronger with each passing moment and continued searching. Everything was normal, everything except … he paused, glancing at the back of a woman he knew. She was short, little more than five feet tall, the toned muscles of her body showing clearly through the tight leather pants and jerkin she wore.
She was standing alone, only a few feet ahead of them, and seemingly staring at nothing. There was a tenseness, a rigidity, to her posture that told Cameron he’d found what he was looking for. Suddenly, the vague feeling of danger became a klaxon bell, shrieking inside his skull. “Back,” he growled, pushing Falen behind him so hard that the smaller man stumbled and fell with a grunt of surprise.
Even as he was pushing his friend out of the way with one hand, Cameron was drawing his sword with the other, and the metallic ring of it leaving its scabbard echoed sharply through the hall. He’d only just got his sword up when Amille turned, her hand lashing out in his direction. His blade snapped to the side with instincts born of years spent training, and the throwing knife—which had been aimed for his heart—went spinning away.
“You damned leeches,” Amille growled in a deep, man’s voice, “I’ll kill you all.”
She started toward him, her own sword drawn now, and there was a look on her face Cameron had seen before; it was the look of a man or woman with murder on their mind. “Amille,” he said, his voice low and calm, the kind of voice one usually reserved for animals with sharp teeth which, just then, she was. “Take it easy. What’s wrong?”
“Just who the fuck is Amille?” The woman asked in that deep, bass-filled voice, so eerie coming from her petite form.
Cameron frowned, staring into that familiar hate-filled face. He and Amille might not have been the best of friends—the lifestyle of a Harvester wasn’t particularly conducive to such things—but they’d always respected each other. Why would she want him dead now? She wouldn’t. Unless … Cameron stared into those shining golden eyes and cold realization swept over him as the pieces fell into place. He held up his free hand in a gesture of peace. “Amille, listen to me. This isn’t you—these thoughts, they’re not yours. Your name is Amille Beckart. You’re a Harvester.”
Something flickered in that hate-filled stare, an awareness mixed with desperation, and she hesitated, her free hand going to her forehead, “Cameron?” She asked, using her own voice now, cracked though it was, the voice of someone suffering under great strain, someone who was broken, or nearly so.
“It’s me, Milly. Everything’s alright.” Someone from
the crowd of spectators started forward from behind Amille, a young man, Frederic, who’d only been started on missions last year and who had already gained a reputation for brutality. In one hand he held a knife, raised up, and on his face was an expression that looked very much like excitement to Cameron.
Cameron held up a hand to stop him, meeting the man’s eyes, his own gaze hard with promise, and with an unmistakable reluctance, he lowered the blade. Amille noticed Cameron’s gesture then glanced back at the young Harvester. When she turned to Cameron once more, her face was twisted with hate, “Oh, I know you, alright,” she spat, her voice changing once more, “Cameron. Reaper, they call you. I wonder, Reaper, how can you sleep at night? Knowing of all those you’ve killed for your damned false religion, your false gods? Do you even know the number?”
Cameron sighed and straightened, leveling his sword at the woman, “I know it.”
Just then, as if struck by some thought, Amille looked down at herself, her small form, her woman’s hands, delicate yet strong, but it was not her eyes which saw this, nor her voice which spoke. “Damn you and all those like you,” she hissed. “I’ll kill you.” With that, she charged, covering the last remaining feet that separated them in a blink, her sword lashing out in a blur. Cameron managed to catch the strike on his own blade, barely, and the follow up attack was even closer still, tracing a thin, bloody line along his arm before he knocked the lethal steel out of the way.
She waded in with a flurry of attacks, carrying nothing for her own safety, and for a moment, it was all Cameron could do to keep the blade from striking home. He backpedaled, parrying desperately as her sword came in again and again, powered by muscles and a body honed over years spent training for fights. But though the body was Amille’s, the mind behind it wasn’t—not now, at least—and, although the physical training the Harvesters undertook was extensive and thorough, those years also focused on honing their mental focus, on teaching not only their muscles how to fight, but their minds.
Whatever mind was behind the swinging sword now, lacked the benefit of such training and so, although the strikes were fast and hard, they were done artlessly, gracelessly, like a man hacking at a tree. Once Cameron had overcome his initial shock, it was no great task for him to parry another thrust, ducking under a two-handed cut that would have taken his head from his shoulders had he let it fall. Then, before she could bring her sword to bear once more, he lunged into her guard and landed a punch to her stomach with all the weight of his forward momentum behind it.
The wind went out of her in a rush, and she stumbled, dropping her sword as she fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. Cameron kicked her sword away and jerked the two remaining throwing knives from her tunic before sheathing his own blade. Several people started forward out of the crowd then, and Cameron held a hand up to stop the young Harvester, Frederic, from coming any closer with the others, “You get the fuck out of here. Now.”
The young man’s face turned red with anger, and he glanced around as if looking for help. The other Harvesters and Priests met his eyes with cold expressions—most if not all had seen a man or woman with essence sickness before—and the young Harvester, realizing he had no support, spat before turning and stalking out. Cameron watched until the doors of the temple closed behind him then he turned back to Amille where several guards were binding her hands and feet.
“Cameron!” He turned and saw Sarah, one of the secretaries of the temple, rushing out of the crowd, a panic-stricken look on her face. “Thank the Divines you stopped her.”
Amille cried out in pain as one of the guards jerked the chords tight around her wrists. Cameron growled and started for the man, but Sarah stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t, Cameron. Please. They know their business.”
Cameron let his breath out slowly and turned to the secretary. She was tall and blonde, and no wrinkles showed on her face despite the fact that Cameron knew she was nearly forty years of age. Many men would—and did—look at Sarah and see an object of desire, of lust. Beautiful, sure, long legs and a toned, well-shaped body. Most also took in her often distracted gaze, her lilting, girlish laughter, and think her stupid, a body with no brain. On that last, at least, they’d be wrong. The secretaries of the Church were trusted for their opinions on the mental and physical state of Harvesters—who they saw on a regular basis on their visits to the temple—as well as with the clerical and organizational duties that kept everything running. They were also the ones entrusted with recording each mission for every Harvester in the city. It was not a job for fools.
Amille grunted in pain as they lifted her off the ground, and Cameron fought down the urge to yell at them to be gentle. She’s one of our own, Divines damn you, can’t you see that? The words were on his lips when he stopped himself. It would do no good to anger the guards and would, if anything, make Sarah’s already nearly impossible job that much harder. He took a deep, steadying breath and turned to the secretary. “How long, Sarah?”
The woman glanced after the departing guards as they led their prisoner away, the crowd dispersing now that the show was over. She glanced back at Cameron, a worried expression on her face. “Five days.”
“What?” Falen said, appearing at Cameron’s side. “You can’t be serious.”
Sarah glanced at the smaller man, her nose raised, “I am quite certain, Harvester Parcival. I can assure you that, when it comes to such things, I do not make mistakes.”
Falen winced, an embarrassed expression on his face. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, “but five days? Divines be merciful, no one’s ever carried for that long, not and kept their sanity at any rate.”
Sarah hesitated, glancing at Cameron, “That’s not precisely true.”
Falen looked at Cameron, “What this guy? He doesn’t count. He hasn’t been sane for as long as I’ve known him. Why, I could—”
“Never mind that,” Cameron interrupted, frowning at the smaller man before turning back to the secretary. “What happened, Sarah? And where’s Kate? She should be here. If Amille’s in such a bad way she should have escorted her to the temple—damn her, she knows the risks as good as anyone.”
Sarah ran a hand through her hair, a troubled expression on her face, “Kate has yet to return.”
Cameron’s frown grew deeper, “Shit, are you kidding me? Just where in the Pit were they sent?”
It was Sarah’s turn to frown, “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse in the First Temple of the Divines, Harvester Shale. As for where they were sent, it was discovered that the target had fled the city to the countryside. The information our people sent placed him a day and a half’s ride outside the city. A day and a half of carrying, as you know, is well within the acceptable limits.”
Cameron nodded once, sharply, “Sure. Of course, five days isn’t, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” Sarah said, her face betraying her own worry, “They … must have been ambushed or something. It’s the only explanation.”
“For fuck’s sake, Sarah,” Cameron growled, “These aren’t first timers we’re talking about here. Kate and Amille are some of the best we’ve got, and they’ve experience and sense enough to prepare for such things.” She started to say something—defend herself perhaps—but he waved it away, his anger building, “It’s that Memory, that’s what it is. The bastard’s got damn near half the city turned against us, and who knows how much of the countryside.”
Sarah nodded, “Yes, well. Memory’s rebellion is not the first nor, I suspect, will it be the last. People always want what’s best for themselves until it’s them or their loved ones who have to pay the sacrifice. It is only a matter of time before the Church finds them and, when they do, they will suffer the same fate as those who came before. Now,” she said, bobbing her head, “if you’ll excuse me, High Priestess Aberdine will want a full report on Amille and Kate. As for you, Cameron, High Priest Perdeus instructs me to inform you that he is prepared to administer the Sanctificati
on at your convenience.”
With that, she turned and walked away. “Do you believe she’s right?” Falen asked.
Cameron turned to his friend, “About what?”
“Memory’s rebellion. Do you think we’ll ever find them?”
Cameron grunted, “Of course we’ll find them, Falen. As Sarah said, Memory isn’t the first citizen of the city that would rather let all of Carel die horrible deaths than sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Fools, all of them, and fools are never hard to find.”
Falen frowned, “Only, this fool has been operating for at least a year—maybe more—and we still don’t even know what he looks like. Is he tall or short? Fat or skinny, old or young? For over a year he’s organized ways of helping the sacrifices hide or flee the city and we know nothing about him. Divines, for all we know, he could have served us breakfast this morning.”
Cameron sighed, “Relax, Falen. So Memory is taking longer to stop than most—fine,” he said, seeing Falen open his mouth to speak, “No one has taken as long. But we’ll catch him just the same; he’ll make a mistake, or one of his people will get tired of living his life like a rat, running and hiding all the time, and decide to take his chances with coming clean and then we’ll have him. The story always ends the same. Good always prevails. Now wait here; I’ll go see the High Priest, and I’ll be back shortly.”
“Woof woof,” Falen said, though without much feeling. He stood there, watching his friend walk away, a distracted expression on his face. He wasn’t thinking of the joke, he wasn’t even thinking of Sarah’s bust-size—though there was no denying it was quite remarkable. Instead, his thoughts, as he watched Cameron disappear through the door to the temple’s inner cloister were about the words his friend said before he left. Good always prevails. In that, was the inherent belief that their side was the right side, that they were the good. But, then, don’t tyrants think the same?
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