by J. C. Staudt
“Why don’t we go in there and take Ros back?” suggested Gregar. “Flee the nomad city and find our own way home?”
“I speak,” said Jiren.
Derrow nodded his agreement, but he knew as well as the rest why they couldn’t.
“It’s not as simple as that,” said Raith. “If we take the master-king’s palace by storm, there will be blood, and not just on their side. The king has thousands of men at his command. If we make enemies of an entire nation of nomads, how will their caravans treat our hunters then?”
Gregar frowned. “Seeing as how Wickman and Staley are both dead, what other option do we have? We want to get Ros back and go home, don’t we? We sure as shit aren’t about to lead the savages back to Decylum. Excuse my language. You’re not going to do that, are you Raith?”
Raith sighed. “I will do everything in my power to avoid that outcome. I hope you’re all with me on that score. It’s been suggested that we lead the nomads on a wild goose chase, but I don’t see that ending well. There’s also talk of tracking down the architects of Decylum and asking them for guidance.”
“The Glaives?” asked Ernost Bilschkin. The historian’s eyes lit up like a child on his birthday. “They’re still around after all these years?”
“Dead, as it happens,” said Raith. “One of them, at least.”
“How do you know that?”
“Lethari Prokin requested the master-king’s leave to bury a friend of his… the man was a Glaive.”
“Wha—this is news to me,” said Ernost.
“It was Theodar’s idea,” said Raith. “I wanted to keep it a secret until we knew whether Wickman Garitall was here. The nomads cannot be allowed to discover the Glaives’ affiliation with Decylum. Anyway, it’s an option. There are others. Why don’t we discuss them in the morning, after we’ve had a chance to clear our heads?”
Raith wasn’t the least bit tired, but the news of Hastle’s death had fallen on him like a weight. He’d known Hastle’s survival was unlikely, but even the faintest glimmer of hope is a world away from none at all.
Around the camp, the nomads were putting out their fires.
Hayden yawned. “I guess it’s getting to be time for bed. You all must be exhausted after traveling such a long way.”
Jiren grinned. “Actually… we just woke up. A lot of times the nomads travel at night and find shade during the day. Really makes things easier in the desert.”
“Someone should’ve thought of that on our way here,” said Brence.
“We were naive about many things when we left home,” Raith said. “And if one day we’re fortunate enough to look back on ourselves now, may we have the wisdom to do it in the shade.”
The Sons laughed. They doused the fire and laid out their bedrolls to settle down for the night. Their four reunited brothers were asleep in minutes, though Raith knew he and the others would lie awake for hours yet. Hastle, you left us too quickly. There was so much more you could’ve taught us.
Myriad came to him in a waking dream. There was a closeness about her this time, a vivid quality he hadn’t sensed in his other dreams. He supposed she had met the fates years before Hastle. Yet somehow she felt more alive to him now than ever. Her presence was translucent; inexplicable, yet pervasive. What was her family name? Raith tried to remember. Who were her parents?
Where in the bowtie-shaped octet of Decylum’s wings had Myriad’s hab unit been located? Over the long years, Raith had forgotten everything. Except her. Long dark hair, and the eyes like piercing night. Slender cheekbones, milk-white skin, and a grace unparalleled in any woman he’d ever known. What was it about her that made her so different?
The thought swept him up, struck him like some obstacle he’d spotted in the distance and tripped over anyway. It was her age. How well-preserved, the healer whose body replenished itself as if suspended in time. Hastle Beige and Kraw Joseph were two of the few people Raith knew who were older than Myriad. If anyone knew more about her, it was Kraw, or Hastle’s widowed wife, Imogen. Both were in Decylum. Both, he hoped, were still alive. He’d never know if he didn’t get home.
CHAPTER 16
The Healer’s Son
“Coffing magic, that’s what he does,” said Peymer. “No other way I can put it. He’s a miracle worker.”
“I was there the first time he ever done it,” Rhetton agreed. “I seen black fire come out his hands and cover the dway in this eerie sort of light. Dway was half-dead, cut up and bleedin’ from every hole in his body. Dried up and came back together in seconds, right before my eyes. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. Wicked stuff.”
Merrick shook his head. Since the day he’d healed Cluspith in the Ministerial History Museum, news of his gift had spread faster than he ever would’ve believed. Rumors of that day’s events had only grown more imaginative as they spread. Now, it seemed he was some sort of immortal angel who had the power to wake the dead. People had gone so far as to bring the bodies of their loved ones when they came to search for him, he’d been told.
It was a good thing the Gray Revenants were so good at hiding. Merrick’s instant celebrity had garnered the organization more attention than it wanted. That hadn’t stopped the Revs from chattering amongst themselves, though—and it certainly hadn’t stopped the rumors.
The group of Revs listening to Peymer and Rhetton were from a faction who haunted the territory along the southwestern edge of Belmond. Their reactions were mixed; they glanced in Merrick’s direction from time to time as various alleged eyewitness accounts unfolded. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention—especially among those who’d paid no attention to him before, even when he’d clamored for it.
It was happening too fast; Merrick wasn’t ready. Until he knew what he was doing, he could never hope to lead a unified front against the city north. He was famous in the north too, if the scant visitors who came from Pilot Wax’s territory were to be believed. Healing Wax in the barracks infirmary had started a buzz. Even across closed borders, word of Merrick’s whereabouts had eventually found them.
The Gray Revenants, meanwhile, acted as Merrick’s gatekeepers, turning away most who happened to find them. They moved often from place to place, but never so often as in the past few weeks. They were also keeping watch over anyone they saw entering the city south from across the wastes. The first out-of-towners had arrived only a few days before, dragging their sick loved ones over the long horizons to see the famed healer.
As yet, Merrick had done little actual healing. In order to heal the sick in large number, he needed access to electrical power. Aside from the coilguns’ power cells, there was no electricity to be found. What he really needed was free admission to Wax’s energy station.
A messenger entered the cellar’s humid confines, breathing hard. Merrick couldn’t remember the name or location of the building they were in. They’d only been there a day or two, and they wouldn’t likely stay long. The building’s damp basement was a fine hiding place, but it made a terrible living quarters.
The messenger stopped in front of Peymer and came to attention.
“Spit it out, Siler,” Peymer said.
The messenger spoke quickly. “Couple of ours down southside spotted some dways coming off the wastes at dusk. They fit the description Merrick gave us, except they weren’t wearing synthetics.”
Merrick wiped the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve. “South end of the city, you said?”
“South, uh-huh.”
“How were they dressed?”
“Like savages. All in white, thin and baggy.”
“How many?”
“Nine.”
“Riding or walking?”
“All of them riding.”
Merrick leaned forward, elbows on knees. There’d been more than nine of the Decylumites when they escaped Wax’s prison. There had to have been more than nine; they fought off two regiments of Scarred soldiers… “Nope. Doesn’t sound like them. Thanks for the report.”
The Revs had brought Merrick several reports since they’d disallowed him from climbing the Armitage Building every morning to look for himself. They’d all been false alarms. He was now too valuable a commodity for them to let him out of their sight. So he’d bargained instead for a special bulletin to be sent out to every sect of Revenants in the city south, describing Raithur and his companions. The reward for a positive report? Why, Merrick’s special talent, of course.
“But…” the messenger stammered, “… they all had fair skin… burnt pink, like you said. Well, all but one of them, anyways. They went straight to the nomad camp when they got here. And a couple had dark hands.”
Merrick shot to his feet. “They went to the old chemical factory?”
Siler nodded excitedly. “That’s the one.”
When Merrick looked to Peymer for permission, the man’s face was a brick wall. “Nope, sorry. Not possible.”
“It’s more than possible, you just want to keep me tied up in here like a rabid dog.”
“It’s for your own good, Merrick.”
“My own good is going to get a lot better if I can just see those foreigners. It’s for the good of the Revs too, and you can count on it.”
“If we lose you, Merrick…”
“I’m the coffing healer,” Merrick said. “If there’s anyone you don’t have to worry about losing, it’s me.”
“It’s not about losing you. It’s about you getting discovered.”
“Taken, you mean. I’ve already been discovered. They’ve heard of me in Rimford Springs, for Infernal’s sake. You can’t just keep me here forever. I wanted to be a Revenant, remember. A proper, official Revenant. That was back when I was a nobody. A washed-up comrade with the swift spanking of exile still stinging my ass. When Caliber died, I tried to show my worth. Rally you all to a bigger cause. You laughed me off the stage… literally. Told me to sit down and keep my mouth shut. So the way I see it, you’re all fair-weather friends until proven otherwise.”
“Sure, I hear what you’re saying. You want respect, and for a while you didn’t get it. That’s all changed now. We want to keep you safe, and the nomads are no safe people to go messing around with out there.”
“The nomads scare me shitless. But I’ve got to talk to those foreigners. I’m going to that camp with or without you. If I find the dway I’m looking for, there’s going to come a day when you’ll all wish you’d been there with me. I used to think I had to become something else to take the city north. Now I know that isn’t true. Arbal was right; my gift could change the world someday. All I’ve got to do is learn how to use it.”
Peymer unfolded his arms and pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. “My team and I are coming along. I can only speak for myself, but personally I’m inclined to sit back and see what happens with this foreigner before I roll the dice. It’s going to take a lot to convince the Revs you’re worth throwing our weight behind.”
An awareness came over Merrick then—one so profound it made his heart skip in his chest. If Raithur Entradi was really there at the nomad camp, and if he could be convinced to teach Merrick about the gift, the conquest could begin. He could leave his handlers behind and start traveling around the city south, gathering support wherever he could find it. If Peymer and the rest of the Gray Revenants wanted to ‘roll the dice’ and lend him their support, they were welcome to. But Merrick was going to need more than the Revs to overthrow Pilot Wax.
“Siler? Was that your name?” Merrick asked.
The messenger nodded.
“You better be telling the truth with this report of yours.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Your dways say that’s what they saw. Let’s go find out how good their eyes are.”
“Can’t we at least wait until dawn?” Peymer asked.
Merrick gathered his things. He only had a few, so it didn’t take long. “The future doesn’t wait, Peymer. They could be gone by tomorrow.”
“We’ll find them again.”
“We’re going to find them tonight.” Merrick donned the gray trencher and filtermask the Revs had provided to help him blend in. He’d managed to get hold of a new pair of gloves to hide his scar and his lack of fingernails, but they still hadn’t issued him a coilgun.
Peymer’s group escorted Merrick in tactical silence through the nighttime city. They were a long way from the factory camp, and the anticipation made the trek feel even longer. There was a slow build to it that brought tandem waves of fear and excitement.
Sooner than he expected, Merrick spotted the factory’s twin smokestacks through the darkness, concrete cylinders bathed in silver starlight. He and his companions entered through the break in the chain-link fence, but the border guards stopped them in the empty lot beyond. The savages outnumbered them two to one, and Merrick could see the silhouettes of others on nearby rooftops.
“Why do you haunt us at such an hour?” asked one of the nomads.
“We’re here to see some visitors who arrived earlier this evening,” Peymer explained.
“Yarun merouil. They are here not three hours and already you have come for them.”
“I told you I’d be back when they were,” Merrick said, removing his filtermask.
The Revs flinched at Merrick’s blatant exposure, scanning the fence line as if there might be someone watching from the night-shrouded city beyond. The savages didn’t appear to recognize him. I must look as bland and indistinct to them as they do to me, Merrick realized. I’m the same as any other aion, with or without the mask.
Except that Merrick wasn’t the same. He needed to stop belittling himself that way, or he would never kindle the kind of loyalty he desired. His gift might inspire fanatical devotion in some, but there were others who would drain him like a cup and toss him aside when they’d drunk their fill. That was why he’d have to use it sparingly; so he could keep their attention longer. Once he had the south’s attention, he would make them hear.
Merrick was proud of himself for recognizing that—for having the wisdom to forecast what it would take to elevate himself in the minds of the people. Maybe he was growing up after all. He certainly wasn’t growing out. Not anymore. The city-south diet had made him the thinnest he’d ever been before. Maybe the savages would’ve recognized me if I were still fat, he thought with a chuckle.
“My warleader will not allow you to enter the camp until morning,” said the savage.
“I’ll wait,” Merrick said. “As long as I have to.”
“Might as well paint targets on our backs if we’re going to sit out here in the open,” said Peymer. “Every ganger on the block’s going to get a good look at us when the light-star rises.”
“If you want to go, then go,” said Merrick. “I’m not making you stay.”
“You mean that? ‘Cause if we go, your mask and trencher go with us,” Peymer warned.
Merrick slipped out of his trencher and let it fall to the dust. He tossed the mask on top of it. “You seem to think there’s anything in the world could stop me from talking to these visitors. What do you think I’d do if you tried to drag me out of here? I’ll show you, if you want to find out.”
Peymer glowered at him, then shifted his gaze to the savages. “Is there anywhere closer to the factory where we can hunker down until your warleader lets us inside?”
“I can allow you to go no further. Until the morning watches are set, there are many places you may go to remain unseen.” The savage pointed out beyond the fence line.
“Fine. I’ll go,” Merrick said with a sigh. “But not far. We’ll come back at dawn.” He snatched up his mask and jacket and followed them through the fence.
The factory sat at the edge of a vast industrial zone full of towering cranes, long low buildings, and other factories like it. Knowing gangs often nested there like flies, the Revs fell back to the quieter commercial section they’d come through. They spent a restless few hours huddled in the a
lley between a hotel and an auto body shop, waiting for daybreak. Merrick sensed their annoyance with him, though no one mentioned it out loud.
Just before dawn, there was a small noise at the back of the alley. The Revs brandished their coilguns, but Peymer waved them off. From beneath a mass of refuse crawled a child; a girl with blonde hair and blue eyes. Her skin was dirt-smudged and her scalp was oily with unwash. Merrick was startled to see such a young child, and one unattended; a rare occasion in this part of the city. Her wild-eyed expression brought to mind some feral animal.
The girl froze when she saw them. It was then that Merrick noticed her tiny shelter for what it was—two palettes angled against the alley wall and covered with plastic bags, cardboard boxes, and various patched-on weatherproofing.
“Who’s that back there?” asked one of the sentinels posted at the mouth of the alley.
Oban grunted. “Street scum.”
Merrick had little to give the girl, but he felt he should give her something. He took a strip of dry salted jerky from his pouch and approached the girl. She took a step back. Merrick stopped, lifting a hand. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything to you. I just want to give you some food.” He shook the strip of jerky as if luring a mangy dog from its den.
The girl’s eyes brightened. She seemed for a moment to lose her hesitation. Then she shrank back and tucked herself beneath the lean-to shelter, ready to scurry away at any second.
“Here, I’ll put this down for you. You can come and take it.” Merrick looked around for something passingly clean, but in the blushing darkness he could barely tell what he was looking at. He took a careful step forward, knelt, and placed the jerky on an open patch of asphalt. “There. That’s for you. That’s yours. Eat.”
He backed away until he was standing with the others again. The girl raced out to snatch up her prize, then darted off down the alley and vanished around the corner.
