by Jon Hollins
The crowd stared up at him expectantly.
“Rules,” he spat, trying to regain his flow. “Rules, and laws, and order.” He pointed uphill, toward the High Temple. “Demanding that we smile and just go along as they smear their filth in our faces.”
And the crowd was back to cheering. And he was back in his expected groove. He reached for a bottle of holy wine, upended it over his face, drank what he could. More cheering.
Give them what they want, said the whisper. What you need.
Firkin nodded. It made sense.
“They hear us, those priests!” Firkin yelled. “You know that, don’t you?” He pointed again. “They pretend they don’t pay attention, but they do.” He nodded, found himself staring up at the heavens, at the seat of that so-called king of the gods.
He closed his eyes, focused.
“They sent someone down, those priests,” he said. There was no need to shout now.
Whisper it in their ears. That’s how you’ll persuade them.
“They sent someone with a blade. Sent him to my chambers.”
That was a bit of a stretch. The idiot with a knife had made it about three blocks into District Three before a gang of fifteen men had set about him with sticks and then dragged what was left of him to Firkin’s chambers. It was also debatable whether the High Priesthood had sent him or not. The High Priesthood’s disconnection from the city made them easy to decry, but it also meant that it was very possible for them to not know they were being decried at all. Still, the situation was close enough for Firkin’s purposes.
Firkin beckoned to the stage’s wings, and a pair of heavyset men heaved the assassin out for all to see. He was strapped hand and foot to a giant wooden X. His bloody head lolled above his spread-eagled frame. He looked small and pathetic to Firkin.
The crowd went completely berserk. There were perhaps two thousand of them and they flung themselves at the stage he was using as an altar. The whole place seemed to pulse with the sound of their cheers. He felt waves of it batter him.
Yes, whispered the voice. Yes, this is right.
For a moment Firkin licked his lips. Where did the voice come from? He’d been trying to ignore that question. But there was no doubt that as his popularity rose, the whisper had started to become clearer and clearer. He felt reassured when it spoke. He felt certainty. He felt like something powerful was moving within him. But … was it a memory? Had he felt this way before? Had the voice spoken to him before? So much was a blur. He was sure he’d been to this city before, but when? Hadn’t he been born and raised in Kondorra?
Gods, he didn’t even remember being a child.
He quickly drank more wine. Those felt dangerously like sober thoughts.
Blood and wine, the voice chanted in his head. Blood and wine. Wine and blood.
He showed the crowd the knife. The sounds rose even louder.
Why didn’t he remember bringing the knife? Had someone just given it to him?
Blood and wine. Wine and blood. And blood.
He strode to the assassin’s side, looked up at the small, broken man.
“This is what we think of the High Priest’s laws!” he screamed, and it felt right as he said it. The scream of the crowd felt right. Some deep resonance ringing within him, and he didn’t pay attention to the people storming up onto the stage in a frenzy. He just reached out and slit the man’s throat. He held the wine pitcher so that the blood flooded into it in a hot spray, flecking his fingers and face.
He raised the pitcher above his head, anointed himself with the mess of blood and wine as the crowd closed around him. They lifted him up cheering. The hot mess flowed into his throat.
He felt powerful. He felt like a god. Like he could spit in Lawl’s eye, probably while screwing Betra—Lawl’s wife—right in front of him.
Then time seemed to blink and abruptly he was back on the stage, and the crowd were back in the pit of the amphitheater, barely able to contain themselves. And how had he … Hadn’t they been carrying him just a moment before?
He shook his head. It was not the first time had skipped for him. Though, at least this time it wasn’t a weekend and he wasn’t being cuddled by an ogre called Garry.
He found a grin to wear, put it on his face. “How do you feel?” he asked the crowd. They roared back their joy. “Do you feel good?”
They’d do anything for you right now, whispered the voice. They would give you anything.
“What would you give me?” he said. And he hadn’t meant to say it. The thought had simply come out. What did he even want? Wine?
“A fresh pitcher?” he asked, feeling off-kilter. And the crowd screamed, and roared, and laughed, and yes, yes, yes, they would give him a fresh pitcher. Wineskins arced through the air, landed with wet explosions on the stage where the dead assassin’s body hung and dripped.
And then the memory in his head stirred. And it stretched. And suddenly it was everything in his head. It was filling him. And still he could not penetrate it. He could only cower and shiver in the back of his own skull, as it reached out and it spoke.
“Would you give me glory?” His body thundered. “Would you give me treasures? Would you give me shelter as befits me?”
He felt his body turn. The controls had been ripped away from him. What the fuck was going on?
“Would you fight for me?” His body thundered, and the crowd thundered back.
“Would you kill for me?”
“Yes!” they screamed.
“Would you give me blood and wine?”
Yes, and yes, and yes.
And in the back of his own mind, Firkin fought desperately for control.
18
The Fine Art of Politicking at Sword Point
Considering that she had little personal attachment to the city of Bellenet, Lette found the place surprisingly reassuring. It was, she supposed, probably because it wasn’t full of arseholes chasing her.
Now ensconced within its embracing walls, she stumbled down the steps of the inn where they had stashed what was left of Balur and into the large common room. Will sat there, staring at a tankard of ale, constipated with worry.
“Balur’s resting,” she told him. “I had to punch the innkeeper’s wife to make it happen, but it happened.” She sat down heavily opposite him.
Even after all the time she’d spent with Balur, Lette still wasn’t as familiar with Analesian health care as she would like. However, she knew enough that—when taken together—turning eight shades paler, seeming only half-conscious at the best of times, and stopping talking altogether were generally not considered a fantastic set of signs.
It was two days since they had fled Theerax’s encampment, marching almost constantly, and only seizing a few hours of sleep in scraggly, rain-soaked fields. Two days of coaxing and cajoling Balur, and desperately pushing ahead of Theerax’s pursuing guards. But now they were finally safe, and she was capable of properly regarding the tatters that their plans lay in.
“Cyrill’s dead,” Will said finally.
“I noticed,” Lette said. She took the pitcher of ale he’d ordered and, in the absence of a second tankard, poured it directly into her mouth. She swilled the liquid around and swallowed. “It was the way he kicked about as his heart gave out, and then his corpse was roasted by an angry dragon. It didn’t leave much room for doubt.”
“We rather needed him to be alive.” Will was feigning calm, and yet what he was actually doing was moaning. She had no patience for him in this mood. Indeed for the mood he had been in since Pekarra.
“Without him,” Will went on, “there isn’t anyone independent to tell the Batarran High Council what’s going on.”
“While we’re pointing out obvious things,” Lette said conversationally, “if you carry on like this, I’m going to punch that fucking tankard through the back of your head.”
“We’re fucked,” Will said, setting his tankard down, as if in emphasis. “We’ve got nothing. This whole experience
was essentially an exercise in mortally wounding Balur.”
And “mortally wounding” was not a phrase Lette needed to hear at that point. “Pick that tankard back up,” Lette advised Will.
“Stop it,” he told her. Which was far less advisable.
She leaned forward, because she wanted to be certain that the homicide she was about to commit was justifiable. “What did you say to me?” she asked.
And then, catching her entirely off guard, something seemed to snap in Will, and that glimpse of fire she’d seen in the Batarran High Council flared back to life.
“You,” he spat with a force she hadn’t expected, “were supposed to love me. Happily ever fucking after. To have a life with me. To find peace with me. We were supposed to be happy. Together. But you shit on that. You ran away. Which is not your right, you understand? You’re brave. You’re a fighter. Or a mercenary, or whatever. You stand and you fight. I’m the one who runs away. I’m the coward. I’m a farmer. And I don’t pretend that sitting on my arse and drinking myself into oblivion is any sort of admirable thing to have done, but I’m a farmer. And then I find you arse-deep in people in a bordello, and then our lives are threatened, and dragons—who, I want to point out, should be all gone from Avarra—are popping up all over the place and sending people to threaten our lives. And I think I was pretty cool about all that. I even worked with you. And we came up with a plan. And it worked. And we found evidence to get the Batarran council on our side. And a dragon chased us. And I still haven’t lost my shit. But we’re totally fucked now, and I’m still a fucking farmer, and I could really use your help, instead of stupid cursed threats, so if you could just stop it, it would be greatly fucking appreciated.”
Then he picked his tankard up.
So Lette did her best to put it through the back of his skull. And while she wasn’t entirely successful, he did end up several feet away and it took him three tries to get up, which was fairly satisfying.
But then Will went and ruined her sense of catharsis by daring to ask her, “What in the name of Barph’s ball sack?”
And gods piss on him. Let them absolutely drown him in piss. Because could he not …? Had he sat there for six months and not understood why she’d left for even a moment? What a self-involved …
“You were the leader of an army.” And Lette found she was actually quivering with rage. “You were a divine prophet. You were the head of a nation. You were a dragon slayer. You were a strategist. You were brilliant. So don’t you fucking dare tell me you are a farmer. You promised me the world and then gave me pig shit. What did you expect?
“And now my best friend in all the world, maybe my only friend, truth be told, is wounded so badly he cannot stand. So badly I don’t know if he’ll live or die, and you are going to pull the same shit on me? The same ‘I’m just a pig farmer’ crap?” Lette spat, and flung the pitcher of beer away. “Fucking nut up, Willet Fallows. Be the man you really are. The man you’re apparently too fucking scared to be. Come up with a plan, and tell it to me. Because I have shit-all interest in anything else you have to say.”
She was aware of the other tavern patrons’ eyes on her. And normally she would give less than a shit about what plebs like them thought, but she felt unusually exposed right now. She had not meant to let all of that out. Or … not in that manner. Just to state it all baldly and nakedly …
Gods, when had she started caring about this crap? She should just stab every idiot in this place. That way no tales would be told.
The man by the door first. Close off the exit. Then the bartender—a potential rallying point. Picking out a kill order helped her find her calm.
Will spluttered. And still she waited for something to harden into resolve.
Stab that little shit over by the bar in the knees. He looks fast. She took a breath, steadied herself.
She was just considering stabbing Will in the meaty part of his thigh and seeing if that helped him focus a little when finally she saw it. The emotional soup locked down. Resolve set in his jaw.
She fought to suppress her sigh of relief.
“We lie,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow. “That’s it?” Her sigh of relief felt like a waste of effort now.
Will nodded. “Yes. Why complicate it? We just write down what they need to hear, sign Cyrill’s name, and tell them he’s dead. That last bit isn’t even a lie.”
Lette rolled her eyes. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
Will shrugged. “It’s what we’ve got.”
And Lette supposed it was. She had nothing better. But, “We don’t have a forger,” she pointed out.
“Do you think,” Will said, “that anyone in that council room would have the slightest clue what Cyrill’s signature looks like?”
“Fair point.” Lette shook her head. “Gods, we could have stabbed Cyrill as soon as we found him, written the report we needed, and saved ourselves a lot of bother.” And gods she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that this was what she was waiting for.
But when she looked at Will she saw that scrap of steel that lay within him. And maybe that was what she had been waiting for.
All told, it took them about half an hour to get it ready. They wrote the letter, sealed it with some candle wax, and used a Batarran golden bull to stamp it. The coin had some coat of arms or other emblazoned on it.
Before they left for the council, Lette spoke to the innkeeper in a low whisper. “If that Analesian dies while I’m out, I shall carve out your heart, shit on it, and figure out a way to use the resulting mess to murder the rest of your family.” She smiled. He genuflected.
Outside, the streets of Bellenet were quieter than she remembered. She hadn’t paid much attention to the city when they staggered in, and so she had missed this change in its temperament. The volume of guards patrolling the streets had more than doubled. Groups of tense young men and women moving in groups of three to five. Many stores were closed, and those that were open were either empty or full of the same muttering groups. They looked as ready for violence as the soldiers.
And she heard Theerax’s name.
“If this is not a city on the verge of monstrous rioting,” she whispered to Will, “then I have not personally helped put down forty-seven riots by stabbing union ringleaders in the face.”
Will looked at her. “You are going to have terrible stories to tell your grandchildren.”
She shrugged. “My grandchildren will be badasses. They will love my stories.”
The High Council buildings were as quiet as the streets outside. Lette and Will barely even had to bribe their way to the central chambers. The same official in the same blue velvet suit was sitting outside the double oaken doors. His broken nose was new, though, and it went well with his new attitude. At the sight of them, he grabbed his ledger, and with a shrill scream, scampered off to a corner of the room so he could hide behind it.
Will stepped forward and pushed open the door to the council chamber. Much to Lette’s relief, the members of the High Council all appeared to be fully clothed. The clothes were generally too tight perhaps, and they certainly belonged on people who hadn’t weathered as many decades, but at least they were on. In fact, if she were pressed, Lette would probably have judged the lot of them to be slightly more sober than drunk.
What in the Hallows had happened in Bellenet over the past few days?
The council, however, gave her no time to ask.
“Ah, you’re back,” said the large woman who had first addressed them last time. Jocasta, if Lette remembered her name correctly. “You have proof that this Theerax and his ilk are all arseholes who need to be gutted and served up on feast days, I assume.”
Lette exchanged a glance with Will. He was as clueless as she. And what was going on? Jocasta was treating them as if they were expected. As if this were all a final formality before … What?
“Yes.” Will held out their forgery slowly. Lette felt like perhaps the ring her tankard
had left on it was perhaps a bigger deal than she’d made it out to be. But a councilor picked himself up from his seat, walked briskly to Will, and plucked the paper from his fingers.
“I’ll summon General Tout,” Jocasta said, and picked herself up, heading for a small door at the back of the room. Other councilors around the table shuffled papers about, and flicked through large ledgers. And still no one had opened their report. In fact no one was paying them any attention at all.
“What’s going on?” she asked, mostly so Will didn’t ask it before she did.
She was largely ignored, so she repeated the question louder. The councilman who had fetched the note from Will glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, we don’t need you anymore. You can run along now.”
Lette was distinctly tempted to remove the man’s tendons and use them to turn him into a life-sized marionette of a useless arsehole. And yet … hadn’t this been her plan: to hand off responsibility for this mess? She, Balur, and Will couldn’t handle a dragon and his army on their own. The encampment had proven that. And they didn’t have their own troops anymore. And so, what else was left? It was time to hand everything over to this set of debauched social climbers and let them cling with deranged tenacity to the power they’d bought.
Will was now the one attempting to exchange a look with her. “We just leave?” he whispered.
“You trust these people to find a fuck in a brothel?” she whispered back.
Will hemmed and hawed …“Well,” he said, “for that specific example, yes, I think most of them probably have quite a lot of hands-on experience, but to put down a revolt …?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” she said irritably.
“No, I’m aware. It’s just …” He shrugged helplessly. “Context.”
It was this sort of shit that stopped her from feeling bad about leaving him.
The door on the far side of the Council Chambers slammed open and Councilwoman Jocasta marched back in. She was not alone. By her side strode a short, stout man draped in medals, who stood so straight Lette suspected he could taste the broomstick that had been rammed up his arse in the back of his throat. Most of his hair had migrated from his head to his upper lip, where it had accumulated in a truly monumental mustache. This, she supposed, was General Tout.
