The boy glanced at the floor. “Forty-four,” he whispered, to no one in particular.
“I’m sorry.” Tanid bent down and started loading the sticks into the broken crate. The boy did the same, those strange eyes never meeting his. “Did you count them all? Forty-four, you say?”
“Forty-four,” the child intoned.
Tanid shifted slightly, so his right side was hidden from the boy’s sight, and then slipped a candle into his coat’s pocket. Then, as if nothing had happened, he helped clean up the mess.
“Forty-three,” the boy said.
“What?” the god asked, just to be sure.
“Forty-threeeee!” the boy wailed.
Tanid fished out the missing candle. “It’s all right, there.” The grimace of irritation slipped off the boy’s face and was instantly replaced with his calm, flaccid, emotionless expression.
The shopworkers were all watching him now, looking alarmed. Well, he’d had to do it. He’d had to know.
The boy was a Special Child.
Well, the only question remaining was, could he see into the future?
“What’s going on there?” one of the candle counters asked. Tanid ignored him.
“Tell me. What weather will there be tomorrow?” the god asked, hopeful. “Tell me.”
There was no response. The pudgy hands dug into the crate and lifted a small, precise bundle.
I need to ask my question in a different manner, Tanid thought. “How many clouds will there be tomorrow? In the sky? How many?”
The little pink hand stopped in midair. The boy’s head tilted to one side at a weird, unnatural angle, that weak chin pointed up. Tanid waited. But the child said nothing. He did not know.
Tanid felt a knot of disappointment burgeon in his chest. “How many people will die in a year from now? How many years will King Sergei rule? How many days will the next winter last? How many years will I live?” He tried anything he could think of, anything that would be both trivial and significant, anything that might trigger an answer.
Silence.
Tanid deflated. This child might be gifted, but he could not see the future.
“Hey! I asked, what’s going on?” The apprentice was approaching now, looking angry.
The god spun and rose. “Peace, good man. I am here to study your art. I talked to your master, and he allowed me to watch.”
“I know. Yefim told me. Don’t mean you can pester Fedya. Leave him alone.”
The apprentice was a thickset man, wearing a sleeveless vest, and had graying hair sticking on his shoulders. Someone who had aged counting beeswax candles in a hot, sweaty shop. Not a person with much imagination or goodwill, Tanid suspected.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. Or him.” The god raised his hands in what he hoped was a placating manner. Then, he reached into his other coat pocket and fished out a silver.
“That’s Eracian silver,” the apprentice said with disgust, but he took it anyway.
Tanid realized he should have chosen local coinage. Back in the Territories, people were less sensitive to where the money was minted. But in Sigurd, the merchants expected you to deal in silver stamped with King Sergei’s portrait.
He retreated, heading for the exit. Yefim, the shop master, was leaning against a wall, smoking. He had seen the whole exchange and had not interfered.
“Did you find anything, my lord?”
Tanid shook his head. “Not suitable for my needs, I’m afraid.”
Yefim jabbed the cigarette end against the wall, killing the flame. “Well, can’t say I’m sorry. Fedya’s got a knack for numbers. Better than all of that lot in there. And I only got to pay him half. Right? Half the man, half the pay.”
Tanid listened, learning about humans.
“Got him from this cheese seller two years back. Says he got him from some village somewhere. A priest came, too, but when Fedya didn’t answer no questions, he left him with me. Can’t say he would have paid half as good as you offer. Five years’ worth of apprenticeship, you said.”
“Four,” Tanid corrected him.
“Can’t say I’m sorry,” Yefim repeated, but it was obvious he would have loved the money.
There would be no deal, but Tanid knew what was expected of him. He reached into his pocket and produced a small stack, only this time he made sure to magic the right details onto the coins, just a tiny, tiny bit of magic, untraceable. Yefim extended a scar-burned, wax-smeared hand and let the silver drop into his palm.
“For your trouble,” Tanid said, as he always did.
The god left the shop. Another place, another lie, another failure. Well, at least, in the big city, it was easier to come up with convenient stories why he needed unorthodox children. He had told Yefim he was looking for someone with a special ability to enroll in his new school. Most people could not appreciate the idea of weird children playing music or dancing or sculpting except for grotesque entertainment, but they could accept the notion of an eccentric wealthy lord willing to pay for such a cause.
Other times, he claimed he needed freaks for a circus troupe, or acolytes for priesthood. Sometimes he was met with scorn and fear, sometimes with outright animosity. There were occasions when people fawned upon him, either because of religion or the promise of so much silver, or both. Greed usually won over even the most reluctant customers.
Still, it was a hard, difficult journey. The patriarchs tended to come first and snatch the Special Children for their own needs, to use them or kill them. Those left behind were considered useless or just simple, without any hidden abilities. Society treated unnatural children as abominations, so their parents tended to keep them away from sight or, more often, get rid of them whenever they could. Let them wander alone into the desert and get savaged by animals, forget them in dark alleys or in front of orphanages, drown them in a well, or sell them off to merchants who could perhaps somehow find them some use.
Tanid was racing against the very practice he and his siblings had created.
Still, Sigurd was large and thickly populated, bursting with opportunities. For days, Tanid had prowled the city streets, talking to blind beggars, checking into shelters and homes, looking for the mad and the strange in dockyard taverns and workshops and abandoned warehouses. So far, he had avoided temples. He feared coming face-to-face with his most ardent worshippers. They might see things that common people missed.
It was nasty weather today. A hot desert storm was blowing from inland, raising a cloud of red dust that cloaked everything, from clothes on wash lines to people walking huddled in the streets, trying to hide their faces. The buildings had a dirty sheen on them, and he couldn’t see far. The details of the world were blurred; the seaside was masked from sight.
Tanid knew he could change it, but it would require immense magic. He could not spare a trickle. He could not afford to draw attention to himself. Calemore’s killers must be hunting after him everywhere, and he had to stay invisible.
He wondered if ordinary people had any idea how his divine powers worked, how they manifested. Did they think he made the rain and snow and wind? Did they believe he made the seasons change? How did the Parusites perceive him? Did they even remember his name?
He was now a god to people who worshipped ideas, having long forgotten about the gods who stood for them. It was better that way, he thought sourly. No one would have wanted to know his god or goddess was long dead.
What next? Tanid looked farther down the street. Another shop? Some orphanage? Ignoring the raspy touch of the desert wind, he burrowed deeper into the city’s maze of houses, feeling ever so slightly apprehensive around so many people. This was the race he had helped create, but apart from the physical manifestation, it was alien to him. Violent, coarse, manipulative. Damian’s people.
He never forgot the reasons the gods had chosen to distance themselves from humanity. Now, he had no choice. He had to live among them. He had to accept them. He had to fight for them. The alternative was u
nthinkable. In a perverse sort of a way, he had hoped humanity might have changed since the first time he had lived among them after Damian’s defeat. Well, it had. For the worse. The core essence of petty malevolence and selfish cruelty remained, sharpened through several millennia of practice.
Tanid rounded a corner. On all four buildings, there was a sign hammered into the wall, a crossroads between Gods’ Grace and the Holy Path. Both streets were aligned with the sun’s direction, the latter built so the slick cobbles would reflect the sunrise from the sea, only now they were covered in a layer of red dust.
The deity turned left, toward the waterfront, a remote, unseen prospect somewhere ahead. A grumbling owner was closing the shutters of his shop. Nearby, the tin awning of another store rippled in the wind, making banging sounds. Closer still, a mongrel dog was slinking by quietly, keeping close to the gutters, where it was less windy. Tanid followed the animal’s tracks, mindful to sidestep donkey shit and discarded rubbish.
Not a good day for exploration. People would not be willing to cooperate in this storm. They might not even hear him knocking on their doors. But he had to keep trying. Had to.
He saw a priest hobble his way, an old man in a robe as brown as the ground and the buildings, carrying with a stoop and a limp, using a long stick to help himself edge up the street’s mild bend. Behind him, a man came, pushing a wine handcart into the wind, glowering against the dust. Tanid moved out of the way, trying to appear casual. He did not like priests.
His thoughts strayed to that Special Child who had killed Damian’s avatar. There was a missed opportunity, but he could not just approach someone who had killed another god so casually. That boy radiated terrible power. He probably wasn’t a prophet anyway, and there was no point lamenting.
“Sir!” someone shouted above the wind.
Tanid turned, even though he felt he shouldn’t. But his body revolved, and he saw two soldiers emerge from the red blur, walking toward him. Sigurd City Watch, he thought.
The god felt his heart skip a beat. He did not like the look of them, the filthy black armor, the lengths of cold steel on their hips. They walked with a purpose. Why would they care about him?
“You Lord Kuzma, sir?” one of them asked as they approached.
Tanid pushed his fear down. “Yes.”
The guards exchanged a squinting glance, trying to keep dust from their eyes. “Where do you hail from, my lord?”
“Sevorod,” he lied. It was becoming easier every time.
“You didn’t report when you came to the city. All noble retainers must register themselves before the royal magistrate,” the same watchman explained.
Tanid did not like this. “Why?”
The armed man snorted. “Why? It’s the king’s law, that’s why.”
He should have explored more before coming to this city. He should have made sure he fully understood the subtle dynamics of the Parusite society. Now, he was in trouble. And with the king, no less.
“We’re at war, my lord. The steward of the Crown wants all nobles to report to him so he can appropriate taxes. Did you come back from Athesia now? Served your year?” The other watchman seemed a little more talkative, a little more sympathetic to the confused, frightened look that gripped Tanid’s face.
“I did. We returned just a few short months ago,” the god said.
“Good. So you’ll have your papers all signed, and you’ll have your honors ready to present,” the first one piped in.
Tanid had thought posing as a minor noble would have helped him get around the city more easily. It seemed he was drawing all other kinds of the wrong attention to himself instead. He felt panic and chagrin churn up in his stomach. What now? He could not go with these soldiers. He did not know if he could hold conversation with people for so long, so casually. If they checked, they would know there was no Baronet Kuzma of Sevorod. Any additional time spent with the watchmen or the magistrate would only raise more suspicion, draw more attention to his fictional character. He could not afford to entangle himself in the human affairs too deeply. He must not.
And he must never forget how vulnerable he was to the sword’s edge or the arrow’s bite.
Magic, he had to use it. Just a drop. Nothing more. “I was there already,” he said and released a wisp of his power.
“Oh, you was,” the first watchman said. “He done it already.”
“Let’s get out of this shitstorm,” the second added. “Thank you, my lord.”
They walked away. Tanid leaned against a pocked sandstone wall and panted. Not from the effort. From fear. He might have just endangered his whole mission. He would not be surprised if Calemore’s assassins showed up in the city tomorrow. He had to leave Sigurd. Lord Kuzma was dead now.
He pushed off the wall and walked in a random direction. He had to get away.
He was the one god in this world, and he felt like a field mouse trying to escape the falcon’s claws. His weakness shamed him. And he knew he must enlist human help, soon. He would not survive much longer without it.
We made them our slaves, he thought, dashing through the red dust, but we became theirs.
The future remained dark and uncertain as ever, and the only thing he could think of was his own demise. Power has never felt so meaningless.
He walked, and then he ran. Just like a field mouse.
CHAPTER 10
Sonya took a deep breath and braced herself.
Pacmad pushed the door open and entered her chamber. He stood in the doorway, frowning, sniffing the air, as if she needed reminding how much she stank. But then, she should be grateful for the little things she had, like food and sanity. For now.
There was no denying the twitch of cold fear in her gut, but she tried to put on a brave face. She had to be strong.
The Kataji craned his neck, his blue eyes shining. “What? Lie down.”
Sonya traced her fingers over her belly, almost involuntarily. “I…forgive me, Master. I cannot.”
To his credit, Pacmad did not lash out at her immediately. But she could see his muscles bunch, could see the ripple of rage slither across his skin. “Why?”
The countess swallowed. “I have my menses. I’m bleeding. Please.”
She had expected him to hit her, but the blow caught her by surprise nonetheless. Her vision blackened, and she spun, fell, hitting the side of the bed, bouncing and flopping, hitting the floor hard. There was no air in her lungs. Like a floundering fish, she jerked, trying to gasp, agony clawing at her throat. Then, her chest expanded again, and she could breathe, a painful trickle. Coughing dryly, she tottered up on her knees and elbows, her head spinning.
I will not cry, she promised, steeling herself for another blow.
Instead, Pacmad knelt by the bed, staring at her with unblinking eyes. She could smell him, old sweat and leather. She could see his whiskers, the tiny pockmarks on his cheeks, the nettle of scars on his neck.
“Why aren’t you with a child? Why!” he asked.
Sonya tried to speak, but all she managed was a pitiful wheeze. Panic seized her then. If she did not answer him quickly, he would get angry and punch her again. But as hard as she tried, she could not form words.
Pacmad waited.
“I don’t know,” she rasped. Even in her sorry state, the lie came mechanically, after a lifetime of practice. Sonya did not dare tell him she was unable to bear offspring. Some childhood disease had left her barren, she knew, but it was a dark, private secret. Only her mother and the family healer had been privy to her predicament, and they had helped keep the truth buried so she would not lose potential suitors. No one would have wanted to marry her if he had known she would not bear him any children.
She had never told Bart either. The fool could have used it against her; he might have tried to dissolve their marriage, and what good would that be?
Pacmad was not convinced. “You do not know,” he said, his tone dangerous.
Sonya straightened up. Her head hurt. “Mas
ter, please. Be merciful.”
That did not work. His strong, wiry fingers jabbed into her jaw, prying her mouth half-open. “Merciful? Was Vergil merciful when he raped our women? Did he ask them how they felt?”
Her head bobbed in his powerful grip, each tiny lurch sending a lance of pain through her skull. She was helpless, but she could not surrender to his brutality. She must remain in charge of the situation. She must. He didn’t like pleading. So she needed a different approach.
“I…eel…esuwe…” she mumbled.
The chieftain released her. She leaned against the bed, thinking hard and fast. Her head would not stop ringing, and she was still short of breath.
“I will pleasure you, Master. Please let me,” Sonya croaked.
Silence. This would be the deciding moment of her captivity, she knew. Either the Kataji would relent now or beat her into a bloody pulp. And if he resorted to violence, she would be defeated, for good. She had tried every possible tactic, and none had worked so far. Pacmad was ruthless and intelligent, far more than she had expected. Perhaps she, like every other Eracian, had underestimated this enemy.
If he chose to beat her, she knew she would never gain his trust. She would never have another opportunity to try to sway him, to charm him, to win his confidence.
She waited, shivering ever so slightly, trying to keep the swelling terror in her gullet from choking her.
Pacmad’s expression never changed. “Why?”
Careful now, she told herself. This man was not a fool. If she lied too much, she would anger him even more, and she definitely did not relish more pain.
“I was thinking, if I please you, you’d be more lenient toward me.”
Then, he surprised her. He laughed. A simple, efficient throaty laughter. “All you Eracian bitches think you’re better than me. Even in your sorry state, you still think you can manipulate me. You are my property now, understand that!”
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 10
