by J. C. Staudt
Merrick was too busy studying Caliber’s weapon to respond. First, people from a lost Ministry facility show up in Belmond. Now, a hidden weapons cache. Who knows what other secrets the Ministry hid around the Inner East before it collapsed…
“This beauty right here is a mark-three LoCharge coilgun. Not as powerful as an automatic rifle, maybe. Less accurate over distances, and it’s got a much slower rate of fire. Experimental, like I said. But it’s quiet, and there are no shells to worry about. No gunpowder to get wet or spoil over time. We found barrels full of ammo, too, enough to keep us running hot for a hundred long years.”
“How do they work without gunpowder?”
Caliber smiled and pointed at the sky. “Daylight, my good man. Believe it or not—see this strip here, along the top? You just set this out during the day in a good spot where it can drink up plenty of Infernal’s shine, and you’re good to go. I’m guessing the Ministry must’ve had this piece of tech in the works when everything went downhill.”
“Coff me. How many of these are there?”
“More than we got Revs to carry ‘em. And on that subject, I’d like you to meet a few of my colleagues.”
Though they had to crawl on their bellies or slink through the dome’s alcoves to reach them, Caliber introduced Merrick to each of the watchers on the rooftop. In their masks and trenchers, all the Gray Revenants looked the same. Their greetings were brief; cordial nods and half-hearted salutes. He learned many new names—Mellobar, Draich, Bucyrus, Rapter, Ferriss, Eldridge, Kulryon—but soon they all started to blend together, and Merrick was sure he’d have to see their faces before he began to know them by name. That done, they left the lookouts to their business and withdrew from the roof.
“So, you all seem to know what you’re doing. You’re not just some ragtag band with big aspirations,” Merrick said as they descended the stairs. His leg was feeling better now, but there was still a dull throbbing in his face from where the hoodlums had beaten him.
“More than just a name and nothin’ else, huh?” Caliber said. “We want to get this city working again. Ain’t about a power struggle or a bid for superiority. We just want to give people a fair shot. That’s all anyone deserves these days, ain’t it? A chance to survive, and the freedom to live without being afraid. Belmond is our home. If you can’t make things better at home, I figure there ain’t much hope for anywhere else.”
“Alright, I’m convinced,” Merrick said. It came out sounding like half a joke, but he was serious.
“You really think you got a place here with us?” Caliber asked.
“Yeah,” Merrick said, nodding. He wasn’t lying. He and these people were of the same mind, or at least it appeared that way. He’d joined the Scarred Comrades because that was what you did in North Belmond, unless you wanted to be a merchant or a utility worker, or lose your mind building widgets in a factory somewhere. He’d been clinging to the hope of returning to Mobile Ops, to do a job he actually enjoyed and contribute something meaningful. But when it had come time to contribute something else that was real, Pilot Wax had thrown him out. Now he knew he had something to add, and he was in a good place to do it. Someday I’ll make you sorry for missing out on your big chance, Wax.
Caliber smiled. “That’s good.”
“What do I have to do to become a Gray Revenant?”
“Well it ain’t gonna happen overnight, that’s a guarantee. When you’re ready, I’ll say so. First thing is, you need some training and a little exercise. We don’t eat as well down here as they do up north.”
“It’s about time I got back in shape,” Merrick said, smirking. “It feels good to be a part of something I believe in. Something I can stand behind.”
Most of all, it felt good to matter. Not many people mattered—really mattered, the way you did when people depended on you. That was what Merrick had been looking for his whole life; to be accepted. To be depended upon. Whether joining the Gray Revenants would get him there, he couldn’t yet say. But he was ready to find out.
“Welcome,” Caliber said. “We’re glad to have you. Take the afternoon to rest up. We got a few things we’ve been looking to get done over the next few weeks. There’s an old church downtown I want to have a look inside. My nose tells me there’s something big in there, and when my nose tells me something, I’ve learned it’s best to listen. We’ve been testing the place’s defenses lately and I think the iron’s hot to make a move on it. Come on, I’ll give you the rundown.”
“There’s one more thing you should probably know,” Merrick said. He flexed his hands, felt the creases in the skin where his fingernails used to be.
Caliber turned back. “What’s that?”
Merrick curled his bottom lip, hesitating. If he told Caliber about the gift, there was no telling how the Gray Revenants would react. Maybe the same way Pilot Wax had. Maybe the way Toler Glaive had. Or maybe it would be something completely different and even less favorable for Merrick. No, I’d better not, he decided. He waited a long moment before he spoke. “The city north has a working power station,” he said.
CHAPTER 51
The Slaver’s Guests
Raith and the Sons of Decylum left Belmond under the protection of Lethari Prokin and his Salt Nomads, crossing the open desert and heading northeast toward the Brinescales, with a roving banquet of slave carts and grain wagons and livestock herds trailing out behind them. They had stayed at the nomads’ factory camp in the city south for several days while the warlocks tended to their wounds. Now they were rested and their bellies were full, and for the first time since leaving Decylum, Raith was comforted to know their survival rested in the hands of capable men. If anyone was capable of braving the desert, it was the nomads.
“My scouts have not found any of your kinsfolk yet,” said Lethari Prokin from atop his corsil, “but they will keep searching, and they will send word as soon as the first man is found.”
Raith, sitting on a white spotted gelding a distance below, nodded his thanks. “I regret that we had to leave so soon, but I understand that your master-king is expecting you back. I only hope Rostand’s grandfather is among those your scouts come across. He’s a dear friend to me, father of many, and a wise councilor.”
“Councilor? I do not know this word.”
“We have eleven rulers in Decylum, called councilors. Together, they form a council.”
“You have no master-king? Even the Scarred have a master-king.”
“A council is better for us than a single master. A council spreads the burden of leadership onto the shoulders of many, so that no one man has to bear all the responsibility. Or all the power.”
Lethari laughed. “I do not understand all your words, but… this is bad, I think. One master speaks from one mind. Many masters speak like the voices in a wayfarer’s head. They wander around, and nothing ever gets done.”
“Things do go that way sometimes,” Raith admitted, chuckling. “But it works for us.”
Lethari was unconvinced. “I do not understand your customs. They are… I do not know a word to describe them.”
“Weird?”
“Yes. And bad.” With that, Lethari spurred his corsil ahead and took his place at the front of the caravan.
Before mid-morning that day, they came to the remains of the slaughter that had welcomed the Sons of Decylum to Belmond, a place where dark crusted patches in the sand circled the bleached bones of their fallen. Lethari halted the procession and gave them the time they needed to mourn the dead and bury what was left of them. The Scarred men had picked the site clean of usable goods, and the wasteland’s carrion feeders had done the rest.
“Granddad and the other survivors should be just over the next rise,” Rostand said, looking toward the long, high dune with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “That’s where he said to meet.”
“Right then. Let’s have a look,” said Derrow, clapping him on the shoulder.
Before they splintered off, Lethari offered to send a r
etinue of warriors with them. When Raith shook his head, Lethari insisted on coming himself. Raith and Jiren rode along, staying quiet while Rostand foretold of the stories he and his grandfather would exchange when they were reunited. Derrow humored him with affirmations, but Raith could see the way he worried for the younger man.
Presently the five riders crested the dune that shielded the eastern wasteland from view, and looked out over the sands with Belmond at their backs. The territory was flat and low, and they could see clear to the next horizon without obstruction. A shadow flashed in the distance, some animal sensing their presence and moving to evade them. Wind from the east rushed in as their mounts fussed to find their footing. The winds had swept the ground smooth, its clean sand almost white under the beating light-star, whose rays were full in their faces. They squinted against it, scanning the expanse for signs.
“No tracks,” said Lethari.
“We passed this way not five days ago,” Rostand said somberly.
Lethari wiped the sweat from his brow where it peeked through his thin white hood-scarf. “Five days? A lifetime. You speak as if the wasteland remembers. The only thing it knows is how to forget.”
Rostand hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Tears fell on his saddle and dried in the heat. The riders turned back one by one, Lethari high on his corsil, Jiren and Derrow following on horseback. Raith stayed with Rostand for a while, looking out across the sands and thinking of Hastle.
“Your granddad has always been a resourceful person. When he lived here in the old days, before you were born, he made it to Belmond and back all by himself. And on foot, no less. I’ll wager he and the others are halfway back to Decylum by now.”
Rostand nodded, glancing over his shoulder. When he saw that the others had left, he gave in to his sobs.
Raith reached out a hand. “Don’t underestimate him, Ros. If he’s out there, he’ll find us.”
The rest of their journey to the Brinescale Mountains took the better part of a week, but the nomads were as well-accustomed to life in the desert as Raith had guessed. Nothing dared waylay the nomads; they were the lords of this domain, and neither man nor beast nor nature itself had the power to hinder them.
For most of the journey, Lethari had let one of his slaves ride on the back of a mule, keeping him separate from the others. A murrhod with scraggly blue-gray fur and black eyes, the slave was bruised and thin, with a set of long yellowed teeth and a pink nose with brown splotches. Raith noticed Lethari paying special attention to the slave, making sure it was well-fed and watered each time they stopped to rest. He had heard the hunters’ stories about the creatures who infested the mountains and caves near towns and villages in the above-world, but Raith had never seen one with his own eyes.
“What makes this slave different from the others?” Rostand asked one night, as they sat preparing supper by the fire.
Lethari furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t keep him in the cages.”
“The slaves in the cages are healthy,” Lethari said. “This one is sick, so he must be watched. Muirrhadi do not travel well already because the above-world is too harsh for them. This muirrhad belongs to a close friend of mine, a man who would not like it if I brought him back a dead slave. Tell them, Tazkitt.”
The murrhod slave spoke in a quiet voice, even-tempered and cautious. “My name is Tazkitt. I belong to Oale Haelicari.”
“You see? A good slave is agreeable, and never lies. But now his health is poor. His owner lent him to the Order of the Infernal Mouth, in Belmond. They treated him badly.”
“The Order of—who’s that?”
“Of the Infernal Mouth,” Lethari said. “Light-star worshippers in South Belmond.”
“A church with slaves?” said Derrow.
“Crazy as bushcats, they are. A few keep slaves in secret. They are… methachti… how do you say it in the Aion-speech? Men who like to do torture?”
“You lent them a slave so they could torture him?” said Derrow Leonard, wrinkling his lip.
“Not me. Oale Haelicari. I do not lend my slaves. No other man will treat your property as well as you. They were not supposed to do torture. I made them pay for it.”
“Why would he lend his slave to people like that?” asked Rostand.
“They paid high prices. They should have listened as well as they paid.”
On the fourth day of their journey, a line of bluffs rose in the distance. As they approached the face of the mountains, it seemed certain to Raith that they had a long climb ahead of them. How do they intend to get these animals up such a steep incline? he wondered. Perhaps they harbor some secret prowess for traversing these lands.
Raith didn’t notice the mountain pass until they’d come almost to the edge of the sands. The face of the rock folded in on itself like a fish hook, bending into a path that was indiscernible until they were right beside it. The nomads smiled at one another, murmuring glad sounds in their strange tongue as they goaded their steeds through the entrance.
The procession wound into a narrow channel like thread along a stitch, sandstone walls soaring upward on either side. The passage became so tight in places that they had to squeeze the carts through and ride single file. The nomads’ tension eased visibly, shoulders relaxing and muscles coming to rest as they passed into the safety of their hidden realm.
They camped beneath the stars for two nights, passing dozens of manned guard stations high in the rocky clefts above. On the third day, the mountain pass opened into a wide valley nestled inside the mountain range. The adjacent cliffside was like an ornate sandstone carving with a series of staggered levels, like steps in a giant staircase. As they drew nearer, Raith began to make out hundreds of tiny holes in the cliff face. Some were simple, round cave mouths; others were stark hewn rectangles, and the most decorative among them were carven with ancient curling symbols. Tiny shapes moved on the platforms and catwalks and staircases. The shapes became people, and the people became nomads going about the day’s business.
“Sai Calgoar,” Sig said. “Home.”
“For you, maybe,” said Ernost Bilschkin.
“We’ll get out of here,” Rostand said. “We’ll speak to their master-king and get him to lend us some provisions for the way home.”
“I hope you’re better at negotiating than Jiren is,” Derrow said with a smile.
Jiren elbowed him.
“We’ll negotiate your release too,” Rostand told Tazkitt.
“You should not make such promises,” Sig said, overhearing. “This slave is not the property of the king. He is the property of Oale Haelicari. Oale would be angry if his property were to be stolen.”
“We’ll talk to Mr. Hae—Haelic—we’ll talk to your owner,” said Rostand.
“Don’t bother,” Tazkitt said. “Asking a master to sell you his slave is an insult.”
Sig nodded. “This is the truth. A master chooses when to sell a slave. And no one would sell a slave to a pale-skin. This, too, would be an insult.”
“Is everything an insult to you people?”
“Yes,” Sig said, matter-of-fact. “When you offer insult, you give a man reason to exercise his privilege. What is a man without privilege? A woman. You want to make a man feel like a man? Two ways. Insult him, or do sex to him.”
Rostand smirked. “What about slaves? They never get to feel like men. Or women, even. Do they ever have the chance to go free?”
“A slave belongs to his owner until he dies. When a man dies, his slaves pass to his sons and nephews. Only when there are no sons or nephews or sons-of-sons or sons-of-nephews in his line, do a man’s slaves have any hope of freedom.”
At the edge of the plateau, a bustling market spread out to fill the valley floor below them. Raith could hear music, drums beating on the noontide air, pan flutes and gut-stringed instruments, wooden xylophones plinking among the tents and stands and booths. The place had an atmosphere of movement, of health and vigor like none
he had expected to find in the above-world.
Lethari led them down a trail cut into the side of the plateau, and they began making their way through the busy market streets toward the cliff of holes. The curious crowds swarmed around them, merchants and shopkeeps and commoners desperate to see what Lethari’s warriors had brought back from their ranging. Raith and the others had shed their Scarred uniforms back in Belmond, but he still felt the same scorn and judgment in the nomads’ stares. People pointed at his hands and whispered. Women giggled and made wide-eyed gestures about his height. Children chased them, trying to shimmy their hands and fingers into bags and pockets, and big men lowered their shoulders to block their way. The only time these savages ever see pink-skinned men from newer bloodlines, those men are their slaves.
There were dogs barking in the streets, the smell of animal dung mingling with the tang of seared meat and spiced vegetables. There were stands of woven fabric dyed in bright colors. A potter sat molding clay, the shelves behind him overflowing with red-orange pots and bowls and plates. A woman was sliding painted beads onto a string behind her jewelry display. Raith saw a fishmonger, a butcher, and a man sharpening knives. There were crates bursting with fresh crops and customers haggling at every stand.
At the far end of the market, a wide cave mouth took them into cool darkness. The sounds of the market died away behind them as they entered a long hall adorned with stone statues bearing likeness to grotesque winged beasts. Oil lamps flickered on the walls, giving shape to the dim corners of the room. They passed beneath a heavy iron portcullis. Lethari pointed down a long corridor, and a few of his men split off from the main group, pulling the slaves along with them.
“Goodbye,” said Tazkitt. The murrhod gave Rostand a hard look as they led him away.
