Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  “Yet death is not an end,” Khoyar continued. “Nor is it loss. For in the perfection of death, that single moment of unification, we are reborn. As the universe first burst forth into being, so do we burst forth from our bodies, to be judged in Pharasma’s great court and begin new lives among the stars, in the unimaginable vistas of the metaphysical planes, or in the gasping cry of the birth-wet child. This is the reward of death. This is its gift.”

  With a flourish, Khoyar removed the glass, and the wick that had been about to wink out for good flared high in the backdraft of fresh air, suddenly brilliant.

  “In death,” Khoyar concluded, “life finds its meaning. And for this, we give thanks.”

  “We give thanks!” the congregation echoed, and Salim tensed at the sudden burst of sound. Then the reverie was broken, and the men were filing out past him and Hasam, speaking to each other in low tones.

  Hasam approached the altar, and Salim followed. Khoyar looked up and spotted them.

  “Salim,” he said, his tone welcoming. “When you did not return last night, I was unsure when we’d see you next.”

  “Lady Anvanory offered me her hospitality, and I elected to spend the night there.”

  “I see,” Khoyar said, and the corner of his lip twitched with the ghost of a smile. “I’m glad you found her so...accommodating.”

  Salim didn’t appreciate the insinuation. “It seemed prudent to remain near the scene of the murder,” he said, then changed the subject. “That was a nice speech there.” He nodded toward the altar.

  Khoyar bowed his head modestly. “My thanks. I have always been particularly fond of the Interment of the Lights.”

  “Of course,” Salim continued, “you left out a few things. The devils that turn you into howling larvae, or the screaming demons that rend you into ribbons of steaming flesh for all time. But I suppose every religion varnishes a few truths, no?”

  Khoyar’s head snapped up, and his face was hard and disapproving. “Pharasma’s judgment comes to every man, but such things are not spoken of lightly.”

  “Of course,” Salim pressed. “But then, have you seen them? Have you looked out with your own eyes and seen the pits where fallen souls lie unreborn and unforgiven, forming the very stones of fiendish palaces?”

  “I have not,” Khoyar said stiffly. “Nor do I ever expect to. What about you, Salim? Where do you expect to go when you die?”

  Salim laughed.

  “I’ll go wherever Pharasma sends me, including into the ground to rot. Why should death be any different?”

  The two men were glaring at each other in earnest now. After an awkward moment, Khoyar realized he was being baited and got control of himself.

  “What have you learned about Anvanory?”

  Salim found himself reluctant to report anything to the puffed-up theocrat, but took a deep breath and launched into a concise version of his encounters with both Qali and Jbade. When he had finished, Khoyar nodded.

  “That is unfortunate,” he said, “for it seems our time is running short. Another message from the kidnappers appeared this morning.”

  “What?” Only careful control kept the words from becoming a shout. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Khoyar shrugged dismissively. “We were preparing to dispatch a runner, but we thought you might appear at any moment, and it’s a significant distance to the Anvanory estate.”

  Salim ignored the excuse. “How was the message delivered?”

  “The same method as last time—the disappearing scroll. Yet this time it appeared in the cathedral’s catacombs, on the body of Faldus Anvanory himself. One of the sisters discovered it in the course of her morning duties, and knew better than to touch it. She summoned me, and I was able to dictate its words to a scribe before it disintegrated. Unfortunately I was not able to trace any of the magics involved in its sending, save to identify that they were extremely powerful.”

  “And?” Salim prompted. “What did it say?”

  Khoyar shook his head in disappointment. “Very little, I’m afraid. It appears that the kidnappers have grown tired of waiting. Lady Anvanory has seventy-two hours to make her decision and complete the transaction with the Lamasaran officials, after which the soul will be destroyed if the elixir is not in place. I trust you will inform the young woman of this unfortunate development.”

  Salim nodded distractedly. Three days. There was nowhere near enough time. He hadn’t even begun to unravel the kidnappers’ identity, let alone figure out a plan for retrieving the soul. The idea that he’d traveled this far on a fool’s errand was becoming a very real possibility.

  Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be out of this church, and out of the presence of smug merchants who made their bread selling intangibles and false hopes.

  “It seems I had better get back to work, then,” Salim said. “I trust that you’ll not wait to send a runner next time, if further information comes to light?”

  “Of course,” Khoyar said.

  “Good.” Without further comment, Salim turned and headed for the exit.

  “Actually,” Khoyar’s voice rang out behind him, “there is one more thing.”

  “Yes?” Salim turned impatiently, one hand already drawing back the dark curtains of the doorway.

  Khoyar smirked and drew the spiral of Pharasma in the air between them.

  “May the goddess’s blessing go with you.”

  Chapter Six

  Flames in the Night

  Salim found the Anvanory cart on the border between the theater district and the marketplace. Olar was sitting on the cart’s high seat as if he’d been there the whole time, but his sunny expression and the looks he kept casting toward a plump prostitute leaning out a third-story window made Salim suspect otherwise. He wondered if the woman was one of Lady Jbade’s.

  The ride back to the manor was uneventful, and this time Salim let Olar keep his silence. In truth, he was in no mood for chatter. Though it was far from over, the day had been both a success and a failure.

  As inelegant as the interviews had been—and as he’d suspected, too much time questioning frightened peasants and tracking walking corpses had let his interrogation techniques atrophy significantly—they’d told him enough. Despite Faldus Anvanory’s natural suspicions, neither the Harlot nor the Jackal seemed to have sufficient motive to go to such great lengths to acquire the elixir, when they could simply bid again next time around.

  What’s more, both of them had been telling the truth. Salim had always been adept at spotting the tiny visual clues that told you someone was lying—the dilated pupils and elevation in pitch, as well as the more obvious body language. Since falling under Ceyanan’s direction, those abilities had only sharpened. He’d watched both Jbade and Qali carefully, and neither had so much as broken eye contact. They hadn’t killed Faldus Anvanory.

  Which was good news, he supposed. Yet it also meant that the only obvious leads had dried up and blown away like chaff under the millstone. They were back at square one.

  The cart pulled up in front of Anvanory Manor at last, coming in through the long drive this time rather than the field access track. Salim hopped down. The servants didn’t exactly swirl around him the way they had when he’d entered with Neila, but one of the young chambermaids immediately fell in step beside him, leading him up the wide, curving stairs and through the house with a firm but deferential manner, staying close to his side so that an onlooker would have had trouble telling who was directing whom. At the open entrance to the solarium, she stopped and took up a practiced position just outside the archway. Salim entered.

  Neila was standing in the center of a room bathed in the rich light of evening. One whole wall was nothing but windows that stretched to the high ceiling, and that bank of glass protruded outward in a sweeping curve. Halfway across the room, where the arc of the windows began, the floor dropped down two feet, creating a cozy nook with almost a hundred and eighty degrees of view. Two comfortable-looking armchairs were
positioned there, along with an end table and small lamp for reading after dark, but Neila eschewed all of this in favor of pacing back and forth across the top of the stairs. A small book with a cloth bookmark lay forgotten in her hand. She turned as Salim entered, and her face lit up with relief.

  “You’re back!” she said, and then looked startled as her overly loud words echoed back at her from the glowing windows. She visibly reined herself back to a proper volume and manner.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward the chairs with the book. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable and tell me everything you’ve learned.”

  Salim did as he was bid, descending the two carpeted steps and seating himself in one of the chairs, which he was pleased to note was upholstered in cloth rather than the common Taldan leather, which would have held the sun’s warmth and seared his skin like meat on a griddle. Neila took the other one, turning it to face him directly across the space of a few feet, and sat with her knees together and balled fists resting on them. She leaned forward anxiously.

  “I beg pardon for rushing you, but I’m used to handling any matters of import myself, and I’m afraid it’s made me terribly impatient. While I understand completely why you needed to go alone to interrogate Qali and Jbade, the waiting was ...maddening.” She gave him a self-effacing smile, and he returned it honestly.

  “No apologies necessary,” he said, then took the hint and launched into an efficient but thorough description of the day’s events, beginning with Khoyar’s unfortunate message from the kidnappers. Neila’s jaw clenched, but she withheld comment, motioning for him to continue. When he finished telling her about Qali’s performance, she nodded.

  “That sounds like him,” she said. “Never precisely rude, but thoroughly impressed with himself, and always making certain that everyone else is appropriately aware of his brilliance. I’m surprised that he was so candid about his criminal dealings, but he’s right—the word of an outsider would carry little weight with the Lamasaran authorities, and the Church of Pharasma has nothing to gain from pursuing him.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I still don’t like him, nor trust him in the slightest, but I think you’re right—if he’s as dangerous as he claims, he could have had us killed the moment it became clear we would be challenging him, and he doesn’t appear to be hurting for the funds to try again. What about the Harlot?”

  This time Salim gave a slightly abridged version of events. Though he’d seen few scenes in the past to rival the erotic tableau in Jbade’s bedroom, he was hardly interested in discussing such things with this young aristocrat. Aside from that minor detail, he gave a faithful account of his dealings with the half-elven madame. Yet while he’d thought his delivery perfectly calm and smooth, Neila’s sharp eyes must have caught some twitch, or else she was simply suspicious of all men where Jbade was involved, because once he was finished she lowered one eyebrow and peered at him intently.

  “And that’s everything?” she pressed, voice sharp.

  “More or less,” Salim replied.

  Reaching forward, she plucked delicately at the shoulder of his robe, then held up two long, black hairs. “And these?” she asked lightly. “Were these part of the more? Or perhaps the less?”

  The look she gave him, holding up the strands of hair like a fishwife confronting her philandering husband, was too much. Salim leaned back in his chair and laughed.

  “So you did let her seduce you!” Neila glared at him. “I should have known better than to send a man to deal with that doxy. How am I supposed to trust any of your conclusions if you’re out sampling her wares?”

  Salim’s laughter died to a chuckle, and after a moment he took control of himself and leaned forward. He was still smiling, but when he spoke his voice was perfectly calm.

  “Your protectiveness regarding my honor is admirable, Lady,” he said, “but unnecessary.”

  “Oh?” she spat. “And why should I believe that?”

  Salim looked her in the eye. “Because I haven’t touched a woman since my wife died.”

  “Oh.” This time the word was involuntary. There was a pause, and Neila rocked back in her chair, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

  Salim waved a hand. “That was a long time ago, and neither here nor there. The important thing is that Lady Jbade’s physical charms are not a factor in my judgment, but her story is. And it’s my assessment that, whether or not you approve of her profession or whatever relationship she may have had with your father”—Neila’s eyes flashed at that—“I don’t believe she’s responsible for his death. Both she and Qali seem to be telling the truth.”

  Again, Neila’s face screwed into an expression of distaste. They sat in silence for a few moments, both deep in thought, and then Neila pulled herself up straight, shoulders set.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “It seems this avenue of inquiry has run its course. In lieu of another obvious lead, it—”

  But whatever she was about to say was cut off by a sudden explosion of shattering glass, the shards of which rained down on both of them like tinkling hail. A flaming shape the size of Salim’s fist sailed over their heads and slammed into the wall near the door, dropping to the floor and immediately lighting the reed paper of an Osirian wall-scroll, which caught fire with a soft whumph. In an instant, Salim was out of his chair and stamping out the blaze, tearing the expensive wall hanging in half and throwing it to the floor before the flames could climb too high for him to reach.

  “What is it?” Neila cried, coming up behind him. Her voice was not quite a shriek, but she would have been justified had it been. When the flare-up was safely extinguished, Salim leaned down and used a handful of crumpled art to carefully pick up the still-steaming lump. He studied it from several angles, then lifted it and carefully sniffed its surface.

  It was an ordinary river stone, smooth and ellipsoidal, around which someone had carefully packed sticky pitch and resin, nearly doubling its size. He looked back toward the bank of windows, which now had a jagged hole in its top left corner.

  There were more sounds of shattering glass, coming from other areas of the house. Through the muffling of the walls, Salim heard the screams of servants. Ignoring Neila’s question, he moved quickly back to the windows.

  Yes, there they were—out in the fields nearest the house, where the wheat and corn were already shadowed by a sprawling wing of the manor, shapes were moving. As he watched, a man-sized shadow emerged from the corn and whirled something around its head—a sling, clearly—then snapped its arm. Another guttering ball of flaming pitch sailed toward the house and found its mark in the chime of crashing glass.

  “Salim?” Neila asked again, and this time her voice was fearful.

  Salim turned back to her, and realized that he’d drawn his sword. The long, thin blade caught the light, and the melted bronze blob of the hilt and quillons conformed to his hand as if they’d been made for him. Which, of course, they had.

  “Come on,” he said, and grabbed her wrist as he dashed out of the room.

  Out on the balcony above the grand entryway, the house was in chaos. Servants ran to and fro, women screaming and herding children, men carrying buckets of water or makeshift cudgels. No two seemed to be running in the same direction.

  “You!” Salim called to one man carrying a long taper-pole for lighting chandelier candles. “They’re out back, in the eastern fields. Grab three others and follow me.” Without waiting to see if the man would obey, Salim turned and raced through the grand dining room, then through the chaos of the kitchen and out the back door, still dragging Neila behind him.

  Outside, he immediately saw that the incendiaries were doing their work. Already, the telltale flickers shone from several broken windows, and the screaming of men and beasts from the stables suggested that someone had made the wise decision to lob a flame into the stores of dry hay and feed. Salim paid little attention to the grooms and serving women who were frantically running back and forth from the well to the house, c
arrying what water they could in what vessels they could find, from pots and pans to drenched bed sheets. Instead, Salim let go of Neila’s wrist.

  “Stay back and help organize the fire fighters,” he said. Then he turned toward the fields and their attackers.

  At first it was hard to tell what they were fighting. The shapes of the Anvanorys’ servants were clear enough, despite the long shadows of twilight, but the rest seemed strangely twisted and disappeared easily into the waving stalks of the fields. It wasn’t until one of the shapes detached from the mob and flew forward, almost buzzing Salim’s shoulder, that he understood.

  “Fey!” he called to everyone within earshot. “They’re fey!”

  The shape that had flown past him was no larger than a child, but it rolled and dived with the speed and agility of a swallow, sending tiny arrows into the hubbub. Where the darts struck, servants dropped as if poleaxed. As Salim watched, the shape whirred its insectile wings and darted into a broken window. It emerged a moment later, followed by a flash and the crackling of flames.

  Without a bow of his own, there was nothing Salim could do. Ignoring the firebrand for the time being, Salim put his head down and charged toward the fields, sword held lightly in front of him.

  A group of field workers and a few grooms were already there, making a rough battle line along the cart track which separated the bounty of the fields from the well-manicured lawn of the manor grounds proper. They shouted and swung heavy scythes and blunt hoes with deadly force, yet the shapes which darted among them were far faster and more nimble.

  Salim got close enough to see several of the farmhands harrying a thin, willowy woman with skin like old bark.

  A dryad, he realized. Beneath his iron calm, a part of him marveled. The tree spirits rarely traveled more than a few hundred yards from their bonded trees—to do so physically sickened them. Yet here this one was, with the river forest just a line on the horizon, attacking at a disadvantage.

  Indeed, despite the wicked spear in her hands, the wood-woman seemed hard-pressed by the farmers’ crude rush. She fell back steadily into the waves of grain, her steps faltering, and they followed her eagerly, howling their approval.