Caine Black Knife

by Matthew Stover

“It’d be a better moral compass if you fuckers had named it after somebody else.”

  She didn’t seem to hear. “Why do you think I requested Purthin’s Ford? This was the site, after all, of your functional apotheosis. This was where you—”

  “How much have you got on this book?”

  “Well—I’m still compiling my notes—”

  “So I don’t have to kill you tonight.”

  “Oh, please. You don’t kill—nor harm, nor even hurt—merely to protect your vanity. You never have.”

  “I’m trying to outgrow that. What the hell is a ‘functional apotheosis’?—ah, forget I asked. I don’t want to know.” I jerked myself upright and tracked wet footprints across the kitchen floor. I picked up one of the lamps and weighed it in my hand.

  When I drifted behind her toward the inner door, her cane thumped horizontally into the wall across my path. A subtle spin of her forefinger—and the wick wheel of the lamp in my hand turned exactly the same amount. Down. The lamp went out.

  “My mistake,” she said. “I should never have mentioned the documents in my front room—though you see I can anticipate, and easily thwart, your attempt to dominate our conversation by threatening my work.”

  I sighed down at the curl of smoke rising up the lamp’s glass chimney. “I ought to just crack your goddamn skull with it.”

  “And how, exactly, will that persuade me to use Monastic resources to help you rescue Orbek?”

  I stared at her.

  “That is why you’re here tonight. Don’t trouble to deny it.”

  “I’m talking to you,” I said heavily, “because the Council of Brothers needs to know what’s going on in this fucking town.”

  “Horseshit.”

  “What?”

  “Horse,” she repeated precisely. “Shit. I repeat: I am the world’s leading authority on you. I know Orbek—know him well, as you’ll recall. I know you. And I know that there is nothing you will not say or do to save the life of someone you care about. It’s a matter of principle, isn’t it?”

  “Which is why the Council needs to hear this from you. Because nobody believes a sonofabitching word I say anymore.”

  “And why will I believe you?”

  “Because,” I said, “you’re the world’s leading authority on me.”

  She frowned. I could see gears clicking behind her face.

  I had her. I just needed to set the hook.

  “So I’m a liar,” I said. “You’re the expert: Talk to me about my lies.”

  “Ah . . .” She sat up, her eyes brightening. “Ah, yes . . . the lies you fed the King of Cant to trigger the riots that led to the Second Ankhanan Succession War—that you would show Ma’elKoth to be an Aktir before the entire city . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “The lies you told us in the Pit, to build the morale of the condemned before Assumption Day . . . even as you were being taken to your death in the Shaft, still you lied . . . and yet . . . and yet—”

  “Yeah. And yet.”

  “And Ambassador Raithe—his account of your accord with the Ascended Ma’elKoth is in the Embassy Archives in Ankhana—when you agreed, falsely agreed to surrender . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “And in every case,” she murmured, her eyes alight with distant awe, “your lies became truth . . .”

  “It makes me a little careful about what I say to people, you know what I mean?”

  “Caine, I—” Her brittle voice had gone breathless. She sounded very, very young, and I caught a glimpse of the girl she must have been forty years ago, before the world had crushed the best of her dreams. “Caine . . .”

  It sounded like a prayer.

  I had to turn away. “Look, don’t get on your knees or anything. Just keep your goddamn magick ink thing going so you can read this back when you make your report. You know how I got jobbed here in the first place?”

  Her brows contracted. “You approached the Abbot of—I could look up the exact details in only a moment—ah, Tremaine Vale, yes, with intelligence on a semi-private expedition out of Prethrainnaig. Partially funded by the Kannithan Legion. In search of some primal Relic—something to do with Panchasell Mithondionne—”

  “It was this big-ass gem called the Tear of Panchasell. According to the Lay of the Twilight King, it was formed of Panchasell’s weeping for the Folk trapped behind in the Quiet Land when he sealed the dil T’llan against the Blind God.”

  “The oral histories of the First Folk are notoriously—”

  “Yeah, I know. Call it a metaphor.”

  “Yes. A pity we cannot examine the Tear itself.” She coughed delicately. “I do recall, now, reading your report . . .”

  I waved that off. “You know what the dil T’llan is?”

  She shrugged. “Primal is a tricky tongue; nearly every word has a variety of related meanings, depending on context. Dil can mean path, or maze, or gate, or wall. T’llan is the Primal for the moon. It’s also a proper name for the moon, which they consider a person. It’s also the name of their goddess who takes the moon as Her Aspect. It’s also a descriptive modifier for anything that undergoes regular phase changes, or that is seen mostly but not always at night, or is related to tidal effects, or—”

  “Yeah, yeah. In simple terms: the dillin are gateways to the Quiet Land. What the Primals call the Quiet Land is what you call Arta.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your world. The Aktiri world. Yes: as I said, I’ve read Deliann’s book.”

  “In my home language it’s called Earth. The Khryllians call it the True Hell, and that’s as good a name for it as any. You might remember the last time my people decided to show up in force. We call it Assumption Day.”

  She lifted her cane and grimaced. “I was there.”

  “Yeah, well, sometime around a thousand years ago, this Panchasell started to understand what my people were going to be capable of. That’s when he decided to close the dillin. That’s what he did with the dil T’llan. Shut them. Shut them all.”

  “Impossible.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “The primals may be the greatest spellcasters of Home, but no mortal could wield power of that magnitude—not even Ma’elKoth, prior to His Assumption. Across the world? Overload would have incinerated even Him like one of His own Firebolts. To close the dillin for even a moment, let alone a thousand years—eight hundred years after Panchasell’s death—”

  “You said it. No one mortal.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes narrowed, then widened again. “A Power?”

  “Yeah. An Outside Power.” Knots that I hadn’t noticed tying themselves in my guts started to wrench tighter. “The Outside Power. The god of the Black Knives.”

  “But even so—were It Bound to the Tear, to channel so much—”

  “No. The Tear was . . . just a device. The Tear gave It control over the river. Let It control the local weather, start the odd wildfire, whatever. The Tear was what let It make the Boedecken into the Boedecken Waste.”

  She was looking off into the distance, now, far beyond the walls.

  “Outside Powers feed on anguish,” I said. “Not just human anguish. Panchasell made It master of the Waste, letting things grow here just enough to suffer. And when the Black Knives would offer it, well, snacks—extra power—it could pay them with power in return.”

  I looked out the kitchen window, out over the garden toward the face of Hell. “It still does.”

  “You’re saying it’s still here.”

  “I’m saying here is what it is.” I waved a hand out her window into the darkness. “This is it. That’s it. The dil T’llan. Right there.”

  “How do you know all this?” Her voice was hushed, but with awe, not disbelief.

  “You said you read my report.”

  “But—but for all these years—”

  “Shit, t’Passe, I was a kid. I didn’t know what I knew. It wasn’t until three years ago that anybody other than Ma’elKoth and my dad knew that
the Quiet Land was Earth—y’know, Arta—and my dad was fucking crazy. It’s not like the Outside Power understands what it’s doing; it’s not even really sentient, as near as I could or can comprehend. It’s just a bundle of bizarre fucking tropisms that exists on the far side of reality. That’s how the Black Knife bitches could use It without Binding It: It was already Bound here. With the right kind of attunement, the part of It that made contact with a bitch’s mind would automatically resonate with her intention. Goddamn reverse theurgy.”

  “But even so—how is this the concern of the Monasteries?”

  “It’s not. Not directly. It’s the concern of the Empire. Because BlackStone Mining is an Artan operation—run, most likely, by Aktiri and Overworld Company goons trapped here on Assumption Day—that has found a way to control the dil T’llan.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Not important. The point is: there’s an Ankhanan insurgency already operating in Purthin’s Ford.”

  “This Smoke Hunt?”

  “Freedom’s Face.”

  “Oh, please, Caine—we know all about—”

  “You think you do. Among all those idealistic starry-eyed middle-class Ankhanan kids are hard-core covert operatives—most of them probably primal, concealed under different types of Illusion, but maybe humans too. Thaumaturgic Corps adepts, Grey Cats, I don’t even know what. They’re here to take out the Artans and regain control of the dil T’llan, but the Artans are under Khryllian protection. And nobody knows how much the Khryllians know about what the Artans are up to. One thing I know for sure is that this whole city’s about to go up in flames.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  I looked her right in the eye. “Because I’m here.”

  Her answering stare went thoughtful.

  “You need to get this in a report to the Council of Brothers right away, and they need to get—at the very least—a reinforced strike team inserted into Purthin’s Ford just as fast as the fuckers can friarpace. This may be the our only opportunity.”

  “Opportunity?”

  I took a deep breath. “The Order of Khryl has at least one, probably two, True Relics.”

  The pen in her hands snapped with a sound like a breaking finger. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I could be wrong. But I don’t think so.”

  “Caine, it’s impossible. We would know.”

  “Sure you would. They’re here, in Purthin’s Ford, and they’re in use. Regular, everyday ritual practice.”

  “But they—” She let the fragments of her pen drop to the floor and passed a hand over her eyes. After a moment, she said softly, “What sort of ritual?”

  “Some kind of Atonement. It seems to be something that is a guaranteed privilege of any ordained Knight. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

  I held out my right hand, opening and closing my fingers meditatively.

  With just the faintest breath of mindview, I could see the power of Khryl’s Blood shining there. “The True Relic I think they have—one I can’t confirm, but I’m pretty sure—is Khryl’s Hand.”

  Her face was white as the bleached sheet on the table beside her. “The Butcher’s Fist . . .”

  “They call it the Hand of Peace.”

  “They would.”

  “I think they’ve had it all along; I think Ma’elKoth built it into the Spire for them. I think it’s the only reason the Spire can stand at all.”

  “You think?”

  I shrugged. “Ma’elKoth and I are not on speaking terms these days. There’s some source of power holding that fucking monstrosity up. I can’t imagine anything less than a True Relic would be reliable.”

  “The fortress of their faith,” t’Passe murmured. Her bloodless lips quirked toward a smile but missed it on the twitchy side. “That would suit Ma’elKoth’s, mmm, I suppose one might call it His sense of humor. Or artistic irony, perhaps: to build the Order of Khryl an impregnable keep founded upon a True Relic of their god—their worship itself upholding their Eternal Vaunt . . .”

  “Yeah. Look at me laughing. The other True Relic is one the Council’s gonna be even more interested in. You better tell Ambassador Raithe too. This one I can personally confirm; I was close enough to touch it. They’ve got the hilt to what they call the Accursèd Blade.”

  I dropped back into the chair by the stove and tried to swallow the sick twist in my stomach. “It’s the Sword of Man.”

  T’Passe’s cane thumped on the floor. Both hands on its head, she shoved herself upright. “This—this would not be a Relic—Jereth was no god—”

  “It’s a Relic. Whatever the Godslaughterer might have been—whatever his sword might have been—it’s for motherfucking sure a True Relic now.”

  “How—?”

  “How should I know? Let the giant brains at the Monasteries figure it out; what the hell else are you good for?”

  “Well . . . I suppose,” she murmured, frowning, “having struck the defining wound to their god would Fetishize it for them considerably . . .”

  “They’re not the only ones who Fetishize the goddamn thing. We call it the Sword of fucking Man, for shit’s sake.”

  She stopped and turned to squint at me. “This is more than your reflexive hostility. You are angry. What has you angry about this?”

  I found myself panting through clenched teeth. “Here’s another one for you giant brains,” I said. “This is what I think you better share with Raithe. I’m telling you: I was this close to that fucking thing. It’s old. It’s easily the five-hundred-plus years old it’d have to be. And it’s been in the Knights’ possession a long damned time, maybe all five hundred years. And they don’t show it to Incommunicants. But I’ve seen it before. I’ve held it in my hand. So has Raithe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither.” I stared into the flames within the stove. “I had that fucking thing sticking out of my guts eleven years ago. Three years ago I jammed it through Ma’elKoth’s face.”

  “Caine, what are you talking about?”

  “The Sword of Man, the Accursèd Blade, whateverthefuck you want to call it.” I met her eyes, and my voice emptied out.

  I said, “I’m pretty sure it’s Kosall.”

  CAULDRON

  RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)

  You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)

  MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

  © 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.

  Wet

  cool wet sting lips tongue throat

  water fuck me it’s water

  hakHAKH

  fuck that hurts

  fuck hurts just breathe

  breathe

  a pinhole star in the void bright and brightening and going red and wind hushing to a roar and the star screams toward me and yawns beyond the universe—

  And I’m awake. And it wasn’t a dream.

  I’m still on the cross.

  Tilted back so I can breathe. Must be some—

  It’s Crowmane. Cold yellow eyes framed with gloss feathers gleaming black-red in the light from the bonfires. Looking in her face feeds the furnace in my chest with dreams of fist-fucking her eye sockets.

  She lifts a dipper to my lips and I take a mouthful of cool clean water—fuck me, it is water, it is—and I spit it on her anyway.

  Try to.

  My gut just won’t push that hard right now.

  Water dribbles down my chin and neck and chest and some of it goes down my throat, and y’know, if she’d bring that dipper up again I’d just fucking drink it, but instead her raw-liver lips peel back around her tusks and she says something to me, waving down at the lower tier with the dipper, splashing carelessly the water that is my sole hope of heaven, painting the retaining wall with little black wet dustballs that I would gladly lick off her asshole just to get that moisture past my lips . . .

  Down where she points, the other bitches have Pretornio.


  Shit, they haven’t even stripped him yet. I couldn’t have been out more than a couple of minutes.

  Shit.

  I wanted to miss this one.

  Next to where the bitches hold him rises a pole seven feet tall, blunt as a knuckle and big around as my wrist. It’s fixed on a sprawling iron stand so it won’t tip over when he starts to struggle. I wish I could look away. I have, y’know, some, what you might call, issues with anal penetration. In general. And this will be, y’know—

  Overly specific.

  I really wanted to sleep through this.

  I wish there were some way I could stop myself from imagining how it’ll feel.

  The bitches go to work on his clothing, cutting it off so they can strip him without opening his shackles, and he’s still staring up at me—I mean, it looks like he’s staring up at me, kind of, in a sick way—with that same stupid dreamy smile he had when he begged me to pick him for this. Which is bone-fucking creepy on a face with only clot-crusted holes where eyes used to be.

  Well, this is what you asked for, man. You can fuck me if I have a clue why.

  Under his robes he’s all soft and white. It’s hard to look. I mean, sure, priests don’t have to be athletes, even Kannithan priests, but shit he’s got these little saggy man-tits . . . and when they cut away his pants, his crotch is just a thatch of mud-colored hair. Huh. Since when is Dal’kannith one of those, y’know, those full-castration type of—

  Oh.

  Holy shit. I get it. I get it now. Those aren’t man-tits.

  Pretornio—

  He’s a chick.

  >>scanning fwd>>

  When the world comes all the way back the smell is still turd-smoke and old meat; the feel is still easterly breeze on my face and my chest and my balls but not on arms and legs that are numb as the wood they’re nailed to. The sound on the wind is still Pretornio’s voice, gone high and ragged, still chanting away in Old High Lipkan, and when my eyes fall open she’s still impaled on the pole like a trout on a fish spear.

  Doesn’t wriggle, though.

  Me, I’d be thrashing with everything I’ve got. Drive my weight down onto the blunt end of the pole. Make it rip through me. End it fast.