Swarm and Steel, page 17
“No, of course not. There was no way I could have foreseen her betrayal.” Did she sound defensive?
“Of course not,” soothed Pharisäer.
She glanced again at Zerfall’s hand. “Do Cotardists always die when the rot spreads far enough?”
“You can’t live without a beating heart.”
“True.” She remembered her thought from earlier: Expecting logic from reality usually ended in disappointment. “Aas said Zerfall lost her memory. He said she didn’t know who or what she was, that she lost her Gefahrgeist power.”
“So?”
The thought coalesced, built upon itself, solidifying and becoming real. “What if she didn’t know? What if she didn’t know Cotardists are supposed to die when the rot spreads?”
“She’s only one person. And Aas said she lost her delusions.”
“But there was no one else out there, no other belief but hers for maybe hundreds of miles.” She was so strong.
Pharisäer examined her, a sardonic eyebrow cocked. “You think she might not have died because she didn’t know she was supposed to? That’s insane.”
“So was Zerfall. Powerfully so.” Hölle nodded to herself, certain. “If anyone could survive Cotardism, it’s her.”
“But what about the Düster poison? She would have known that would kill her.”
“Yes,” she said, dragging out the word. “But what if she didn’t know she’d been poisoned? Did Aas tell her the arrow was poisoned?”
“That doesn’t … shouldn’t …” Pharisäer stumbled to a stop when she met Hölle’s eyes. “I’ll ask Aas. At least we can know that much.”
“The fool should have stayed with her, made sure she was dead. Really dead.” Hölle made a fist but stopped short of punching the bed in frustration. “I’m surrounded by idiots. Incompetents.”
“He failed you,” agreed Pharisäer. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Is that sarcasm? Hölle searched Pharisäer’s eyes. No, she must have imagined it.
Pharisäer rubbed Hölle’s leg. “You’re under a lot of pressure, and you’re healing from a wound that would have killed anyone else.” She smiled, her eyes damp with love and concern. “I’ll take care of this. If Zerfall is alive, I’ll find her. I’ll make sure she’s dead. Really dead.”
Hölle winced as the memory of pain stabbed her gut. Pharisäer was right, she needed to rest. She was under a lot of pressure; it wasn’t her fault if she leapt to conclusions. I’m so tired. The world looked like she viewed it through spidery gauze, pale and muted in colour.
“Rest,” said Pharisäer. “Get some sleep.”
Hölle shut her eyes, but couldn’t shake the image of the tattooed hand, the dark eye sliding closed in the centre of the palm.
AN HOUR LATER PHARISÄER paced the cramped shop of Zahlen Liegen, the wizened old man who maintained the Täuschung’s books. She had to turn sideways to fit down the narrow aisles. Scrolls and leather-bound tomes sat tucked in every nook and cranny. Leaning closer she saw countless scraps of paper, often little more than corners torn off larger sheets and scribbled on in a cramped and hectic hand, jammed into every space. It was all very dusty, clearly untouched in years. Everything smelled of ancient parchment, dried vellum, and cracking leather. Her nose tickled with the dust.
She’d introduced herself as Zerfall and the Täuschung bookkeeper accepted it without comment. It rankled that she had to lie, but someday that lie would become the truth. First, however, she needed to destroy Hölle and part of that would be wrecking her life’s work.
She glanced at where Zahlen sat squinting into the Täuschung ledgers. “None of this has been touched or looked at in years,” she said. “Why not get rid of it and make yourself a little room?”
“Geld law says all financial and tax records must be kept for fifteen years,” he said, without looking up from the book.
“Everything is covered in years of dust.” She glanced at the nearest books. Many of the spines were no longer legible, the text faded to gaunt scratches. “How often do you have to find stuff in here?”
“Never. I only keep it so I can say it has been kept and not lie.” He looked up, checking to see no one else was in the shop. “They can tell when you lie. But if you don’t lie about keeping the documentation, they never actually check the back records.”
“Geld law is insane,” she muttered to herself, returning to her pacing.
“Geld law is the very definition of sane,” he said, offended. “Geld law keeps the city peaceful and organized and profitable.” It was clear which one he thought the most important.
Pharisäer had no interest in a discussion of the sanity of laws created and enforced by the wealthy and blindly followed by the poor and allegedly sane masses. Sanity in no way guarantees intelligence. “Have you found the records I want?”
“Of course,” he said.
“So?”
“The church is quite profitable. Even after taxes—”
“Excellent!”
“But most of that goes into supporting …” He pursed his lips. “… the other church.” He shrugged. “The older church is on prime real-estate in the centre of the city. The property taxes in that neighbourhood are the highest in all Geldangelegenheiten. And then there are the bribes and cover-ups the Täuschung pay every year to keep its true nature a secret. If your less than sane priests were a little more circumspect, did a little less damage to the city, you would save a great deal.” He waved her to silence when he saw her about to speak. “Everything else goes to maintaining Täuschung churches, almost always two of them, in other city-states. You barely break even.”
All this wealth going to fund a stupid religion. Apparently crazy was no guarantee of intelligence either. “We’re going in a new direction,” she said. Spiralling into madness. “Making some changes.”
Zahlen shrugged, uncaring.
“I want you to sell off all the properties outside of Geld. All of them.”
“That’s not really what I do,” he protested. “I’m an accountant, not a—”
“You’ll get five percent of every sale,” she said. Compared to the amount of gold haemorrhaging out of the church every year, giving away five percent was nothing. “Find whoever you need to make this happen. Take care of everything.”
The accountant’s mouth fell open and she saw him running calculations in his head. She’d just made him fantastically wealthy. She knew he’d still steal, skim off the top, but didn’t care. This wasn’t about making money—though she’d certainly come out of this one of the richest women in Geld—it was about ruining Hölle.
“And stop all bribes,” she added. When the Täuschung’s mad priests ran rampant destroying the city—as she planned to have them doing shortly—she wanted it to come back to haunt Hölle.
“That’s not—”
“Figure it out. You’ll get five percent of whatever you manage to save.”
Zahlen nodded, stunned.
“I’ll check in for updates each week.” Pharisäer grinned, feeling more alive, more real than she ever had. This was progress. “Don’t worry about getting the best price. I want this to happen fast.”
“And Hölle?” Zahlen asked.
Time to spread some rumours. “She’s very ill.” Pharisäer gave a sad sigh. “Soon it will be just me.”
The accountant’s eyes lit with understanding. “I shall begin immediately.”
“Good.” She turned to leave and stopped. “I’ve changed my mind. Sell everything. Both properties here in Geld.” Why leave Hölle something to cling to?
I’ll reduce her stupid religion to dust.
PHARISÄER WHISTLED AS SHE walked the streets of Geld. It would take months to sell off the church’s holdings, but by this time next year she’d be fabulously wealthy. It was easy manipulating Hölle into staying in her chambers. The woman now put very little effort into maintaining herself—Pharisäer shivered in disgust at the memory of the stench and filth staining the rooms. Hölle will crack in the next few weeks. Maybe sooner if events played out just right.
Here, on Lender’s Row, the buildings were built to look like banks, if much smaller. Even the cobbled street, stones alternating in patterns of green and grey, mimicked the streets on the Banking District. Yet somehow everything had a slightly shoddy look to it. Marble, brass, and granite still abounded, but lacked lustre. Everything looked smudged and worn, like old money fallen on hard times. She glanced up and down the street, seeing exactly the same wear on every building.
If just one of these lenders hired someone to polish their storefront, they’d stand out above the others.
But none of them had. It certainly wasn’t from lack of funds. Was this a choice? Was there some local bi-law enforcing this appearance, or was this a sound business practice? Did sane people want money lenders to mimic banks yet seem small and grotty? Real-estate cost a fortune everywhere in Geld and this was by no means one of the cheaper districts.
There could be no understanding the sane.
The insane, however?
Pharisäer grinned to herself at the thought of Aas confronting Nimmer. Removing him had been critical. He knew too much about Geisteskranken and realized she was a Fragment rather than some sending of Hölle’s imaginary god. But did he know that Hölle was a Fragment rather than Zerfall’s twin sister? She didn’t want the hideous man sharing that information with Hölle. How the stupid woman went centuries without knowing the truth of her existence, Pharisäer couldn’t comprehend. Maybe belief in her silly god and even sillier purpose—free humanity to be gods by sending them to a hell of suffering, what a laughable concept—somehow maintained her. Pharisäer neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was that she could and would take full advantage of the woman’s ignorance. With Aas out of the picture for the foreseeable future, ignorant she would remain.
What should I do next? Pharisäer considered her options. The more damage done to Hölle’s church, the more wounded the woman would be, the more depressed. Hölle’s dreams and goals had to be undone, reduced to ruin. She must to see her life’s work as an utter failure.
Pharisäer considered the church. The weakness of the Täuschung had always been the Geisteskranken priests making up the hidden religion existing beneath the heaven-preaching public façade. I need to get rid of them. If Hölle saw her priests leaving, it would further weaken her. Can I send them away? Perhaps she could invent reasons to litter the mad priests throughout the city-states. She thought about Aas, soon to be trapped in Nimmer’s reality. Sending the assassin to kill the man really was a stroke of genius. A grin lit Pharisäer’s face. A schism within the church! She’d pit the Täuschung priests against each other. There’d be death in the streets and the church would be in chaos.
How lucky that Zerfall was so feared by her mad priests. They’d obey Pharisäer no matter how insane or contradictory her orders were.
She hurried back to the Täuschung compound, deciding who to send after whom. She’d keep a small cadre of the most powerful, most unstable, as backup. She could either use them as weapons against any foes who may rise up against her, or as a last blow to Hölle’s sanity.
Time to turn the Täuschung mad loose on the streets of Geld.
TEN
Sand gets in everything.
—Basamortuan Proverb
ZERFALL NEEDS ME.
Jateko rode atop Tod’s bony back, lurching from side to side. Only fistfuls of Tod’s mane and the grip of his legs around the horse’s gutted torso kept him mounted. His thighs burned like someone doused them in oil and lit them afire, and his fingers and knuckles ached from being clenched tight for so long. Every now and then the horse tilted alarmingly as the sand under its hooves gave way and Jateko tore matted clumps from Tod’s ever-thinning mane trying to keep from falling off.
She needs me.
How the hell did Zerfall do this? She made it look easy, the way her hips rolled with each step. The thought of those swaying hips left Jateko with an uncomfortable feeling deep in his gut.
She’s dead. You can’t think of her like that.
And he didn’t. Not really. And yet …
You have the horse. Why are you chasing after her?
“Because she needs me,” he answered, his voice a dry whisper. Jateko frowned at the back of Tod’s head and the horse ignored him. When did I start questioning?
Let’s say we take this crazy mad god crap seriously. Do you really think Zerfall needs the help of a stupid and scrawny boy?
Jateko felt the knife he’d tucked into his belt press against his belly. It was one of hers.
The hiria ero of the city-states had all kinds of strange ideas about debts. Out here in the Basamortuan, the tribesmen knew what real debt was. Blood. Life.
You owe her a blood debt?
Did that sound like Gogoko? “I do.”
Jateko’s breath caught. He’d eaten Gogoko, the warrior was part of him now. It was Gogoko.
Once your blood debt has been repaid, you can go your separate ways.
“I don’t want to go my separate ways.”
I know.
SUN.
Funny shaped cactus.
Sand.
That cactus had ribs.
Really thirsty.
Did that cactus have a head?
Up one side of a dune.
Another odd looking cactus.
Down the other side.
Was there a body tied to that cactus?
He wanted to stop and split open a cactus, drink whatever he found inside, but Zerfall needed him.
Either the sun was sinking toward the horizon and night would soon fall, or he’d got turned around and lost track of time and was now seeing the sunrise. Both possibilities seemed likely.
Jateko swayed on Tod’s back, narrowly avoiding falling off. Had he fallen asleep? When he tried to swallow his throat made a dry clicking sound. It felt like he’d eaten a live locust and it was lodged in there somewhere.
You’re dying of dehydration. Again.
He blinked.
There, not fifty paces ahead, a karpan hunched in the sand, the front flaps tied back. A man sat within, eyeing Jateko with interest. The tribal scarring ridged across his face and scalp where the skin had been slashed open, peeled back and filled with sand, marked him as an Etsaiaren warrior of some notoriety. When he stood, it was like he unfolded in one smooth movement. He walked like he barely touched the sand, like he floated above it. Perfect. Poised.
Gogoko kind of moved like that.
Not quite like that.
The man, eyeing the horse with some distaste, approached and stood beside Tod who had stopped walking of his own accord. “You followed us.”
“You took my friend,” answered Jateko, looking down at the warrior and realizing how short the man was.
Just ride straight into their camp. Brilliant.
“The hilen deabru?”
“She says she isn’t—”
The man cut him off with little more than a frown and gestured at a pile of sand beside the karpan. “There it is.” he said, tilting his head to one side.
Jateko squinted at the unmoving lump in the sand. “Is she alive?”
“Such things never die.”
“Good. I want her back.”
“No.”
Jateko decided to try again. “I am Jateko,” he said, in his biggest deepest voice which didn’t sound nearly as big and deep as he hoped. He tried to swallow, to find some saliva, and click went his throat. Then he toppled off Tod, landing with a pained grunt on already bruised ribs.
The short man turned away. “Gazte!” He bellowed at the tent. “Come kill this idiot. He has a nice knife.”
For some reason this reminded Jateko of the words zama gurtza in the ancient language. It had something to do with collecting things left behind by the gods.
As Jateko pushed himself to his feet and tried to brush the sand from his blood-caked robes, a young man, showing only a few of the ridged scars, exited the karpan and examined him with a critical eye.
“He doesn’t look like much,” said Gazte.
Several other men exited the tent and stood watching.
“Looks can be deceiving,” the short one said. “Though in this case, you are correct.”
That’s Abiega!
“No, he’s too young,” said Jateko.
“He’s sun-addled,” said the young man with a look of disgust. “There is no honour in killing a defenceless idiot.”
“Honour, no,” said the short warrior. “But there is a nice knife.”
No, the short one.
“Abiega’s a midget?” Jateko laughed, feeling dizzy.
The short man turned back to Jateko, his face a mask that would impress a rock. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” said Jateko. “Someone told me you were Abiega Guerrero.”
“Someone?” the short man asked, glancing around with a look of mild perplexity.
“You can’t be Abiega. You’re a scrawny little midget,” said Jateko.
“Never mind, Gazte,” said the short man, waving the youth back. “I’ll kill him myself.”
It’s Abiega. You’re dead.
“Really?” Jateko asked.
Yes.
“Yes,” said Abiega. “I’m really going to kill you.”
Jateko grabbed for Zerfall’s knife tucked in his belt and fumbled it, dropping it at his feet.
By Harea you are the clumsiest oaf I have ever met.
Jateko stared at the knife for a moment before looking up to meet Abiega’s eyes.
Click went his throat.
“Well?” Abiega asked. “Are you going to pick that up?”
Jateko licked his lips with a tongue like the inside of an old sandal and glanced again at the knife. “If I do, are you going to kill me?” None of this felt real.
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
Abiega’s eyes narrowed to thin, angry slits.
“Thought so,” said Jateko. He licked his lips again, his tongue, impossibly, even drier than before. Click. “Can I have some water first?”
