A Blight of Blackwings

by Kevin Hearne

  “So you will either be blessed or—more likely, and I can’t emphasize this enough—stung to death,” I tell them. “Either way, it’s not going to be painless. You can change your mind anytime from now until I escort you to the hive. And we won’t be able to have everyone go today. There are simply too many of you. This will take a while, so I urge you to be patient and to think well on this.”

  I expect to lose some at that point, but only three change their minds. And then, in subsequent days, we add five more.

  But the success rate holds true. Twelve percent. Out of two hundred forty-two eventual seekers, two hundred thirteen are sent to Kalaad in the sky. But twenty-nine are blessed with the Sixth Kenning.

  A middle-aged woman becomes a friend to sedge pumas, and her knees feel a lot better.

  A young woman I’ve seen before begging in the River District discovers that she has an affinity for khek foxes.

  And Jahi, who has been homeless for so long and has survived because he was willing to be a scavenger, is now a herald of blackwings. He’s a little bit disappointed, I can tell, though I can’t imagine why. Once the seeking is finished and I have the chance, I take him to the Red Pheasant Teahouse for lunch. My hive is going to move into the tree permanently, at the invitation of Jes Dan Kuf and Mak Fin ben Fos. My queen will be safe there and help the tree and the surrounding Fornish vegetation.

  “What is your problem?” I ask him. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. Your face is drooping like a melting scoop of ice cream.”

  Jahi looks a lot better than he did a few weeks ago. The bruising is mostly gone, and he’s gained a tiny bit of weight from having somewhat regular meals. But he grimaces and takes a sip of his tea. When he sets down his cup with a porcelain clink, he confesses. “The problem is nobody likes blackwings. Nobody’s going to want me around.”

  “I want you around, Jahi. And blackwings may have a bad reputation, but they’re actually wonderful.”

  “They’re…what are you talking about?”

  “I like them.”

  “Stop it.”

  “No, listen. Without blackwings and other scavengers, the dead would pose a major health problem to us. Lots of diseases could take hold. We don’t have any hygienists in town anymore, you know. Blackwings are literally saving us from disease. Most people don’t appreciate that, because it’s easier to appreciate defeating an evil rather than to recognize and applaud the absence of it, but I do. I get it. Blackwings are important. Important like bees.”

  “What?”

  “Without bees we don’t have food. Without blackwings we don’t have our health.”

  “But…okay, sure, good for the blackwings, but how can I be useful, Hanima? I’m not going to eat the dead.”

  “Oh! I see where your head’s at now. Well, you can identify where there’s a problem. If lots of animals die in a certain spot and it’s not from predators, it’s probably something we should be concerned about. And I think you’ll find other ways to be useful as you start figuring out what they know and what they can do for us. They’re smart birds. Regardless: You are a beast caller, Jahi. You are in the clave and will be paid for what you do, whatever that turns out to be. And you are my friend.”

  He sniffs, picks up his teacup, and I can tell he’s welling up. He gives me a strangled “Thanks,” and I smile at him.

  “I am nothing now but love and honey, Jahi. You and I know how hard it is to live. We have slept in the mud while the viceroy ate rich food with his rich friends and laughed richly at their rich jokes. So we are going to show our city the compassion for people that our leaders never did. Compassion is the only moral use of power.”

  “The only moral use?”

  “We can argue gently about it if you want. It is a fine day for an argument, and we have fancy cake on the table, and this lovely Fornish tea, and we are friends.”

  “No, I don’t mean to argue. I just wonder where you heard that. From Tamhan?”

  “From myself. That is a thing I just said. A thing I believe.”

  Jahi’s jaw drops, and then he shuts it with an audible click and leans forward. “Hanima, let’s have that gentle argument. But only as a sauce to your fine main dish of an idea. Because I think it is the key to understanding the heart of the Sixth Kenning and whatever deity is behind it all. It is the answer to Kalaad in the sky, who cares nothing for the meat moving underneath the sun. It is the foundation of a new faith.”

  “What?”

  “Hanima, I think you may be a prophet.”

  “I—no. What? Jahi, no. I am not the religious type.”

  “And no wonder, when Kalaad has done nothing for you or anyone you love! Someone else has blessed you; I think that’s undeniable. And it should be clear that we need—or at least the people need—a new identity. Because it is not only here that Kalaad has failed us: Think of the people of Hashan Khek, who died fighting Gorin Mogen at the Godsteeth. Think of the burning of Talala Fouz. Think of all the wretched people living in every Nentian city under this system that benefits only a few. Our country is ready for this. And you are the perfect person to deliver this message.”

  “Whose message, though, Jahi, if not mine? I’m not a goddess, so far as I know. Nobody is going to worship Hanima of the Single Boob.”

  “Don’t be cute about this. You’ve been blessed by something divine. And so have I.”

  “Fine. I’ll grant you that. But who’s responsible? Kind of falls apart without a god’s hook to hang our hats on.”

  Tamhan appears at that point, beaming at us and indicating an empty chair at our table. “May I join you?” He’s looking spiffy today, though he kind of does all the time. He dresses simply with understated class, usually just two colors, and I like that his boots and belt are scuffed. They’re high quality—I’d never be able to afford them—but at least he wears them out. He’s not a super pretty boy like Abhi, but he’s pleasant to look at, confident, and clever. And I think he finally got some sleep. He’s running to be the city minister, against some rich guy who keeps calling him a dumb kid. That argument falls apart as soon as Tamhan opens his mouth, so I’m not worried that the rich guy will win. Tamhan might be young, but he is anything but dumb.

  “Please,” Jahi says, and before Tamhan can even fully plant himself in the chair, he asks, “What do you think of the idea that compassion is the only moral use of power?”

  “Well, I…I rather like that. I mean, I have to think about it, because only is a pretty restrictive word, but it sounds like it’s a quote from some religion. Which faith is that from?”

  Jahi points at me. “Hers. She just made it up.”

  Tamhan lights up. “Hey, yeah?”

  His expression tells me right away that if I don’t do this, he’s going to make someone else do it. “Oh, balls. This is never going to work, you guys.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are very shortly going to have to kill people or be killed ourselves. There’s absolutely no way we win our freedom here without violence. As we speak, there have to be troops on the way from Batana Mar Din or perhaps from farther away. They might even be here in the next few days. I can’t preach compassion for everyone except in cases of people who disagree with me.”

  “Defending yourself and your city from oppression is a compassionate use of power.”

  “Oh, no. And where does that stop, Tamhan? Will we then go to war in city after city in the name of compassion? Killing people for what we deem to be their own good? Because that would hurt my heart.”

  “No. The key word in what I said is defending. We must have a strong defense as a deterrent. But we will never project our power.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. We will not conquer through war. We will conquer by living so well that everyone wants what we�
�re having. But first we must prove that we can keep Khul Bashab safe from outside threats.”

  “Look, Tamhan, you say that, and I trust you. But I don’t trust who comes after you. They’ll find a way to twist it. To corrupt it until they’re stomping on other people in the name of compassion.”

  “That is a valid concern. The faith of Kalaad has certainly been used to justify the heinous policies of the current regime. Only one way to avoid it.”

  I wince and steal a wistful glance at the stairs leading to the exit. “This is a trap, isn’t it? You’ve outflanked me.”

  “We need a prophet to demonstrate and spell out precisely how power is to be used compassionately.”

  “Balls. I knew it. You’re shits, the pair of you. I love you forever, you understand. But you’re shits.”

  “Behold the inspired words of a prophet!” Jahi says.

  I throw up my hands in exasperation. “A prophet of whom?”

  “Well, it’s kind of your job to tell us, isn’t it?” he replies.

  “I’m sure divine inspiration will visit you soon,” Tamhan adds.

  “I take it back. I hate you both.”

  They laugh at me, but I hear the compassion in it. They love me too.

  * * *

  —

  Hanima’s conversation with Jahi was immediately exciting to me because her words rang true to my ears. I wanted to grab Fintan by the tunic before he departed the wall and shout in his face, “Tell me she’s still alive!” Because I needed her to be.

  And even if she didn’t have answers to the question of divine inspiration, thanks to Gondel Vedd’s tales we could take some educated guesses. Raena, or the Eculan deity Meso, might have had something to do with the discovery of the Sixth Kenning.

  “Fintan—” I began.

  “No, I’m not going to tell you what happened next,” he said, flashing a grin at me. “Not now, anyway.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask that. I have a Raelech religion question for you.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yeah? Okay. Want to go have a pint at Master Yöndyr’s?”

  “Sure.”

  He was considerate and took the steps down slowly with me as I favored my knee.

  “What I’d like to know is if Hanima’s idea about compassion being the only moral use of power fits in with the teachings of Raena.”

  “That is an excellent question! Raena’s scrolls never say that—nor do the texts of any other faiths I know—but I do believe it is in keeping with her teachings. There is no hunting for sport allowed, for example. If we are to take a creature’s life, then we must make use of all of it and waste nothing. She condemns all trophy hunting or trapping merely for fur and so on. If we can’t use the entire thing, Raena says, we shouldn’t kill it.”

  “Okay, good enough. But what—oh. I’ll wait.”

  We had reached the bottom of the stairs and Fintan had to respond to people calling to him and wanting a quick word, all the way to the Siren’s Call.

  It was still open, serving mostly fish like everyplace else, but Master Yöndyr still had some charcuterie and cheese on hand and loaves of bread for dipping in olive oil. He confessed that this was going to be the last of it, though. He’d outlasted his competitors by a few days with his stores, but even he would be serving nothing but fish and beer after this.

  “So what I wanted to know,” I said, attempting to pick up where I’d left off, “is how Raena’s edicts about war match up with the idea that compassion is the only moral use of power.”

  “Ah, that’s trickier. But still compatible, I think. First there’s her edict that our armed forces be used primarily for defense, with very few exceptions.”

  “That’s the rough part, isn’t it? Because there are exceptions. Recent ones, like Möllerud. That was a Raelech army attacking outside the borders of Rael.”

  “Yes. And the allowed exception is an existential threat to our nation. The Triune Council agreed that the Eculans were such a threat, since they had wiped out one of our cities and many more of yours, and there is no indication that they won’t try again.”

  “What other exceptions are there?”

  “Soldiers may fight as mercenaries. There are plenty of codes and laws and things about becoming a mercenary or hiring them, but of course people find ways to twist those. That is not in keeping with Hanima’s idea, I freely admit. While I suppose mercenaries could be hired and directed to behave for compassionate ends, that is not the typical way in which they are employed.”

  I had to bid Fintan farewell soon after that; the place was getting crowded, and many others were vying for his attention.

  I used up the last of my bread and upon inspecting my food stores realized I had a few days’ worth of victuals left, nothing more. And that was counting on eating out with Fintan—a prospect that itself was threatened now. While perhaps better off by a few days, I was essentially in the same boat as everyone else.

  One of the things I realized I’d been missing in my hours at the refugee kitchen was how people were coping. I arrived after breakfast was served and departed before lunch, so I never really saw the lines, how people behaved in them, or how hollow their cheeks were. I thought I knew what hunger was—I had the picture of it in my head—but I hadn’t truly felt it yet. I could feel sympathy but hadn’t arrived at empathy yet.

  “What was breakfast today?” I asked the chef.

  “Hard-boiled eggs for children. Fish stew for the adults.”

  She had me gutting more fish for the afternoon’s stew.

  “Do they complain a lot?”

  “Naw. They know it won’t do them any good. I’m serving up what’s available, and they understand that. But they look haunted. And lots of them are talking about leaving now. I think relocating would be a good idea.”

  “Do you ever run out of food before you get to the end of the line?”

  “I did most every day, except for this morning. I think a number of people have left already. Caught a boat headed up to Festwyf.”

  That still did not prepare me for what happened when I met Fintan for lunch at the dockside fishblade. It was busy as before, but as we got into line, we could see that there was a Raelech ship in port that looked like it had some significant cargo. It wasn’t a fishing boat. I wondered aloud what it might be, hopeful that it would be some much-needed food for the city, and I was not the only one who was thinking such thoughts. As our queue crept forward, we could see a crowd of people forming around that ship, and soon it started to move and undulate—or, rather, the bodies did, the heads bobbing and weaving like they were enjoying a concert at first. But then it became clear that the people on the outskirts of the crowd were trying to see what was happening nearer the ship, and what was happening was the beginning of a riot.

  That was a ship full of food. And there were a lot of hungry people—people who hadn’t been so fortunate as I, who might have missed some meals already—who were determined to eat some of it before it got distributed, out of their reach.

  On the one hand I disapproved of the violence. It is incredibly easy to disapprove of violence when one has eaten and expects to eat again soon. But I imagined I’d be down there too, participating with gusto, if I hadn’t eaten in a few days and couldn’t afford to stand in line to buy food, like I was doing right that second.

  Still, it wasn’t excusable or permissible; some mariners needed to get down there quickly, and we did see a few running toward the disturbance. They probably wouldn’t be enough.

  Fintan turned to me. “Have you ever seen something like this happen before?”

  “No. It’s pretty bad.”

  “Should we…”

  “What? Get in the way?”

  “Well, no. But…”

  “I’m up for doing whatever I can to help,” I
explained. “I’m just not sure what we can do.”

  “I might be able to demand that they stop or something. Broadcast the instructions of the authorities.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s good.”

  “Shall we?”

  “Yes.”

  We left the queue, forgoing lunch, and strode with purpose toward the expanding riot—others were streaming in, like us—looking for someone in Brynt military uniform who might be able to establish some control.

  As we neared the edge of the crowd, it parted before us; a group of armed men were shoving and knocking people aside. There were six of them, all Raelechs in leather armor, and they had bags of rice and flour under one arm while they swung their stone-lined staves with the other or kicked knees to make people get out of the way. I winced at that—knee pain is something I know all too well.

  “What kind of shit is this?” Fintan muttered. His eyes were focused on their Jereh bands. “Master soldiers. What are they— Oh. They’re mercenaries.”

  “Mercenaries?” I said. “As in someone’s paid them to steal supplies off that ship?”

  “Yes.” The group had won free of the crowd and were now approaching us. Fintan called out to them, perhaps using a bit of his kenning to ensure that he was heard.

  “Master Soldiers, I am Fintan, master bard of the poet goddess Kaelin. Tell me who has employed you.”

  Their eyes flicked in our direction, landed on Fintan, and six visages scowled at us, and a couple of them shook their heads.

  “Raelech law mandates that you reveal your employer upon request. I have seen your faces and will not forget them. Tell me now, and truly, or be banned from Raena’s hall.”