The Book of Swords

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  3.

  The client had tracked Gorel down at an Abandonment on the edge of the deadlands. He was, unusually, an Apocrita.

  The Apocrita were benign parasites, starting off small, attaching to a human host’s lower abdomen and gradually growing with their hosts until reaching puberty, when they began discarding and changing their humans with some frequency. Other than that unfortunate habit, the Apocrita were considered a highly civilized species, with a fine taste in wine and music and an almost fanatical devotion to the writing of poetry. What one was doing this far away from their natural habitat, a small monarchical feudatory state on the edge of the Yanivian Desert, Gorel had no idea, but nor did he care.

  “I say,” the Apocrita said. “Are you the gunslinger fellow?”

  Gorel was sitting down with a small cup of draeken, that rare wine, from the far western principality of Kir-Bell, which is made by slowly bleeding the indentured tree-sprites of that place and fermenting their blood. He stared at the Apocrita and made a noncommittal grunting sound and struck a match to light his cigar.

  “Depends who’s asking,” he said, at last.

  The Apocrita sat down opposite without being invited. He clicked his fingers for service and gruffly ordered, “Whatever that gentleman is drinking.” The server, a grave-wraith from Kur-a-len, gave an ugly leer but fetched the drink without comment. The Apocrita had nodal growths spread over the human host’s body and its own large, black sack-like mass was fused to the man’s back and spread round his hips to the front.

  “There’s a man,” the Apocrita said.

  “There usually is,” Gorel allowed.

  “He stole something from me,” the Apocrita said. “The goods would most likely be spoiled by now, but that’s immaterial. What is important is that a message is sent. Do you understand?”

  “What’s in it for me?” Gorel said.

  The Apocrita shrugged. From his bespoke tailored jacket he took out a small black money-bag tied with a string. He pushed it across the table, casually and almost contemptuously, at Gorel.

  Gorel picked it up, untied it, and stared at the powder inside.

  Gods’ Dust.

  The Black Kiss.

  He took a pinch, snorted.

  It hit him like an open slap to the face and he rocked back in his seat. Across from him, the Apocrita dust merchant looked at him with that same mild contempt.

  “You will take the job?”

  And Gorel said, “Yes.”

  4.

  The man he was tracking was hard to find. Gorel’s payment had long ago gone up his nose, and now, away from any gods, withdrawal hit him hard.

  But he was nothing if not a professional. He followed the trail, for even in the deadlands there were pockets of habitation, Abandonments and ruins, strange little hamlets where the destitute and the near dead sought shelter in isolation. The man he was seeking had used many names, but he only had four fingers…

  He’d lost him several times, but he sensed that he was finally close. Gorel always carried a job through. And so now, delirious, half-starved, and in a thoroughly bad mood, he and his graal at last approached the ruins of an old stone building, which might have once been a temple, though who had built it, and for what inexplicable reason, here in the middle of the deadlands, Gorel didn’t know.

  Not that he cared.

  As he approached he slipped softly from the graal’s hide. The beast sank gratefully to the ground, folding its legs under itself and withdrawing its head inside the dark carapace. It would remain motionless now until the sun came out again and it could once again absorb enough energy to bring it into waking.

  Gorel drew both his pistols. He trod softly on the ground. He crept towards the building. Dark ivy grew in the cracks between the old stones, and inside he could hear murmured voices…

  The door was nothing but a rotting wooden slab. Gorel kicked it open and went inside, where it was dark and dank.

  A figure lying on a mattress scrambled up, said, “What do you—?” and stopped.

  “Devlin Fo-Fingga,” Gorel said, grinning. His hand was around the man’s throat. The man’s skin felt slimy. His breath came and went through Gorel’s palm. “I thought it was you.”

  “Who—what?” Devlin’s small eyes peered up at Gorel’s face, panicked. Then—recognition, followed by shock.

  “Gorel? Is that you?”

  “Still alive,” Gorel said, dryly.

  “No, no no no no no,” Devlin said, speaking quickly, his hands weaving a dance of denial in the air. “That wasn’t my fault, no no no, I wasn’t even there when the—”

  There had been figures in the mist. Ancient carved totems with malevolent eyes. Buried Eyes, they called those stones. Seeing eyes. Gorel’s company had wandered through the mist, but every time it closed, men were missing…and the totems had a habit of appearing, out of nowhere, looming out of the mist and staring at you, calling to you…

  Few had survived the Mosina Campaign.

  “You cut a deal with them,” Gorel said, flatly. “They let you live—for a price…” He smiled grimly and shoved the gun in Devlin’s face. “How many did you sacrifice to the old ones of Mosina?” he said.

  Beneath him, Devlin Fo-Fingga shook and shivered. Spittle came out of his mouth. “No no no no no,” he said, in plea or apology, it was hard to tell. “I never…I didn’t…”

  “So imagine my surprise when a certain Apocrita merchant cornered me in a bar and mentioned he was looking for a four-fingered thief. Funny that, I thought. That description tends to stick in one’s mind. So I thought to myself, I might take this job. It is good to have friends, isn’t it, Devlin? Old friends, from the old days. I wondered, could it be my old friend, Devlin Fo-Fingga, alive after all these years?”

  “Gorel, it wasn’t—!”

  “The only thing I don’t quite get,” Gorel said, “is what exactly it was that you stole off that tight-ass merchant. He was surprisingly vague on the details. I only ask, because, if it’s still worth something…I might not kill you quite so slowly.”

  His hands shook suddenly as the craving overtook him, and though he tried to cover it, Devlin’s small, sharp eyes noticed it—and suddenly the man was grinning.

  “He never said, did he?” Devlin’s rotten teeth sucked what little light there was in the room. “Then come, I will show you, I will…For old times’ sake, Gorel.”

  Gorel’s finger tightened on the trigger, and yet he couldn’t shoot. The craving was upon him then, and at last, reluctantly, he released Devlin. The man rose swiftly, like a rat.

  “Come,” he said. “Come!”

  A second, sturdier door separated the antechamber from the main body of the ruined temple. From his belt, Devlin selected a rusted metal key and unlocked the door. When he pushed it open, the darkness beyond was greater still.

  Gorel hesitated on the threshold—

  But he could feel it.

  It lay thick and hard on the air. It suffocated the breath, tantalising and rich, the very scent of it almost enough.

  Almost.

  But it was never enough.

  Ablution. Faith. Call it what you will.

  The curse bestowed upon him by the goddesses Shalin and Shar.

  Devlin hurried into the darkness. And now lights were coming alive, one by one, small candles being lit along the walls.

  In the dim light Gorel could see they were not alone.

  It was a large room, and the women and men lying on the floor seemed near death. Only the gentle rising and falling of chests gave indication that they still breathed, still retained a tenuous link to life. He could taste god-sorcery in the air, feel keenly the thin membrane between the two worlds stretching, here…

  He had crossed it before and could never truly get back.

  “What have you done?” he said—but even as he spoke he already knew the answer.

  “Come, come come come!” Devlin said. His grin was manic, his eyes dancing wildly in his face. “It is waiti
ng, It is ready, It is near!”

  He took Gorel by the hand. The gunslinger followed him, helpless to resist. They walked, deeper into the room, stepping over the sleepers, Devlin putting a finger to his mouth in an exaggerated warning to be quiet. Here and there, groans from the sleepers. One propped herself up and stared at them. “Is it time, Devlin? Is it time, yet?”

  “Not for you, Gammy Steel!” Devlin cackled. “Gammy Gammy, ugly Gammy, your time is not yet come!”

  “I have money”—the woman said, then—“I…I can get some. I can get more.”

  “Then do so.”

  Ignoring her, he led Gorel on. The woman’s eyes followed them, then, with a sigh, she lay back down. Gorel could hear her stifled sobs.

  They came to the end of the hall. Devlin let go of Gorel’s hand and knelt down, lighting a semicircle of candles facing the wall. One by one they came alive, and trapped within them was a god.

  5.

  It was chained to the wall with bands of steel. It had the breasts of a woman, the sex of a man. It was naked. The god’s eyes were two dark orbs, and its lips were thick and bruised and glistened wetly. There was no hair upon the body, and the god’s cock was a small, shrivelled thing. Sweat glistened upon the god, as fine as grains of dust.

  Dust.

  Gorel knelt before the god. Devlin’s hand was on his head, then, stroking. Gorel stared at the captive god, and the god stared back through eyes like bottomless holes…

  “Better than dust,” Devlin whispered. “You want to know what I stole, Gorel? I took only that which was promised to me! Do you like it, Gorel? I see the mark on you, I can taste your need, old friend, your desire! Do you want it?”

  “Yes!” Gorel said. “Yes!”

  “Then the Black Kiss itself is yours for the taking, Gorel of Goliris.”

  He was no longer fully aware of Devlin. The world contracted to the half-circle of candlelight. Gorel could smell the god, that rancid, sweet, overpowering scent of dust, and he knew he wanted it, needed it, the way he never needed anything else. On hands and knees, slowly, he crept towards the god. If the flames of the candles hurt him, if it burnt his flesh, he didn’t know, nor care. The chained god thrashed against his chains but he was held fast. Dimly, Gorel was aware of the others coming alive, felt their desire joining his. He crawled to the naked god and offered him his lips.

  —

  The first hit was always the best.

  —

  Flashes of light, flashes of consciousness. Gorel was fading in and out of the World. Rarely had it been this good, this…direct. Even the pain of losing his home, of being vanquished from proud Goliris—the betrayal, the hurt, the fear—they were all gone, and there was only bliss.

  —

  Flashing images, disconnected from each other. Strange sensations. The sweet and sour taste of the god’s mouth…a taste of blood, and sorcery.

  He was only briefly aware of hands—Devlin’s?—going through his clothes, relieving him of non-essentials, coin and guns. A chuckle, close in his ear, hot rotting breath. A murmur: “Only the first taste is free…”

  None of these things mattered. His lips fastened on the god’s.

  Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the Black Kiss, the terrible Kiss of the gods.

  6.

  How long he lay so he didn’t, later, know. Time did not matter. Nothing did. The dark hall was Heaven, the only kind of Heaven man could hope for in this World. The dirty mattress that he lay on was his home, grander even than vanished Goliris. He had no need for money, for guns, for knowledge or desire. All was as it should be, here in the Hall of the Naked God.

  The naked god…the chained god…from what dark place did it arise, what primordial bog did it crawl out of, with Fo-Fingga as his prophet and disciple? It was a question unimportant to Gorel—all questions were. He needed nothing, was nothing.

  Only dimly, therefore, was he aware at last of someone moving through the bodies of the lost, of shouts, and a laugh, and steps again, and a hand reaching down and shaking him roughly awake.

  A voice from far-away said, “You stupid fool.”

  Gorel grinned, or tried to. The hand slapped him, once, twice.

  Gorel tried to hit back but couldn’t lift his hand.

  The voice said, “Devlin, if he’s dead, you’re next in line.”

  “He is alive, alive!” a whiny voice replied. “A dead man’s no use to me, no use to anyone but the gods beyond the veil.”

  “Gods,” the other voice said. “Save me from gods and their addicts.”

  “You won’t—you won’t hurt him, will you?” the wheedling voice, Fo-Fingga’s voice, said.

  “Gorel?”

  “My god,” Devlin said. “Screw Gorel and those who ride with him.”

  “Watch your language, little man. Now get him up and sober. I need him.”

  “He’s good for nothing but another dose of dust.”

  “Then get me dust. And hurry. My patience’s running thin.”

  Hands tugging at Gorel, lifting him. He tried to fight them, but the Black Kiss was upon him again, and he soon enough subsided.

  “He’ll have to sleep it off. As for the dust—”

  “I’ll pay the going rate.”

  “Why didn’t you say so to begin with?”

  “Just get him ready, or you’ll lose another finger.”

  —

  Darkness, light. He was being carried. The stench of sorcery subsided, gradually. Cold water hit him, made him cry out. He was being scrubbed, none too gently, then hit with cold water again.

  Then something soft. A towel.

  A voice said, “Dry yourself. Think you can manage that?”

  He wasn’t sure.

  The voice sounded familiar. He dried himself as best he could. Hands dragging him, something soft beneath. A bed, no roaches there this time.

  He slept.

  —

  When he woke up the room was bright with light. Gorel blinked back tears.

  “Good to see you back in the land of the living,” a voice said.

  The voice from his dreams. A familiar voice…

  He sat up and stared at the small man sitting by his bedside. The man gave him a sardonic smile. His left eye was missing and covered by a plain leather patch. His hair was grey, and bald along the line of an old scar…

  He was smoking a thin, home-made cigar.

  Gorel said, “Mauser?”

  “Were you expecting Fo-Fingga?”

  “I was expecting no one.” He examined the smaller man. His fingers bunched into fists. “You took me from there?”

  “I need you functioning.” A curious glance. “When did you…”

  Gorel shook his head. “An itinerant god. Far south from here…it’s a long story.”

  Mauser shook his head. “It’s good to see you again, Gorel.”

  “You, too.” Gorel touched his head. It felt sore. His hands, he noticed, were covered in bites. Bed-bugs.

  He scratched, half-heartedly. “I thought you were dead.”

  His friend merely smiled at that. He said, “I heard you were around.”

  “How?”

  “Fo-Fingga tried to sell me your guns.”

  “That little—”

  Mauser gestured with his head. “They’re there. Are you fit enough to use them?”

  The guns were on the table by the bed, the seven-pointed stars of Goliris shining on their handles. Gorel said, “I just…”

  “Yes?”

  “I need just a little bit.”

  There was silence between them. Mauser’s smile evaporated. He took a drag on his cigar, held the smoke in before releasing it. His face was wreathed in blue smoke.

  He said, “Perhaps you’re no good to me after all.”

  “Screw you,” Gorel said. He stood up, reached for his guns. Mauser didn’t move. Gorel took the guns, began checking first one then the other. Mauser smoked, and watched. After he was satisfied with the guns, Gorel dressed himself
, shaved, and stretched. He didn’t think he could stomach any food…but he’d try. When he turned around to Mauser, the smaller man had finished his cigar and in its place was holding a small packet of folded paper. He threw it to Gorel.

  Gorel caught it, opened it carefully, and took a pinch of dust. He put it up his nose, snorted it, and smiled.

  “What’s the job?” he said.

  7.

  “There’s really nothing to it,” Mauser said. They were standing outside the ruined temple. Devlin Fo-Fingga was on his hands and knees in the mud, with Gorel’s gun pressed painfully against his forehead.

  “Please, Gorel…It’s all just a terrible mistake!”

  Gorel pressed the muzzle of the gun harder against the man’s greenish skin. “I’m listening,” he said, to Mauser.

  “A grab and run, a heist. You know what it’s like.”

  “Aha. And what’s the target?”

  “Gorel, please, let me go! What happened in Mosina wasn’t my fault!”

  “Shut up,” Gorel said. “Mauser?”

  “An ikon, that’s all. Look, are you going to finish him off, or what?”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  “He could be useful,” Mauser said, meditatively.

  “A thief’s no good, with just four fingers.”

  “He can still hold a gun, Gorel. You only need one finger to pull a trigger.”

  “So, a rough job.”

  “Did you expect anything else?”

  Gorel chewed on his cigar.

  “A religious ikon?” he said.

  “You know any other kind?”

  “And where exactly is this ikon?”

  “In a temple, Gorel,” Mauser said. “Isn’t that where they usually are?”

  “I see, I see,” Gorel said. He chewed on his cigar, then casually back-handed Devlin on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. The man fell down on the ground holding his face. He stared up in hatred at the muzzle of the gun.

  “Oh, get up,” Gorel said. “I’m not going to kill you…today.”

  The man slowly got up. He wiped the blood with his fingers, then sucked on them. Gorel looked away in disgust and Devlin grinned.