by Garon Whited
“Apology accepted, if you make this quick.”
“Consider it done.”
And I did. His name was Simmish and he was sixty-eight years old. He spent his life as a potter, first in Mochara, then in Karvalen. His wife died a year ago and his youngest, the son, now ran the pottery business. His daughters were married off and living elsewhere. He tried not to offend the gods, only asked for help from them when sorely needed, and hoped the Queen would find a King who would be good for the kingdom.
I think I liked him.
“How did you know?” I asked, looking at Bronze. She snorted. Of course she knew. I would have known, wouldn’t I? I would have walked through town and smelled him. When Tianna took her to Simmish’s house, Bronze could smell him, too.
I didn’t know she could do that, either.
“Want to take him back down to his family?” I asked. Bronze nodded. I put him up in the saddle and arranged him as though he had simply slumped forward. I suppose I could have slung him over Bronze’s shoulders, but I didn’t think it would look right. It’s hard to die with dignity; there was no need to take what was left.
Bronze’s mane flowed backward, as though in a high wind. Strands splayed over Simmish’s head and shoulders, holding him in place. That would work.
I went inside while Bronze walked back down. Mary was toweling her hair and humming to herself.
“Trouble?”
“Only someone who needed help. I gave it to him.”
“Shucks.”
“Shucks?” I repeated, surprised.
“I could have used dinner. And a native would help with my cultural context and language, right?”
“You raise valid points I should have thought of. Okay, I’ll remember, next time.”
Getting a little thick in the head, Boss?
You’re not helping.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked, to Mary.
“I did, thank you. It’s a big city and quite cosmopolitan. The people are friendly, for the most part. The place reminds me of some smaller cities in Italy. It’s bigger, obviously, but it’s got that sort of feel to it. I think it’s the curved streets. One of the stranger things is the low population density. You could easily fit three times as many people in this place without crowding. It’s like you built the city first and then people showed up—which is what happened, I gather.”
“Well, sort of, yes. It wasn’t intentional.”
“I’m not complaining. It’s nice to have a bustling metropolis with a more spread-out, relaxed sort of feel to it. Mind you, the people are sometimes rather crude and abrasive by modern standards, but they’re also mostly honest, hard-working folks. At least, so it seems to me, the tourist.”
“Crude and abrasive?”
“Let’s just say they have a robust and earthy viewpoint.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“I was propositioned a few times, mostly by someone grabbing something and asking if I’d ever been with a real man before.”
“Did they live?” I asked.
“Yes. No broken bones, either. When in Rome, that kind of thing. They were good about being turned down. Thing is, nobody seemed to think it was an unusual way to ask a lady on a date. Bystanders and witnesses didn’t even bother to shrug.”
“I guess it’s part of the culture. They started as emigrants from Rethven. Rethven social structure recognized women as people, but only barely. In general, they were chattels, almost property, bordering on livestock. I thought I kicked the idea in the teeth when we arrived on this side of the Eastrange, but…”
“You’ve obviously had a lot more immigration since then. At least no one tried to take me away by force.”
“I’m sorry about this. I really didn’t think it was as bad as all that.”
“You’re the King. You live in a castle at the top of a mountain. You don’t generally walk among your subjects.” Mary shrugged and pulled out clothes, picking her outfit.
“Maybe I should.”
“Maybe. Don’t shave until you do.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Aside from the relative crudity of manner—commoners are so common, aren’t they?—the place is pretty neat. I’m surprised at how clean it is.”
“So, you like it here?”
“I do.” She put a hand on my arm and kissed my cheek. “You did good work.”
“I can’t take all the credit.”
“But you started it, or so I hear,” she replied, and finished dressing. “I heard many things, today. Any chance we could talk about them over something or someone?”
“I don’t know. I’d rather not do much stirring around until I have a better idea of how things stand.”
“Which is why I’ve been talking to people all day. You’d be amazed at how many people will happily sit and talk with a hot blonde who’s not from around here. I must have gotten opinions on everything. Some nice young men even bought my meals and some drinks—admittedly, after checking to see if I was free or for rent. I didn’t have to steal anything!”
“You almost sound disappointed.”
“In a way. On the other hand, I got to practice flirting in a new language.”
“Somehow, I doubt you need to practice,” I told her. She chuckled.
“Shall I report the results of my spying, Dark Lord?”
“That’s Dread Lord.”
“Depends on who you ask,” she informed me.
She did have a point. Bob used to call me “Dark Lord.” Later, Salishar and the rest called me “Dread Lord.” I wondered why they changed it. Maybe Keria insisted on being the Dread Lady instead of the Dark Lady? Or did they simply Dread my return? Could it be a linguistic thing? I don’t see that, really. They have more than one word for dark in elvish—vallamon, irethed, and vahaa are only three of the words that mean something like it. Dread, on the other hand, is probably vas’haar—a literal translation might be anticipated future of torment. I’m probably missing something subtle in the elvish, though. It is an extremely complex language and I haven’t eaten enough elves. I may need to correct that.
“Oh, this should be good.”
“I think so. Let’s start with you. There are dozens of differing opinions, but they generally break down into a few groups. Most commonly, you’re the King—sometimes known as the Demon King. You’re not to be trifled with and you have reasons for anything you do. Making you angry is the act of a madman or a fool and usually has a rather drastic penalty, ranging from a quick death by drowning in molten lead to a slow death via something unpleasant. Disloyalty will definitely make you angry.
“There’s also a story going around about you having a fight with another god, or having an argument with the Father of Darkness, or something. According to the stories, it marked you in some way and made you cruel. Now, though, most of the people who believe that story say you’ve finally thrown off the curse, or recovered from your wound, or somehow got your soul back, or otherwise fixed whatever it was that made you a bad person—accounts differ, as do the levels of belief in the stories.
“Another viewpoint says you’re actually a god—of what, I’m not certain. All the other gods I’ve heard of so far are easily categorized. There’s a god of justice, a god of fire, a god of light, a god of the sea, a god of harvest, a god of mercy, a god of truth… for all I know, someone’s worshiping the god of plowshares and hoping it’ll keep his from hitting a rock. You’re kind of a general-purpose deity, but with specialties in moving people from life to death—take that in every way possible, apparently—magic, rulership, honor, inspiration, teaching, and the smiting of the wicked.”
“Smiting of the wicked? Really?”
“Yep.”
“Wouldn’t that be a job for the Lord of Justice?”
“You know, I asked that exact question? Apparently not. He decides what justice is, then leaves it to mortals to act on it. Typical, if you ask me.”
“I agree.”
“You, on t
he other hand, are treated differently. Maybe as the sword-hand of the gods—they provide the wrath; you deliver it. Although stories about your wrath are legendary. They involve tornados, pillars of fire, and souls being torn from whole armies.”
“They exaggerate,” I pointed out.
“They believe,” she countered.
“I’m not sure I like that.”
“I’m not too thrilled about it, either,” she admitted. She took my arm and we walked together through the halls. “If I didn’t know you, I’d be scared of you.”
“I was under the impression…?”
“Yes, I am scared of you,” she agreed, squeezing my arm. “That’s part of what makes you fun. If I hadn’t met you before I heard the stories, I would probably have avoided you as too dangerous. As things stand, try not to do anything apocalyptic around me, okay?”
“No promises.”
“See, now that scares me. How about you at least try not to go full-on Lord of Darkness on me?”
“I’ll do my best. It seems I’m not pinned down as a god. I wonder if it’s a good thing or a bad thing? It doesn’t seem to follow the pattern around here.”
“It’ll take a better thief than me to break into heaven and steal a manual.”
“I guess I’ll have to do without, then.”
“Good plan.”
“What about being a nightlord? Aren’t I regarded as a monster?”
“Some people do, or so I’m told. They don’t seem to be common around here—nightlords, or people who think of them as monsters. I didn’t meet any who said so. It was all people who talked about ‘other people’ who might hold that viewpoint. Most everyone seemed to think something along the lines of ‘If he’s a monster, he’s our monster,’ or something like that.”
“I’ve heard a similar attitude from the locals. Of course, it was before the whole Demon King fiasco, but it’s good to know they still think of me that way.”
“Everyone also seems to know you’re up here. They don’t know you, as such, rode in the other day; they don’t know for certain who it was. Nobody recognized you or Bronze. The general opinion is you summoned one of your knights. But you’re up here; they’re sure of it. There’s a rumor going around about the dark horse—I heard of it just before I hid from the sunset. The horse comes to call at houses when it’s someone’s time to die. If they go on the horse, they die peacefully and go straight on to their next life. If they don’t, they die however they die, from whatever cause, and they have to take something called ‘The Long Walk’ to find rebirth.”
I wondered whether or not Tianna had anything to do with the rumor. Or Tyma. How much money would it take to get two or twenty minstrels to gossip about it? On the other hand, how long does it take to get a rumor to circulate? Did Tianna have time to get such a thing going around town between leaving and Mary’s return? Considering how fast rumors spread, it was possible.
“That seems to be true,” I agreed. “At least, that’s what happened.”
“So, Bronze goes out and brings back dinner?”
I thought about it. The part of me that resonates with Bronze agreed.
“Apparently so.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know. As many times as required, I suppose.”
“Maybe there will be another one tonight?”
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“A little. I was planning on finding something tonight, but your house is much too far uptown.”
“Okay. One second.”
I thought about Bronze. She was on her way back up. Two houses had told her to get lost, go away. The third had people who helped the dying guy onto her back. If this was going to be a regular thing, maybe I should get some sort of chariot or cart for her. Maybe a carriage or coach. Something more comfortable and stable. Dying people don’t always ride well. There’s also something stylish about leaving in the Black Coach.
“She’ll be here in a little bit. Let’s head for the door.”
“Hooray for Bronze and a timely demise!” Mary declared. I suppressed a wince. We continued to the great hall and waited just inside the front door.
“What else can you tell me?” I asked, while we waited.
“Your city is called the Fortress of the East. It’s ruled by an appointed Baron Gosford, a war hero who distinguished himself for his courage and leadership. He’s responsible to the King—well, the Queen—for the safety and prosperity of everything this side of the Eastrange. That mountain range, by the way, is also known as the Teeth of the World’s Edge or the Duchy of Vathula.”
“Duchy of Vathula?”
“Yes. The mountain range. It’s a duchy and it’s ruled by a Duke Bob. Doesn’t that sound silly?”
I kept my comments to myself, and there were quite a number of them.
“That’s a huge territory,” I observed, finally.
“Biggest political division of the kingdom, if you don’t count the eastern marches—this place, under the baron. It’s not really a political thing, as I understand it. More of a border supervisory thing. Keep the peace, watch for invading tribes of plains warriors, cranky herds of dazhu, giant robot armageddon machines, that sort of stuff. He’s still only a baron, after all.”
“I’m sure Bob is pleased.”
“I don’t know. Nobody around here seems to trust him, presumably because he’s an elf.” Mary grinned at me. “Am I going to get to meet an actual elf?”
“Eventually, I’m sure.”
“Keebler? Or Tolkien?”
“Hmm. Sort of a short Tolkien elf, I suppose, with more arrogance and less kindness.”
“So, not really either one?”
“There are similarities. Enough to identify him as an elf, anyway.”
“Okay. About the only good word they have to say about him is he keeps the roads through the mountains open and barely charges anything for it.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t intended the road to be a toll road… but I guess I can see why he would need the money.” I thought about the situation for a second. “I’m also going to hope he’s not rebuilding a society of militant monsters.”
“It’s the religious types who seem to be more militant,” Mary observed.
“Oh, great,” I groaned. “The Church of Light and the Hand?”
“I haven’t heard anything about a Hand, but the Church of Light is mostly a bunch of evangelical guys preaching holiness, goodness, kindness, mercy, fellowship, and the unconditional destruction of all things evil.”
“Well, that’s rather Krikkit of them.”
“Is it?” she asked, not getting the reference.
“Let’s say I’m not going to bail them out.”
“If you say so,” Mary said, doubtfully. “At least your guys have official sanction.”
The Kingsway alarm went off, but I ignored it.
“My guys? Official sanction? What do you mean?”
“The clerical types and lay brothers and deacons and whatever else is involved—they supplement the official city guards. It’s a rather militant faith, but they’re quite happy to take orders from the local lord if it’s part of a peacekeeping or defensive thing. They help defend Karvalen and Mochara, accompany the guards on patrols, investigate serious crimes with the clergy from the Lord of Justice, that sort of thing. They’re quite helpful, I’m told. Nice guys.”
“Well… I suppose that’s a—”
“—blessing?”
“I was thinking more of a relief.”
“Speaking of which, isn’t there someone coming?”
“Yes. Another minute or so.”
“Good. I have time for a question. What is it with the local religions?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“These people talk about their gods like I talk about my laundry—which piece fits best, how to wear it, and on what occasions. It’s like their gods are people who happen to be out of the room at the moment. Or… or doctors, or mechanics, or… I don’t
know. It’s like the gods are people who provide services for a fee.”
“Yeah. Mainly because they are.”
Mary eyed me carefully.
“You’re going to have to explain—” she began, but the front door chimed in our heads.
“Delivery,” I noted. “Go ahead.”
She pushed the door and it pivoted open. Bronze stood there, still carrying the elderly gentleman. Mary helped him down and, much to my pleased surprise, talked with him for a bit. I stayed inside, in the dark, and watched. The old man was afraid of the journey, but he came anyway.
There’s a definition of courage for you.
Mary was gentle about it. She helped him sit down and held him. Her power reached into him and drained what little vitality he still possessed. He slumped in her arms. She reached deeper, finding the still-bright places within him, the shining mist that made him more than a suit of skin and bones, and carefully disengaged it from the flesh. It disappeared silently into the shadows within her. Only then did her fangs find his throat. She drank until his heart stopped and the blood ceased to flow.
I touched the holes, allowing what little was left to crawl out, and used a spell to weld the skin closed. We put him back on Bronze and she carried him back down.
“Do you want the next one?” she asked, softly.
“I’m not hungry. Can you handle it?”
“Of course.”
“I’m going to work on an enchantment.”
“What about the religion thing? You never explained.”
“Oh. It’s simple. They talk about their gods that way because their gods do stuff all the time. I once had a deific avatar show up and threaten to skewer me because someone paid it to.”
“Seriously? What do you pay a god?”
“Technically, they aren’t gods. They’re energy-state beings of immense power, but they fall short of being infinite, omnipotent entities. And they like power of various sorts. As I understand it, they drink in the psychic energies projected by people engaged in their worship. I presume they can also absorb and use sacrificial energy—when you kill a goat on an altar, the life-energy of the goat goes to the energy-being. I’m not clear on the exact mechanism.”
“So, you’re not really a god?”
“Not even close. I have been an energy-state being, however, so I have a right to talk about them.”