by J. C. Staudt
Merrick recognized the name now. “I thought that company went bankrupt and the guy committed suicide.”
“Well, bless your soul. Not a history buff, huh? There are lots of people who know that isn’t true. The family’s alive and well, which is why I don’t go around making it public knowledge that I stand to inherit a fortune. In this case, since you and I are gonna be close for a while, I think you ought to know. Yeah, I’m a shepherd because I like the job. Wealth is boring. Life is boring without challenge. I would never be happy boarded up in some rich man’s fortress, watching life pass me by.”
“I would,” said Blatcher.
“Yeah, well, you’re not, so shut up.”
Merrick didn’t have time for history lessons. The Commissar might be in danger. “Coff on you and your wealth, and coff on your boss and his. You hate being rich and you think that’s going to make me want to? I have a life here. I’m not a sideshow attraction.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re much more than that. Which is why you won’t just want the security of being rich. You’ll need it. When people come clamoring from every corner of the Aionach seeking your curative powers, you’ll need protection. Most people are going to pay any price you ask; they’ll give you everything they have to stay alive. You’ll need high walls and bodyguards, like you have here. But it’s gonna be worth it. What you have… whatever it’s called. It’s gonna change how the world works.”
“That doesn’t sound the least bit appealing.”
“And the city south does? The Hull Tower does? I can easily arrange to get you to either of those places, like I’ve already mentioned. Or you can come with me and change the Aionach forever.”
Merrick gulped and rubbed at the pain in his throat. “Fine. You win. I’ll go with you. There’s just one thing I want. I want to see Wax before I go.”
“Why would I ever let you inside the barracks? It would be the last time I ever saw you.”
“The barracks? No, Wax is in the Hull Tower.”
“I don’t think so. Unless it was his twin they carried here on a stretcher this afternoon.”
“What? You saw him go inside?”
“They took him into the hospital. Looked like he was dead. See everyone crowded around his window there?”
Toler was right; a larger crowd had gathered outside one of the infirmary windows.
Merrick’s heart sank. “You have to let me go in there and heal him.”
“Can you bring back the dead?” Toler asked.
“I honestly don’t know. But I won’t leave until I try.”
The shepherd looked around. “Listen, Merrick. I like you. You’re tough, and you don’t take shit from people. You’re the kind of dway I can respect. I understand why you don’t want to come with me. This is your home. So let me explain why I can’t let you go in there, and maybe it’ll sit better with you.
“People where I’m from say I’m a thrill-seeker. They say I look for trouble instead of letting it find me, and to that I say, ‘guilty.’ I’ve always belonged in the dust. I’ve never felt as alive as I do when I’m out there.
“One day not too long ago, I did the one thing I told myself I would never do: I started to love somebody. Everything changes when you love a girl, Merrick. You know that, don’t you? That girlfriend of yours… what’s her name?”
“I don’t have one. Kaylene is just a friend.”
Toler gave him a knowing look. “Alright, whatever. I know how that goes. So this girl made me want to give up everything—all the thrills, the adventures, the cons. Being with her is a different kind of thrill. Know what I mean? But when it came time to settle down, I couldn’t pull myself away from my work. Part of it is that I work for her dad, but the real reason is that I love what I do. I told her I’d only do the shepherd thing for a little longer; said I’d find other work closer to home after the next route.
“That route turned into the next, and then the next. I was never with her for more than a few days before I started getting the itch to be back out there—fighting for my life, riding through the scrubs, seeing every part of this world there is to be seen, and drinking myself stupid along the way. Now I’m losing her because of that. About a month ago, I got the news that some nomads broke into my boss’s house and almost killed Lenn. She was alive last I heard, but I don’t know anymore.
“At first I started hating myself for being like my brother. His wife left him a few years ago, and I watched him abandon my niece over and over again to go look for her. He knows his wife left him, but he’s never been able to admit it to himself. He got obsessed with finding her, to the point where he cares more about the search itself than what he’d do if she ever turned up. I started hating him because he was holding onto an idea of what he loved, instead of loving the person right in front of his face. Turns out I’ve been doing the same thing these past few months. I can’t give up being a shepherd. I can’t handle life inside the rich man’s fortress, Merrick. I had it all with Lenn, and I’m throwing it away.
“I think you can handle the fortress, and I think it would be a waste if you didn’t. I know you have something that should be used to help people. But Belmond isn’t the place for it. There are too many people here who would ruin something that good. You’d be turning your back on everything you were meant for. I think you should be someplace where you can do what you were born to do. Now look at me and tell me you don’t want that. That you don’t even at least want to try.”
“This isn’t about you wanting to save me,” Merrick said, realizing it was true even as he spoke the words. “You’re losing the girl you love; it’s her you want to save. You asked me before if I could bring back the dead. You think if she’s dead, maybe I can bring her back.”
“I won’t deny I’m a desperate man, Merrick. Part of this is selfish, yeah. You’ve gotta know the grief has been driving me insane. I feel so helpless out here, so powerless, knowing she might be suffering and I’m not there. I wasn’t even allowed to leave the caravan until we got to Belmond so they could find a crew to replace mine. I finally just got the clearance earlier today. I’m going home, and you’re coming along for the ride. The night you crossed my path, I knew I had to bring you back with me when the time came. I knew if you came to Unterberg, you could save her.”
Merrick decided the fates were cruel to give someone like him the powers of a healer. He had slaughtered an infant in cold blood, and it had broken his heart. But he couldn’t bring himself to sympathize with a person like this shepherd. Toler was a bully. A snake. Merrick wouldn’t let himself be drawn in by the shepherd’s attempts to gain his sympathy; nor would he let Toler take him away from Belmond in a time of such great need.
He elbowed Toler in the face, but when he tried to dash away, the other three shepherds were ready. They corralled him and forced him back against the wall before he could run. They had the advantage of numbers, but Merrick had his training. He was also heavier than they were, and for once in his life he wasn’t complaining about it.
Merrick shoved the smallest shepherd with both hands. The man stumbled backward and tripped as his foot fell off the curb. His body slammed to the pavement and skidded to a halt. Merrick sank his shoulder into the ugly one and plowed through him. The third drew a revolver. Merrick’s momentum was carrying him toward the street and the barracks beyond, so he continued in that direction as the shepherd began to fire after him. He heard the gun go off once, twice, a third time. A comrade inside the fence doubled over.
Merrick was halfway across the street before he felt the sting. It sent a shockwave through him, and he tumbled to the road in an awkward heap. Then people started yelling, and machine guns were chugging to life, and the shepherds were yanking each other up and fleeing down the alley as bits of brick and concrete burst around them.
When Merrick looked up, his comrades were standing above him, pointing their guns and shouting at him. He was too disoriented to understand what they were saying, so he kept repeating himself and hoped
one of them would stop to listen.
“Corporal Merrick Bouchard. The Sentry Division,” he said again and again, until the words became the only thing he knew.
CHAPTER 39
The Garden Grotto
All three of Sister Bastille’s pupils were gone; bound for the city north, never to return. Her examination chambers were as dim and empty as ever, with nothing but the dancing lanterns and the stale smell of death to keep her company. Bastille wiped her hands clean and scraped the excised organs into a pail, then slid the female corpse onto the gurney and returned it to its cold locker. If Brother Soleil didn’t come down to help her cut up the rest of the body later, she’d have to do it herself. Without an assistant like Adeleine to help her, it was Soleil or nobody.
Bastille still wanted to examine the decomposing body in the nook by the east tower, but she wouldn’t get a chance until the afternoon sessions ended. Dinner would come soon after that, which left her only about an hour in between. There was one other thing she could try, though, if she wanted more time. She could find her way into the east tower using another labyrinth entrance.
The secret door inside the walk-in freezer was the only other entrance she knew how to activate, and that was all the way on the other side of the basilica. What was more, the kitchen and pantries would be crawling with Sister Deniau’s staff by now, as they set about preparing the evening meal.
Bastille thought of the manhole cover she’d noticed while walking with Sister Gallica in the conservatory. If she could make her way into the gardens without raising suspicion, that manhole cover would be the perfect place to enter the labyrinth. It was close to the east tower, and the dense stalks, vines, and fruit trees shrouded it from view on every side. That’s what I’ll do, she decided, though her head began to pound viciously at the thought.
Counting down the minutes to when classes started was an excruciating ordeal. She returned to her bedchamber to wait, set her daylight dial on the windowsill, and watched its shadow inch along with painful sluggishness. Bastille contented herself to stare out into the north yard, which served as the basilica’s burial ground and an accessory to the Hall of Ancients. From her bedchamber, she could see the section of parapet where Fathers Ecclesio and LeCravet had the patrol. Both Cypriests were young, as Cypriests went. Bastille had assisted Soleil during Father Ecclesio’s Nexus Enhancement the year before. She had overseen the subsequent replacement of his liver, stomach, and small intestine. Father Ecclesio had been sixty-one at the time of his Enhancement, a mere babe compared to most of the other inheritors.
The first thing Bastille noticed about the Cypriests this afternoon was that they weren’t making their rounds or standing vigil like they normally did. Both Ecclesio and LeCravet were crouching behind the parapet, still and silent, crossbows in their hands. They’d spotted someone and were watching to see how close they would come to the walls. A fresh corpse is always a welcome gift, Bastille wanted to tell them. She would’ve thanked the Cypriests more often, if it had meant anything to them.
Once the afternoon sessions had started, Bastille waited an extra twenty minutes. By the time she left her bedchamber and began making her way toward the conservatory gardens, classes were in full swing. The hallways took her past the spinnery, the sanctuary, and the cloister before spitting her out through the double doors and into the cavernous conservatory, where Sister Usara was engaging her pupils in a lecture on the finer points of composting and fertilization techniques.
“Ah, and here’s just the person to elucidate,” Sister Usara said, brightening. “Sister Bastille provides much of the necessary fodder we use to nourish the plants we grow here in the gardens. This is an unexpected surprise. Aren’t you teaching a class today, kind Sister?”
Bastille felt the iron key clunk against her sternum, heavy as a brick. “You are mistaken. I have no classes today. Brother Mortial is still missing. Sister Jeanette is recovering from her illness, and Sister Adeleine has received a transfer to the spinnery.”
Sister Usara’s smile turned grave. “Dear me, where did you come by that nasty nick on the head?”
“Just a silly accident. As you were saying, I do provide fertilizer to the gardens through my work with the sacrificial rites. Actually, I’ve just processed part of a body this very day, and I’ll be bringing the remains by during my morning chores tomorrow. It’s a little-known fact that over-fertilization can result in dangerous levels of nitrate in the soil, which can then leach into our water supply. Limited as that supply is, and as much as we rely on natural processes to purify our drinking water here in the basilica, we must take great care to use appropriate amounts of nitrogen-rich fertilizer. One of the ways we mitigate the need for fertilization is through the use of leguminous plants, which provide a natural means of nitrogen fixation. This is accomplished through the metabolic pathways of the bacteria that attach themselves to the root nodules.”
Sister Bastille went on to explain this process to the class at great length. Most of the acolytes and new priests seemed to pay attention more out of respect than comprehension. Sister Usara looked on with a satisfied smile, giving Bastille an approving nod every so often as she divulged with her impromptu lecture.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going about my duties. Thank you all for your kind attention,” Bastille said, bowing her head.
Usara gave rapid applause, and the class acted in kind.
Bastille rounded the garden border, sighing in relief when she was out of sight. She ducked into the undergrowth and marched down the path, where she came to the stream and the little bridge that spanned it. The cast-iron manhole cover was still obscured beneath a thin layer of dirt, just as it had been a few days ago. If the high priests did use the labyrinth as often as was rumored, no one had used this entrance for quite some time.
She brushed the dirt away and tried to pry the manhole cover from its circular frame. It was heavy, and she strained to lift it. After a few tries, she managed to raise one side and slide it away from the opening. It made a deep grinding sound as it moved, and sent the dirt particles jumping and bouncing in the thick metal grooves.
The lettering around the edge of the manhole cover read BELMOND CITY MUNICIPAL STORM SEWER. At the center of the manhole was a three-pointed star with rays of light shining from a hole near the middle. The iron key, she realized. But why would a city storm drain be marked with the same symbol as the labyrinth key? There was something here she wasn’t seeing; something that was lurking just outside her grasp.
She pushed the manhole cover aside far enough to peer down into the opening. A metal ladder was bolted to the side of a smooth concrete wall. Bastille had had the foresight to bring a candle and a striker, which she produced and lit before starting down the ladder. It was difficult to balance the candle while she climbed, but she managed to reach the bottom without dropping it.
She found herself standing in a round concrete tunnel, just as she had expected. But the water from the conservatory’s stream wasn’t running through the tunnel. A corrugated metal halfpipe near the ceiling was catching the stream of water inches below the drain and carrying it away through an opening in the wall, leaving the tunnel itself dry and comfortable. Where a true storm drain might’ve continued for miles, this one stopped short after a few dozen feet, ending before a solid-looking door made of rusty iron.
The markings were on the door. A circular node and three smaller square ones. An inset where Bastille’s iron key found a perfect fit, and rings of moving parts that shifted when she rotated the key in place. There was a hiss, followed by a loud click. Dust puffed around the doorjamb, bringing the smell of something dank and pulpy to her nostrils. She opened the door.
Bastille was in shock when she saw what was on the other side. This tunnel didn’t connect with the rest of the labyrinth. It wasn’t part of the labyrinth at all. She was standing at the entrance to a vast room, almost the size of the basilica’s sanctuary. The room was full of paper. Stacks upon stacks of i
t, piled across the floor and on wooden pallets, blank and white and unused. Most of it was damp and wrinkled from the subterranean moisture, and blackish-green mold was growing up the sides like cavities on giant white teeth.
A short set of concrete steps took her down to the floor, where she inspected the closest stack. The paper was wet to the touch, and the first sheet peeled away from the rest like the skin of an orange. It was thicker than book paper and more durable than parchment, she noted as she held it; like a canvas, woven together from many small strands. The light from her candle shone through it, accentuating the texture.
At the back of the room, standing in a neat line, were four monstrosities of ancient machinery. They reminded Bastille of the looms in the spinnery, only they were fitted with rollers and spindles and feeders and guide wheels that still gleamed past the rust that was forming along their edges. Bastille went over and picked up a thin metal plate that was lying on the ground beside one of the machines. A rectangle with a silvery sheen, shapes raised and lowered across its surface to create a picture in reverse. She held her candle closer and strained to read the backwards lettering, but the shapes were strange and foreign to her.
There was a noise at the back of the room. Bastille looked up and noticed a door she hadn’t seen before, in the wall behind one of the big machines. There was a circular window at eye level, like a ship’s porthole or the entrance to an industrial kitchen. Beyond the window, there was only darkness.
Bastille approached the door. Standing before it, she began to feel an odd presence, like black wings beating around her face with the force of a desert cyclone. She raised her candle and peered inside.
There was a face.
Sallow, unblemished skin like chiseled gray ice, a long nose on a face so slender it might’ve been carved from a block of stone, and the most piercing black eyes Bastille had ever seen. Living eyes. Not some ancient corpse or statue, preserved and dusty. Eyes that belonged to something alive.
