The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

  And that part of her belonged to someone else now.

  He looked at her. Tears fell from her eyes. She trembled, refusing to acknowledge them. And he did the same, turning his eyes up to the sky. The moon was beginning its descent now.

  “Four hours until dawn. I’m going to bed,” he said, pointing to somewhere away from the fire. “Over there. I’m going to close my eyes for three and a half.” He looked back to her just one more time. “When I open them, you’ll either be here or you won’t.”

  She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something else, but looked down at her feet as he turned and walked away.

  Perhaps there was more he could have said. Perhaps there was more he could have done. Perhaps there was something so perfect, so elegant, so painfully and poetically true that he could have simply spoken it and all of this would have been fixed.

  Perhaps Mocca would have known.

  But Mocca was not here. There was no answer. There was nothing more to say. And when he opened his mouth to speak, all he tasted was a single sour breath.

  ACT TWO

  A ROAD OF COLD WATER

  TWENTY

  KINGS AND PILGRIMS

  The Five Hundredth Year

  Majeno Daro

  I lost her today.

  This, in itself, should not be so remarkable. I have seen thousands die. Occasionally in a single day. Thousands were dead before I set foot upon this dark earth and thousands more die in the dominions I cannot control, in the bleak realms of Ulbecetonth and Raskansha. Those do not bother me.

  Why should they? The mortal frame, after all, is exactly what it sounds like. It is a fragile, breakable, corruptible thing made of tender meats and porcelain bones. They came to peace with this early in their years and it seems to trouble them not at all, given the rate at which they kill each other. This does not bother me, either.

  Indeed, none of this should bother me.

  And yet…

  I lost her today.

  A child. Not especially more fragile than her friends. Not prone to illness, despite what befell her. From what I knew of her, she was exceedingly average: obeyed her mother and father, skinned her knee frequently, burned her hand in the fire once when she was too young to know better.

  The disease that claimed her, too, was nothing I had not seen before. The cough was more persistent in her than it was in most children her age, but it seemed to be nothing overtly alarming. The medicine I prepared to counter this was slightly stronger than the average dose, but nothing particularly dangerous. I anticipated a positive response and a quick recovery.

  I did everything right.

  And I still lost her.

  Just like that. I attended her house to check in on her and found her mother and father on their knees on the stone, wailing and screaming and looking at me as if I could have done something. As if I had done nothing.

  And… I couldn’t tell them anything. Nothing beyond what I already knew.

  The dose was correct for the illness, I am certain. I am absolutely certain. The medicine has worked a hundred thousand times on a hundred thousand different mortals. Everything about it should have worked. It was supposed to work.

  Yet there she was, in her bed, not breathing or moving. And her parents were on the floor, beseeching me, begging me to return her. And I, whom they had called God-King, could but stare down at them, my hands empty and my mouth empty.

  And through all this, the girl’s grandmother was tranquil. She merely sat in her chair and stared out the window. Was she unaware that she had just lost a granddaughter? Had she simply not cared for the child? Why was she not beseeching me? Cursing me? Looking to me?

  I stepped over the girl’s parents to ask the grandmother. And she merely smiled at me and spoke to me in this calm, gentle manner. Her words still ring in my ears.

  “I loved her dearly,” she said. “I am sad to see her go,” she said. “But if she had to go, then she had to go,” she said. “It is simply how things are.”

  She said.

  With such insufferable serenity as to suggest she knew something I didn’t. With such infuriating ignorance as to suggest that this was the right answer. With such… such arrogance that I felt myself shaking just to look at her.

  Her, so fragile, so weak, with age bending her back and skin drawn tight. Her, who would have died at the hands of rapists or worked herself in the field, had it not been for me. Without my city, my law, my labor, she would be dead, and she presumed to speak to me as though she knew something I didn’t.

  But it is not her fault.

  We were sent to assure their faith, to make their grievances known. But in doing so, we have merely reinforced their ignorance. We have emboldened them to look at death and shrug their shoulders. We have taught them to take comfort in the inevitable. We have taught them to believe in a flawed design.

  It is not their fault.

  It is the fault of those above, who look away when they speak their prayers. Those above, who do not so much as hear them. And this grandmother, this frail, insignificant insect of a woman, presumes to speak to them? I cannot help her. Her ignorance is too deep. She will only hinder me.

  It is her parents I must aid. Those who scream and wail and bleed for me, who hold out their hands and pray to me, who clutch the hem of my robe and weep and beg me to change things.

  I cannot fail them.

  I have grown too idle, too lax. I was content to look at them all as one monolithic entity, mortalkind. I did not look at the intricacies of their systems, their bodies, their organs.

  Corpses can no longer be trusted to yield anything of value. I will ask Oerboros to speak to the slaves, select from them one weak, one ill, one healthy, one strong—from each race: tulwar, human, shict. I will ask Kyrael to speak to the Disciples, bring me more subjects. Their bodies will tell me where I failed, tell me how to improve, how to prevent this from happening again.

  Their families will be compensated for their suffering. One way or another.

  From the annals of His Word,

  First and Final Testament of He Who Cured the Ill,

  God-King Khoth-Kapira

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE ORACLE

  So,” Liaja said after a moment’s study, “it’s a dog?”

  Dreadaeleon cracked open an eye. Sunlight seeping through the shutters made his vision hazy, but he could see the silk of her robe clinging to her back as she leaned over the abomination in the corner.

  Admiral Tibbles, despite being at least partly made of male genitalia, appeared unfazed by the attentions of a beautiful woman.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s a dog. In the same way a nebulous fluctuation of unstable energies stitched together by flesh and sinew might be called a cat.”

  Liaja looked over her shoulder, a playful smile across her face. “No need to get snippy. I was curious.” She turned her attentions back to Admiral Tibbles. “You can hardly blame me. They call it a Charnel Hound, after all. And it acts like a dog.”

  What dogs she had seen that Admiral Tibbles would remind her of them, he dreaded even thinking about.

  Admiral Tibbles, for its part, didn’t seem to mind Liaja’s attentions. It sat on its haunches, staring eyelessly forward, watching Dreadaeleon whenever he rose out of bed, following him when he went to use the privy, staring at him whenever Liaja turned her affections to him.

  It didn’t really get weird until that last part.

  The thing didn’t even have eyes, but Dreadaeleon had the distinct impression that it watched him more intently when he was intimate with Liaja.

  Not that she seemed to mind any more than Admiral Tibbles did. She had reacted with fear, at first, then revulsion. Now she was curiously patting its head, scratching what she thought was its belly, frowning with disappointment all the while.

  “It doesn’t seem like a very friendly dog, though,” she mused. “Can it do tricks?”

  “It can,” Dreadaeleon replied, reclining on the bed’s mess
of silk sheets. “It can track a wizard for a hundred leagues, emerge from the most brutal spells unscathed, and snap bone and rend flesh as though they were paper.”

  “Yes, but can it fetch?”

  He blinked. “Yes. Yes, it fetches heretics and other violators of law every day, have you not been listening?”

  “But what makes it do that and not, say, roll over?” Liaja inquired, turning back to Admiral Tibbles. “What controls it?”

  “Its command scroll.” At her curious look, he gestured to the creature. “Somewhere within its innards—the innards that its outsides aren’t made of—is a scroll upon which its commands are written.”

  “A scroll?”

  “Yes. Made from wizard skin, the scroll determines how far it can range, who it follows, what actions it will permit its charge to take, and so forth. For example…”

  He flicked his fingers. His eyes glowed red with a hint of power. Stray sparks danced across his fingertips.

  And instantly Admiral Tibbles rose to its feet. The Charnel Hound turned its sightless gaze upon Dreadaeleon and visibly tensed. Liaja gasped and took a step backward. Dreadaeleon released the spell, letting the energy fade away. Slowly Admiral Tibbles resumed its sitting position.

  “The scroll instructs it to monitor expulsions of energy from me under certain circumstances,” Dreadaeleon said. “Had I unleashed anything, it’d have torn me to pieces.”

  “But how does it know?” Liaja inched closer to the creature. “Can it read the scroll? Who writes it? Do they know what you just did?”

  “The scroll is integrated with the Charnel Hound’s innards, communicating with it the same way a body communicates with everything else,” Dreadaeleon continued, “and there are a class of specialist fleshcrafters who…”

  His voice trailed off as he became aware of a distant sound. A faint ringing in his ears that grew annoyingly louder set his teeth on edge. He growled, shook his head to dismiss it.

  “Who do what?” Liaja asked.

  “Since when did you become interested in this, anyway?” Dreadaeleon replied, more snappishly than he had intended.

  “It’s magic. Should I not be?” Liaja rolled her eyes as she rose and approached him. “What a charmed life you must lead that a dog made of cocks can seem mundane.”

  “Need I remind you this thing is little more than a living shackle designed to hobble me? I imagine the bars of any prison seem exotic to someone seeing them for the first time.”

  Liaja looked toward the window, the sunlight streaming in. “Yes, I imagine they might.”

  A fleeting look. One she attempted to obscure by discreetly turning her face. But he caught it.

  They came more frequently now, these looks. Sorrow and fear and worry where once she had worn gentle smiles only for him. In the days before this—the Venarium, the war, everything—she had never worn such looks.

  Or had he simply never noticed?

  “Speaking of,” she said before he could voice such a thought, “does the Venarium approve of you being here?”

  He hesitated. Just long enough for suspicion to cross her features.

  “Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “I witnessed your battle in the square,” she replied, “as much as I could bear to.” She tugged at her sleeve. “It was vicious. Some of the girls, they huddled in their rooms at the sound, so frightened were they.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “It didn’t look like a mis—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Liaja.” He groaned, sitting up in the bed and rubbing his face. “I have had few enough hours free of imbeciles and authoritarians in the past week that I could count them on one hand. If you can’t quell your insipid curiosity for at least one more, could you at least trust me when I say you have nothing to worry about?”

  And the look was there again.

  No longer fleeting, nor discreet. Her eyes went wide, her mouth hung open. She turned away, her gaze directed to the floor, as though she had just been struck.

  He winced. He hadn’t meant to do that.

  But what choice did he have? The more she knew about the Venarium, the more danger for her. The Venarium intended to turn on him—he knew they would—and he wanted her to be of no use to them, to give them no reason to seek her out and turn her against him.

  Of course, if you had really thought that, you wouldn’t have sought her out in the first place, would you?

  The ringing in his ears returned. It grew louder with each thought.

  Had you really cared for her, you would have just let her be. But no, you had to see her. You had to show her that the Venarium couldn’t hold you, didn’t you?

  The noise sprawled like a serpent in his head. He could feel it tighten in his skull, suffocate his thoughts in heated coils.

  And why shouldn’t you? Why should you apologize for being able to do what others cannot? The Venarium think you’re a criminal, Asper thinks you’re a pawn. But they need you. Their plans hinge on you. You’re the one who will save everyone. She should know that. She should be on her fucking knees and—

  He shook his head, trying to shake free whatever had nestled inside his thoughts. The ringing dissipated only after severe shaking.

  Too hard to think. His mind was full of fog, bats, and whatever else the broodvine had left in there.

  The broodvine.

  How long had it been since he’d had it? Days? Weeks? How long had he been free from the Venarium’s cell? He needed it. Needed it to think. Just a few seeds. He needed the clarity of fantasy, the freedom that came from knowing that nothing was real.

  “Your body may have a few hours to spend with me, but your mind is clearly elsewhere, northern boy.”

  Those last words, always uttered so affectionately before, carried scorn when Liaja spoke them. And when he looked up, the look she shot him was not quite so fleeting, not quite so hidden, and filled with not merely dread.

  “And from the look in your eyes,” she said softly, “I have much to worry about.”

  He turned from her. “Exhaustion,” he said. “Mere exhaustion.”

  “It is not mere exhaustion,” she replied sharply. “I am not a mere woman.” She gestured to their surroundings. “This is not a mere home I am tending while the man of the house is away on business. This is a bathhouse, Dreadaeleon. And I have seen your eyes on the faces of any number of hungry, empty men who come here to sate themselves.”

  And at that he erupted from the bed. Exhaustion fled him, his naked body trembling with the force that crackled up through his being and into his eyes. Power, crimson and ethereal, wafted from his eyes.

  Admiral Tibbles was on its feet, staring at him intently, waiting for him to move. He did not care about that. Liaja stepped away from him. And he cared nothing for the fear in her eyes, the way she tried to close herself off with her arms.

  She’s afraid of you, old man.

  The coils around his skull tightened.

  She should be afraid of you.

  “Do not presume to speak to me of meres, woman.” He advanced. She trembled. “Do not presume that I am anything like any number of any snatch-sucking, barknecked swine that have come in here rutting for whores.”

  He reached out for her. His hands shook around her skin, sensing the tension therein before he ever touched them.

  “Can’t you see?” he asked, voice hoary and desperate. “Can’t you see what I am? They’re afraid of me. The Venarium. They turned me out because they thought I’d die out here. But if they fear me, I can escape them. I can leave this whole city behind. I can take you with me, Liaja.”

  “I…” The fear fled her eyes, and left behind was something colder and appraising. “It’s not that simple, Dread—northern boy.” She shook her head. “It’s not. I was bought by this bathhouse. I have a debt.”

  “I can pay it off,” he said. “There are ways. I can find them. I can find money, I can turn lead into gold. Fuck, I could just fly out of he
re with you, anytime I wanted.”

  “It’s… no.” She turned away from him. “It can’t be like that.”

  “Why not?” His voice rose into a whine. He seized her by the shoulders, whirled her around to face him. “Why not?”

  Her skin was cold under his touch. She turned about without a hint of resistance, a cold dead fish that flopped limply in his hands. As though she were trying to play dead.

  “Because,” she replied, eyes brimming with tears, “you scare the shit out of me.”

  His breath left him. All earthly sensation followed. What remained in him was something crackling, bristling, and stoked to a raging fury within him.

  The power. The Venarie. The magic. It flowed through him—fire in his breath, lightning at his fingertips, ice in his stare. It fought to tear itself out of his hand as he pressed it to her face.

  Her face.

  Like porcelain.

  Like glass.

  Too fragile to hold back the fear coursing through her. Too stiff to turn away from him. Too weak, too strong; he needed her, he hated her, he couldn’t live without her, he couldn’t stand to be with her another moment.

  The ringing in his ears grew loud.

  Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her. He shut his eyes, shut his ears. And then…

  She was gone.

  Where was she? Where had she gone? He had held her, a thing of trembling glass, and now…

  The ringing in his ears faded.

  He opened his eyes.

  In his hands was a man.

  A man whose dark Karnerian skin was pale with fright, whose eyes were staring up at him with a fear he wouldn’t have shown his god. This man was kneeling before him. Dreadaeleon’s hands were around his throat. His hands were slick with blood.

  He tasted air stale with ash on his breath. He smelled fire and electricity. The sun was bright, too bright for morning. The air was cold and the bodies…

  The bodies were everywhere.

  Karnerians. Their black armor was curled and smoking from flame, split apart by lightning, impaled by icicles still lodged in their chests. They littered the cobblestones of the small square, tangled amid shattered shields and splintered spears.