Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 21
Howard’s fit was immediate. Well, almost. First, he asked Rapunzel to go back to her room and take the day off as a reward for being useful. Then he yelled for LeFlay, who always knew when he would be needed, and had been standing outside the door all along—both waiting to be called and listening in to the conversation. He entered instantly. Then, the fit started.
“I can’t believe she’s back!” said Howard, breaking anything within reach. “She was dead, goddammit! Dead!” He tossed a porcelain figurine across the room. The figurine landed on its foot, on the rug, and refused to break.
“Well, calm down first,” said LeFlay. “It’s never been a good thing to jump to anger. Plus, we had heard the rumors about her being alive. I told you myself, but you refused to believe them. Now here you have it. Not only is she still alive, but she is raising an army to defend Xianuu from our attacks.”
“This can’t be happening. It makes no sense!” Howard was close to crying. “It’s completely out of the realm of the possible.” He grabbed a rather expensive cigar, lit it, and started smoking. Smoking calmed him during these particular moments.
“Of course it is possible, master. It’s not uncommon for gods to meddle in mortal affairs. Did you really expect Xianuu to just watch us raise an army against him and do nothing? I’m sure you know better than that.”
“That’s exactly what he should have done!” He kept himself from stating the obvious reason: Xianuu didn’t exist. It was all a sham, a ploy to make money because the best way to get rich was to start a religion. But he couldn’t tell LeFlay that. He’d have to come up with an excuse.
Howard remained silent for a moment. Then he threw his cigar into the cigar bin. It just wasn’t helping him. “Look, I know Xianuu. I’ve studied him most of my life. He just doesn’t care about what people do. He’s…he’s completely sure of his victory. He doesn’t need to go around punishing people for this or that, for he knows they will never, ever win. It’s not a problem he needs to face, so…”
“So we’re doing something right. He has paid us attention because we’re the first group ever to get anywhere near victory against him. Can we agree on this?” LeFlay got up and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “Let’s just calm down, and let Antoine deal with this. After all, when have I let you down?”
“Yes, I think we can.” Howard waited for LeFlay to pour him a glass of whiskey, then drank it in a single gulp. LeFlay was amazing like that. He always knew how to calm him down.
“As for the problem with the…deserter.” LeFlay seemed cautious, which was good. The deserter was, after all, his adopted daughter. And LeFlay had very…unorthodox ways of dealing with deserters. Or with anyone at all.
“I’ve known her for decades,” said Howard, while LeFlay poured him another glass. “She’s harmless…mostly. I don’t think she’ll do anything to us, you know. Not to me. Not to her father, who helped her when she needed help the most. I think we could leave them alone, let them be happy and…”
“And if they attack us? Have you ever seen a peaceful resistance? They want to destroy us, Howard. They won’t attain that without attacking us.”
“If they attack us…” Howard was already on his third glass of whiskey. It was hard to think in that state. “We’ll have to…punish them!” He slurred his words. “But oh, how… How could I ever punish her?”
LeFlay put a hand on Howard’s shoulder. “If worse comes to worse… You let me deal with her, will you? I’ll spare you the pain of having to deal with such a…hurtful problem.”
“Yes… You will help me, won’t you? I hurt. I hurt a lot.”
“Indeed you do. Now, rest here a bit, will you? There’s no need for you to get any more stressed than you already are. Just calm down, and let me deal with this. This…maid girl, she might think she’ll destroy us, but it isn’t over until the fat lady sings, or is it?”
LeFlay left the room, closing the door behind him. Howard was alone with his beloved whiskey. Quackologists were reprimanded for drinking or smoking most of the time, for they were signs of weakness. However, he was the leader and he could be as weak as he wanted. Anyway, nobody had to know of this.
He had a lot to think about. LeFlay had handled the situation perfectly, but there was something about it all… He hadn’t told him Quackology was a farce, of course, but somehow it had always seemed as if he knew. And Howard, he was fine with others knowing the truth as long as they didn’t hurt his business.
The problem with LeFlay was, he did things. Many things. Most of them the kind of things decent people wouldn’t. And he did them all in the name of Quackology, because objectionable things sometimes needed doing in order to beat Xianuu, but…
Howard shook his head. He couldn’t bear thinking what the personal implications would be if LeFlay happened to have known the truth all along. He spent a while staring at the city, particularly at a storm that raged on the horizon. From where he was he could discern a kite flying under it. Every single flash of lightning would strike it, without missing. How odd… he thought, before falling asleep thanks to the influence of the liquor.
Madame Xantiplam’s throne room was uncharacteristically quiet. The Dominatrix had spent the better part of a week in quiet contemplation, only speaking in order to make demands and even keeping the executions down to a bare minimum. It made the ambiance strange and, oddly enough, more stressful than usual: While everyone welcomed the more peaceful, less killy state the Dominion Fortress had entered, everyone was aware it wouldn’t last. Also, the older workers knew what a long silence coming from the Dominatrix usually meant: She was pondering something, and Madame Xantiplam wasn’t known for pondering without plotting on the side.
Moments like these were why people never complained about Madame Xantiplam being a loud, obnoxious bitch with a penchant for introducing her subjects to her menagerie of wild animals. It was better for her to be loud and kill several people a week than to only open her mouth once a month and have thousands killed as a result. Nobody liked a silent Dominatrix, for silence fostered ideas and her ideas were often insane.
Monday came, bringing with it reports of the Dominion Park meeting. Usually said reports came immediately after, but this had been an odd exception: Madame Xantiplam had decided to take the weekend off, something unheard of, to ponder issues of national security. This had been worrying. But also, Leggy had ended up completely smashed during the post-meeting celebration and had barely regained the ability to speak the night prior. Now both were fine and in working order, except for a nasty headache enacting an extended stay in Leggy’s head.
Which was business as usual, as far as he was concerned.
“How did that meeting go, agent?” said Madame Xantiplam. She had had her usual cup filled with cherries and sparkling wine for the occasion.
“It was… uh… It was a meeting about some religion, your Highness,” said Leggy. Madame Xantiplam’s cup made it difficult for him to concentrate. Its reflection caused his head to ache while the smell gave him the urge to take the cup off her hands and drink all the wine. It was a pretty bad idea, so he held off.
“That’s hardly newsworthy.”
“It’s difficult to explain…” It wasn’t so much difficult to explain as it was difficult to remember: It turned out having way too much beer after the meeting hadn’t been such a good idea, and his memories of the night were fragmented. Luckily, he had jotted down some of the events, and a part of his notebook had survived the binge. He grabbed a few jumbled pieces of paper and started trying to read from them, which was quite difficult. After all, trying to read something written by a person who wasn’t quite good at it while drunk wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. “There was this wo—we—wa—woman! There was a woman, yes.”
“Interesting.” Madame Xantiplam failed to feign any interest in the non-news, while her voice sounded just a little bit threatening.
With Madame Xantiplam, just a little bit was enough.
“She sad—saw—said! She said some…things,” Leggy felt his life was on the line. “There were some things she said… Quite a few things about a dog— Wait, no. About a god. Yes, that.”
Madame Xantiplam fixed him with a simple stare and arched one of her eyebrows. Then she went back to her cup.
Leggy put the papers back in his pocket and tried to recount what he remembered instead of wasting his time trying to read stuff. He had never understood why people liked reading so much anyway. “She said…she said she’s the daughter of some god? Said she spoke with him several times and stuff, it was quite original. She’s called to wage war against somebody, a group.” He tried to remember. He recalled a slew of flying monkeys coming in with crossbows and making everyone their slaves, but something told him that hadn’t happened. “I think she wanted to wage war against a religion, yes. Or a cult. Or something.”
“So she’s going against the Church of Quackology, what a surprise.” Madame Xantiplam’s voice expressed many emotions. Surprise wasn’t one of them. “Now, can you tell me of something, anything at all, that I didn’t already know from reading the bloody pamphlet? The way I see it, it doesn’t look like you went to the meeting at all.”
Leggy’s blood chilled. “I did!” he said, in much the way Madame Xantiplam would surely expect a guilty party to speak. “They, they chose a government or something and—”
“A…what?” The Dominatrix’s goblet fell to the floor, spilling its contents all over. Leggy felt like running up to lick the wine. He restrained himself, he was in enough danger already.
“These people, I think there were ten or twelve or something,” said Leggy. It was amazing how someone’s memory could be refreshed with a little threat or two to their life. “They said they were this woman’s, the maid, they called her… They said they were the inner circle of the Maid of New Wakilork.”
“And what does the maid want?” Madame Xantiplam’s voice sounded just a little less threatening.
“To…get rid of the church?”
The Dominatrix shook her head. It was obvious she had been hearing about that church for too long. In fact, Leggy expected she’d just wait until he was gone and then she’d assign the army to—
“Nobody there knows you’re a part of the secret service, or do they? I expect you didn’t tell them.”
“I… I didn’t.” Leggy couldn’t remember what he had done or said for most of the night. He hoped he hadn’t blown his own cover and that, if he had, he’d done so to someone just as drunk who wouldn’t remember anyway.
“Then you shall join that little group of hers. Agent Leggy. From this moment on, you’re in charge of the Secret Quackology initiative.”
The way she said it sounded like an honor…but it didn’t feel like one. It sounded dangerous, and Leggy wasn’t much of a fan of danger. “The…what?”
“You’re to become a part of that group, and you will lend them all the support you can. You’ll find out what their aims are and report to me.” She leaned forward on her throne. “If these people try to destroy the Church of Quackology, you’re to help them. Quackology is fostering ideas far too dangerous to my reign. However, if they even think of going against the Dominion at any point—”
“I’ll tell you immediately.” Leggy shouldn’t have interrupted the Dominatrix, but he felt the need to display instant loyalty. Hesitating in such moments could prove fatal.
“Indeed. Soon I’ll assign you a group, a small army if you will. All of them part of the Secret Service. They’re to act and present themselves as civilians. And they’re to join this group. Is this clear?”
Leggy gulped. This sounded like a bunch of responsibilities. He didn’t like responsibilities. He was allergic to them. “It is indeed,” he said. The phrase felt like signing his own death warrant.
“I expect your training as a secret agent will allow you to manage this group and make sure everything goes off smoothly for the Dominion. And remember: Your cover can’t be blown.”
“It won’t,” Leggy said, aware there was a chance he was lying. “I…I assure you that—”
“I know it won’t. There’s a reason I have the best Secret Service agents, and their training is flawless. You can go now.”
Leggy shrugged and walked out of the room, feeling worse than when he had gone in. He didn’t like these new tasks. He didn’t like being at the Dominatrix’s beck and call.
Also, he didn’t know why she expected him to be able to do anything at all. Nothing had ever been expected of him, and he enjoyed that. Sure, the Secret Service was supposed to be an elite corps with the best of the best, but that was something others did. He didn’t. He never had. He always thought he’d been allowed in because they were in dire need of a poor example to teach new recruits exactly what not to do. All in all, this looked like a disaster waiting to happen, and he had no way to avoid it.
He went his own way, feeling as if he had just been condemned to hang from his neck. The way things were going that sure was on his future.
As Leggy left the room, the Dominatrix stood up. “Reinstate my schedule,” she said to no one in particular but expecting to be heard by everyone. “I’m ready to dispense some much-needed justice upon my citizens.”
12
New Wakilork, as cities are known to possess, has a life of its own.
Not the kind of life that would allow it to sprout legs and run around the Neitherlands, although if New Wakilork could escape New Wakilork it would. Were it truly alive, it wouldn’t stand itself.
Instead, the city has the kind of life where its inhabitants learn to read the environment to know when things are going to happen. This is arguably an important skill to learn, since in the wrong place at the wrong time it could cost you dearly. Yet even then it isn’t only used for people to save their own lives.
It is also used for some of the noisier citizens to know where to be so they don’t miss a scandal.
When Annabella Bostwick arrived at the Church of Quackology Headquarters, quite a few people were casually standing in the streets outside the compound, not at all waiting for something interesting to happen.[32] She arrived on horseback, her inner circle following her closely in a half-moon, and what looked like an angry mob right behind them.
They were the saddest angry mob in town, for Annabella had promised that anyone who got rowdy without her consent would promptly be given reasons to get rowdy. Thus, the crowd brought with it no screams or chants or destruction of any kind. It was a sad sight, an unlikely one in a city where even birds were known for the occasional riot.[33]
Annabella’s horse stopped in front of the golden gates separating the street from the compound. The gates were closed, in an uncommon gesture from a church that billed itself as being always open. She stood there for a moment, staring at her surroundings while the gray sky told her that once again it was about to rain.
It was always about to rain in this city. No wonder hair salons never prospered.
She got off her horse and grabbed her new sword: A gleaning, gold-adorned claymore with a dual blade, a gift from a smith who had lost his wife to Quackology. She took a few steps and stopped right in front of the gates.
“Peter Howard.” Her voice boomed through the compound thanks to a little bit of magic. She wondered how the heroes of yore had managed to be heard by hundreds of people without it. “I challenge you to come out and face the truth.”
Nothing happened. There was nobody in the courtyard at the time, and it remained just as lonely and silent as before.
“Quackologists,” she called again, “I dare you to come out and defend the travesty of a religion you follow.”
Nobody came out.
Except for a tumbleweed. Tumbleweed is always on time.
Annabella coughed. “You’ve forced my hand,” she whispered. Magic made it so everyone could hear her whisper clearly.
Annabella grabbed the claymore with both hands and raised it above her head. She then brought it down against the chains keeping the gates closed. In a single blow they broke and the gates slammed open, allowing her to enter the compound.
Instead of allowing for the all-out invasion that many of her followers silently wished for, she took two steps into the courtyard then stopped.
Immediately after the main door opened two shifty-looking men walked out. They were too tall, too thin, and constantly rubbed their hands together.
“Miss Annabella Bostwick,” said man number one. His eyes seemed to be permanently semi-closed, and he always seemed to be looking sideways. “We’re the lawyers for the Church of Quackology.”
That about explained it.
“And we’re here to let you know you’re currently breaking and entering,” said man number two. He was identical to man number one.
“Since we don’t want any trouble,”
“We would like it if you turned around and left.”
“Please take your sad attempt at an angry mob with you.”
“We don’t need one,
“And if we did,”
“We’d be able to cook up something better than what you’ve brought.”
Man number two took out a rolled-up piece of paper from his shirt and gave it to her.
“Here’s a document warning you of what will happen if you don’t leave right now,” said man number one.
“With also a cease-and-desist letter regarding your adoration of Xianuu.”
“If you keep on breaking the law and attacking our religious freedom,”
“The Dominatrix will hear of this.”
The two men turned around and retreated to the safety of the main building.
Annabella wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but then again, that was about what one would expect from lawyers: Nobody understood them—not even other lawyers. That’s why they spent so long discussing how to interpret laws written by lawyers themselves.
Annabella sighed. “Peter Howard, Antoine LeFlay and other Quackologists: I have come to challenge you. I have come to demand that you show the people those abilities you boast about, the ones with which you say you’ll destroy Xianuu.”
