The God of Lost Words

by A J Hackwith

  “I’m going,” Hero said. It was a fact. He was. He lifted his chin and dared Claire to deny it. Not so long ago, she would have denied the sky was blue if it fit her preferences.

  Miraculously, a resigned look flickered across her face instead. Claire screwed up her nose and frowned at him for a long moment before nodding. “Fine, then, we’ll all go together.”

  Together. A sliver of his unease settled at the word. He was an exceptionally skilled man—humble, too—but as capable as they all were, the story seemed to go right only when they were together. It made a fierce, protective streak bloom in his chest, as strong as any ambition he’d ever had. Together; all of this would be all right if he could just keep them together, the story in arm’s reach.

  It felt like the kind of irritating, honorable rot that Rami excelled in. Hero cast a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see their angel pleased at the pronouncement. Instead, Rami’s eyes were trained straight ahead as if facing a firing squad. Hero hadn’t thought it possible for color to leach out of the angel’s craggy stern face, but Rami’s warm olive cheeks were pale and gray as his trench coat. Tension sang across his cheek.

  “However,” Claire said slowly. She was studying Rami too. She threw a significant glance Hero’s way. He was ashamed at how long it took him to put it together—Ramiel had been cast out of Heaven. Even though he had not joined with Lucifer, he had also fallen. The Watcher took pains to differentiate himself from the demons, but he had been colleagues with infernal creatures like Malphas. He’d strived to regain his place in Heaven, only to end up here, once again. Even angels could falter when faced with past mistakes and old betrayals. Claire cleared her throat. “It would be irresponsible to leave the books unguarded, wouldn’t it, Librarian?”

  Brevity had been preoccupied with her preparations but read the emotional charge of the room in a single glance. She slapped the Librarian’s Log shut. “Right. Good point. Rami, could I ask you to stay? I know the damsels trust you.”

  If it was difficult to be a villain among these heroic misfits, it had to be even harder to be an angelic being in Hell. Ramiel shook his head as if waking himself. “I— Of course I can, but, ma’am, you shouldn’t go into the vipers’ den unprepared—”

  “I’m quite capable of handling a few bureaucratic demons myself,” Claire reminded him. She made sure that fact was given time to be understood and acknowledged before relenting. “In any case, Brevity and Hero will be there.”

  Hero knocked his shoulder into Rami’s before he could work up a proper bluster. “I can follow orders as well as you.” That was a bald-faced lie, which he softened when he lowered his voice. Their cheeks touched. “You don’t have to face them. Not today. Let me do this.”

  No one was as skilled at damning himself as well as a Heavenly being. As close as they were, Hero could feel the telegraph of relief and agonizing doubt flicker across Rami’s face before his shoulders sagged. “Be careful. These demons—”

  “You’re not the only one with relevant experience,” Claire said gently. She straightened as Brevity came around the desk to join her. “Besides, Hero’s sword may not set things on fire, but he’s capable enough with it.”

  “Such praise! Listen, if we’re going to start comparing my sword to Rami’s, it’s only fair—”

  “Hero.” He was rewarded with the way Claire’s voice was the perfect frisson of reproach and scandal. Hero grinned despite himself as they departed for a meeting with Hell.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The way to Hell’s inner court wasn’t nearly as long as Hero had thought it would be. Claire and Brevity both appeared familiar with the route, down a flight of stairs, across a burnt-out cathedral that opened into a field of swords, and up another flight. They came to a stop at a door in an empty courtyard just as unremarkable as its kin.

  “This is Hell’s court of demons?” Hero had thought demons had higher standards than the rotting moss that dotted the cobblestones at their feet.

  “Everywhere has the potential to be a part of Hell.” Claire hesitated at the door, frowning at the distressingly modern brass knob. Hadn’t it been oak and knockers a moment before? Hero mistrusted changing architecture. Which is why he listened when Claire began speaking low and urgent.

  “Hell’s court is a traveling one. It never convenes in the same place. Any place that has seen the worst that humanity has to offer can host Hell’s court. They simply snip a pocket of time from it—the moment an orphanage burned, war was waged, or a boardroom voted some people not worth saving. They have a demon in their employ that can snip that moment out of the world and use it for their own for a time. I don’t know what Malphas will have chosen for this affair, but I suspect she will choose something upsetting. It may be useless to say it, but I need you to be on your best behavior in there. Brevity—I know you’ve been to court before, but that was a social call. This will be different. You’re librarian now. They will test you.”

  “I’m ready,” Brevity said, with only a minor pallor to her cheeks. Hero could nearly see her counting her breaths in her head, four in, four out. Practiced and in control. Hero admired that in the little muse.

  “Then, let’s go.” Claire took a steeling breath for herself and opened the door.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  A familiar, musky scent assaulted Hero’s nose the moment he crossed the threshold. His childhood had been one of rural poverty, so his first thought had been barn. An ill-kept barn at that. The smell of nervous animal was familiar: urine and sweat and the vague tang of exhaustion. But it lacked any of the fresh smells of the barn. No must from old feed, no sharp cut of green hay in the mow. It was the smell of beastly treatment, lives made sour.

  The ground beneath his toes was gritty concrete, however. And the lights overhead were modern and apathetic, buzzing with a canned kind of light that didn’t reach the far walls. No windows broke the gloom, and the concrete walls only radiated a chill into the air. There were no animals to be seen, but metal chain-link fencing rose in the center of the room, dividing the large space into square pens.

  Concrete would be terrible for living creatures, Hero’s distant childhood reminded him analytically. Too cold, hard on the feet. Perhaps the vague shadows he could just make out on the floor were intended to be padding. When he approached the pens, the smell of urine increased. Security cameras lurched like vultures at the top of the fencing. “What is this place, a cattle pen? This is some spot of great evil?” Hero used his best sneer and made sure his voice carried.

  “Yes, it is.” Claire’s voice was subdued. Hero followed the line of her gaze through the chain link. There were indeed some kind of cheap foam pads scattered amid piles of tissue-thin silver fabric that reflected and scattered the cold light in fractured shadows. Nestled forgotten under the nearest pile was one small sandal.

  Child-sized.

  A squelched noise escaped Brevity. She stepped back, edging closer to Claire. “What is this place?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said quietly. “It’s too modern to be anything from the Great War.”

  “ ‘The War,’ as if there’s ever just one.” An old soft voice, gently creased with malice, reached them from the other side of the cages. Malphas stepped out of the gloom. The general of Hell’s forces was deceptively matronly. Gray-haired and wide-hipped in rust red leather, but the crow’s-feet at her eyes bracketed a sharp, cutting gaze. “But you’ve been dead awhile, Claire. I suppose this was after your time, and you’ve been too busy with your books. Pity you can’t appreciate it.”

  “You and I have different values of appreciation, Grandmother of Ghosts.”

  “Still with that nickname. You’ll call me General here.” Malphas clicked her tongue, and in an instant the title was true. She wore a dress uniform, though Hero had no hope of identifying the army. He recognized the primary-color flag patched on he
r shoulder. Other shapes moved in the darkness, indistinct and black-clad.

  His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. A pair of children’s underthings, soiled, was caught on the chain fence closest to him. The air was tangy with sweat and sick. Hero had distinct experience with the possible evils conducted in the trappings of uniforms and authority. He’d led armies, worn crowns, once upon a story. But this place took even his breath away.

  “No need for drastic action from your paper tiger,” Malphas said sharply. Hero hadn’t even realized his hand had been creeping toward the hilt of his sword until the cold metal was between his fingers. The gates on three of the pens swung open on sour hinges.

  One for each of them.

  “Oh, hell no,” Hero whispered with emotion.

  “Is this really necessary, Malphas?” Claire did an admirable job of sounding bored.

  “General.” Malphas’s smile was as chill as the cages. “Afraid it is, girl.”

  “The last demon that called me ‘girl’ is now an ornament in the Arcane Wing.” Claire let the fact hang before stepping forward into the leftmost pen like an idiot. Brevity followed her lead, cautiously inching into the middle pen. Hero resisted the urge to scream at them for being foolish heroes, and stepped into his own.

  5

  BREVITY

  The Librarian’s Log keeps its secrets. I’ve observed myself how I can read a page five times and discover new entries every time I return to the page. So I’m asking you a favor, book of mysteries. Hide these words. I’ll not index this; I won’t even assign it a code word. I’m attempting a thing no librarian should, and I am doing it alone. Alone except for you. I need somewhere to write these thoughts. Indulge me in this, old book, and don’t bother my future heirs with the nattering of an old woman.

  I’m off to interrogate a demon.

  Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE

  Brevity knew color, breathed color, saw colors, wherever she went. But now she stepped into a place colors fled. The cotton toe of a child’s sock, gray from filth from the floor. Vomit, hours or days old in the corner. The shred of a foil blanket crinkled under her shoes. If this had been the worst of it, Brevity might have been calmer. But the colors of the place were all wrong. The places of children were some of her personal favorites. Kids were like little books in that way. Stretching and reaching in all directions with colors they had not yet been told were impossible. Imagination, budding and feral, radiating off their little minds. Kids were the closest humans ever came to the world of muses, of color and possibility. Brevity liked kids. There was a kinship there.

  The colors that lingered in this cold room were the furthest thing from the colors of freedom. The whole place was washed with a light the color of bile, and the gray concrete spotted with so many dark stains that Brevity couldn’t tell what was physical and what was manifested by the horrors it had seen.

  It was a room where innocence went to rot.

  Malphas was still speaking in cool undertones she couldn’t decipher, to which Claire was responding in kind. Claire stood ramrod straight in the middle of her pen, and the debris at her feet might have been a stack of books rather than bits of inhumanity. Only Brevity could see the way her knuckles whitened into a fist behind her back.

  A wrongness screamed in Brevity’s head. The one time she’d accompanied Claire to Hell’s court, it’d been a posh affair. Some Italian manse snipped out of time a moment before a massacre. Tables upturned but still gilded and pristine. She’d been there to be introduced as the Unwritten Wing’s newest assistant librarian. The demons had embellished themselves in kind, as courtiers and nobles of an indeterminate era. Well, courtiers with horns. Her relationship with Claire had been so strained, she’d been worried she’d use the wrong fork and shame the Library.

  This room was the furthest from a noble court. The evils here weren’t gilded; they were as blatant and bare as exposed iron.

  “Eyes forward, spirit.” A figure separated itself from the gloom and approached the fencing. The demon was dressed as some kind of authority figure, designed to intimidate. Clad head to toe in modern riot armor—Brevity could discern nothing more than that. A flicker of white on their shoulder caught her eye, an armband with three letters stenciled in bone white paint. They slapped a baton against the chain link before Brevity could decipher it.

  Brevity was too tense to flinch. She was mildly proud of that. She unclenched her jaw enough to swallow and find her nerve. “Librarian. My title is librarian.”

  “This isn’t the Library,” the figure barked.

  “No,” Brevity said quietly, “it is not.”

  “Answer truthfully. Date and time of your most recent inventory.” The demon guard barked it like an order, not a question. Brevity felt ill as she answered. Thank god she’d had just enough time to review the log before they came.

  “The results?” the demon asked next.

  “All books accounted for.” She’d been able to answer truthfully so far, and Brevity was of a naturally hopeful nature. Perhaps they could talk their way out of this yet.

  All that hope shattered on the rocks of the next question. “Irrelevant.” The helmet tilted as the demon paused a moment, studying her. “Define ‘books.’ ”

  “What?”

  Her interrogator took a step closer to the fencing that separated them. “Define ‘books.’ What, precisely, Librarian, are the books in your care? Surely you can tell me.”

  Ice crept into Brevity’s gut, and a hollow kind of ring echoed in her ears. They know. They know. The sour air of the pen suddenly seemed too thin, chain fencing too close. She couldn’t breathe.

  They know. Her thoughts hammered and the panic set in.

  6

  HERO

  Know what you’re willing to lose, and what you are not. Because the demons certainly do.

  Librarian Yoon Ji Han, 1800 CE

  The thin demon that approached Hero’s pen wore a disappointingly pedestrian pinstripe suit. Really, he was insulted. Brevity had gotten an armor-clad ruffian, Claire had gotten the demon general herself, and Hero rated no more than a bean-counting imp? Rude. Incredibly rude.

  He crossed his arms, not even bothering to reach for his sword. “Who are you supposed to be, Hell’s accountant?”

  “A friend.” The demon did a good approximation of human, with a bald head that was just a little too pale and spectacles obscuring eyes that were a little too fiery to be brown. The creature adjusted his glasses, briefly blinding Hero with a flash of the overhead lights before continuing. “They are going to leave you here, you know. We didn’t do this; they did.”

  “Is that something you cooked up just for me, or is that what you tell every poor soul who passes through here?” Hero affected a dismissive glance around the pen. He had to swallow his revulsion to look bored, but that was practically his profession at this point. “I’m not a helpless child.”

  “No. You’re not a human at all. Everyone agrees on it. There was a motion and executive order. We released an official statement on the matter. I have the paperwork right here.” The demon leaned closer. “How does it feel to be a mere book?”

  Hero paused, letting the question linger. They were suspicious, had inklings even, but they didn’t know. They didn’t know his book had been destroyed. And if they didn’t know that, then perhaps they didn’t know the real details of the rest. Not yet, at least. This whole act was to tease more information out of them by pretending they did know.

  Hero glanced to his left. Brevity looked a particularly pale cornflower shade of blue, and beyond her, Claire and Malphas faced each other in evident isolation. Claire could stonewall the gods themselves; that just left two.

  The demon clerk waited patiently for an answer. They certainly knew how to get under his skin; Hero hated feeling analyzed and itemized, like a mere oddity. “How does it feel to be a transdi
mensional leech?” he asked instead.

  The demon smiled, nodded, and made a note on his clipboard. Demons always did have a flair for prop work.

  “Does resisting make you feel as if you have a modicum of control over your life?”

  Even knowing what he was doing, the question twisted a knife somewhere in Hero’s guts. He translated the pain into a smile that could skin a bear. “I can trade pointed questions with you all day, demon. But then, I am just a book.” He drew out the word and added an extra barb on the end of the k.

  “Strange that the librarians would allow a book to accompany them outside the wing.”

  “Strange that you would care.”

  The demon didn’t blink. Hadn’t blinked for the last several minutes. Hero felt his skin crawl. The demon paused before asking his next question. “What have you done to earn your place?”

  Claire called him vain; Hero didn’t argue. It was less shameful than the truth, that Hero had no idea what he was doing—or who he was. He preferred to keep that, and anything else real enough to hurt, private.

  But these were demons; demons fed on secrets. The more they tried to obscure and evade, the deeper the demons would dig in.

  Fine, then. Hero would starve them of secrets.

  “I seduced them, of course,” Hero said. “And then, annoyingly, they seduced me.”

  The painstakingly slow blink and pause were as good as a trophy for Hero. Right, then. Time to do this right.

  “Do you know how difficult it is to court an angel? How absurd it is to try to seduce a being of literal divine goodness? I mean, I am perfect, but even I have my limits. We all know I don’t work miracles. And that doesn’t even get me started on Claire.” Hero mustered a brazen smile he did not feel and forced his shoulders to relax. He sauntered toward the front of the cage, hips first. He let a lazy hand fall to his chin in thought. “You know what it’s like to want to do bad things all the time, don’t you?”