by Andy Havens
He hadn’t thought of himself as a Fire since ascending the throne.
“It’s a remarkable use of what Mundane artists would call ‘negative space,’ but what we in the Domains simply know as reflections of Release.”
He was still staring at Senbi’s chest, trying to follow the movements and twists of the lines.
“I don’t take your point,” Senbi said, a little peeved that the compliment seemed a bit thinky. He was looking for something more direct and memorable. Something quotable.
“My point?” the lad was a bit distracted, but he stopped his staring and frowned, trying to formulate a better response.
“My Lord,” he said, “It is quite a lot like some of my father’s later work. Some of his best, really. Pieces where he’d begun to incorporate ideas and motifs of other Houses and their Ways. For example, one of his songs about the Ruwenzori Range contained obvious notes of Chaos which reminded the audience of the way the weather on those peaks…”
Senbi cut him off with a gesture.
“You say there is something of Release in these marks?”
“Yes. Of course. I assumed you… I mean. They’re gorgeous, Lord. Truly unique. I would be hard pressed to even think of another that comes close. A rare work. Truly fit for a Lord. Truly.”
Senbi frowned in thought.
Avar’eket sensed that he’d somehow misspoken, but he didn’t understand why. Many of the great modern works of Blood art borrowed from the other Houses. It was, in fact, one of the things that had made his father so popular and, for his time, revolutionary.
Still frowning, Senbi asked, “What would be your interpretation of the uh… elements, I suppose… of Release as they are represented within the work as a whole?”
The young Reckoner somehow knew that this was unsafe ground and tried to backpedal.
“They are not elements of Release, as such, Lord. More of a tone. A reference? I doubt that anyone else would even see them. It’s a subtle treatment and, as I said, truly beautiful.”
Senbi nodded and put one hand to his forehead in a silent, secret gesture to his Bloodguard.
The artist didn’t seem to notice their approach. They’d been standing a few yards back and moved forward slowly, casually, to stand at either side of their master.
The artist kept babbling as Senbi frowned in thought.
These are the markings of the new Way of the People. The Completion of the Blood. Yes! That’s what I’ll call our movement, our new purpose. The Completion of the Blood. There can be no taint of the lesser Houses in our execution of this purpose. It is a mistake. The boy was trying to impress me with his knowledge and fancy explanations. He is just wrong and will…
But Senbi knew that Avar’eket was not wrong. He could almost feel the Way of Release tangled around his chest. He was Lord of a Domain and knew enough about all the other Houses’ Ways to recognize and interpret them. He’d used locks from Release in his palace and could almost taste the similarity through his skin.
Would this be enough to set my kin against me? To call me out, maybe even more than one-on-one? My brothers and sisters, we all trained from birth to understand the meaning of our ink and our Ways. And I’ve been pointing out the taint of other Houses upon our world. I’ve been preaching the purity of Blood to my allies. Hell, that’s how I brought the Weyyrd to my cause.
How could this have happened? Was it a part of the Way of the People? Was there something necessary of Release in this new Way? Did it help him?
I felt my new power, he thought. I know what it can do. I can bind any of the Blood to me now. Directly. Personally. Immediately. There is nothing of Release in that!
In the back of his mind, he knew it was a rationalization. He knew that Release had as much to do with locking and protecting as escape and freedom. This made him confused. And angry.
Even if it’s just a suspicion. Just an intellectual’s ruminations. Now, at this point in the Completion of the Blood, when we will begin to make our plans known. What would be the reaction of the Clans and Tribes?
It can’t come out. Not now. Not when I’m ready to begin the thing.
The Completion of the Blood. I’m still not sure that sounds right, though, he thought. Maybe it needs more work. What we’re going to call it. Never mind. I’ll figure that out later.
The boy had stopped talking for a moment and was waiting for the Bloodlord to finish his thoughts.
He seems so eager to please.
“My Lord, they are truly magnificent. They remind me of a work that my father created for a patron a century or so ago. In fact, just last night I was…”
He got no further, because Sekhemib Senbi, fifty-second Bloodlord, raised his hand and released a Way that had never been cast into the world before. It struck the artist like a hot wind, taking his breath away. He fell instantly to his knees and bowed his head as if in prayer.
For a moment, the tableau was still and serene. The tall, powerful man clad only in rippling lines of power, a chain of office around his neck, another bracelet on one wrist. His four guards, equally naked except for their weapons and markings. The young man in jeans, kneeling at the feet of his Lord.
Senbi reached a hand back and, knowing the gesture, one of his guards handed him his sacrificial knife.
Before the other Houses, Senbi thought, before the chronics and the tags. Before lesser creatures strode on two legs, there was only Blood. In those great days, our sacrifices fed our power.
“I require your life, son of my heart,” the Bloodlord said, quietly intoning the ritual words. Usually they meant in service to me. His guards had all heard those words. They nodded in understanding.
In this case, though, both they and the boy knew he did not speak in metaphor.
“I give it freely,” the younger man said, making the correct response.
Avar’eket held out one hand and Senbi placed the knife in it. Silently and efficiently, the artist slashed his other arm diagonally from wrist to elbow. He handed the blade back to his Lord who returned it to the guard without looking.
The young Reckoner knelt in the frozen dirt, next to a cold cup of coffee and an L.L. Bean sleeping-bag. His life flowed out of him, down his arm, over his chest and soaked into the hard ground.
A good boy, Senbi thought, placing his hand on the youth’s head. A fine, strong sacrifice. A fitting start to our House’s Completion.
Sighing almost in pleasure, Avar’eket reached up with his good hand and placed it atop Senbi’s where it lay against his hair. They remained that way for another minute until the artist began to sway.
Senbi knelt next to the young man and lowered his body to the ground. There was very little life in him, but the Bloodlord stayed and waited as the young artist’s breath slowed and stopped.
For several minutes, Senbi remained kneeling next to the body. Honoring the sacrifice and concentrating on the moment. Feeling it. Cementing the memory.
Finally he stood and commanded his guards: “Build him a pyre. A fine, high, burning altar. He was of Fire Tribe. He was the first sacrifice in our Consummation of the Blood. He well deserves an honored union with his forefathers, Clan and totem.”
He’d said it without even thinking. Consummation of the Blood. That is: correct. That is what we are attempting. And he wondered, Did some of the lad’s talent with words enter into me?
The four men took wood from the nearby forest and some from unused piles left beside camping areas. Silently, they stacked the wood into a bier and put the body of Avar’eket on top.
It took several minutes for the damp wood to catch. When it did, it was a good, strong bonfire and it sent a thick plume of smoke into the cold mountain sky.
Senbi watched the smoke with mixed pleasure and thoughtfulness, remembering how willingly the lad had shown obedience. But also remembering the unpleasant interpretation of his new marks.
No matter, he thought. There are only a few who would even recognize such a thing. By the time they might notice
, I will be well into… the Consummation.
It is also possible, he thought, that he was simply wrong.
After all, his intellectualism was a symptom of what I’m seeking to cleanse. Perhaps even a kind of heresy. That seemed the best conclusion. The boy was both wrong, and a truly fitting sacrifice to begin the purification of our House.
Walking out of the valley, he realized that his guards had also heard the young artist’s ideas. So he stopped and administered the Way again. Not with such a final result. But to give them very specific and direct orders about what they’d seen and heard. And to bind them to him even more closely than their previous oaths had done.
As they rose from their knees, he thought, Now… time to pay a visit to our Earth allies.
Behind him the dwindling pillar of smoke turned white as it rose, mingling with the morning fog as it lifted from the valley.
Chapter 9. Association
Charlous had no trouble following Damon Mohz from his meal with Dr. Lyonne. The Earth Lord moved with calm assurance, striding through the city like a predator. He seemed able to part the crowds before him, people moving instinctively out of his way as he walked quickly through the pedestrian market with a bag of fresh produce rolled under his arm.
As he kept pace across the street and a half-block behind, Charlous keyed orders into his phone. Within five minutes, Mohz had a total of four more Increase tails on him. They used some standard patterns picked up from Mundane law enforcement agencies but with enhanced Way-bound precautions.
Clearly Mohz wasn’t expecting trouble, though he was walking with purpose. At the city limits, he stepped onto a Narrow Road and sped off into the countryside. Two of Charlous’ men kept tabs on him at a respectable distance, triangulating his location using a combination of Mundane devices and some specialized Ways of Sight they’d modified within the House.
Charlous moved in the general direction Mohz had travelled, but at a moderate speed, until he got a text message from one of his men with the location where the Earth Lord had left the Narrows. They were convening another two teams at that location and had eyes-on.
Leaning fully into the road, Charlous raced toward the spot his men had indicated: a farmhouse on the outskirts of a French village. Charlous checked in with his teams who assured him that the area was secure and that only Mohz was at the farm. It took him another half hour on the Roads to reach the place, during which time he relayed instructions to the teams who were observing Dr. Lyonne and Loryys, the Blood Chief.
Stepping off the Road a half-mile from the target, Charlous looked around. It was after midnight here, with no street lights along the Mundane, single-lane road nearest the farm. One of his team had left him a field kit in a prearranged place; he removed an earpiece, a small field radio, two silenced pistols and a hockey-puck sized stun grenade.
That should be enough, he thought, leaving a variety of other equipment in the bag.
He hiked through the dark, relying on natural night-vision that, while not on par with what he’d had within the Domain of Earth, was still better than most Reckoners. As he approached the spot his men had indicated on their smartphone maps, he tapped his earpiece and said quietly, “One, check.”
Four voices responded quickly and quietly; “Two, eyes-on. No change.” “Three, retreat covered.” “Four, nothing on approach.” “Five, over-watch in place.”
Charlous said, “One on approach” and tapped his earpiece again, signaling them to go radio silent until he indicated otherwise.
There was a bit of a climb up a dirt road that circled the farm and he slowed as he neared the top, not wishing to silhouette himself against the sky in case Mohz was watching for intruders. Instead, he lay down in the long, weedy grass beside the circular driveway and began to crawl toward the house he knew was there.
It took a few minutes, but he finally saw the shape of the farm house outlined against the starry sky. A big, old thing. Would make a nice summer home, he thought.
Crawling closer, he smelled something rotten. Not too strong. But unpleasant.
Like when raccoons get into the trash.
Closer to the house, he could see that there was a very low, dim light on somewhere inside. Maybe a night-light in the kitchen. That was all, though. No other illumination.
Then a small flame. He tensed up, thinking he’d been spotted. But, no. It was just Mohz lighting a cigarette. He saw the glowing tip flare beneath the flame and then grow dim as he shook out the match.
Within fifty feet now. Charlous had to make a choice. He was authorized to kill the Earth Lord. Ezer had enough evidence on Mohz’ activities to warrant kanli, even if not declared ahead of time. It might be a bit tight, but if the other pieces fell together this one event would be lost among many, many other, larger concerns.
Of course it would be better to stun him and take him alive, Charlous thought. I’m sure he can confirm a lot of what we know. Even if he doesn’t provide any new information. Get him under Sight and they’ll ferret the truth out of him.
Thirty feet. Close to the range where he trusted his accuracy with the stun grenade. It had to land and go off pretty precisely to really subdue someone, especially a strong Reckoner. But since it was an entirely Mundane construct, it would be both harder for the Earth Lord to sense and more surprising in effect.
He was about to take the hard, plastic puck out of his pocket and arm it when the Earth Lord called out from the porch, “Whoever you are, you can show yourself or I can have the wasps take you.”
That’s the smell, Charlous realized. The secretions of a keshwasp swarm.
Whenever possible, Earth used living creatures to do their work for them. Machines and tools and chemicals and engines were less loyal. An enemy can steal your shovel or truck. But if you’ve trained a swarm of two-foot long poisonous wasps to eat and digest your trash? Much harder to take your control away.
And they will continue to attack your enemy after you die, if it comes to that.
He cursed himself for not recognizing the smell earlier. But that kind of automatic, bone-deep knowledge had been lost to him when he quit Earth.
Charlous had a few tricks, though, so he stood up. He knew the Earth Lord could see him clearly. Darkness wasn’t much of a problem for their kind.
Mohz reached behind him and flipped on the porch light. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders and tall. And he’d dropped his Seeming; Charlous could see the silhouette of his tusks, backlit by the naked bulb hanging from the porch rafter.
“Oh… It’s you, traitor! Ha! Well, the Mother favors me,” Mohz said with a rumbling chuckle. He took another drag on the cigarette and then tossed it into the dirt of the driveway.
“The Mother favors all good creatures,” Charlous said, echoing the line from a bedtime story told to children of Earth.
“Do not blaspheme, deserter.” the Earth Lord growled. “You will die by my will. Soon. Perhaps tonight in honorable combat. Or you may live in remorse for another day or three.”
He knows who I am? Charlous thought. Among some of Earth, he was regarded as a turncoat. The taunts had been bad for a few decades, and then died out. He had simply not responded to any insults or meaningless threats. If the threats were real, he settled them in Sanctuary under the rules of kanli.
Charlous was a very good fighter. Which was partly why the taunts had “died out.” It was also partly because, after a time, nobody much cared. He’d been a loner even within Earth, no clan or family to speak of and nobody to miss him or hate him. In fact, it had been more than twenty years since anyone had even referred to his former status.
“Why should I die tonight, Damon? What have I done to deserve the wrath of an Earth Lord?”
Mohz removed his Mundane jacket, which obviously hadn’t been part of his Seeming. Underneath, he was grained and cracked like old wood. His arms were as thick as other men’s thighs and longer than they would have been on a Mundane of equal height. His wrists forked into a dozen fingers, each
tipped with a claw of something like milky diamond.
They were circling now, starting further apart than Mundane fighters would have. For they both had a range of options beyond the Mundane.
“Why should you die?” Mohz asked wryly, cracking several of his knuckles against his thigh. “To bless the ground where my minions fell.”
Mohz had already stepped off the porch, moving to Charlous’ right. So he moved, too, keeping the other opposite him in the driveway.
“I will gladly bless this ground right now,” Charlous said.
Mohz growled. That was an Earth insult. To “bless the ground” was to be buried and return your body to the Mother. For Charlous to suggest he could do it to Mohz while still alive was quite rude.
“You speak like a tinker,” Mohz said, moving a step closer and sliding further to the side. Charlous continued to step sideways, too, but did not move further away. He wanted the Earth Lord to come closer. And he wanted the light from the house at his back. Not that he needed it to see. But it might distract Mohz a very small bit. He would need every advantage.
“I’ve been a tinker for two-hundred years and more, Damon,” Charlous said, repeating the derogatory term some Reckoners and tags used for anyone outside their Domain.
“You have no honor,” said Mohz, taking two steps quickly forward, closing to within twenty feet or so of the tall, blonde man. “And the only Way you will cast upon the Mother is your final breath.”
They paced back and forth for a bit, getting an eye for each other’s stance, weight, style of movement.
Trying to perhaps goad some information or anger out of the Earth Master, Charlous asked, “Why should one as elevated as yourself take any notice of chronics such as fell here.”
It’s a guess, he thought. But Mohz used the term “minions” and if Reckoners of Earth had fallen, Earth wouldn’t have used the wasps to digest them like so much trash.
Mohz growled. “Elevated” was another insult, since being lower, nearer the Earth, was preferred.
“You play your games, traitor,” Mohz snarled. “Pretend this was not a trap. No kanli called. No terms or seconds given. Just a bloody mess that you knew would draw me here. To face your… what do you call it? Your ‘team?’”