She’ll actually help me? Wichtig nodded once and turned his attention to a nearby fruit stand. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she broke away from Bedeckt. The old goat didn’t notice.
Is she really going to help? Wichtig couldn’t be sure. He’d have sworn she killed GroBe. But why would she? Surely not simply out of spite for some imagined slight. Damn, that scarf looked familiar.
Wichtig watched as Stehlen wandered past the tastefully dressed Swordsman on her way back to Bedeckt and Wichtig. While Bedeckt was distracted discussing the healing properties of some vegetable with an old hag hunched behind her cart, Stehlen slipped Wichtig an expensive money purse filled with coin.
“What have we here?” Wichtig declared loudly, holding the purse up and bouncing it in his hand so the coins jangled enticingly. “I seem to have found some rich arsehole’s money purse.” He watched the Swordsman search his pockets and then glare at Wichtig, who, turning circles to address the crowd, raised his voice. “Who is the gap-brained festering crotch of a dandy belonging to this insipid-looking woman’s purse? Come now, don’t be embarrassed. Come get your dainty little purse.”
Bedeckt turned away from the hag and watched with a look of suspicious confusion.
“It’s mine.”
Wichtig turned to face the man and found himself looking into hard eyes the color of a storm-tossed sea. “Figures,” he said.
The man cocked an eyebrow and rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Meaning?”
“You are prettily dressed.” Wichtig gestured, a lazy spin of the fingers taking in the man and discarding him as unimportant. “Exactly the kind of effete twat I’d expect to find this purse attached to.”
The crowd suddenly retreated from the two men. Wichtig clearly heard Bedeckt’s groan.
The stormy-eyed man smiled cold death. “You must be new here. Or you’d be apologizing and begging me to spare you.”
“If you’re going to offer fashion advice, I beg you . . . spare me.”
The crowd guffawed and gathered around. Even these so-called civilized folks hungered for blood.
“I’m Zweiter Stelle, commonly believed to be the second Greatest Swordsman in all of Selbsthass.”
“A pleasure, I’m sure.” Wichtig bowed. “I am Wichtig Lügner. The best Swordsman in Selbsthass. It is commonly believed,” he said, mocking Zweiter’s voice, “that I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”
“Great,” drawled Stehlen, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Why do they always posture, building up their courage, before finally killing each other?” She shook her head disparagingly. “Swordsmen . . . windbags one and all.”
A few of the crowd laughed and clapped. Everyone had seen Swordsmen make long speeches in an attempt to win the belief of the people before the fighting began. Some felt this was the truest moment of any fight, the beliefs of the mob defined winner and loser. The mob, however, was more interested in seeing blood than listening to long-winded speeches about why one Swordsman was better than the other.
There are times for speeches and times for action. This, Wichtig understood, was the latter. Stehlen had ruined his chance to win the crowd with words—no doubt on purpose. If he kept talking he’d come off as the coward and lose people’s faith. Come to think of it, it would have been nice to kill a few lesser Swordsmen—thereby building more of a local reputation—before facing one such as Zweiter Stelle. Had she planned this in an attempt to kill him?
Wichtig shrugged philosophically and drew his sword in a lightning-fast flourish, catching the sun just so. He stood straight and poised. A breeze ruffled his perfect hair.
“Well, come along, Squatter—”
“Zweiter.”
“We don’t want to disappoint the crowd.” Wichtig winked at a pretty girl and blew her a kiss. While a long speech might hurt him here, other means of manipulation remained. “My gentle touch is needed elsewhere.”
The crowd formed a large circle around the two men. There was a moment of jostling as those braver and more foolish shoved to get to the front and the cowardly wise pushed to put some people between themselves and the fight. As long as all agreed this was an honest duel and no one was being attacked or coerced, the city guard had no part to play. In fact, a few of the guards joined the thronging crowd and took part in the impromptu betting.
Bedeckt pulled Wichtig aside. “How did you come by the purse?”
“I found it.”
“It stretches the limits of my belief to think you just happened to find the purse of the second-best Swordsman in Selbsthass—perhaps the best now that GroBe is dead—and insulted him.”
Wichtig gave Bedeckt his best look of wounded innocence. “It is a womanly purse.” He rolled the tension from his shoulders. He felt like a hawk staring down into a field looking for the telltale movement bespeaking prey. He tossed Zweiter’s purse to Bedeckt and the old man caught it in his half hand. Wichtig understood: Bedeckt’s good hand always remained free to grab his ax. “Here, put some of his money on the fight. Best put it on me—we wouldn’t want to cost him his hard-earned coin.”
Bedeckt placed a firm hand on Wichtig’s shoulder and the two made eye contact. “I do hope you survive this.”
Wichtig blinked in surprise. “Well, I’m touched, I didn’t think—”
“Because I’m going to kill you afterward.”
“Hey,” protested Wichtig, “I don’t have the skills to lift a man’s money and you know it. I tell you, in all honesty, I didn’t take the purse.”
Bedeckt looked to Stehlen, who flashed him a sickly smile of yellow teeth and flared nostrils.
“Shite,” he said.
He should have known. If he thought he could grab the god-child and escape without the help of these two dangerous idiots, he would have walked away right then and there.
The two fighters squared off, bowed perfunctorily to each other, and began circling. Bedeckt watched with professional disinterest. Might as well enjoy the show.
Zweiter moved well, his balance and grace beautiful to watch. Wichtig, on the other hand, looked unusually clumsy. His feet dragged and his sword kept moving uncertainly, like every time Wichtig thought about attacking he was plagued by doubt.
“If things go badly for Wichtig,” Bedeckt growled to Stehlen, “I’ll offer Zweiter a job.”
Stehlen sidled next to Bedeckt and leaned against him. Her warm proximity and the length of time since he’d been with a woman made him uncomfortable.
“Wichtig looks outclassed,” she said.
“He’s lulling Zweiter into a false sense of security.”
“If he keeps this up he’ll lose the crowd.”
“True,” agreed Bedeckt. “Put my money back.” He was guessing—he hadn’t actually felt anything.
Stehlen laughed and he felt her body move against his. “I hadn’t taken it. Yet.”
Wichtig and Zweiter tried a few passes but neither touched the other. The local Swordsman showed flawless technique, his attacks fast and precise, whereas Wichtig seemed surprised each time and barely capable of defending. His own attacks were often deflected before they’d truly began.
“Did you place a wager?” Stehlen asked Bedeckt.
“I put all of Zweiter’s money on Wichtig.”
“Awkward,” she said, “if Zweiter kills him.”
“These Swordsmen dance pretty enough,” said Bedeckt, “but they are never ready for a complete lack of finesse. Act like you’re chopping trees and they’re no great difficulty.” It was all bluff and bluster—both on the part of the Swordsmen and, at the moment, Bedeckt. A strong breeze would probably fell Bedeckt right now. Even the short walk had left him out of breath.
The ringing sound of steel on steel caused the crowd to gasp as the two men blurred into a flurry of defenses and attacks, leaving both breathing heavily but neither wounded.
Stehlen massaged Bedeckt’s stiff shoulders, working at the knots.
“You need to learn to relax,” she
said, grunting as she dug at a stubborn knot of muscle. “You really think you could beat Wichtig in a fight?”
Bedeckt stifled a groan of pain as she worked at the muscle. He’d seen Wichtig move inhumanly fast—not at all like the fighter he watched now—and with such grace and skill it left him dazzled. “No. But if you ever tell him”—he glanced over his shoulder at her—“I’ll kill you.”
Stehlen snorted. “You definitely don’t have what it takes to kill the likes of me, old man. Real speed comes from a state of relaxation. You’re so damned tense you’ll be immobile in a few years.”
Her words struck a little too close to Bedeckt’s own recent thoughts. He shrugged her away angrily, and if she noticed, she made no complaint. “Never underestimate a scarred old man. The only thing you know for sure is he’s been in a lot of fights and he’s still—” A savage fit of coughing ruined the sentiment and doubled Bedeckt over. He stood, hands on knees, until it passed.
“If you were any good with your monstrous woodchopper, you wouldn’t have so many damned scars.” She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Old men are so cute when they get all defensive. Any time you need help relaxing,” she offered, stepping closer, “I can always—”
“Stop mucking around already!” Bedeckt bellowed at Wichtig. “Kill him and let’s be about our business.” He glared at the two fighters, avoiding Stehlen’s eyes.
Wichtig dipped a quick nod toward Bedeckt and transformed. Gone was the awkward clumsiness. He no longer breathed heavily and seemed perfectly relaxed and poised. A gasp passed through the crowd as they realized what they’d just seen. Wichtig was toying with Zweiter and they all knew it.
“See,” said Bedeckt, gesturing toward the fight. “Wichtig understands; to win them over they had to first doubt him. It isn’t enough to simply kill your opponent, you must be an entertainer. He plays the crowd well,” he admitted. “It’s all about manipulation of expectations.”
Stehlen shook her head in disgust. “Grumpy old men make the worst philosophers. If you want a man dead, kill him.”
Wichtig pressed Zweiter hard while looking entirely bored at the same time. He spent as much time winking at girls and blowing kisses as he did fighting. The mob ate it up.
“Though I agree,” said Bedeckt, “our goals are different. He’s a Gefahrgeist. He craves attention like I crave a pint. He wants to be the Greatest Swordsman in the World. He’ll achieve it or die trying.”
“Die trying,” Stehlen stated without hesitation.
“Probably. But have you noticed he’s getting better? He was always good, but look.”
They watched as Wichtig disarmed Zweiter and then, with a grand and noble gesture, allowed the man to fetch his sword and return to the circle. Wichtig disarmed him three more times before the man stood over his sword, gasping for breath, hands on knees.
Wichtig nodded to Zweiter. “I think you are still the second-best Swordsman in Selbsthass. But don’t be disappointed. Before GroBe died, you were actually the third.” The crowd laughed and clapped. “It’s been a pleasure,” he called to Zweiter. “Keep practicing.”
As Wichtig took his time bowing to the crowd and basking in their adoration, Zweiter slunk away like a beaten dog.
Stehlen poked Bedeckt with a hard finger. “The idiot isn’t even going to kill him?”
“No,” he said, equally disgusted. “Remember, though, it’s all about the crowd. None of this matters unless everyone knows who he is. And the people love a well-mannered killer. If Swordsmen weren’t so romanticized by poets and storytellers, Wichtig would never even touch a sword.”
“I’d have killed Zweiter and been done with it.”
“Me too. But then we’ll never be famous and he’ll be remembered as—”
“The Biggest Idiot in the World.”
“Yes,” agreed Bedeckt a little sadly. Wichtig was the shallowest man Bedeckt had ever met. And yet still Bedeckt couldn’t figure him out. The man fought without fear even though he was a complete coward in so many other ways. Wichtig had fled his wife and child rather than chance failing at fatherhood. He’d abandoned his art and poetry—Bedeckt would never admit how impressed he was by Wichtig’s talents—when on the very brink of success. Some days Bedeckt wanted to crack the man’s head and send him back to his family. Wichtig had everything Bedeckt wanted and could never achieve, and he’d thrown it away rather than chance failure. Even mentioning any of this to Wichtig caused the man to become a violent and sulky drunk for weeks on end. Bedeckt figured it best to be philosophical about this kind of thing. If Wichtig wanted to waste his considerable talents on petty crime and violence and likely suffer an unpleasant and brutal death, who was he to judge? If Bedeckt spent his life trying to make Wichtig and Stehlen better people, he’d have no time left for breathing. He wasn’t even doing a particularly good job of breathing right now. He plugged a nostril and tried to blow the other clear. Nothing happened other than his ears popping violently.
Stehlen poked him again and he grunted in pain. How does she always find the softest spot?
“What the hells is going on in your thick skull, old man?” she demanded. “You look like you ate a cat turd.” She tried to poke him again but he batted her hand away. “Ho ho! Old man is grumpy. You spend too much time thinking. Explains your cat-turd face. I’ll fetch the idiot. Let’s go back to the Leichtes Haus for drinks.”
“Fine.” Bedeckt turned into the crowd and shoved his way through. People complained only until they caught sight of his scarred face and body and the massive ax slung over his shoulder.
He heard Stehlen shouting at Wichtig, “Hey, idiot! Cat-turd face needs a pint.”
Late in the day the sky became overcast and the air smelled of sodden dog. Heavy cloud cover blotted the sun from view, plunging the streets into murky darkness. When Stehlen snuck out of the Leichtes Haus on her way to steal the god-child, she found Wichtig and Bedeckt waiting for her.
She stood, hands on slim hips, staring at them with ill-concealed anger. “I suppose you think you’re clever.”
“Of course,” said Wichtig. “Step one of our plan was: collect Stehlen as she tries to sneak out and grab the child without us.” He mimed scratching something off a list. “Step one complete. Shall we get the little shite and be on our way?”
The last laugh was, of course, hers. She’d suspected they’d be waiting and brought along the robes she’d stolen—the size and color carefully selected—from the Geborene temple in Gottlos. Bedeckt gave her an odd look but, after examining the brown robe, the only one that would possibly fit him—scowled and said nothing. Stehlen thought the grizzled old warrior looked even worse than he had earlier. The man needed a week in bed, not the half a night he got—most of which he’d spent drinking.
Wichtig sniffed gingerly at his robes and flared his perfect nostrils in distaste. “These smell terrible.”
In the distance echoed the ominous rumble of thunder.
CHAPTER 15
The hand-plucked rose loses meaning as life is leached. Red love, once clutched to breast, putrefies and is thrown to the midden.
The hand leaked life as meaning was plucked. Putrefaction clutched love and was thrown to the midden.
—HALBER TOD, COTARDIST POET
Though easily big enough for a hundred students, Aufschlag had reserved this sprawling classroom for his single-most-important pupil. When not in use, a pair of Otraalma guards, both capable of becoming monstrously twisted demons, remained stationed here to ensure no one touched the lessons left out on the massive oaken tables. Now the two guards waited beyond the closed door, ready to give their lives should any attempt entry.
The Chief Scientist sat rigidly. Morgen paced back and forth in front of him, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted forward, eyes locked on the floor. Aufschlag had not seen this mannerism before.
Morgen stopped pacing and faced Aufschlag. The boy glanced toward a mirror and then back at the Chief Scientist.
“Konig watches
me. Always.”
“Even now?” Aufschlag asked.
“He thinks so.” Morgen smiled. “But Schwacher Sucher is not much of a Mirrorist. It’s easy to fool him when I wish.”
“And you wish to now?”
“Yes. I don’t mean to hide things from Konig, but there are some things I find awkward to talk to him about.” The boy’s face went from confident to worried and scared and back to confident so fast Aufschlag wondered if he’d imagined it.
“Morgen, you can always talk to me. You know I will always be here for you.”
“Konig expects something from me, doesn’t he?”
“Of course. You will be the Geborene god—”
“I mean something more specific. Something personal.” Morgen watched him, face open and trusting.
Should he tell Morgen? Yes. To hells with Konig. “Konig is a powerful Geisteskranken,” he said.
Morgen just looked confused.
How we have shielded this child that he doesn’t know this simple axiom! “It means his delusions are also powerful. And growing in power. He will share the fate of all Geisteskranken. Eventually his delusions will seek to wrestle control from him.”
Morgen’s eyes widened. “His Doppels! I have to save him!”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But . . . but how?”
Aufschlag stifled the desire to laugh. Details had never been Konig’s strength. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He just believes you can . . . believes you will. His belief is enough.” Or so he believes. Aufschlag had doubts. “Don’t worry. You will do what needs to be done.”
The boy flashed a look of gratitude. “I’ve been thinking about what it is to be a god. No one has ever really told me what is expected. What will happen when I Ascend?” He waved his hands around as if trying to grasp at an idea. “Will I retain my physical form? What will I look like? What will I be capable of?”
Beyond Redemption Page 14