The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  By the time Rexei got back upstairs to the once forbidden doorway, two more novices were guiding mage-prisoners up the steps. She backed up to let them pass, ears straining to try to hear Koler’s conversation, but the priest’s office was silent. Two more trips netted a total of twelve novices and five servants, including herself, now working to get all the mages upstairs.

  On the fifth trip, which took her to the next level down, she caught a glimpse of what could only be the “power room” of the temple. It was blank walled now, but crystals lined the tiered edges of the chamber and topped the circular rows of stone pillars crowding the main floor, all focused toward a massive, empty throne at the heart. Here, then, was where a fragment of Mekha had been rumored to sit, the same as at every other temple in Mekhana.

  To feed Himself, Mekha had been rumored to split into several “chunks” that then sat in the depths of each complex, draining all the mages the local priesthood had managed to catch. No corner of the kingdom was considered free of His hunger, His presence. Even the smallest of temples was rumored to house both a dozen mages at any one time and a piece of the Engineering God’s utterly unwanted being.

  But this room was empty, and when she came back on her seventh trip and caught a glimpse of the central chamber again, the stones of the throne at the very heart and the matching crystal-tipped pillars around the edges were crumbling. Several tumbled as she snuck a few seconds to look. Not the walls or the ceiling, which was a relief because she didn’t want to be trapped underground in a cave-in. No, just the paraphernalia of Mekha’s hunger was vanishing.

  He really is gone . . .

  She couldn’t stop to explore in more detail, though. There were signs the mages were beginning to wake up, even with the collars still clasped around their necks. After having escorted over half a dozen of them upstairs, Rexei could see sections where the runes were clearly missing on the metal collars. Whatever had drawn the mages’ powers out of them to feed to Mekha was no longer there, and though one and all were still obedient, some semblance of awareness was coming back into their dull, vacant eyes.

  They showed some semblance of living, not just of merely being alive; it could be seen in the way their cheeks started turning pink, in the way their breath caught and changed at random moments, instead of just soughing in and out at an even rate. There was even some semblance of thought. As she escorted the ninth and last of her prisoners upstairs, the older man blinked and licked his lips, frowning faintly as he tried to . . . form words?

  Did he want to ask a question? Ask for water? Ask for something warmer to wear? He was lucky to have a blanket as well as his felted slippers and woolen shift, but she could understand feeling thirsty and hungry. It was now well past the noon meal and approaching sundown, which meant supper was only a few hours away. Rexei sincerely doubted the priests would go so far as to feed their former prisoners, though. Not if barely half of them had blankets, and not if the archbishop wanted them out of the temple before sundown.

  “Right, then. Bishop Koler, make a one-way warding outside the front door. Something that will allow me to address the masses gathering outside without them getting close, and that will allow these former sacrifices to leave,” Archbishop Elcarei ordered. “The rest of you, start getting these . . . poor souls . . . on their feet, one bench at a time—no, make that two benches, in two lines. Bishop Halestes, come take half of these collar keys . . .”

  Rexei worked with the others, guiding the collar-bound men and women to the temple doors. Most of them were young, a few middle-aged, none truly old. As she worked, she heard bits and snatches of the archbishop’s speech wafting in through the doors. “My dear fellow Mekhanans . . .” And, “. . . unexpected sadness, yet an unexpected joy . . .” The outright lie of, “. . . victims of our late God’s wrath, just the same as you!” And the one truth, “. . . decided to let these go into your care, with our deepest apologies . . .”

  Well, a half-truth. She didn’t believe for one instant that the priests of Mekhana were actually sorry about anything they’d done to the men and women captured and forced to have their magic sucked out of them until they died. These velvet-clad men were sorry they no longer had their God’s protection, but that was all, and that was not the same thing.

  Each time she directed a collared mage up to one of the two priests standing just beyond the front doors, she could see that while a crowd had gathered and that they were somewhat angry . . . they were also concerned about the men and women being pushed through the barrier holding them off. She could even see some of the mages beginning to recover as they stumbled into the arms of the crowd, usually the younger ones.

  Hands lifted to the faces of their catchers, their partial rescuers, then fell limp, weak with disuse. Only the priests knew what they’d been fed, how little they’d exercised. Grimly, Rexei fought back the thought of her mother in similar straits and the sting of tears that wanted to accompany that thought.

  It won’t do any good. It’s been over eleven years. She’ll have been used up by now. Dead, with who knows how many half sibs popped out and shoved off onto who knows whose hands as girl-orphans, but watched . . . always watched . . . to see if they developed magic. Or kept and coddled and spoiled as boys who might grow up to be privileged priests.

  No. She’s gone. I can only . . . hope . . . that my brothers and father are still alive and free somewhere, and that she’s safely dead.

  It was no good. Two tears spilled out, and two more. One of the novices spotted them and mocked Rexei. “Aww, is the little dullwit upset at how these little piggies have been treated? They were feeding your God, you greaseless twit!” the young man scorned, arm sweeping up to cuff her head. “Show some respect!”

  Rexei ducked most of it, but the blow still made spots dance in front of her eyes. Her mage-prisoner kept walking, though, forcing her to scramble to catch up once her senses cleared. Thankfully, one of the priests scowled and intervened, ordering, “Leave him alone, Novice Jorlei, and keep to your own work. This isn’t the time for games.”

  It wasn’t until she moved outside, stopping the mage with a touch and a word, that she realized her cap had been left behind, knocked off with the blow. Rexei realized it only because the temple steps were shrouded in shadow, making her hyperaware of how cold the air was on her short-cropped hair compared to the brazier-heated halls of the temple and how much she had sweated climbing and descending all those stairs. Not even the sun helped; it was shining brightly, but the crisp glow hit the far side of the modest square in front of the temple and not the spell-wrapped top of the steps.

  She had to urge the mage through the barrier, but when she turned back to reenter, she found the priests retreating now that the last of the prisoners had been released. Archbishop Elcarei grasped the edges of the double doors, giving one last statement as he backed up into the hall behind him. “My fellow Mekhanans . . . until we have a new Patron Deity, this temple is closed.”

  With that, he shut the doors firmly. They all heard the bolts being shot home . . . and a tingle of energy washed over the door and spread out across the walls, warding the place. Her cap, and the secrets of a possible demonic summoning, were now locked inside. For that matter, so was her winter coat, an oversized, carefully mended garment of sturdy felted wool pieced together from several shades of dark gray, with wooden buttons she had carved herself.

  It was winter, specifically winter in Heiastowne, which was attached to the foothills of the southeastern mountains. If she stood in the sunlight, she wouldn’t freeze quickly, but as soon as night fell, she’d definitely be in trouble without a cap and a coat. Unfortunately, she found herself with a bigger problem immediately at hand.

  “That’s it?” a burly, wool-coated man growled, his voice ringing across the stunned quiet of the crowd. “Thank you fer letting us suck yer men an’ women dry, here’s the lot of ’em, an’ we’re still too high an’ mighty t’ give you the
time of day or a word of why?”

  “If they can give us back our people, they can give us back our tax monies!” someone else cried out.

  Rexei flinched as the crowd grumbled. Though most of them weren’t mages, even the least-powerful peasant could hurl pure life-energy at a hated target and have a chance for some of it to stick—usually as a curse, since it was unformed and untrained, but sometimes as a physical sort of blow. She knew it was about to turn ugly, knew they were about to charge the temple with nothing more than whatever they had in their hands . . . and she was still on the temple steps, squarely in their path. Quickly, she cried out on instinct in a hard, high voice, “Enough!”

  It wasn’t quite a child’s scream, but it was similar enough to stop the pending mob in its tracks. Tugging her knitted sleeves down over her chilled hands, she slowly descended the steps, trying to glare hard at every face that wanted to twist with anger and charge the place.

  “We have bigger problems on our hands. If you haven’t noticed,” she bit out sharply, “these men and women are nearly naked, and it is winter. There are a hundred and fifty-three of them. They need shelter. They need clothing. They need food, and several of them need to visit the Apothecaries,” Rexei added sternly, moving into the crowd.

  She tried not to shiver as a stray bit of wind started stealing away what warmth she did have inside her knit tunic and the two linen shirts that lay beneath. Her trousers were faring somewhat better; they were felted wool with a linen lining, and she wore stockings that came up just past her knees and long undertrews that came to just below her knees. But somewhat better wasn’t perfect, and the wind pushed through the layers with invasive, icy fingers.

  At least the others were closing in around her, hiding her from some of the wind as well as the temple, but only somewhat. Unfortunately, her words had to be said, and the responsibilities asserted. “Every guild in this square will have to take in two to four of these men and women, just to ensure they are fed and clothed and cared for while they recover from what has been done to them. That is our first priority.”

  The same first man spoke again, his face flushed with anger. “The priests are—”

  “The priests aren’t going anywhere!” She hated all the eyes on her and hoped that the priests hadn’t realized that the dull-witted, soft-spoken Rexei of the Servers Guild was one and the same as the owner of that sharp voice . . . but her back was to the narrow, glazed windows of the temple. She lowered her voice, knowing that what she said next would spread on its own. “Listen to me carefully, and tell everyone what you can see with your own eyes. Mekha. Is. Gone. I was there when the Dread God’s images melted from the walls. I saw the embroidery vanish from their sleeves.

  “Mekha is gone, and that means we have to rescue every single prisoner before those ex-priests in there change their minds and decide they want to keep draining these poor people. Men and women who can’t even remember how to speak right now—and mark my words, the priesthood will want to keep their power and their prestige. We must deny them that chance. Stow your anger, and go put your energy to good use.”

  The burly, round-faced man lifted his chin at her. “Who are you to give us orders? You’re just a boy!”

  Oh, again with the “boy” this and the “boy” that! I think I am finally growing tired of being young in everyone’s eyes . . .

  Rexei dug a hand under the high neckline of her tunic, pulling out a chain necklace and a leather thong. The chain held a single engraved medallion, denoting the Servers Guild, but the thong held a long column of stamped discs. Four of them were larger than the rest, and she sorted out the one on the far right, pulling it up on its own so that he could see for himself the three interlaced gearwheels embossed on its surface.

  “I’m a journeyman of the Gearmen’s Guild, and that means I’m a Sub-Consul with the right to speak on behalf of any Consulate. And it is not overstepping my rights as a Sub-Consul to tell you that these men and women need our help right now.” She lifted her chin and her voice, looking at the others. “Who has kept our people safe from the priests all this while? I ask you that, and I tell you that the guilds have kept our people safe. The guilds have looked out for each other all this time, ensuring that the priests could never take too much of our money or our goods or even our people. And it is the guilds of this land that must stand strong.

  “Mekha is gone,” she repeated, clinging not to that thought but to the tokens of apprenticeships and journeyman ranks she had earned since fleeing her parents’ house at the age of ten. Clinging to the memories of all the help she had been given, because the Guild System worked. “And Heiastowne will not crumble into madness and lawlessness. Put your faith in your guild, each of you! Remember how it gave you a place to work and a trade to learn. Remember how when you had a problem, you could take it to the Consulates—made up of representatives from every guild in town—and know that you’d find justice from our hands, when the priests would give us none!”

  Engines rumbled in the distance, first purring faintly, then growling louder and louder as something approached from the west. Rexei kept talking, because the crowd wasn’t quite calmed down yet. That was more important. None of these shift-clad women were her mother, would never be her mother, but each man and woman who had been drained was her mother, because they were fellow mages.

  “Mekha is gone, and that means we must take over the leadership of this town—but not as a mindless beast. We are not a mob! We are guildmembers . . . and we have laws, and we have rules, and we have responsibilities that we will not set aside.” She panted a little, grateful that the heat of her speech was keeping her warm, though she knew it wouldn’t last. “Now . . . take these men and women home. Give them comfort.

  “Get the Apothecaries to look at the women, for I promise you, each and every one has been raped repeatedly by the priesthood, and they will need care and compassion—and have them look at the men, too. There are bastards in that temple who’d piston a man’s bottom as surely as any woman’s front,” she said bluntly. “As they would’ve pistoned mine, if they didn’t have to answer to the Servers Guild for it—as you all know well they still could try! Any one of us could have been one of these mages, save for the grace of distant Fate . . . and many of us have lost kin and friends. It is our responsibility to take care of them and make them feel whole once more. If we do not, then it is we who will be metaphorically pistoning their bottoms a second time. They don’t deserve that!”

  Her crude words made a few people blink and eye her askance, but Rexei didn’t care. The dangerous energy in the crowd had ebbed too low to be easily stirred as they strained and listened, as they passed along in whispers to the rest what they heard. At least, until an odd stirring rippled across the crowd from the west, from where the rumbling of engines was. With the sharp winter sunlight angling in from that direction, it was hard to see what was causing the commotion until the whispers reached her.

  “. . . militia . . .”

  “Precinct men!”

  “. . . the captain?”

  “No, it’s th’ leftenant . . .”

  “The guards are here?”

  “I’ll not go without a fight . . .”

  She had never met the leftenant of Heiastowne and had never wanted to meet him or anyone like him. Not even a mere private, let alone a sergeant or anyone ranked higher. For good reason, too; the military was ruthless, taking in lads of seventeen or older for five years of mandatory service. Not everyone was taken, but criminals were at the top of the conscription list, so staying out of the militia’s notice was a necessity. Escaping once one was inducted into the service was extremely difficult and extremely dangerous. Runaways were hunted down and whipped the first time, flogged heavily the second, and hung on the third failed escape try.

  Between her slight frame, beardless cheeks, and careful acting, Rexei had always passed herself off as fifteen to sixteen at most. Sh
e had also taken care to heed the laws and cause no trouble, for the Precinct guards were also the town guards, and they drafted the troublemakers first and foremost. Women could serve in the Precincts as auxiliary members—clerks, cleaners, cooks, even as mechanics, helping keep the various machines running—but it was the men who had to serve in combat positions.

  That was the last thing she could let happen. Guardsmen bathed together, and she was no boy in truth. The one good thing about the approach of the militia was that it would give her a chance to vanish into the crowd. The one bad thing was that she would have to wait until everyone’s attention was elsewhere to successfully vanish.

  The engines cut off, leaving an odd sort of near-silence in the square.

  “By order of the Precinct captain,” a strong male baritone called out, “the citizens of Heiastowne are to disperse and return to your homes, shops, and guildhalls. There will be no rioting in the streets. No disorder. The Precinct will investigate the claims that the . . . God of Engineering . . . is indeed gone, and we will maintain order. Anyone who riots, strikes out in violence, or attempts to loot anything at this point in time will be clapped in irons and dragged off for quarry work at the rate of one month per hour you cause trouble . . . rounded up.”

  The crowd quickly started dispersing. Rexei turned to follow the nearest clump out of the square, but a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. The burly man dragged her around, his deep voice calling out, “Here’s yer first troublemaker, Leftenant!”

  “Oy!” Gaping in shock, Rexei glared at the man. “I’m not a troublemaker!”

  “Shaddup!”

  He felt harsh and dry to her senses, like an overbaked cracker, not slimy. Worse, his big hand had a firm grip on the flesh underneath her knitted sweater. He added to it a grab at the waistband of her trousers when she tried to squirm free anyway, hiking them up so that she was forced to walk on her toes while he hustled her west through the rapidly departing crowd. At least the others were taking the spell-shocked, shift-clad mages with them as they moved off. Unfortunately, she couldn’t vanish with them, for the burly troublemaker—the real troublemaker, not her, in this matter—marched her on toe-tip right up to the quintet of motorhorses and the pairs of men astride them.