And I’d hate for her to think me rude. I also hated Bralston to think me a mass murderer. It seems reasonable that I should be allowed at least a day between murders.
He twitched and the Long, Slow Kiss came whistling out, eager and ready.
You’ve killed more in a day before, you know. Pirates, frogmen . . . you might not have the highest score, of course, but you’ve definitely been in the running.
He pulled it back in, silenced its scraping protest with a quiet click.
See, that’s kind of the thing: they aren’t points. Or they shouldn’t be, at least. You shouldn’t be trying to justify this. You murdered thousands, sure, but those were thousands of eyes you didn’t have to look into. This is different. These ones . . . hers . . . they’ve seen you. They know you. Too well.
Twitch. It came out.
That’s kind of what they look to you for, though, isn’t it?
Pull. It went back in.
They ask too much of you. If they knew what you’ve done—
Twitch.
And why don’t they? Oh, right. Because if you tell them, they’ll always be bringing that up whenever you’re in an argument. “Oh yeah?” they’ll say. “Well, at least I didn’t inadvertently cause the deaths of four hundred wailing children and the rapes of their mothers.” And, really, what kind of retort is there for that?
Pull.
Don’t be stupid. They’re far more likely to kill you for it. Then you’ll go to hell, where you belong, and suffer for all eternity for it.
Twitch.
Would they, though? Kataria and Gariath haven’t even heard of Cier’Djaal. They wouldn’t even care. Dreadaeleon is barely aware of an existence beyond himself. Lenk probably would take offense.
Pull.
Of course, Lenk also just tried to cauterize his own wound to see if it would hurt. Does his opinion really matter?
Twitch.
So that leaves . . .
He looked up. The village of Teji was quiet. The Owauku and Gonwa milled about, not paying attention to him as he sat beside the hut that held his prisoner. Not a sign of pink skin or blue robe in sight.
Huh.
Pull.
She usually comes around just as I’m thinking of her. Well, I suppose that would get a bit predictable after—
“Hey.”
Ah, there we are.
He looked up, flashing disinterest at Asper as she stood over him. “Hello.”
“The others have left,” she said. “Just about half an hour ago.”
“You didn’t try to—”
“I did. Not hard. Lenk says he should be back in a few days, assuming all goes well.”
“He just gave himself a rampaging infection and fell into babbling hysterics for the thousandth time,” Denaos said. “How could it not go well with that kind of intellect in charge?”
“He was . . . under stress,” she said. “I’m just glad we were there to act when we did.”
“You’re glad?”
“More than I would have been if he tried to do it on his own.”
“Well, naturally. Him acting like a feebleminded toddler must appeal strongly to whatever matronly instincts have been rattling around inside your pelvis for the past ten years.”
“Yes, I have a penchant for associating with men who act like children on a regular basis, apparently.” She glanced to the hut’s door. “Is it done, then?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m sitting out here, not covered in blood and not breathing hard. Because the she-beast inside just sighed and accepted that it was her time.”
“I assumed it would be quick. Cold-blooded murder tends to be, I’ve heard.”
“You’re right, I ought to just untie her. It’s not like she can do a lot after you ruined her arm, right?”
She turned a glower upon him. He shrugged.
“You wanted to talk about it,” he said.
“Not now,” she replied sharply. “And with you, not ever.” Her gaze returned to the hut. “Has she been given last rites?”
“Has the rampaging crazy woman that calls the Gods ‘invisible skycreatures’ been given last rites?”
“It’s likely more apparent to those with more sense than sarcasm, but last rites doesn’t have to be all about the Gods,” she said. “She might have last words. She might have a last request.”
“She likely has both, and I guarantee that both of them consist of ‘bend over,’ ‘sword,’ and ‘jam in your rectum.’” He waved at the door. “By all means, though. Go crazy. Maybe she’ll repent and cover herself with the holy cloth and you two can go deliver cattle together or something.”
She split her gaze between the door and the rogue, making certain neither went wanting for contempt before she finally spat on the earth at his feet.
“I don’t waste my time,” she said, “for any man, woman, or god.”
She turned on her heel and stormed off, disappearing into the village and scattering lizardmen before her. He clicked his tongue and looked back down to his blade, feeling it twitch inside its sheath, against his wrist, trying to come out all on its own.
Lenk’s not wrong, you know, he told himself. Even if she could never lift a blade again, it’s not like she doesn’t have it coming. The same could be said of you, of course, and it would be an insult to ethics if you didn’t cut your own throat after hers.
He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath.
But that’s why Lenk told you to do it, isn’t it? Ethics are not a problem for you.
He stood and let the blade hang from his hand as he turned to the door.
Not a lot of use in denial, is there?
He paused, ear twitching. He heard Asper coming, but didn’t bother to move. She roughly shoved him aside, cursing angrily above her breath.
“Quarter of an hour,” she said. “After that, come in.”
Shove past her, he told himself. When that didn’t happen, he insisted. Go in there and open the longface’s throat in front of her. Then confess. Then get your last rites and die. When he stayed still, he cursed himself. You’re not making this easier by letting her delay you, you know. This is not a particularly big blessing.
It was not. It was just enough to permit him the will to turn about and saunter toward the village, already thinking which lizardman might still have enough good will or fear of him to part with a drink. A blessing; small, ultimately meaningless and more than a little harmful.
Denial often was.
A spark. A jolt. A quick jab with a needle, just enough to jerk her out of the day-long stupor. Just enough to speak a few short words in a language only he spoke, only she understood. They flashed across her mind and then were gone.
“About time,” she muttered.
Semnein Xhai rolled her neck, heard it return to life with a satisfying crack. She tugged at her bonds, felt them tight but weak. Her arm was mangled, but it was her arm, and its muscles twitched and creaked under her skin, hungry and angry and other words she didn’t know that translated to “kill them all.”
Her ears pricked up. She heard voices. Real ones, this time: the weak and airy exhales of breath of words that she hadn’t felt in her head. One voice something quiet and meek and trying to pretend it wasn’t; the overscum’s. Another voice, something cold and hard like a piece of metal; his.
His voice, hard and cold and trying to convince itself it wasn’t. His knives, unashamed and bold and everything he should have been. His feet, hurrying toward her. His hand, reaching through.
No, not his hand. Not him that came through. And, at the sight of what did come through, Xhai remembered one more word that translated to “kill.”
“You.”
Everything about the overscum leaked weakness. It seeped out of her eyes. It shook out of her trembling hands. Xhai knew this because she could sense the fear, the hesitation that came from those who thought there was more to them than decaying flesh and dying breath.
The overscum knew it as much as she did; that much was obvious by the fact that she sat herself down forcefully before the netherling. She moved with what she knew wasn’t purpose, stared with what she knew wasn’t courage.
She was lying to herself, trying to hide a weakness that she couldn’t hide behind a stare she knew wasn’t cold, a stare she offered everywhere but Xhai’s milk-white eyes. She directed the fake sternness to a purple forehead, to a long chin, to a sharp cheekbone. Never once to the eyes; purple and pink skin alike knew the facade would shatter into tiny, useless pieces.
The overscum’s bones to follow in kind.
“I am here . . .” Asper paused a hair too long between words. “To deliver you your last rites.”
Xhai stared blankly at her. This one wasn’t worthy of her hate.
“To permit you the opportunity,” the overscum continued, “to express remorse and penitence before myself and your—” she paused, catching a word in her throat, “—self for the sins you’ve committed and the lives you’ve stolen.”
Xhai blinked.
“If you’ve anything to say on—”
“Send in the male.”
“The—” The overscum stuttered, recoiled, looked almost offended. “Who? Denaos?”
“He doesn’t need a name. Send him in.” She tilted her head up, offering a sneer the overscum wasn’t worthy of. “You aren’t going to be the one to kill me.”
“Well, no, I’m . . . I’m here to offer you—”
“I don’t need that, either.”
“Well, everyone is given the chance to express remorse.”
“Over lives stolen,” Xhai said. “I heard you. You’re not stupid because you’re wrong, but you are wrong because you’re stupid. Lives cannot be stolen.”
At this, the overscum’s eyes narrowed, forced shock into anger that drifted dangerously close to Xhai’s eyes.
“So, what? They simply gave their lives to you?” she asked. “Did they just find your utter lack of a soul so overwhelmingly charming?”
“Lives are given the moment you come out shrieking and covered in blood. Whether or not anyone takes it is up to you.”
“That’s insane.”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
“Figuratively or—” Asper rose, throwing her hands up and turning away. “No, never mind. I’m not going to listen to your poison anymore.”
“Then even you think you shouldn’t be here. Bring me the male.”
“NO.”
The overscum whirled. Eyes met. Crushed against each other. The overscum’s did not shatter. The weakness was still there, of course, growing weaker with each moment. It trembled and quivered and grew moist like any weak thing would, but it did not turn away.
Still, Xhai didn’t really get angry until she started talking.
“I don’t claim to understand him, what he does, or why he does it,” Asper spoke, the quaver of her voice held down, if not smothered, by anger. “I don’t claim to understand why a man like him even exists, but it’s not about him. It’s about the fact that he doesn’t want to kill you.”
Something hot and angry formed at the base of Xhai’s skull and chewed its way down her spine. It gnawed. Inside her head, making her eyes narrow. Inside her heart, making it thunder. Inside her arms, making muscles twitch and crave freedom, to crave the feel of a hundred frail bones gingerly in eight purple fingers and start bending and not stop until this weak and stupid overscum could smell her own filth while it was still inside her.
It made Xhai twitch, squirm, made her turn her gaze away. An uncomfortable feeling. She was netherling: born from nothing, to return to nothing, with nothing between. She had killed before. As a matter of nature.
That she wanted to kill this one, that she wanted this one to suffer and die over words, weak and stupid and moronic and filthy words . . .
There was a word to describe what she was feeling, probably. Maybe there was a word for what she was going to do to the overscum as the bonds groaned behind her and threatened to break against her wrists.
“I shouldn’t care,” Asper said, turning away again to piece her stare together. “I don’t care. You deserve to die. He should kill you. I should have killed you back on the . . . on the . . .”
She shuddered, bit it back.
“And I don’t know why you’re not dead. But you’re not. And whoever kills you, it can’t be this way. It can’t just be with a sigh, like it was going to happen anyway.” She drew in a deep breath, held it. “So, give me this. Give me just one reason, one lie to tell me that, at some point, it might not have happened like this.”
Sunlight seeped in through the reed walls. Sand shifted under Asper’s feet as she took a hesitant step in place. Xhai stared. Neither of them offered an answer. Asper released her breath, lowered her head.
“So, that’s that, then. This was always how it was going to be.”
“No.”
Asper turned.
Xhai lamented, absently, that she only saw the overscum’s stare shatter for a moment before the rest of the face followed under a purple fist. But that was an instant, when confidence and coldness broke and left only weakness to be struck to the dirt, that was enough to make her smile.
“This was going to be easy,” Xhai said, rubbing the knuckles of her ruined hand. The bones creaked under the marred purple skin; maimed, but still offering cheerful, angry little pops. “This was going to mean nothing.”
Wide eyes betrayed fear. Not enough to stop Asper’s feet, however, as she scrambled to them and ran for the door. Xhai didn’t bother to chase. There was no need.
Not when there was a perfectly good, if slightly stained, chair right behind her.
Her hand slid smoothly to it. As smoothly as it sailed through the air. It exploded against the overscum’s back, sent her sprawling to the earth in a shower of splinters. She rolled, groaning, still clawing for the door; not dead.
Good. She didn’t deserve it. Not this fast. Not this way.
Not when others would want her alive.
Xhai strode over to her, placed a foot between her shoulder blades and took a fistful of her hair. The overscum’s shriek wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of her neck creaking as she drew it back. Her neck was close to snapping, close enough to let Xhai look down upon her bloodied nose, her shattered stare, the weakness leaking out of her face.
Close.
“But this . . . this has meaning now,” Xhai said. “This is something that’s going to hurt. This is . . .” She narrowed her eyes, gave a stiff jerk to the overscum’s hair. The ensuing shriek didn’t give her any pleasure. “He would know.”
The netherling’s arm snapped, brought the woman’s face against the earth. The dirt ate the scream, ate her struggle, ate everything but the overscum’s breath. She lay in her grave barely dug, unmoving. But alive.
“There’s a reason for this, too,” Xhai muttered. She seized the overscum by her belt, hoisted her effortlessly up and over her shoulder. “And that’s because Master Sheraptus wants you alive.”
She pushed the leather flap aside, striding into the sunlight. Those Green Things saw her, screamed, scattered; weak things that didn’t matter. Her eyes were for the distant shore, the blue seas and the dark shapes at the very edge of the horizon.
Black ships bearing kindred crew: those who had felt the same spark at the back of their head, who had heard the same call from their Master. They came for her. They came at his command.
As netherlings did, as she did, without ever asking why.
“Theory,” he said softly.
Dreadaeleon held up his hands to the light, inspected them. He squinted, trying to see the blood rushing through his fingers.
An erratic, convoluted mess, the human body was. The Venarium might call it a well-made machine to make themselves sound enlightened, but no one would look at the maps of veins and slabs of sinew and call it coherent. They might say that magic came from the same machine, followed the same laws, but no one knew exactly how it worked.
If they did, Dreadaeleon wouldn’t be dying as he spoke. “We acknowledge that Venarie follows rules, regulations,” he continued to the empty air of the village. “We acknowledge that it demands an exchange: power for power. That latter power must come from the human body, and we acknowledge that it does not come cheaply, hence the laws that govern its use.
“And acknowledging that the body and the Venarie it channels are one, we must also acknowledge that the body governs Venarie as much as Venarie governs body.” He smacked his lips, his tongue felt dry. “And in our hubris, we so often forget that there is much of the body that we do not know. Dozens of processes flow through us, the same that govern emotional flux, can affect the channeling of Venarie.
“Is it not true that a wizard using magic in fury is misguided and reckless? Is it not true that sorrow and despair can inhibit the flow of magic? Is that not why we value discipline and control? Perhaps it is these things, these . . . these emotions that—” he blinked, his eyes stung with bitter moisture, “—excuse me, these emotional numbnesses that can cause the Decay, a stagnation of magical flow and maybe it’s that . . . that same emotion that can cure or . . . or . . .”
His eyes were swimming in their sockets. His breath was wet and viscous, seeping out in tiny sobs from behind the thick lump that had lodged itself in his throat.
“I just . . . I don’t want to die,” he said softly. “I don’t. I’ve got a lot of things to do here and . . . there’s this girl and other stuff. And I just can’t die. And I can’t go back to the Venarium, either, and wait to die there. Just . . . just let me try something. Let me figure this out and . . . and . . .”
He drew in a sharp breath. He shut his eyes tight. He bowed stiffly at the waist.
“Thank you, in advance, for your consideration of this theory.”
He opened his eyes. A bulbous yellow eye the size of a grapefruit looked back at him. After a moment, the Owauku’s other eye rotated in its socket to give him the attention of both. Perhaps he had stopped paying attention after the first sentence and kept one eye politely on the boy while the other swiveled away to find something more interesting.
Hard to blame him, isn’t it? he asked himself. Look at him. A walking beer keg with two giant eyeballs. His day is probably bursting with excitement. This was a stupid and humiliating exercise to begin with. To continue would only be—
