"Twice as many acres in half the time," Onder had said.
"Yeah?" Os replied. "Anneia will be happy to hear that, I expect."
Onder bobbed his head. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a rag stained white at the edges with salt. "Aye, she's been wanting more time."
Os thought of Luc and El with a twinge of guilt. His pension was plenty for them live on. It kept them fed, kept the roof over their head. Time spent with family was valuable coin, coin he had to spare in those days. He thought it would last, like coffers spilling over with gold. He'd had all he needed. At least, he'd thought. The memory faded, and Os glanced behind him. The roof of his cottage peeked from behind the crest of a hill. Orange tiles reflected the sun like a knife meant for his heart but striking his eyes. He blinked away the glare and the moisture that threatened to spill the cup of his eyelids, then hitched his belt and moved on.
The cottage and the plow disappeared from view as Os made his way down the country road. The grasses grew taller, and by the time his path crossed that of the Imperium Way, they waved above his head like dying arms reaching for the memory of light. Summers past, they would never have been allowed to grow so unruly, the Imperium stoic in its pursuit if order, slow and implacable. The will of man over that of nature. Mow and tame. Mow and tame. He supposed in a way, the engineers would be pleased. Not even the buzz of gnat, cry of crow, or rustle of field mouse marred the summer day.
Os wove his way between carts and wagons littering the road. Great skeletons still wore their harnesses, feet folded neatly beneath them, heads in restful repose. Drivers lay in the grass nearby, whips and crops and reins forgotten on wooden benches. He didn't stop to look inside, ignored the human tug of curiosity brought on by canvas covering and folded curtain. He knew he'd only see that which already haunted him across the years. The wreckage of stolen lives held as much interest for him as the taste of blood in his mouth. Coppery and slick, like a penny hidden under the tongue.
The frame of a schoolhouse rose to his right, and unbidden, the image of El, sweeping from its doors as the bell in the steeple rang. Luc snapping her up in his long slender arms, spinning, their laughter filling the air. Her smile, bright as a summer tulip, blazed in Os' mind. His limbs trembled; his legs threatened to spill him to his knees. His vision doubled, and for a moment, he nearly let it happen. The thought of hard gravel digging into his skin, drawing blood, drawing perhaps shame or anger at his loss of control was welcome, if only briefly. He dashed the tears from his eyes with determined fingers, forced himself to move on. If he felt something other than the need to see an end to this, to meet his grief head on instead of at oblique angles, he might find himself in the grass and dirt instead.
Os made good time as he pushed his feelings down again. Ahead, the path diverged. Forward and down, the city in the valley. A necropolis now, but once it teemed with life. Great bazaars flowed in the streets, living things of men and women, children shouting and running, streamers on sticks flying behind them as they wove between legs like foxes in a forest. Bright bunting and banners flying overhead, the stink of forge and tanner, smells of roast meat and vegetable and savory spice. Bread and sweetbreads baking, the aroma like the comfort of a warm blanket. Over it all, the press and swell and crush and scent of humanity, of bodies warm and joyous, sad and broken, bright flowers pushing their way between the cracked flagstones of the city.
It was where Os had taken his commission, to fight for the glory of the empire, though if he was truthful, it was to put food in his mouth and clothes on his back. A first step on a long road paved with blood and bone and sweat. He'd lived by the blade, but with all things, steel remained strong through the slow march of years while flesh faded. He hung up his blade, took his pension. For a while, he was content alone in that cottage in the hills. For a time, the call of cricket and sparrow and the song of wind through the wheat was enough to calm the ceaseless crash of body and metal in his head, to the slow the impetus of horror thrust into his youth like a knife in the ribs.
Then he'd heard Luc's laughter in a tavern, bright and silver, brown eyes dancing with mirth. Not long after, he'd heard El's, gold like her hair, heavy and rich, when Luc had coaxed her from an alley with a morsel of food and a coin danced across his knuckles. But even time tarnishes silver and gold, and only the memory of their bright shine remains.
Os found himself on the left-hand path. Already he had climbed halfway as memory played through his head. For a time, he listened to the wind brush against the slope of the rock like an insistent lover. He imagined he heard whispered promises in the susurrus and shook his head to clear it. He'd heard the Chant described that way once, a whisper of a song, the tease of a memory of something better, brighter than this life of mud and misery. Briefly he wondered if he heard it now. Would he know? Did it matter?
He crested the rise and stepped to the edge of the promontory of rock. Below, a still world. A lover holding its breath. A wave poised at its crest. He saw to the reaches of the land. Tall grasses of the plains, a sparkling rill of silver cutting through green and gold like a steel ribbon. The skeletons of airships furrowed the grass like beached whales, their magics stilled, their crew silent. Beyond that, the forest, the wolves silent, and beyond the forest, something between both until the land ran to the sea, a sliver of blue that snapped at the horizon like a hungry dog.
Os used to bring them here, Luc standing fearlessly at the edge, El behind his legs, clutching at the fabric. The wind blew, tousling hair and clothing, and Os lifted El so she could spread her arms, pretend she was flying, eyes bright with fear and joy at the prospect of soaring into a great blue nothing like the ships that drifted above.
An illusion. In the end, no one had flown. The Chant had taken them some time ago, leaving only bones in their place. Bones that had forgotten the trick of speech, the sound of laughter, forgotten the spell of flesh and warmth. Bones hold memories, but only for the living, Os thought.
The round came back into focus, and I fell to my knees, tears threatening to spill from my eyes, the breath trying to rip itself from my lungs. This was no villain out to kill a god for his own nefarious purpose. No mastermind looking to break the world. Just someone who had lost everything, and in turn, had nothing left to lose. Truth was, the world was like that. Unfair. Unkind. Uncaring. All the goodwill in the universe couldn’t spin a wheel. And now, for the love of one man, for the breaking of the world—because that was ultimately Camor’s goal, wasn’t it? To break the status quo, to rebalance the scales? And I said all to the better. In a just world, if not a loving one, this sort of thing didn’t happen. So, for the end of all things, I killed the man one more time.
My blades slipped into his spine, across his throat as easily as a razor parts paper. I took no joy in it. Blood belongs to blood, and the loss I felt here called to me as certainly as if we’d been kin. The cold of the circle kept his veins frozen, but he died the same. The light, frozen in a blue rage in his eyes, went out. His grip slackened. As he went, the tendrils withdrew, and I laid him on the ground. I stood, and pulled the blade from Fela’s breast, and laid it on his own, hands clasped over the hilt, and closed his eyes.
I said a small benediction over the body. Warmth already returned to this part of the city, and as it did, Os’ blood flowed, running in rivulets and streams between the cobbles, soaking into the earth. I watched it, heart heavy, then stood.
“A small mercy,” Fela said. “Not one I’m sure he deserved, but I was on the other end of that cold blade.”
I turned and saw her, eyes the color of cobalt glass. She gave me a wan smile.
“Ah, but maybe you saw something I did not. A memory, perhaps? A vision?”
She reached out and touched my cheek, and I flinched back. She withdrew, hand coming back to her breast. The only indication of her wound was a rent in her gown. She regarded me again.
“You’ve grown.”
“That happens over a couple decades,” I said. “I’m also
alive. Though I don’t know if it’s you I can thank for that one.”
She shrugged and turned in a slow circle. A curse escaped her blue lips. “Fantucci.”
I nodded. “It seems the lowlifes and creeps took over in your absence.”
“Interesting wording, considering your father.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“You seem bitter.”
“Only about the abandonment part.”
She nodded. “Fair enough. I suppose there will be a reckoning. Later though, perhaps?”
“Two conditions. One, you tell me why. Two—”
“I come back to see Cord.”
“Yep.”
She groaned a little. “I love the man, but…”
“Yeah, I know. But I think you owe me one.”
She looked around again. “I think I’ll owe you two. I don’t think I can take on Fantucci alone. He couldn’t have done all of this without stealing something of mine.”
“Figures.” I took a moment, deciding. Did I trust the woman who abandoned me? Who engineered my relationship with Lux? Who might have betrayed Cord? I didn’t know. But I wanted out of this wretched afterlife. I sighed. “Fine. Got any ideas?”
“Oh, I have a plan,” she said.
I groaned.
Mommy Issues
Before we moved, she stopped our small procession, lips skewed up in a small grimace.
“You,” she addressed Tug.
“Me?”
“You.”
“M- “
“Don’t,” I interrupted. “The man’s got all the faculties of a pickle.”
She regarded the monstrosity he’d become, judgement pouring from her like mist from ice.
“A necromancer. In my realm.”
“He’s a friend,” I said.
“He is… not welcome,” she said, tone still icy. She waved a hand, and Tug popped from existence, Elvis’ cry of surprise echoing and dwindling.
My blades were out before I realized it, the tips of both pressed again the smooth flesh of her throat. She glanced down.
“Relax, daughter. I only sent him and his pet back. They’ll better serve Cord than us.”
I breathed out and lowered my knives.
“You really are his child,” she sniffed, and took up her pace again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked when I caught up.
“Cord was always mercurial at best.”
“You’re telling me,” I muttered.
“Just an observation, anyway. Not a condemnation.”
“Do you know what this is all about?” She asked.
We passed a squat building with strange rhythmic music pumping out. Signs advertising naked men and women clung to the brick, and bright lights shone in tinted windows. One advertised ‘SMELLS! SMELLS! SMELLS!”, and another, “FEET! FLAT AND FAT AND LONG AND WIDE!” Yet another, simply a slogan, “IT AIN’T WEIRD BEHIND A CLOSED DOOR!” I shook my head, and we continued.
“Cord told me some. Oros has a group of disciples that call themselves the Seven, and they’re out to do something bad and vague.”
She glanced at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Still keeping his secrets, eh? And you allow him that bullshit?”
I shrugged. “It’s better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Rotting in a gutter, doing the world no good.”
“So, you’ve bought into his crusade.”
“Gods, you’re a bit of a bitch, aren’t you?”
She stopped and turned, blocking my path, hands on hips. “I am the bitch. I’m also your mother, so you should at least listen to me.”
“Fine. But at least he’s been there for me,” I muttered.
She ignored the barb, and we moved again.
“Anyway, what he told is a fraction. It’s not wrong, but it’s not everything. Oros was the god of war. When he killed the Tvints, all those souls—they did something to him—broke him. He went mad. We imprisoned him so he couldn’t kill everything.”
“Why not just kill him?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t work like that. Gods can’t kill each other. Even we have rules. So, we use champions and pawns. The Seven are just a small part of that. Oros’ followers are known as the Warbound. Souls that traded a part of themselves for power.”
“The man I killed?”
“Os. Not one of Oros’, but a man driven by his machinations.”
“And Cord?”
“Camor’s pawn. Chaos must meet chaos. But it has to be compassionate in this case, you understand?”
“No. Not really.”
“Oros wants misery. He wants chaos. He wants the end of all things, but right before that—despair. Broken souls to devour, to power his magic. He seeks to end everything, and finally sleep.”
“So, he’s the ultimate nihilist?”
“Yes, like Germans with a grudge against a rug.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Regardless, that’s why I let Cord live.”
“Not for love?”
“Dear, when you’re Death, love is always the reason.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will in time.”
We walked in silence a bit longer. A building of stucco and glass loomed in the near distance, bright light and music blaring. A line of supplicants waited at a velvet rope while a big man with a clipboard signed them in.
“Why does he want to bring you to the other side?” I asked.
“Ah. That’s the plan, isn’t it? No one can die if I’m there and not here. Imagine the chaos.”
“Won’t that cause more suffering?”
“Maybe. But Cord never really thought anything through beyond the tip of his own dick most of the time.”
I snorted. Fela stopped us at a corner, and we lounged there, trying to look nonchalant. We watched the line at the building move forward, one admittance at time, others emptying into the street from the side door. This went on for some time, and I started to get the idea that inspecting my belly button would be a better use of my time when a commotion caught our attention.
A group of Fantucci’s thugs pulled two black men from the line, dragging them into the street, kicking and screaming. They forced the abductees to their knees, binding hands behind their backs before a woman, tall and pale, wearing what looked like chain mail underwear, stepped forward.
“What’s this?” I whispered to Fela.
“Collections.”
I watched as the woman lifted a small silver tube to her lips from a chain around her neck. The captors stepped back as she blew through it. No sound came out, or what there might have been was inaudible. In a moment, the sky over the men rippled and split, and like a fist thrust into a pool, something slick and grublike emerged, its sightless head weaving to and fro. Metal arms extruded from the sickly white skin, small wicked blades at the tips.
It found its bearings, and with a motion quicker than the eye could follow, got to work. The arms moved at a blur, the blades flashing. In moments, the street glowed red with spattered gore, the men’s flesh removed with surgical precision. They hadn’t even had time to scream.
Their bodies collapsed face-forward onto the cobbles, and the thing from above slithered back into the portal, the opening closing behind it like a trap spider pulling the door to its lair shut. The group of thugs dispersed, taking places once again along the sides of the street.
“What happens when someone dies here?” I asked.
“Second death? Oros devours them. More fuel for the fire.”
“Is that why he’d sent Os to kill you?”
Fela nodded. “Yes. But you can no more end Death with a blade than you can peel an apple with a whisper.”
We fell into silence, watching the building for a while longer.
“Why’d you leave me?” I hadn’t meant to ask it, but it dripped from my lips as if the words were impatient to be born.
She shifted
her gaze to the sky, sighed. “Do you think gods are built for motherhood1?”
I blinked. I hadn’t considered it.
“I am immortal. You, while you may someday find a gift in your blood, are not. I will live long past lovers and children and every great and small thing on the earth. Do you think I want that? To watch time and tide wear you down, to bring what was once vibrant back to me brittle and dry, sapped of the life I’d given?
“And what does it mean when Death gives life? Is it true life? Is it mockery? Am I only breaking pieces of myself off to reclaim them later? What purpose does that serve?” She shook her head. “No. I do not need it. You did not need it.”
I scowled and stared into the distance. “I needed a mother. What I got were chains and scars. What I got was a hole in my center where there should have been none.” I spat the last words, my own vehemence surprising me. Finished for now, I let the matter sit, though I seethed.
We watched the line crawl for a time. I thought of missed nights round a hearth, of the quiet creak of a chair and hands soft with needlework instead of scarred and calloused with blade and tool. I thought of full stomachs over the nagging hunger you curled around in the dead of night and hoped would abate long enough for you to catch a few hours’ sleep. I thought of affection lost and never given. Just as I was about to turn and find my own way back, she broke the silence again.
“I am sorry,” she said, and no more. That would have to do for now.
“What’s the plan?” I finally asked. The sight of those bodies in the street wasn’t making me any more patient.
“We’re going in.”
“We?” I asked.
“If you want to win your way back, we need to beat Fantucci.”
She pushed off the building and led us to the line, walking as if we owned the place, head high, strut confident. I did my best to imitate her and tried not to think of the severe woman with the killing whistle. We reached the line, and I did my best to relax, to look like I belonged. It moved forward one by one, the back of my neck itching as I wondered if they would notice I hadn’t paid my dues yet.
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