“That would have been my next question,” Bedeckt said without thought.
“Why?” This time with anger.
“Gods, I don’t know.” Bedeckt glanced around the room, desperate to look anywhere but at her. “Where the hells am I?”
“Neidrig. You almost died. Morgen saved you.” She made a strange, scrunched face. “I’ve been . . . caring for you,” she said tentatively.
Caring for me? Sticking gods, what the hells happened? “My head feels like a few hundred angry giants stomped on it.”
“It looks worse.” Stehlen smiled and dabbed at his forehead with a bloody shred of cloth. He knocked her hand aside with a growl and her smile died instantly. Nostrils flared, and for an instant he thought she would stab him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “My head hurts.”
Stehlen’s faltering smile returned. “Do you like my hair?”
Bedeckt took the coward’s way out and lost consciousness.
WHEN HE AWOKE a second time he could hear Stehlen’s nasal snoring and Morgen stood over him with a curious expression.
“Why didn’t you want your fingers back?” the boy demanded. “I could heal all your scars. You won’t be ugly anymore. Well . . . less ugly.”
Ah, the brutal honesty of children. “I am my scars.”
“Removing scars won’t change your past.”
“It will make it easier to forget.”
“You think you’re the actions that caused the scars?”
Bedeckt nodded without saying anything.
“You’re wrong,” said Morgen, examining his pristine fingernails and rubbing at something Bedeckt couldn’t see. “We are our beliefs.”
“Only the beliefs of the insane define reality.”
“I am not crazy.”
Bedeckt watched the boy’s eyes.
“I am going to be a god. My power comes from the faith of the Geborene. They believe I can do these things, and so I can.”
“Being told your entire life you are going to become a god is probably not healthy.”
The boy bit his lip, frowned, and adjusted Bedeckt’s blanket—changing nothing—nodded, and again checked his hands. “Your friend is not the Greatest Swordsman in the World because he thinks he is. He is the greatest because enough other people believe it.”
Bedeckt stifled a laugh. “First, Wichtig is not the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Second—”
“Yes, he is.”
Bedeckt rolled his eyes at the naïveté of the child. “Second, Wichtig is not my friend. The only person Wichtig likes is Wichtig.”
“Wrong,” said Morgen with absolute certainty. “He is the only person he hates.”
Bedeckt blinked in surprise. The boy might be right. “It doesn’t matter. Wichtig is Gefahrgeist. He cares only for himself. His power is the manipulation of people’s beliefs toward his own ends.”
“But . . .” Morgen’s eyed widened. “Konig is Gefahrgeist too.”
“Yes, but far more powerful than Wichtig.”
“You are saying his power is manipulation and stems from the fact he doesn’t care about other people? Konig cares about me. Doesn’t he?”
Bedeckt didn’t want to hurt the child, but at the same time anything messing with a Gefahrgeist arsehole’s long-term plans couldn’t be all bad. If Konig came through with the ransom money and they returned the boy to the Geborene Damonen, Bedeckt liked the idea of planting some questions in the child’s mind. He needs to know he can’t trust people.
Bedeckt placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I don’t know what Konig feels for you. If anything,” he added. “Gefahrgeist have one defining feature: selfishness.” Let the boy figure it out for himself.
“You’re wrong about Wichtig and you’re wrong about Konig. Wichtig is your friend. He sees you as the father he never had.”
“Piss-poor example,” muttered Bedeckt uncomfortably. Could he have misread Wichtig? Could he be wrong about the man? No. Wichtig was a manipulative bastard, and the moment Bedeckt forgot it was the moment Wichtig would stab him in the back. “Wichtig proclaims friendship to manipulate.”
“Does Konig hate himself as much as Wichtig does?” Morgen asked.
“Wichtig doesn’t—” The boy’s look stopped him.
“Wichtig isn’t there when you die,” said Morgen.
Die? He didn’t like the sound of that. “See, he abandons me in my time of need,” Bedeckt said offhandedly to disguise his unease.
“No. If he is not at your side, he must be dead. Who could kill the Greatest Swordsman in the World?”
“He’s not . . . Forget it. We all die alone.”
“No, I mean really alone. And you are badly hurt.” The boy rubbed at his fingernails, attempting to clean away nonexistent dirt. “Burned.”
“You shouldn’t tell people about their deaths,” Bedeckt said darkly.
Morgen retreated. “Sorry.”
“When I die, do I have my ax?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Bedeckt groaned. Do I really want to know? “Yes.”
“No.”
“Do I have my boots at least?”
“One of them, I think.”
“Which one?”
“The left. Maybe.”
“Hells,” Bedeckt growled. He couldn’t let this delusional child get to him. Gods knew what the little bastard was capable of. “How about your own death?” he asked to change the subject.
“No one sees their own death.”
Bedeckt, pretending he was still paying attention, made a mental note to move the stash of coins from his right boot to his left.
Stehlen awoke to find Bedeckt had risen from his cot and stood staring out the small window at the dwindling storm. She watched in silence.
Something had changed in the man’s bearing and it took Stehlen a moment to figure out what. Bedeckt looked like something had broken inside. Though he appeared to be unhurt, he leaned a little too heavily on the windowsill, as if needing its support. His pale and battered face hung a little too slack, as if some of the man’s indomitable drive had leaked away with the lost blood. If she didn’t know better she’d swear he looked scared.
Impossible!
She shrugged aside her worries. A brush with death will shake anyone, she supposed. The stinky old bastard will get over it.
From the cot Stehlen had a clear view of the left side of Bedeckt’s face. Calling it ruined was an understatement. She’d seen better-looking corpses. Little more than a pulpy mound of pink scar tissue remained of his left ear. She’d have to be careful to stay on his left to protect his exposed side. She spat in disgust. She’d have to be equally careful he didn’t notice her doing it.
“Where’s Wichtig?” Stehlen asked loudly so Bedeckt would hear her.
Bedeckt glanced at her before returning his attention to the window. “I’m not deaf.”
“He’s downstairs,” Morgen answered.
“Good,” said Bedeckt. “I have to go make contact.” His gaze darted to Morgen. “With some friends.”
Stehlen understood. Bedeckt would use local sources to send word to Konig that they had the child and to suggest a starting price for negotiation. If they got half what they asked for, they’d never have to work again. What would such a life be like? She’d still steal; Kleptics didn’t steal for need or survival.
But what would Bedeckt do? Would he settle down somewhere quiet? If they weren’t working, would he still have use for her, or would he abandon her? She couldn’t decide what she wanted more, to be with Bedeckt, or to take everything he had. Both sounded so very appealing. If he’s going to leave me—and to leave her was to leave her with nothing she valued—why should I not do the same to him first?
“You should take Wichtig,” Morgen said.
“I’ll take Stehlen,” Bedeckt answered immediately.
Stehlen’s heart soared, but she snarled and spat to cover it. “After breakfast,” she said. The old man had lo
st a lot of blood and would need his strength.
“The Caller of Storms died,” said Morgen, gesturing at the window. “The sun will return. Fire ate the storm.”
When they joined Wichtig—already a little drunk—in the main room of the Ruchlos Arms, the Swordsman waved expansively as if greeting long-lost friends. Bedeckt recognized that look; Wichtig was pleased with something, which almost always meant trouble.
“Stehlen, your hair is clean,” said the Swordsman.
She spat at his boot but he moved his foot to avoid the yellowy phlegm.
Bedeckt ignored them, digging into a breakfast of mystery meat sausages and grease-soaked fried bread served on a square chunk of wood still crusted with the remains of a previous meal. The eating utensil looked more like a conveniently shaped stick than anything made intentionally. He didn’t even want to think about how many mouths this would-be spoon had been in since its last cleaning. Glancing about the inn’s grubby interior, Bedeckt guessed the place never got particularly busy. The roughhewn benches at each of the six tables looked like they’d collapse under any real weight. He shifted experimentally and the bench he and Wichtig shared groaned ominously. Seeing as everything still hurt, he didn’t want to be dumped on his arse and ceased all movement.
“Stehlen cared for your wounds,” Wichtig said. “She never left your side.”
Bedeckt glanced uncomfortably at Stehlen, who glared daggers at Wichtig. What the hells is going on? The woman had been acting increasingly odd. Ever since . . . Damn it all to hells. He knew going back to save them had been a mistake.
Stehlen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re drunk,” she said to Wichtig.
“Perhaps,” Wichtig answered, slurring slightly. He gave her a lingering look of appraisal. “Nope. Still not drunk enough.” He waved at the barmaid for more ale. “But maybe soon. If you’re very, very lucky.”
Bedeckt, with a glance at Morgen—who in turn watched Stehlen and Wichtig with fascination—decided to change the subject. “What happened when we left Selbsthass?”
“Nothing,” Stehlen answered quickly.
Wichtig’s face lost its cocky look. “She killed them all.”
“All who?” Bedeckt asked, confused.
“Everyone in the Leichtes Haus,” said Wichtig, glaring at Stehlen.
“Had to,” muttered Stehlen defensively.
“She killed them because she was jealous,” Morgen announced. “Wichtig liked a girl, which angered Stehlen. She had to kill the girl and have her pretty scarves. She’s in love with both of you and doesn’t like other women being around. With Wichtig, it’s just simple attraction to his physical perfection. She thinks Bedeckt is something he is not. She thinks he is a better man than he is. She loves her idea of him, and when he betrays . . .” Noticing everyone staring at him, the boy finally trailed off. “You aren’t without redeeming qualities,” he said to Bedeckt, sounding apologetic.
“Thanks,” said Bedeckt. He would have said more but saw Stehlen’s face. Her look said death. Bedeckt kicked her under the table, breaking her fixation.
“Physical perfection, eh?” Wichtig flexed a muscled arm.
No doubt the only part the self-absorbed fool heard.
Bedeckt leaned toward Morgen. “Your hands are dirty.” He had to stop the boy before he said anything else. Before Stehlen killed him.
The child stared aghast at his spotless hands. Careful not to touch anything, he slid from the bench and went in search of somewhere to scrub himself clean.
“What the hells was that about?” Wichtig asked.
“Just saving the boy’s life,” Bedeckt muttered.
“I wouldn’t have actually killed him,” said Stehlen, and Bedeckt knew she lied.
“Just because the boy knew you’re in love with me?” asked Wichtig. “Come now, it is not exactly a secret.” He gestured at Bedeckt. “We’ve always known. Why do you think we keep you around? Certainly not for your womanly charms and wit.”
Bedeckt groaned. Everything ached and he wasn’t ready to deal with this. “Stehlen and I are going to talk to my contacts. I’m going to send word to Konig Furimmer we have his godling and are willing to talk trade. I want you”—he poked the cracked wooden spoon at Wichtig—“to watch the boy while we’re gone. Stay out of trouble.”
“Not to worry, I know all about caring for children. I’ll watch him as if—”
“He were your own son?” Stehlen snorted. “Abandoning isn’t the same as caring.”
For once Wichtig said nothing, his face devoid of emotion.
The two deranged idiots would kill each other if Bedeckt didn’t put a stop to this. “Let it go. Both of you.”
“I was going to say, as if my future fortune depended on the boy’s safety,” said Wichtig.
“You thought that up after,” sneered Stehlen. “You’re slowing down.”
“I’m still faster than—”
“Stop!” The two stared at Bedeckt as if appalled by his outburst. Bedeckt rose from the bench with a groan, using the table to lever himself upright. His knees made wet popping noises. “Stehlen, let’s go.”
Out on the street Stehlen walked at Bedeckt’s left side, keeping an eye and ear out for trouble. Bedeckt stared at the ground as he walked, his battered face looking surprisingly glum for someone who should have been dead.
“Your cold is gone,” she pointed out, hoping it might lift his mood. “You’re sounding a lot better. The boy must have healed that along with your wounds.”
Bedeckt grunted and looked even more miserable.
“You’ve got cat-turd face again,” she said.
“Thinking.”
Ah, that’s the problem. “About?” Stehlen asked.
“The boy saved my life, didn’t he?”
“You looked dead to me. I was ready to root through your clothes for money.” When Bedeckt glanced at her she added, “I didn’t, though.” She’d put most of the money back when she’d realized he was going to live, so it almost wasn’t a lie.
“The kid saved me and he didn’t even mention it.”
“So?”
“Didn’t rub it in or gloat. Didn’t even seem to notice I didn’t thank him.”
“And?”
“Doesn’t that seem weird?”
Not as weird as how much it bothers you. “Strange kid,” she agreed.
“Do I owe him for saving my life?”
Stehlen snorted a honk of nasal laughter. “Bedeckt pay his debts? Ha!” If anything, Bedeckt’s scarred lump of a face looked even harder than usual. Shite, he isn’t joking! “If the kid doesn’t care, you shouldn’t.”
Bedeckt grunted and nodded agreement but didn’t look like he really believed it.
When Morgen returned from scrubbing his hands, Stehlen and Bedeckt had left. He glanced at the empty seats. “Why did Bedeckt take Stehlen instead of you? He should have taken you.”
“They need some alone time together.” Wichtig waggled eyebrows at the boy. “To do adult stuff.”
“You’re lying.”
“Can’t get one past you.” Wichtig raised an eyebrow. “Just what are you capable of?”
“I don’t know. Aufschlag frowned on showing off.”
“Could you help me find this shite-hole’s Greatest Swordsmen?” Wichtig asked.
Morgen thought about it. The reflections would show him what he wanted to know. “Why?”
“How do you think one becomes the Greatest Swordsman in the World?”
The answer was obvious. “You have to fight other great Swordsmen.”
“Of course. Can you help me find them?”
“Do you want to start with a good one and work your way up, or go after the best first?”
Wichtig looked thoughtful and Morgen knew the Swordsman was pretending; he’d already made up his mind.
“If we start with the very best,” said Wichtig, “we won’t have to fight the others.”
Once on the street, Morgen stared raptly into an unsavo
ry puddle of something thin and brown and tinted with a hint of red. Someone’s kidneys were definitely failing.
He lost himself in the puddle. “I see her. She’s not far from here. There’s an inn called the Schwarze Beerdigung. It’s much cleaner than where we are staying,” he added petulantly. His hands stung, raw from scrubbing.
“She? How can a woman be the Greatest Swordsman in the World? Wait. If she’s seeking the title of Greatest Swordswoman in the World, is she still worth fighting?”
What difference does it make? “She’s the best in this . . .”
“‘Shite-hole’ is the word you are looking for. Or cesspit, piss-pot, dung heap, or turd bucket.”
“She’s the best fighter in this turd bucket,” finished Morgen, smiling uncertainly up at Wichtig. Aufschlag had never let him use the words he learned from the church guards.
Wichtig ruffled Morgen’s hair and set off down the street. Gods knew where the man’s hands had been. Morgen tried not to show his distaste at the contact as he hurried to keep up.
“That’s my boy,” said Wichtig. “You’ll be one of us before long.” He gestured grandly at the refuse-strewn streets of Neidrig. “Free to wander the open road. Free to taste all the pleasures life offers to those bold enough to take a bite.” He glanced at Morgen. “Do you like girls yet?”
“I haven’t met very many,” Morgen admitted.
“A situation we must remedy.”
“The few priestesses I met seemed nice. Before this, I never left the church.”
“You lived there with your parents?” Wichtig asked, watching the crowd around them.
Morgen shook his head. “I don’t have parents.”
“You never met your mother? That’s not all bad. Mine sent me away to live with my father. He sent me back after I sold his horse to buy a lute.”
“No, I mean I never had a mother.”
Wichtig, spotting a young tough sporting a businesslike sword, distractedly said, “Everyone has a mother.”
“I am the manifestation of the faith of the Geborene Damonen and all Selbsthass.”
Wichtig stopped suddenly and Morgen narrowly avoided walking into him. “Is that what Konig told you?” He made a noise like a wet fart. “You need to learn to ask questions.” Laughing, he once again set off down the filth-strewn street.
Beyond Redemption Page 26