The Lesser Devil

by Christopher Ruocchio

  A faint look of surprise colored Kyra’s seamed face. “I … I will be all right, my lord.”

  He wasn’t sure if her hesitation was borne of surprise or exhaustion. It didn’t matter. The night was still young, and he had slept in daylight, however fitfully. “Go rest, captain.” He drew his cape more tightly about himself, as though it were a blanket. “I’m going for air.” He did not linger to see if she had obeyed his command, but pressed out through a sliding door into the main hall and back towards the front door. Faint red lights glowed near the floor, casting strange shadows and a hellish glow against the humble, folksy furniture that cluttered the front room. Much of it seemed to have come from the village, and the homespun simplicity of it stood starkly at odds with the utilitarian plainness of the former climate monitoring station. Crispin was surprised that any of it still operated, and wondered when it was the building’s systems had last been repaired. These stations had been designed to be entirely self-sufficient with respect to power and life-support back in an age where the air on Delos had not been breathable. Perhaps they still were.

  A chilly wind greeted him as he exited onto the rough stone stair back down towards the pagans’ temple, their church. Unnoticed by daylight, he saw that little glowing lanterns had been tied to the chain that served as a rail along the open side, lighting the path down again. He was glad to find that none of his soldiers had raided the priest’s cave, and stood a while beneath all that grave stone. The place reminded him of the family necropolis in the sea caverns beneath Devil’s Rest, where the ashes of his ancestors were entombed. The white stone was the same; and the close, still air.

  Late as it was, Crispin was not surprised to find the temple empty. He walked around the place, looking at the wooden statuary and the stonework that bristled from wall niches and along the columns that ran along either side, back towards the altar and the rail that separated it from the sitting space beyond. Images on the wall described the journey of the cultist’s strange god—he seemed no more than a man to Crispin— from his sentencing at the hands of a judge to his execution on the cross that hung above the altar. He lingered a moment at a painted tableau that showed the man being buried, and coming back towards the double doors that led out to the village he saw the final icon: the dead man risen again, still bleeding from wounds in his hands and feet and sides.

  Crispin didn’t know what to make of that.

  There were other icons, too. Images of men and women, standing beneath pointed windows. Little kneeling benches were set out before each with a bank of small, white candles. Long tapers stood to one side, burnt ends buried in a jar of fine sand. Crispin stopped a moment, holding one of the tapers in his hands. It was precisely like the altars dedicated to the Icons he left offerings to in Chantry. The candles. The tapers were the same. Even the little jar of sand was the same.

  The priest’s words came back to him then, too loud in the quiet of that place.

  There’s hardly any piece of their religion that isn’t borrowed.

  The little wooden taper snapped in his fist, and Crispin took a step back. Despite his lack of an audience, he felt embarrassment clamp its jaws about his head, and he looked around to confirm that he was, in fact, alone.

  He was.

  Thus unseen, he prayed, though whether he prayed to Mother Earth and the God Emperor or to the strange and dying god of that lonely chapel he could not say. “Please don’t let Father be dead,” he murmured. “Please.” He balled up his fists until the joints ached. He wasn’t ready to rule. Fifty-five years old and he still wasn’t ready. And how old had ancient Alexander been when he toppled the Persian Empire? Twenty? Twenty-two? He didn’t know. He should have known, though knowing would not help him in that place. Despite his sister, despite Kyra and the few soldiers and the peasants who had helped them and who were still helping them, Crispin had never felt so alone. Not even when Hadrian had left. All his life—every little hour of it—he had spent in control. In his Father’s control, yes, but in control of others, too. There was nothing he had needed that could not be gotten by a word. A shout. A command. He had not needed to be alone.

  He had not needed to pray as he prayed now. For his father. For his sister.

  For himself.

  But he was surprised that it was himself he thought of last—least—and he knew that if he had to choose, he would choose Sabine’s life over his own. Sabine. She was the more cunning, the more temperate, the more learned. She would make a better archon, a better successor to Father’s iron legacy. Just like Hadrian would have made a better archon. And she was his little sister, and he would not let her suffer if he could.

  Bloody hands seemed to hang above his head, reaching out once more as if to touch him. Crispin sagged to his knees on the hard stone floor, the better to distance himself from their trailing fingers. He bowed his head. He would not look. He would not look. They had not deserved to die. His fists were still clenched and began to burn, but he did not slacken his grip, and screwed shut his eyes to stop the tears from falling. He could not afford to cry. For Sabine’s sake and the sake of those few men who looked to him for leadership. He would not cry.

  And yet he did, silently beneath the vaults of that ancient temple, beneath the watchful eyes of that dying god. Crispin opened his eyes at last, and looked round at the wooden sculptures that marched up and down the temple’s nave. This god of theirs had gone to death willingly, it seemed. He had carried his own cross without complaint.

  Could he do any less?

  “Are you all right, lordship?”

  Crispin sucked in his breath, and it was only with a force of will that he unclenched his fists, fingers screeching all the while.

  It was the priest. Father Laurent was standing at the rail, still wearing his long black cassock with the golden pectoral cross on its chain. When Crispin said nothing, he said, “I didn’t expect to find you here.” From his tone, Crispin could hear the unspoken words of all people.

  He sniffed, rising unsteadily from his knees. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Laurent was nodding, and he stroked his short, white beard. “Indeed. I never could sleep on campaign. Not until it was over or we were safe.”

  “Are we?” Crispin asked. “Safe?”

  “From us?” The priest came through the gate in the railing and seated himself on the low step. “Of course you are.”

  Crispin drew his cape more tightly around himself. “I’ve heard stories.”

  The old man’s smile betrayed itself only as a shifting of the hairs on his face and jaw. “Let me guess. That we drink the blood of children? Or was it the one about incest?” His smile did not falter. “They have been saying such things since Rome was young. On Old Earth.” When Crispin made no sign of replying, Father Laurent breathed, “You have seen many things, but do not observe them. Your ears are open, but you do not hear.” He spoke as one reciting poetry.

  “Don’t quote your scriptures to me, priest,” Crispin snapped. He’d had enough of the man’s theology at dinner.

  Laurent’s smile didn’t falter, but he said, “Oh, as you wish.” Neither man moved for a good several seconds: the priest sitting on his step, Crispin standing in the center of the aisle. “What’s keeping you up, son?” Not my lord, not lordship. Son. The familiarity made the most aristocratic part of Crispin snarl, and he bit back a rebuke. There had been something in the old priest’s voice. A warmth, an … understanding. It took all the wind from Crispin’s sails, and he stood there, one finger raised to object. He let his hand fall.

  Father Laurent fumbled around in a pocket of his black robes and drew out a flask, which he offered up to Crispin. “It’s the dreams. Isn’t it?” Crispin flinched. How had he known?

  “What?”

  “You’re dead tired, but you don’t want to sleep. Anyone can see it.” Laurent unscrewed the flask and took a swig. “It helps to talk about it.” He proffered the flask again.

  Crispin took it, and sniffing the contents asked, “W
hat is it?” Under the bitter tang of alcohol, the liquor smelled like wood smoke.

  “Whiskey. Drink up. It’ll help.” When still Crispin hesitated, Father Laurent said, “The Baptists have been extinct for fifteen thousand years, so no one will judge you for it.”

  The old man had drunk from the flask already, and so Crispin did not think he meant to poison him. “What are Baptists?”

  The priest’s brows contracted, and he spoke in a tone equal parts laughing and grave. “Heretics.”

  Shrugging, Crispin drank. The stuff burned as it went down, but it was a pleasant burning. He felt the warmth spreading in his chest, and suddenly he had the strength to say: “We lost almost three dozen men in the crash. Some of them got blown out of the shuttle, but most of them were …” He couldn’t say the words pulped. Mangled. Torn apart. “There was not much left of them. I’d fought in the coliseum before. Killed men, even. But I’d never seen something that horrible.”

  “You were lucky,” Laurent said. “To survive?”

  “No!” the priest exclaimed, “No no no … you’re lucky because the thing that haunts you only happened to you.”

  He wasn’t making sense, and Crispin made a noise of protest.

  The old Catholic’s eyes never left his face, “You could be haunted by something you did.” He extended a hand and—understanding what it was he wanted—Crispin handed him back the flask. Laurent tipped the liquor down his throat and gasped before continuing, as if the drink pained him. “I was a centurion in the 87th Sagittarine. Like I said, I served in three conquests—annexations we called them. The things we did to those people …” And here he looked up at the crucifix hanging above the altar behind him. Crispin understood. He had seen criminals crucified before the Chantry in Meidua, and along the main street. He had seen men hanged and beheaded. He wondered suddenly just how it was the shuttle crash had affected him so, having seen these things. But he shook his head and said, “Those worlds are better off now.”

  “Now?” Laurent made a face, “Maybe so. Imperial law. Imperial infrastructure. The poor are probably better fed and better taken care of under Imperial rule than they were before, but you weren’t there. You didn’t lock people in burning buildings. You didn’t hold the torch.” He offered the flask again, and Crispin drank, but he did not say anything. “That was why I left. Why I put down my sword. Omnes enim qui acceperint gladium gladio peribunt,” Laurent said.

  “I thought I told you not to quote our scriptures at me, priest,” Crispin snapped. “I don’t speak your tongue, anyhow. I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that all those who take up the sword will die by the sword.”

  “So do people who don’t have swords,” Crispin said. “Who said that?”

  Laurent raised a hand and pointed at the crucifix, “He did.”

  “Did he take up the sword?” Crispin asked, pointing. “This god of yours?”

  “No.”

  “There you have it, then,” he said smartly. “I’d rather die fighting—if

  I have to die.”

  The old centurion shook his head, and slipping his flask back into his pocket said, “That road has no end.”

  Chapter 10

  Old Blood

  Sleep came in the first hours after midnight, though it lay only lightly upon Crispin. All the while, he was aware of the antique couch beneath him and of the folds of the cape that kept him warm. Sometimes—as if through his eyelids—he would see Kyra standing by the short, broad-slitted windows. Or Lud. Or one of the others. And then soft hands would pull him back into unquiet dreams, dreams in which it was he—not one of Jean-Louis’s cousins—who rode for Camlen’s Gap and contact with Meidua. His horse strained between his thighs, flowing over the karstic landscape like a mighty serpent.

  Was it a serpent?

  A white flash flooded the low chamber, so bright the glass of Laurent’s windows darkened to polarize it. Crispin sat bolt upright just as a massive boom rattled the windows and shook the very mountain to which the rectory clung. His sword was in his hand, the blade unkindled, and Sabine had half-fallen from her deep armchair in her hurry to get to the window.

  “What was that?” one of the men asked. “Signal flare?”

  “Big fucking signal flare, if it was,” said Captain Kyra, awake again. A moment after she realized her lord and lady were both present, and added, “Forgive my language.”

  Sabine shook her head, dismissing the profanity from mind. “They’ve found us.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Crispin said.

  His little sister seized his free hand, not looking at him. Her attentions were all on the village below as she said again, “They’ve found us.”

  Somewhere below, a siren began to wail in the village. Alarms were going up all across St. Maximus, and from the belfry of the temple itself, a weighty chime began to toll. “Someone needs to wake up the priest,” Sabine said.

  “I’ll go!” said Van, the soldier with the broken arm. He did not wait for Kyra’s say so, but hurried for the door.

  Kyra didn’t pay him much mind anyhow. She turned her attentions on the four able-bodied men she had left, and she said, “Armor on, lads! Double quick!” Then she took Sabine by the arm, “How’s your shield, ladyship? Do you need mine?”

  Sabine checked the shield projector on her belt, “No. Mine’s still nearly full.” Crispin checked his own, found it in similar condition— which was only to be expected. For all the trauma of the night before, they had not seen combat.

  “Good. You should stay here. This building’s built to take plasma fire.”

  “It’s also high up on the mountain face and an obvious target,” Crispin said. “And we don’t know what we’re up against.”

  Sabine crossed her arms, taking all this in, “But if they’re attacking the town like this, I’m prepared to bet we’re not up against just a handful of killers.”

  Crispin thought he saw a light flash in the darkness outside. White. Blue. Red. The running lights of a flier. “Do you think Father was right? Do you think it is House Kephalos?”

  “If it is, they’ll pay for it,” Laurent said, sweeping into the room. “The Holy Father has dispensation to maintain a parish here direct from the Imperial Office. If it is the vicereine’s people behind this and word gets out, there’ll be hell to pay.” The old priest’s black cassock was gone, and in its place he wore a long, antique-style night-gown that descended almost to his ankles. His short white hair and beard were wild, and his spectacles rested unevenly on his broad nose, as if he had pushed them on in a hurry. He still wore his crucifix, but the loose collar of the gown revealed the black service tattoos on his neck and chest. No sooner had he finished speaking than a great pillar of fire rose up in the village beyond, and Crispin saw a great round wooden building burning.

  “The granary!” Laurent said, and looked for a moment like he might spit.

  “I’m sorry, sirrah,” Sabine said. “This would not have happened if not for us.”

  Laurent scowled at her and pushed past, moving back towards the door. Crispin sensed that in that moment, the nine of them had become invisible to the priest. He had his own people to care for. His own flock to tend. He glanced back out the window. The flier he thought he’d seen was gone, and he said to Kyra, “Guard my sister.”

  “Where are you going?” Kyra asked, catching Crispin’s sleeve.

  He tugged his arm free. “To help. If I can.” And then he was gone, ignoring Kyra’s objections snapping at his heels. The pilot officer meant well—she had a responsibility to protect him, after all—but he would not cower in this house while there was work to be done. He had sat through the entire flight through the mountains and the crash, useless as a fish in space. He would not be useless again. Never again.

  He overtook Father Laurent on the stairs. The former centurion had shrugged a black coat over his dressing gown and found a pair of boots. “What can I do to help?” Crispin called, checking th
at his shield was active.

  “Nothing!” Laurent called. “I don’t even know what’s happening yet! Get back in the house and lock yourself in. All of this will be for nothing if you and your people die!”

  Crispin caught him by the shoulder and turned him around on the steps. “Why are you helping us?” The priest only looked at him, as if he didn’t even understand the question. “You don’t even like us.”

  “Whether or not I like you has nothing to do with it. If someone needs help, you help them. That was as true on the battlefield as it is here.”

  “This is a battlefield,” Crispin snapped, losing his patience, “or it will be. Soon.”

  “It’s all a battlefield, son,” Laurent said, and disentangled himself from Crispin’s clutches. “But if you come out of this alive, our village may need your help, too.”

  The young devil bowed his head. “I understand.”

  Just then a shot rang out, and a flash of fire struck the face of the rock below them. Crispin heard the rush of a great wind and the whine of repulsors tearing by, and looking out into the night he beheld the low-slung shape of a skiff with a rider in its saddle. A blue light and a red one blinked on its side, and Crispin realized that this was what he’d seen from the rectory window. A scout.

  “Down!” Laurent called out, and began his stumbling descent towards the church and the cave. Crispin followed, sword useless in his hands. The repulsors whined overhead once more, and Crispin was sure that it was the same craft or similar that had chased them through the woods the night before.

  He heard shouts from the street outside, and as he and Laurent hurried into the sanctum, the double doors banged open and a small crowd of people hurried in. A handful of women leading or carrying small children. A pair of young men with hunting rifles over their shoulders. Old men.

  “Abbé! Abbé! Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” one woman asked in thickly accented French.