Swarm and Steel, page 14
“Zerfall?”
No. Never again. Gone. Forever.
Why had she expected an answer?
If I close my eyes I’ll fade to nothing. The thought jolted her with fear. Hölle darted a glance toward Zerfall’s hand on her desk. It sat, palm up, where Aas dropped it, and showed no sign of decay. Why won’t it rot? How long had it been, how long since she saw Zerfall? She remembered the sword, Blutblüte, sliding into her belly and ground her teeth as the muscles there tensed around the imagined agony.
It had been weeks. She wasn’t sure how many. She’d taken longer to heal than expected and hadn’t left her room since—
She drew a calming breath. Zerfall, why did you betray me? She would never know.
No, that wasn’t true.
Zerfall awaited her in Swarm.
It would be a long time before Hölle set foot in the hell she hallucinated. Hers would be the final soul, the last sacrifice. What would happen after her death, she couldn’t be sure. Humanity would be freed, that much Wahrergott had promised. But what did freedom mean?
Anything had to be better than this. Nothing felt real since her sister’s betrayal. The world seemed somehow shallow, an artist’s water-colour rendering. Sometimes when she lay with her eyes closed she imagined herself fading to nothing. The thought terrified her. Her dreams had become nightmares. She dreamed she got Wahrergott’s message wrong. She dreamed the god wasn’t real, that he was nothing more than a manifestation of madness. She dreamed that she wasn’t real.
Every morning she reminded herself they were just dreams. Wahrergott was the One True God and she was real. In these quiet moments she contemplated the ingenuity of the gods who built this prison. By making reality responsive to the desires of humanity they made humanity responsible for its own hell. If everyone believed this prison were a golden paradise then such it would be. Filth and depredation—deceit and violence—lay at the core of every human soul; reality offered irrefutable proof of this.
This could be utopia and instead we make it our hell.
Hölle thought about rising from bed, crossing the room, and touching Zerfall’s hand.
No, the pain would be too much. The stitches had been removed and little more than a thick ridge of angry pink scar remained, but her stomach needed more time to heal. Pharisäer said Hölle needed to be strong and cared for her while she recuperated, dealing with the daily business of running the Täuschung, insisting Hölle rested.
That’s probably where Pharisäer is. Some urgent matter must have called her from my side.
Again she thought of Zerfall. Even when they’d been apart Hölle always knew she’d see her sister again soon. She’d always felt something in the very centre of her that knew with absolute certainty Zerfall was safe and alive. And now she was gone.
And yet every morning you awaken, expecting to find her either in bed with you or at her desk working.
The heavy oak double doors to Hölle’s chambers swung open revealing the silhouette of a woman, petite and curved. Long hair hung well past the shoulders. On a slim waist hung a plain sword. Even in shadow Hölle recognized that simple blade. She remembered her dream of Zerfall sitting in the bay window and her stomach wrenched, forcing a hiss of pain between clenched teeth.
She’s come back to finish me.
“Zerfall—”
“No,” said the shadow, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.
“You’re wearing her sword.”
Hölle examined Pharisäer. Though she dressed and stood as Zerfall would, something looked subtly wrong. It’s the sword, she’s too aware of it. Zerfall wore Blutblüte like it was part of her—an extension of her will. Pharisäer wore it like an accessory.
Pharisäer glanced about the room, taking in the scattered detritus with a raised eyebrow. “If we are to maintain the lie that you are whole—that Zerfall has not betrayed us all—I must play the part.”
“And the people who know?”
“I’m taking care of that.”
“How?”
“Aas.” Pharisäer flashed a grin that was pure Zerfall. “There were matters that had to be dealt with.”
“I was thinking of Zerfall when you arrived,” said Hölle, annoyed it sounded like an apology.
Pharisäer sat on the side of the bed and reached out a hand to run gentle fingers through Hölle’s hair. “You miss your sister.”
“It’s not that—”
“I’m not here to replace her. You no longer need Zerfall.” Pharisäer massaged the back of Hölle’s neck, easing the tension there. “Things have changed,” she said, leaning forward to kiss Hölle on the forehead. “I am what you need now.”
“Sorry, it’s just that—”
“Apologies are doubts. Never apologize.”
“Stop interrupting me.”
Pharisäer flashed that heartbreakingly familiar grin. “That’s better. Now, what’s bothering you?”
Hölle gestured toward her desk. “I keep thinking about that hand.” The hand refuses to rot and each day it doesn’t rot I feel less real. Something stopped her from voicing the thought.
“I’ll take it away.”
“No!” She took a calming breath. “It’s a constant reminder, and I think I need it.”
Pharisäer nodded her understanding, still massaging Hölle’s neck. “So what’s the problem?”
“Before, when we were apart, I always knew Zerfall was all right. I knew that if something happened to her I would know. I knew things would change. I knew …” She trailed off, unable to voice what she knew. “We share a connection.”
“Shared.”
“Yes. Shared.”
“And?”
“I expect to see her every time I wake. Each time the door opens I expect it to be her. She’s dead and gone but I can’t feel it. She was my other half.” She shook her head, angry, and Pharisäer’s hand dropped away. She’s gone and I feel broken, less whole. I should be rising—she wasn’t sure if she meant getting out of bed or something else, something more important—and I feel like I’m sinking. I should be taking her place. Come to think of it, Zerfall hadn’t done much within the Täuschung in the last few years; taking her place should be so easy. And yet it wasn’t. She couldn’t. It’s like she isn’t really gone.
Pharisäer laughed, light and breathy. “I am your other half now.”
It sounded right but felt wrong, not at all comforting. “I suppose. You’re using Aas to assassinate those who know Zerfall is gone?” she asked, more to change the subject than out of interest.
“We might as well use him before we kill him. And I admit, I enjoy toying with him. He’s so predictable.”
“Careful. He’s not stupid.”
“He’s a man. All men are stupid. Anyway, he’s educated, not intelligent. There’s a difference. He can bore you with a thousand dull facts about every religion and city-state and the minutiae of how every type of Geisteskranken might manifest, but he can’t see past his own beak of a nose.” She pushed her chest forward suggestively. “Unless there’s a pair of tits in the room.”
Hölle wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Zerfall was always better at that kind of manipulation.” She lay back with a groan, her stomach aching. “I never understood her relationship with Aas.”
“She knew you didn’t like it.”
That struck too close to her own thoughts. She shuffled about, trying to get comfortable, and said, “You don’t feel anything for him, do you?”
Pharisäer made a very unladylike snort in the back of her nose. “Hardly. When he is no longer useful …” She showed perfect teeth in a sweet smile.
“Good.”
“But do expect some unusually confused brain-babble from him,” said Pharisäer. “I’ve been doing what I can to keep him confused. He’s dangerous enough we don’t want him thinking clearly about his future.”
“Fine.” Aas was disgusting enough when she couldn’t hear the perverted lustings of his inner mind. If he tried to look down her shirt again she’d kill him. “Better yet,” she said. “You deal with him. Keep him away.”
“I’ll let you know when he’s dead.”
Hölle examined Pharisäer, nodding toward the sword. “Do you think you can kill him?”
“He’ll thank me when I do.”
Hölle recognized that cold confidence. Maybe she does have some Zerfall in her. And if she did? Will she too someday try and kill me?
AAS SAT ATOP THE roof of the pawnbroker across the street from a run-down mansion, plucking hairs from his scalp and adding them to the growing collection in his pocket.
The black bone bow lay across his lap. A single condor-fletched arrow spun in the fingers of his free hand like a prestidigitator rolling a coin across their knuckles. Keeping the chimney at his back to ensure he was not silhouetted, he glanced at the mansion’s outhouse, judging the distance. Three hundred and fifty strides, he guessed. Looking east he spotted the central tower of the Verzweiflung Banking Conglomerate and watched the lazy fluttering of their flag, a massive rectangle of black with a single gold coin in the centre.
Pharisäer, what would she be to him?
If Pharisäer wasn’t Gefahrgeist, might she be capable of loving him?
No one can love you. With a growl he shoved away the thought.
She showed no sign of Zerfall’s Gefahrgeist power, made no attempt at coercing him, demanding his love, or conscripting his will. If there was even a chance she might love him …
No. Focus on the job at hand. Show her you are useful. He learned that lesson from Zerfall.
Again glancing at the flag he tested the breeze, sniffing. Gentle wind from the north. Not much, but enough he’d have to account for it. Early afternoon, the sun was high enough not to be a factor. He lifted his nose, breathing deep. As always, in his human form, his senses felt dull and muted like a curtain lay between him and the world. Only as a condor was he truly alive. That delusion allowed him this mattered not. Freedom, that mattered. Being part of the world, a link in the chain of life, that mattered too. As a condor he belonged.
Having deposited a few more thick hairs into his pocket, he once again examined the small finger of his left hand. Taking another deep breath, he let it out in a slow exhalation. I can do it. Once he’d killed Narr Unerheblich, he’d remove the finger, start Hexenwerk from scratch. With more of me in the puppet, having made a greater sacrifice, the transference should be easier. It was a long shot, but the salbei of the Ausgebrochene tribes lived lives of suffering, torment, and sacrifice. Maybe that mattered.
The wind shifted and brought him the cool scent of mountain air. He remembered the first time he breathed that air free of the wood and stone rot of his father’s cellar.
Aas had devoured his father over the course of a week, gnawed bones clean and then broken them open for their marrow. Only the few bones too thick for him to break and the skull and brain remained. He hadn’t eaten that out of respect and love.
But a sated hunger always returns. He had no water and licking damp stone walls wasn’t enough. Thirst and hunger drove him from the cellar.
Late in the evening, seeing the village dark and sleepy, he stumbled from his father’s house, fleeing the ghosts living there; the mother he never knew, the father he’d eaten. The cellar door hadn’t even been locked.
The world was impossibly large, the horizon so far away he couldn’t touch it if he ran for a thousand days. The sky, crisp blue with soft clouds shrouding the mountains to the north and fading to black far to the west, called to him. Far overhead he saw a wheeling condor and followed it, paying no mind to where he walked. It wasn’t until he stumbled into a group of men leaving a well-lit building—which later he recognized was an ale-house—that he realized he’d gone deeper into the village.
“If the villagers see you they’ll kill you, burn you as a demon.” His father’s words. Aas flinched away, unsure where to run. He knew nothing of this world. The men stood, eyes wide with surprise, and one stepped forward. Then the door swung open bathing Aas in light from the lanterns within. They gasped, stumbled away, turned and fled.
Aas did the same. They’d hunt and kill him.
Now, sitting on a roof in Geld, he laughed. What a sight he must have been, covered in his father’s blood and stinking of rot. No wonder they ran.
For fourteen years his father lied, kept him hidden in a damp cold cellar. Why, Aas would never know. He might not be pretty, but he’d seen many uglier men and women walking the streets of Geld, neither molested nor commented on.
Aas returned his attention to the mansion and outhouse. The sprawling grounds covered most of the block and included several guest houses, separate buildings for the hired help, and a massive boat house replete with docks stabbing far out into Geld Lake. There was room for scores of staff and an entire wing of once opulent suites—now filled with crumbling mouldings, remnants of mouldering furniture, and rotting shreds of silk draperies—set aside for visiting dignitaries. In any other city-state, this would be the palatial home of whatever self-centred Gefahrgeist tyrant ruled. In Geld it was home to one deranged Attonitatic lurking in the over-sized outhouse near the estate’s midden pit.
Aas’ prey, Narr Unerheblich, didn’t own the property. She rented the outhouse from the Verzweiflung for an exorbitant fee.
But then Geisteskranken rarely make sane choices. Aas had to laugh at the thought. Here he was, crouched on a roof, intent on killing a mad-woman living in an outhouse on the orders of another insane woman, herself a Fragment of yet another unstable mind.
When you’ve killed Narr and Nimmer, what then?
Then he’d be the last person alive who knew Pharisäer was not Zerfall. Did Captain Gedankenlos know? Killing that patronizing arse would be a pleasure.
Would she have someone else kill him, or might she have further use for a killer? His soul would go to Swarm. Zerfall will be there. He wasn’t sure what terrified him more, Swarm, or meeting Zerfall again. In a hell of suffering, she’d find some way of making it worse. Zerfall never forgave.
A better idea would be avoiding Swarm altogether. Forever. To do that he’d either have to escape death—unlikely for a deranged murderer with a decaying mental state—or cease believing in Swarm.
Aas grinned. Or believe my soul will go somewhere else.
The arrow continued its slow spin, first one direction, then another. Aas plucked a hair from his ear and held it aloft to examine the colour and thickness before tucking it into his pocket alongside the other bodily detritus collected there. The pile had grown to near fist-sized. No doubt Hölle thought he’d developed Trichotillic tendencies, but it wasn’t that at all.
Really? You do rather enjoy the feel of hair sliding from flesh, that moment before it comes free.
True, but he had a reason and reason separated the sane from the delusional.
All Geisteskranken have reasons for what they do.
A crazy reason, he had to admit, was still crazy.
But I have a good reason.
Aas remembered the first time he watched an ancient salbei, half-starved and mad from malnutrition, move his soul from his body to possess a puppet constructed of snot and hair and nail clippings and shite. The snot puppet danced a deranged jig as if celebrating its freedom and then wandered off into the Gezackt foothills. It staggered home three days later, crumbling and flaking apart, and the salbei again leapt the gulf of sanity to return his soul to his body.
The ancient witch-doctor admitted one night, while drunk on fermented goat’s milk and blood, that that he had once moved his soul into another’s body.
All your hopes rest on the inebriated confession of a mad man.
The arrow stopped spinning.
It was a lovely theory, this idea of moving his soul from his body to Hexenwerk, his own little snot-puppet, and later to another body, but theory often failed when hurled against the mutable walls of reality. Perhaps that was why he hesitated to saw off his little finger. Making the puppet was one thing, transferring his soul to it was something else altogether. Belief defined reality. To move his soul, he’d have to not only believe he could, he’d have to know it. Insane as Aas was, his delusions were limited to Therianthropy and the Wahnist belief people heard his thoughts. And maybe a few Trichotillic tendencies.
If he doubted, even for a moment, that he could move his soul, he would fail.
The problems didn’t end there. Even if he managed to convince himself—which would mean embracing an entirely new delusion and suffering additional damage to his already crumbling sanity—it only made sense to move his soul when his real body was about to die. Hexenwerk was a mad and desperate backup plan. It might save his soul from Swarm, but then he’d be trapped in a puppet of snot and hair and extremely vulnerable. He’d have to find another, stronger body.
What kind of delusion would that require?
The more he thought about it, the more insane his plan seemed.
Well then stop thinking about it!
The door to the outhouse swung open and Narr Unerheblich exited, snarling and spitting in vehement argument with a shadowy form perched on her right shoulder.
Aas nocked the arrow and shot Narr through the throat. With her head turned he was able to impale both the internal and external jugular veins. She stood, swaying and blinking for a moment, mouth opening and closing. Slim fingers rose and fluttered near the shaft, unwilling to touch it, to confirm the reality of it. The figure on her shoulder gone, Narr turned and looked up at Aas on the rooftop. He raised a hand in greeting. Never friends, they still knew each other. She lifted a hand in a small, almost wave, and collapsed. Spasms shook her body and faded to stillness.
He’d never before seen her without something immaterial lurking on one of her shoulders, whispering gods knew what in her ear. Was death a moment of sanity?
Trying to make it sound like you did something more than put an arrow in her throat and end her life?
