"Oh father, can't you save him? One of your philters would do it, I'm sure."
Tunj knelt beside the body. "Hold that light close." The man had been stabbed in both lungs, possibly also the heart. A third stroke had entered his kidneys. Blood no longer flowed from his wounds and his chest was still. Tunj could find no pulse. "There is nothing I can do for him."
"I would pay for your ministrations," the wounded guard said. "He is my brother."
"I'm sorry. It is already too late. I can give you a salve for that cut on your cheek, though. It would heal without a scar."
The man sneered at him. "No. I must show this scar to our mother, when I bear his body home."
The innkeeper hurried through the door. "Oh no, you can't do that. There are many laws in Zul-Bha-Sair, but only one that can never be broken; all those who die within its walls belong to Mordiggian, the Mortician God."
"What? He must be buried with the family, or we will be separated in the next world."
"I'm sorry, good sir," the innkeeper said, "but there can be no exception. The doctor will come in the morning, then the priests of Mordiggian by afternoon. It is his law."
The guard tore a length of cloth from a thief's corpse and wiped the ax head clean. "We shall see."
Tunj grasped his daughter's elbow and pulled her back to the inn.
They sat in their rooms and watched the sun rise. Unable to sleep, they ventured downstairs, where breakfast waited for them. They ate in silence.
The guide informed them they had another appointment scheduled for lunch. Perdama wandered upstairs and fell into a troubled sleep.
She awoke to a knocking at her door. Her father told her they were to leave soon, but Zim was nowhere to be found. Perdama dressed quickly, knotting her veil and pinning up her hair. On impulse, she went to her father's room, but it was empty.
His chest of philters sat on the dresser. She turned the catch and opened it. All her life she had watched her father at work, and she knew the uses of many of his potions. She drew out a vial of thick yellow liquid. This could heal the guard's wounded cheek. She was certain he would be grateful for it after the sharpest edge of his grief had passed. Because the yellow potion could stain the skin and clothes like ink, she wrapped it in eel skin and hid it in her pocket.
She heard angry voices as she stepped outside. Four priests of Mordiggian had entered the courtyard, and the dead guard's brother shouted challenges at them.
Perdama slipped her hand into her pocket and gripped the vial. It didn't hold enough fluid to heal several men, after a large battle. The hunched figures strode forward inexorably. They were unarmed, she noticed, and their hoods drooped over their eyes. Could they even see the soldier and his weapon?
The guard charged the lead priest, his ax high, grief and rage screaming from his lips. The hunched figure released the handle of the bier and lunged forward. In a motion almost too quick to see, the priest snatched away the ax with his left hand and struck the guard upon the chest with his right. Limbs flailing, the man flew back and struck his head against the flagstones. He lay still.
Without thinking, Perdama rushed toward them. She heard her father cry out to her, and the innkeeper's voice as well, but she could only see the priest, ax in hand, standing above the wounded soldier.
The other priests set the bier on the ground and, to Perdama's astonishment, the lead figure tossed the hatchet aside and dragged the carriage house doors open.
She knelt beside the wounded guard. He still breathed, but she guessed he would not wake for several minutes. The lead priest held the door wide as the other three entered the carriage house. Each emerged a moment later with a body under each arm. They stacked them high on the bier, thief and guard alike, without regard to station.
Perdama, kneeling beside the wounded man, still gripping the yellow philter, glimpsed the silver masks beneath their hoods. She shuddered. They were powerful, and terrible, these creatures. Like a musk, she could smell the grave-sent might that fueled them.
They lifted the handles of the bier. The lead priest, the merciful one, was nearest to her, and with reckless impulse, Perdama unstopped the vial and splashed its contents onto the trailing edge of its robe.
She heard the innkeeper cry out. Many voices, it seemed, screamed in terror and outrage. She watched the hunched figure as it walked away. It took no notice of her action.
Tunj rushed toward her. "Where is Zim? She should not have let you near this ugliness!"
"What have you done?" the innkeeper said. "You threw paint on a priest of Mordiggian!"
"I wanted to be able to find him again," she said. "They all dress alike." She cradled the soldier's head. A small amount of philter remained in the vial, and she prepared to drip it over his injured skull.
Tunj stopped her. "Wait until they are gone some minutes." He looked across the courtyard. The gates closed behind the retreating priests.
The innkeeper fumed for some time and even threatened to turn them out. They had risked bringing the wrath of a God on his house, he told them. But Tunj would not allow it. With reasoned words and a few gold coins, he convinced the man to let them stay until the morning, as they'd planned.
Perdama dripped the healing potion onto the back of the guard's head. His eyes fluttered open and he stumbled to his feet. He glared at Tunj and the innkeeper, then at his ax lying on the flagstones. He clenched both his fists and lurched into the carriage house, where his brother had lain. He did not emerge for a long time.
Their guide led Perdama and Tunj to the house of General Langromas, where they were served a light lunch of grilled vegetable skewers and spicy skewered eggs. Langromas was a dour man who slumped in his chair and scowled at his food. His nose was squashed to one side, and a long stitch-scar covered his forehead.
"You are very beautiful, and I am very ugly," he said. "You would never be happy with me as your husband."
"If all I wanted was a handsome face," she replied, "I would have been married in one of the several cities we visited before Zul-Bha-Sair. I seek a man of peaceful calm, mercy, and virtue, like my father."
"I was a soldier many years. I have been party to much pain and death."
"You have done your duty. It speaks little of what is in your heart."
Tunj cleared his throat. "You have lived and served this city your whole life. Why would you choose to end your years so far from home?"
"In my day I led many campaigns against the peoples to the north. I won many victories. Now they have become allies of the city, and there is much talk in the high offices of bringing a writ against me, for deeds done in time of war."
A servant cleared away their plates while another laid a samovar and cups. "What's this?" the General said when he saw the cups being filled. "It is too late in the day for the black tea! Why didn't you prepare the red, you fool?" The servant backed away with well-practiced fear, and Langromas hurled a tea cup at him. It bounced off the man's kneecap and shattered against the wall. The servant limped toward the kitchen.
"Bring the red! Quickly!" Langromas shouted. "And clean up this mess!"
When he turned back to the table, he saw that Perdama and Tunj were standing. Tunj slipped on his coat, and Perdama wound the veil about her face.
Perdama's voice was calm, "Good day, sir."
Langromas stood and bowed stiffly. "Good day, madam," was all he said.
On the trip back to the inn Tunj rode beside her on the carriage. "Father, am I too choosy? Am I a burden to you by holding my standards too high?"
He patted her hand and laughed. "The world and the people in it are my burden. A kind husband should not be too large a favor to ask of the gods."
The guide halted the entourage. Street merchants and old women streamed by them, and Tunj rose on his bench. "Another funeral procession?" he said, and the sudden jolting of the carriage told him that Perdama had leapt from her seat.
She pushed through her father's mounted guards and stumbled into the intersection. Fou
r priests of Mordiggian carried a bier through the cross street. It was laden with a tiny corpse, and they were walking downward, toward the center of the city.
Perdama stepped into the empty street and approached the nearest priest. She unhooked her veil. "Excuse me," she said, checking the hem of his robe for a telltale splash of yellow. "Excuse me, good sir, but I wonder if…"
The figure turned to her. Was that forged silver skull mask twisting into a snarl?
Something heavy struck her, lifting her off her feet. Suddenly the guide's pocked and powdered face leaned close to hers, and he was hauling her toward the crowd.
"Relea--"
"QUIET!" His face twisted with rage and terror, and he dragged her to Tunj's carriage.
"Sir," the guide said, barely holding his breath, "you have been fair to me and the other men, so I will not desert you in this terrible place. But the innkeeper did not exaggerate when he said it was dangerous to approach or follow the priests when they perform their funereal duties. Your daughter risks her life, yours, and every other man's here! Think on my words, sir, or you will find yourself without escort!"
He turned to Perdama and, with shocking impertinence, stared into her eyes. "Next time, you little parlor doll, I will leave you to your ill fortune."
"What are you trying to do to me, my pixie?" Tunj whispered, after she mounted the carriage.
She struggled to retain her composure. She could not remember a time when she had been so insulted by a servant. "Father, if a man attacked someone, wouldn't the victim kill the attacker if he could? Indeed, wouldn't it be common sense, since sparing the attacker's life might allow him to try again, and perhaps succeed?"
"So this is about that guard with the dead brother."
"No, father, it is about mercy. Of all the prospective husbands I have met, I do not believe one of them would have spared that poor grieving man's life. Dear sir, only you have that kindness, you and that strange priest."
"But we do not know what they look like," the innkeeper said, when they questioned him on the subject. "No one for generations has seen their true forms. Personally, I believe the city would empty overnight if they did. They might be hideous."
"I have said before," she answered, "that I do not care about appearance."
"But if they are not even men?"
"Judging by the men I have met these last months, that would be in their favor." Perdama covered her smile with her tiny hand. She felt quite clever until she noticed the distraught expression on her father's face. She rushed around the table and kissed his plump cheek.
"I'm sorry, father. I did not mean you. You know I hold you to be the paragon of men."
Tunj fidgeted with the braids on his waistcoat, his thick fingers twirling them into knots. "That is not my concern, my sprite. I fear you have become fixated on… eh…" He glanced at the innkeeper, who shook his head.
"I will not say it, not inside city walls."
"A monster," the guide said, stepping out his rightful place in the corner. "I am not afraid to say it, here or anywhere. You pine for a monster."
But he is my monster, Perdama thought. I have marked him, stained his funeral robe with the color of sun petals. He has been tainted, imprinted with my kind interest, with my light heart, and someday he may stand in my bed chamber, a dour but honest husband, and I may kneel upon the bedclothes, remove his silver mask, and press his brutish animal face to my breast.
"Or they are the undead," the guide continued. "No one knows, nor should they know."
"Yes, indeed, well, no matter, no matter," Tunj said. "We have one last suitor to meet tonight, then we leave in the morning."
"Father…"
"To your room, my pixie. You must ready yourself."
In a swirl of skirts and loose hairs, Perdama ascended the stairs.
A quarter hour later, when she had changed her gown and sat before her mirror choosing a veil, she heard her father's soft knock at her door. She turned her chair and bade him enter.
He was clearly distressed. He glanced around the room and tugged at his collar. "Where is that maid of yours? Has something awful happened? Perhaps we should send a few guards to look for her."
"I suspect there is no need for guards, father. Although I believe something awful has happened, she would not think so. Don't let it worry you; You have too much virtue in your heart to understand such base behavior."
"Is that the gown you've chosen? You must wear the aqua veil. There. Perfect. Now for a dash of aqua at the wrists, and there, at your belt. Oh dear, these silk braids are dreadfully out of style, but I suppose no one here will notice. Drape them so."
"Oh, father, thank you, it's perfect." What would that priest think if he saw her now?
"Yes, well, you may think me less perfect after hearing what I have come to say. Darling, you must put aside all thoughts of… attachment with these priest‑thingies." He wiggled his fingers in disgust.
"Father, would you heed the fright stories of these rude locals?"
"No, my pixie, of course not, but listen… Would you listen for a moment?"
"Of course, Father."
Tunj settled himself on a maid's stool. The wood creaked under his weight. "Even if all these fright stories, as you call them, were false, think how it would be for me to have such a creature as this priest in my home. As my son! Its great size and terrible aspect would terrify me without end! My heart flutters just to discuss it. And I can't bear to imagine what my grandchildren would be like!"
"But if he was virtuous, Father?"
"Perdama, my sprite, my pixie, have I ever asked anything of you? Haven't I granted your every request when I could?"
Perdama leaped from her chair and kissed her father's damp forehead. "Always. You've been perfect to me."
"Then do this one thing for me, for my weak heart. Put all thoughts of these beings from your mind. Please."
Perdama sighed, then slumped into her chair. "I will do as you ask, father."
Tunj struggled to his feet. "Thank you, precious. Let's get ready. And don't pin your veil too high!"
An hour later Zim had not returned to the inn, so they rode to their last appointment without her. This was another youngest son, from a family of salt merchants. Not highborn, but neither was she, exactly. And if this didn't work out, there would be another city, then another, on the long road to their new home.
But this boy, Dozoig, was a surprise. He was well‑mannered and gracious, if a bit soft around the middle and splotchy in the face. They ate pepper soup and stuffed dormouse. When Dozoig's father, his voice high and nervous, asked if his son didn't find Perdama a pretty little thing, the boy defused this faux pas by agreeing calmly, without leering at her or treating her with disdain.
"So," Tunj finally asked, "why do you want to leave your home and live with us in the wilderness?"
"It's those dogs of his," his father said. "The kennels can't hold them all anymore."
"I would like to take them into the country," Dozoig said, "to give them room to run."
"You like dogs?" Perdama asked.
"They are my pride and my ecstasy. And you?"
"I love all little animals."
"May I offer you a tour of my kennel?"
His father raised a hand. "Son, I don't…"
"I would be delighted." Perdama said. "My maid is indisposed; perhaps my father could chaperone?"
Dozoig stood and bowed to them both. "I would be honored."
The sun was setting as they crossed the gardens. The estate was opulent, perhaps even ostentatious, but that was a vice Dozoig seemed to lack.
They rounded a hedge and faced the kennel. It was a low, dark building that smelled of old iron and blood. A stack of cages stood on a dolly by the door. Inside each one, a rabbit cowered.
"The smell of fear drives them crazy," Dozoig said. He turned the latch. An uproar of barking assailed their ears.
Dozoig opened the doors, and the uproar became a frenzied wave. When he wheeled
the dolly of cages inside, the barking grew even more hysterical. Tunj and Perdama took only a single timid step through the doorway.
These were not lap dogs. These were fighting hounds, bred for pit matches. Dozoig kneeled beside their iron cells, taunting them and beating them with a switch. He called them his angels, his killers, his ecstasy while he struck. When he raised a cage and prepared to drop a rabbit into a pen, Tunj and Perdama retreated to the garden path.
The sun was down and the air chilled when Dozoig emerged from the kennel. He seemed surprised to see them waiting, as if he'd forgotten about them entirely.
Tunj and Perdama rode home in silence. They would leave in the morning, and in the next city it would all happen again. She thought, suddenly, of the murdered guard. How peaceful he had seemed. How far beyond the endless strife and futility.
Perdama entered her room and threw her veil on the bed. Zim was there, weeping over Perdama's dresser. She held one of Tunj's vials, and by the black and red stripe around the top Perdama knew it was full of poison.
She charged across the room and wrestled it from the girl's hands, thwarting her half-hearted attempt to gulp it down. Perdama rammed the stopper home and dropped the potion into her pocket.
"He lied to me!" Zim's face was wet with tears.
"Of course he did," Perdama said. "He lied until he had what he wanted then he turned you out. He treated you as you deserved. Why did you think I refused to see him again? Anyone can see he's not half the man my father is."
"Stop saying that!"
"Do you still defend your faithless lover?"
"No!" Zim stood, her grief turning suddenly to rage. "Stop saying that about your father. He isn't a great man! He isn't any better than anyone else!"
"Why, you ungrateful…"
"Why do you think the Duke has sent his chemist to a distant estate?"
"As… as a reward, for loyal service."
"A loyal servant sent to the other side of the world?" Zim began to sneer. "With trunks full of gold? How does the duke expand his properties toward the sea, and the port cities there?"
"It was a death in his cousin's house."
Bad Little Girls Die Horrible Deaths: And Other Tales Of Dark Fantasy Page 15
