The Mortal Tally

by Sam Sykes

“Is it any wonder, then,” Fasha Teneir hissed, “that they scurry from true light as roaches?”

  Denaos’s eyes drifted over the Khovura surrounding her. They regarded him with eyes alight with hatred, but he ignored them. His attentions were seized by the one pair of eyes among them that brimmed with fear.

  Stood firmly between two of them, her hands tied behind her back, Anielle stared at him from above the gag tied around her mouth. And though she had trained over the years never to feed her captors with panic, it was impossible to keep any sort of defiance up in the presence of a demon.

  Denaos would be screaming, himself, had he not been too beaten and bruised to do so.

  “Teneir,” he spoke at last, tasting blood in his mouth. “You’re the one behind it.”

  Her sneer was plain even beneath her veil. “The familiarity of thugs is something I cannot abide, Jackal, as are whatever delusions you harbor of grasping what is occurring around you.”

  “You’re the one,” Denaos repeated, numbly. “You were the one supporting the Khovura. You were the one who killed Mejina?”

  At this an amused giggle. “Me? No, Jackal. In no sense of the word did I kill Mejina. How could I when he spent every coin he had on locking down Silktown?”

  “Poison,” Denaos said, “assassins in the night, I don’t know, somehow.”

  “Ah, I believe you will find that the gossip will speak differently tomorrow,” Teneir replied. “Mejina was found dead in his home, cut apart by Jackal blades.” She made a gesture toward one of the Khovura, who quickly swept forward and seized Denaos’s weapon from his belt. “One of which was carelessly left behind. The fashas will realize that Mejina’s paranoia was well founded: Danger lurked around every corner. In their desperation, the Jackals finally snapped and broke their bargains with the fashas.”

  “Turn them against us,” Denaos gasped, “of course.”

  “Against what? Your paltry gang of thieves is a remnant plagued with traitors, barely even a threat. I merely wish to show the fashas that our only hope lies in uniting.”

  “Behind you,” Denaos said.

  “There you are,” she replied, voice mockingly sympathetic. “A mule, blind and deaf, will eventually find water.”

  “The traitor…”

  It was an instant. A moment between labored breaths and nothing more.

  For just a moment, Teneir had glanced at Anielle.

  “Unknown, even to me,” the fasha said. “Typical of thieves, no? Good deeds are so foreign to them that they hide from acknowledgment of them.”

  “Good deeds?” Denaos’s voice rose along with his temper. Feeling that had been creeping into his limbs began to surge. “Good deeds? You snickering bitch, you kill people.”

  “So that no more need die,” she replied flatly.

  “You started a fucking war!”

  “To end all future wars.”

  “You’re a vicious, conniving, demon-worshipping—”

  “And you are a Jackal,” she said, simply. As though that were damnation enough. “You and your wretched ilk carved your way to the city’s top to sit upon a throne of knives. You encouraged greed and gluttony to reign throughout this city, unchecked. And when Cier’Djaal tried to reject you? When the Houndmistress tried to cast you out?” She stared intently at Denaos, as though she could see right through him and into Ramaniel. “You gave it the riots. You gave it countless dead.

  “There is no sin whose hand you can accuse me of kissing that you have not lain with, Jackal. This city is no longer merely ill; its diseases cannot be cured, but must be excised. If Ancaa asks this of me, then I shall be the one to wield the blade.”

  “Funny you should say that.”

  Denaos’s words were punctuated by the sound of his body hitting the floor as his foot slipped free of his boot and he fell from the Disciple’s grip. He anticipated the impact, took the blow with a grunt, and immediately leapt to his feet. The Khovura scrambled to tackle him and found nothing but empty air as he darted through them toward the fasha. The Disciple’s tongue lashed out like a whip, catching the leather of his vest and painting a bright line of crimson across his back. He bit that pain back as he pulled a hidden dagger free from his belt, reversed the grip on it, and took a flying leap at Teneir.

  Pain he could tolerate. His death he could accept. If he killed Teneir, then he would at least make this city a little less terrible. That would be enough.

  All the instincts of a killer coalesced into one breath as he took her in: her dispassionate stare, her soft stance.

  Her tender throat.

  His blade lashed out.

  He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the wash of warm blood.

  Teneir leaned back, her head swiveling away from the blow. Far away. Denaos didn’t even have time to scream as he watched her neck extend to two feet long, undulating out of the path of his blade. Her eyes narrowed in bemusement as he fell to the ground, dagger dry and eyes wide with horror.

  “Alas,” Teneir said as her head swiveled forward on serpentine throat, “would that all problems could be solved by violence alone.”

  “You…” Denaos groped for a word. “Demon. Fucking mon—”

  The crack of a fist against his jaw silenced him. The stamp of a foot upon his hand sent his dagger dropping. Then the Khovura simply seized his arms and jerked them harshly behind his back, binding him swiftly. Any further shock he might have had over what stood before him was rendered moot by the gag tied around his mouth.

  “The price for honesty is steep, no?” Teneir’s head shook. “How long did it take you, human, to admit what you thought of us saccarii?” She gestured to her neck, her hand glistening with scaly patches. “I rose to the ranks of a fasha, a ruler of men and women, and still for this was I looked down upon by the very people I stood above. Does it not strike you as odd that I should own so much, give so much, and still be defined by this deformity?”

  “There is a better word for it than that, Teneir.”

  All eyes went to the top of the stairs. The creature standing there Denaos recognized as Sheffu, but only by virtue of the fact that no one else could possibly be here. For what stood there, naked and pale, was not a fasha, not even a man.

  It walked on two legs, but its flesh was covered in scaly patches. Its right arm was fused to its side, its hand dangling limp and useless at its hip. Its lips were drawn in an unintentional serpentine grin, and when it spoke, a long tongue licked out from between its teeth.

  “Many more of us call it a curse,” Sheffu said as he walked down.

  “Sheffu.” Teneir struggled for a tone of diplomatic austerity, yet the strain at the edges of her voice was unmistakable. “I did not expect you.”

  “Nor did I expect you,” Sheffu said. “I would never expect another saccarii here.” He cast his ochre gaze to the Khovura, apparently not intimidated by their presence. “In the company of his servants.”

  The Khovura reached for their blades, murmuring threats beneath their veils. A hand from Teneir stayed them, though. Even the Disciple merely stared at the intruding saccarii, watching him warily.

  “Nor would I expect a saccarii to so adamantly oppose salvation,” she said. “Many of us have joined the Khovura.”

  “Out of insanity.”

  “Out of necessity,” Teneir hissed. She took no pains to conceal the rage behind her voice. “Do you not see, Sheffu? Do you not see what we are to them? This city? They mistrust the couthi, they fear the tulwar, they banish the shicts, but the saccarii? They do not even take the time to form an opinion of us. We are simply dirt to them, to be trodden over and built upon, and this land was ours before any of them set foot on it.”

  She reached up, removed her veil. The face beneath had once looked human, possibly quite beautiful. But her mouth was stretched at the edges and her lips were scaled. Her nose had receded, becoming nostrils. Her mouth trembled in a quavering whimper.

  The sight of such an emotion coming from such a monstrosity made D
enaos queasy, as her face contorted in an attempt to convey the same pain as her voice.

  “They don’t even hate us, Sheffu,” she said. “We are not even people to them. Merely one more type of vermin, like any rat or hecatine, to be swatted away and stepped on.” She drew in a staggered breath. “And still, there are humans with the Khovura. And still, all are accepted by Ancaa—”

  “Do not speak that name,” Sheffu hissed in reply. “Do not pretend you are noble for doing this, Teneir.” His lips peeled back, exposing long fangs. “Do you think I have not seen what you have? Do you not think I have heard my name spoken as a joke? To my own face? I know what the humans think of us.” He glanced sidelong at Denaos. “Even the best of them view us as tools to their own end.”

  “Then why do you oppose us?” Teneir said. “Why do you chastise me as though I am some child? Why do you not see the good in what I am doing? I will rebuild this world, into something where no one need be stepped upon.”

  “Indeed?” Sheffu looked to the Disciple, who stared back at him with scribble-black eyes. “And what price do you intend to pay, Teneir? How much blood will be needed?”

  “As much as it takes, Sheffu.”

  “Then he will take it all. You do not know what forces you are dealing with. He is a lord of lies, a deceiver. The sin of his ambition is made manifest in our flesh.” Sheffu gestured to his fused arm. “You have noticed it, no? Every year we creep closer and closer to what we were born from. We are a testament to his hubris, the price we pay for his sins.”

  “A saccarii life is not a sin.”

  “No,” Sheffu said. “But to do what you’re doing… that is a sin. The price you seek to pay, that is too much. We must find another way.”

  “Ancaa will deliver—”

  “Ancaa is a lie.”

  Teneir reeled. She looked to her Khovura, to the Disciple, to the Jackal prisoners, as if one of them would reassure her. But from them she received only fanatical glares, only a black stare, only terrified eyes. Her face sank, her hands hung limp at her sides. Finding nothing in the eyes surrounding her, she looked down to her robe, to the Ancaa symbols woven into the fabric.

  “Why now, Sheffu?” she asked, her voice soft and trembling. “Why now, when it is far too late?”

  “It can never be too late,” Sheffu said, stepping closer to her. “It can only ever be too long.” He extended his one good hand to her. “The killing has gone on too long, Teneir.”

  “But the humans, they—”

  “When you close your eyes, Teneir, and picture the end of this all, after you have slaughtered humans and tulwar and shicts and given them reason to hate us… do you see a world safe for the saccarii?”

  Denaos’s eyes flitted toward Anielle. He saw her body still, her trembles cease as she held her breath behind her gag, waiting to see if Sheffu’s words had swayed Teneir, waiting to see if there was a way that they all left here alive.

  His own breath came slowly, heavily, labored. His own neck bent beneath the weight of his head, the burden of his own knowledge bearing him down. He could not blame Anielle; she had only ever fought and killed men, she still held on to the hope that these were all they were dealing with. Denaos had faced demons before; he knew better than to hope in their presence.

  And yet, as Teneir looked up, her eyes were wet. Her lip trembled. Her body looked as if it might collapse under its own weight and topple right into Sheffu’s arm. She took a deep, staggering breath, as though she would burst into tears at any moment.

  She continued to look that way.

  As she held her hand out to take his.

  As her lips parted to expose her fangs.

  As her head shot forward on serpentine neck and aimed for his throat.

  The surprise on Sheffu’s face was hidden beneath a splash of warm life. His shock was choked beneath a wet, gurgling breath. He went limp, supported only by Teneir’s fangs lodged in his flesh. And when she withdrew them, he pooled to the floor in a puddle of scales and skin.

  “I have seen it, Sheffu,” Teneir said, her voice now cold and lips stained red. “I have seen a world where saccarii is no longer an insult, nor even a word. I have seen a world where all prosper and thrive beneath Ancaa. And before tonight I saw you with me.” Her throat coiled upon her shoulders. She replaced her veil over her face. “Alas. You came to visit Mejina in the night, only to fall prey to the same ambush that the Jackals had laid for him. I am sorry that it had to end this way, Sheffu.” She licked a long tongue across her lips. “Truly.”

  Sheffu’s hand touched the wound in his throat only once. He reached out, fingers wet with his own life, as if he could prove his point if she would listen for just a little longer.

  And listen she did. And his last words were choked, crimson sobs that ended as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and emptied out upon the carpet.

  “Tend to the bodies.” Teneir pointed a finger at Denaos. “Use this one’s blades. Make it clear that the Jackals were here.”

  “Evidence is in the flesh,” the Disciple intoned. “If the deception is to be complete, let these frail casings be drained and serve as proof.”

  “No,” Teneir said, “they were here when Sheffu was. If they know anything of what he is up to, I wish to know, as well. Take them with us.”

  Anielle’s screaming could be heard through her gag as the Khovura forced her to her knees and slipped a black bag over her head. Even as one slid over his own and his world was plunged into blackness, Denaos could still hear her terrified wailing.

  And he wondered if, even without the gag, she could have heard him then.

  I should have listened, he whispered inwardly, feeling his heart sink. Should have listened to you.

  TWENTY-NINE

  BURY HER DEEP, BENEATH THE STREET

  Dawn.

  He blinked.

  And then, sunset.

  He blinked.

  The day was clear and cold and the morning crept over the roofs of empty houses and between chimneys that hadn’t sighed smoke since their families had fled.

  He blinked.

  The sky was red and thick with birds, clouds of crows and long-legged storks that settled like dirty snow on houses and on the street, plucking eyeballs from skulls and strings of meat from limp arms.

  He blinked.

  The streets were silent and empty in the yawning, vacated way that only roads that had once seen old men pushing carts of dried nuts, craftsmen’s apprentices toting heavy loads, harried mothers pulling screaming children could be.

  He blinked.

  The streets were slick with blood and caked with corpses staring accusingly up at the sky, cursing gods who had not delivered them in their darkest hour and who had sent only crows and storks and gulls to clean up the mess.

  He blinked.

  His breath came slowly and labored. The scent of brimstone filled his nostrils. Electricity danced in sparks on the back of his neck. Flecks of blood dried on his hands.

  He blinked.

  And the blood was still on his hands.

  The visions changed all the time—it wasn’t always crows. Sometimes Cier’Djaal was on fire, consumed in great orange sheets. Sometimes it was empty and every door and window had been boarded up. Sometimes a cloud of midnight hung over it and thin people in gray sheets walked the streets, moaning and weeping.

  The only constant was Dreadaeleon.

  When it was crows, they squawked in complaint and fluttered out of his way as he walked. When it was flames, he walked among them untouched. When it was emptiness, his footsteps echoed forever. When he walked through the dead, they did not look at him.

  Every time he opened his eyes, he felt the haze of broodvine creeping across them and Cier’Djaal changed before him. With every breath he took, the haze dissipated, until he stood once again in a city whole and unstained, however quiet. The Djaalic people still hid and held their breath in anticipation of whatever new hostilities the Karnerians and Sainites would unleash on eac
h other today.

  Dreadaeleon had long ceased caring about the people and the soldiers they lived in terror of. He had even ceased being terrified of the visions and how he continued to lose hours, maybe even days, as he wandered through them.

  Constants, old man, he cautioned himself. Keep track of the constants. You’re a constant. He looked at his hands, saw the blood drying upon them. Scent of fire, sensation of electricity; those are constants. Traces of your power being used. When you’re in the visions, magic is being expelled without you knowing or consenting. And people are dying. Someone is controlling you.

  Well, no shit, idiot. We figured that out ages ago. Anything new?

  Not yet, you smug son of a bitch. Maybe if you’d shut up and let me think for a—

  “Easy!” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, echoing off the silence of the—momentarily—empty streets. “Easy, old man.”

  Granted, given the state he was in, it was hard not to go a little mad. But madness wasn’t helpful. He had to think clearly, as hard as it was. Doubtless magic was being used against him.

  But how?

  The means of controlling a person were few in number and those who might control a wizard were scarcer still. Induced hypnosis was a favorite, but it was unpredictable and required many set triggers or signwords to keep someone from snapping out of it. In a pinch a wizard could seize control of the electrical impulses that ran through a person’s body and control them that way, but they would be made painfully and clearly aware of the attempt.

  Someone was not simply controlling him, but controlling his reality. Someone was showing him visions: of a hundred futures, a hundred cataclysms, and all the many ways he had caused them.

  No man, not even a wizard, could do that. Nothing could.

  Short of gods, anyway.

  But gods don’t exist, do they? They’re a barkneck’s fantasy to control other barknecks. You’ve got reason. So use it.

  He forced himself to stare straight ahead, ignoring the walls melting away to reveal houses made of bone, ignoring the streets turning to quicksand beneath him.

  Your problem is that you’re not admitting weakness, old man. You know someone is controlling you. But you don’t know how. Obviously they need some sort of connection to you: visual, mental, something like that. Too many places for them to hide in this city. You’ll never be able to follow the connection back.