Beyond Redemption (11 page)

“Hells yes,” whispered Wichtig. “There's a lot of them, but no one looks dangerous. Let's see what the rich arsehole in the fancy ride has for us.” He started to rise but stopped cold when Bedeckt gripped his wrist tightly enough to cut off all circulation.

“Sit,” Bedeckt hissed. “Get down and shut up.”

Wichtig opened his mouth to argue, and Bedeckt saw that Stehlen would side with the Swordsman.
Idiots
.

Bedeckt, still holding Wichtig's wrist with one hand, gestured toward the gaunt mob with the other. “Look closely. Those people . . . they don't follow by choice. They aren't servants, or even slaves in the normal sense.” He met Wichtig's gray eyes. “You want people to like and perhaps fear you. The person riding that litter craves worship more than we need air. A need like that is impossible to ignore. If you go down there we'll never see you again.”

“You're kidding,” said Wichtig. “I worship no man because no man is more worthy of worship than I.” If there was one thing the idiot couldn't stand, it was being told not to do something. It was so childish Bedeckt almost laughed, and would have had he not been ready to piss his britches in fear.

“That's a
Slaver
down there.” Bedeckt tightened his grip to make sure Wichtig wouldn't stand and draw attention to them. Stehlen probably wouldn't move until he gave the go-ahead, but Wichtig was predictably unpredictable.

“And this is the World's Greatest Swordsman up here. The fact is—”

“Remember your own words,” Bedeckt hissed. “The facts don't matter. If you go down there, you'll be licking the arse of whoever is in the litter. And then you'll tell them I'm up here and they should all come and get me so I can join in worshiping your new best friend.” He shook his head, angry at having to explain the obvious. He doubted Wichtig got the point. Better to drive it home, make it clear. Bedeckt looked Wichtig straight in the eye. “Stand, and I'll kill you.”

Something changed in Wichtig's gray eyes.
Shite
.

Even crouching, one hand pinioned in Bedeckt's grip, Wichtig had a sword out before Bedeckt knew he'd moved. He might be an idiot, but he was a fast idiot.

“Really, old man?” whispered Wichtig. “You
know
how deadly I am. I am the Greatest Swordsman in the World.” Always trying to manipulate, always seeking to undermine his opponent before the fight started.

Bedeckt pulled Wichtig close enough to render the sword ineffective and pinned him with his own iron glare. “I'll drop you dead in a heartbeat and we both know it.”

Their eyes remained locked until Wichtig chuckled quietly and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion without breaking eye contact. Even stowing his weapon was a show, an act of bravado long practiced in the mirror to maximize effect.

“Someday you'll push me too far,” said Wichtig.

Only now did Bedeckt realize Stehlen had moved behind Wichtig, hands hovering over weapons, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting Swordsman should he move against Bedeckt. Afterward, when tempers cooled, she wouldn't meet his eyes and seemed angry with herself.

What the hells did that mean?
If women were a mystery, Stehlen was something far darker and more unknowable. It was too easy to underestimate her Kleptic powers; she did things right
in front of him he either missed seeing or saw and promptly forgot about. He supposed his underestimating her Kleptic abilities might even be part of her power, and made a mental note to pay more attention.

Then he lost his train of thought and went back to being angry at Wichtig. Gods, his head hurt.

Time heals all wounds . . . someday you'll be dead.

—A
BZAHLUNG
H
INAUS

A
ufschlag once suggested to Acceptance, during one of their rare private conversations, that a close connection existed between Doppels and the wild albtraum who'd haunted the nightmares of mankind, feeding off their deepest fears, since the dawn of time. Doppels, like the albtraum, neither ate nor slept, instead feeding off those whose minds they'd sprung from. Aufschlag had tortured Doppels and albtraum in his experiments, and explained that, though neither were truly human, both still bled. And, he added as if he'd learned something Acceptance couldn't have just told him, they most certainly felt pain.

For two days Acceptance lay in the corner of Konig's chambers. Coiled about his wounded heart, he coughed blood and the fragments of broken teeth swallowed during his beating. If not actually safe, at least he felt sheltered here, since the temple's
marauding cleaning crews ignored Konig's rooms. Konig—that untrusting and paranoid bastard—hated the idea of anyone entering his chambers when he wasn't present. So Acceptance huddled, bleeding into the gathered dust bunnies, waiting for his body to heal.

The skin around Acceptance's missing left eye swelled for a day and then collapsed and crusted closed with dried blood. It felt like something twisted and festered within that wet trap. He shied away from thinking about it, terrified his fears would manifest as truth. His once-proud nose lay crushed and broken, smeared slightly to the left. He could barely breathe through its remnants. Of his teeth, only a few molars, and some shattered fragments jutting from his gums like claws, remained. Those few jagged splinters caught and tore at his tongue and lips.

For two days he spoke not a word. His jaw had been broken by Trepidation's heel. Much like the nose, it now suffered a pronounced leftward leaning. He dared not imagine what he looked like and the mirror refused to show his reflection. Instead, Konig's reflections gathered and, when Konig and the other Doppels couldn't see, mouthed words Acceptance could not hear. He saw fear in their eyes, hatred . . . and something else. Willingness, perhaps?

Mirrors,
he thought as he lay healing,
are paths to the past and future. Glimpses at who we are. Reminders of who we were. Forewarnings of who we will become
.

If Konig's reflections knew fear, it was because they saw a future where Acceptance became the central personality in this incestuous orgy of one.

Their willingness he was less sure of.

By forcing Abandonment and Trepidation to administer the punishment, Konig drove a wedge between the Doppels. Konig knew no version of himself would ever forgive such treatment, because forgiveness wasn't in his nature. Never again would the
three Doppels plot against Konig. Acceptance had learned the lesson Abandonment had always known: trust no one.

Failure may be a harsh teacher, but you tend not to forget its lessons
.

In the days he lay bruised and bleeding he had time to replay the events and choices bringing him here. One moment kept returning to his thoughts: the sight of Konig raising his hand toward the Doppels, desperate to belong. Acceptance had reckoned Abandonment the likely successor, but he'd been wrong. Abandonment and Trepidation were naught but the manifestation of petty fears. Konig most desired acceptance. Konig's self-hatred and desperate need to belong would be his undoing.

I may be broken, but Konig still craves what I offer; he craves what I
am.
I will have my vengeance. I will be Konig!

When Acceptance could once again stand he rejoined his Doppel brothers. They avoided eye contact like beaten dogs—
and here I thought
I'd
suffered the beating!
—and pretended nothing had happened. Acceptance's stolen eye swam in a jar of cloudy brine on Konig's desk. Displayed as a reminder, no doubt.

All three Doppels meekly offered opinions as commanded. Had Konig a sense of humor they would have dutifully laughed at his jokes. Beneath the meek façade, Acceptance plotted murder, both Konig's and the Doppels'.

Abandonment must die first. His relentless sermonizing on the wisdom of distrust struck far too close to home. With Abandonment gone, Konig would turn more to Trepidation, who would preach fear. Though Konig's fears would protect him for a while, they would in time wear him down. Eventually his desire to be accepted would bring him back to Acceptance. Then, when Konig needed the Doppel most, Acceptance would take from him the heavy mantle of leadership.

Doppels don't die easily. If they did, Konig would probably have killed them rather than suffer their existence. Acceptance
saw no way to make Abandonment's death look like a mishap or accident. And yet it was important Konig not suspect he was behind this. Acceptance, carefully watching the mirror when no one looked, realized he must find some means of communicating with the reflections. They could be useful.

It didn't take the reflections long to show him what he wanted to see: a brief flash of vision when no one else watched. Acceptance saw himself lure Abandonment to the mirror. As Trepidation stood terrified in the background, the reflections dragged the kicking and screaming Abandonment into the mirror.

It made perfect sense. Abandonment, due to the nature of who and what he was, could never have what Acceptance had: allies.

Now he had only to find the right moment to use his newfound friends.

The Sophists talk about how we are all united, all part of the whole that is everything. They touch upon the truth. There is only one being in all reality. Me. You—each and every one of you—are nothing more than some annoying and unlikable aspect of my fractured personality. You disagree? Of course you do! So do I!

—Z
WEIFELSSCHICKSAL
, M
EHRERE
P
HILOSOPHER

H
uddled in her robes, bleeding smoke and the stench of burned flesh, Gehirn Schlechtes crossed the bridge into Selbsthass half an hour after the horizon swallowed the last rays of sun. She paid no heed to the change in scenery. That bridge represented home. Though she knew she still had two days of hard riding ahead, she already felt her heart lifting. If she could catch the three Wahnvor Stellung agents before they lost themselves in the thronging populace of Selbsthass City, she might return a hero. It would be nice to rub her victory in the bulbous and broken-veined nose of Aufschlag Hoher.

Though Gehirn understood Konig's reasons for not letting her
near the boy-god Morgen anymore, it still rankled that the Chief Scientist had unlimited, unfettered access. She'd always liked the boy and done her best, on those few times she was allowed near, to be friendly and not too scary. Somehow she just knew she could trust Morgen. Aufschlag, however, could not be trusted. Something about the Chief Scientist just rubbed Gehirn the wrong way, mostly because it was clear the man thought all too highly of himself and his silly little experiments. If delusion shaped reality, what was the point of testing that reality? The man was a fool for not seeing that his own expectations would taint the results of every experiment.

Gehirn's lack of social skills left her unable even to broach the topic of her distrust with Konig without sounding like a petulant child. She had long since given up trying to take part in the baffling political maneuvering within the Geborene priesthood, but it still weighed on her mind, as did her seeming inability to do anything about it.

The fact was, although she wore the burgundy robes of a Geborene Bishop, she held no real rank. Konig had always intimated that Gehirn stood above and beyond the other ranking priests, but these same priests acted as if Gehirn was, at best, a tolerated guest. Konig, Gehirn assumed, must have very good reasons for keeping her true status secret. From Gehirn's viewpoint outside the inner circle, she saw the rank and social standing of these priests depended solely on their usefulness to High Priest Konig. She'd show those priests, the ones who mocked her behind her back: she deserved her rank, and not just because of the power of her delusions. She'd earn it.

For even as Gehirn sneered at them for being so manipulated, she longed to belong to their numbers.

Two guards stood atop the border garrison wall and watched the hunched and smoking figure disappear into the distance. They
shared a look and went back to their argument. Large breasts or
huge
breasts? Blond or brunette? They agreed redheads were too damned temperamental and enjoyed a moment of mutual respect when they discovered a shared love of slim ankles. Yet another slow night where nothing happened and no one crossed the Selbsthass–Gottlos border.

Gehirn pushed the horses hard, deciding to travel well into the night. Exhausted and dreaming of the Kleptic's lithe body, she didn't notice the campfires blocking the road until she was among them. She reined in the horses, confident she could deal with whatever this was. If highway thieves, they were in for the shock of their lives.

Clucking at the stumbling horses, she moved toward the center of the makeshift camp at a slow walk. A mob of people gathered around a large tent in the middle of the road. Probably not thieves, then. Most likely a band of gypsies or religious zealots. She would question them. Either the gypsies would have seen the Wahnvor agents on the road, or, if she was really lucky, the agents would be here sharing the camp.

As she neared the camp she smelled the overpowering stench of unwashed bodies. This band must have fallen on hard times indeed. It would be easy to put some fear into them and get the information she wanted without all the haggling gypsies so loved. A few of the braver souls staggered to meet her, waving their welcome. Their malnourished bodies reminded Gehirn of sticks and dry tinder and she resisted the urge to burn them where they stood. A few slightly healthier-looking people waited at the tent—which Gehirn now saw was mounted atop a litter—trying to awaken whoever was within. This, she decided, was a fine thing.

Never talk to underlings when you can scare the shite out of those in charge and get things done much faster.

Gehirn felt a growing warmth in her belly. She'd burn a few of these wretched twigs to make her point and ensure events moved quickly. These gypsies stank to the high hells and she didn't want to spend more time here than necessary. But no point in burning anything until whatever passed for a leader could witness the destruction. The seeing eye believes, Gehirn had learned, and while the smell of burned friends was a wonderful motivator, the sight of charred bodies really drove the point home. She showed her most friendly grin and dismounted. The dry sticks bowed, formed an honor guard, and led her to the litter.

The smell got worse. Gehirn wrinkled her nose and covered her face with a hand, drawing up the fabric of a sleeve to breathe through. Burning this whole caravan to ash grew more enticing than ever; a cleansing fire, to rid the world of this ungodly stench.

Tattered and stained silk curtains were drawn aside as Gehirn approached, and she found herself staring at the most disgustingly obese . . . man? . . . woman? . . . she'd ever seen. Limbs little more than sausagelike stumps protruded from greasy rolls of fat. Something sludgy and foul leaked from under copious breasts. Everything jiggled like rotten aspic. A scrawny young woman, all ribs and bone, was up to her elbow in its crotch and working suggestively at whatever was in there. Her face was beatific in rapt worship, a tongue protruding and clenched in brown teeth with concentration. Lost in her task, she seemed unaware of Gehirn or the fact she was now exposed to the crowd. Gehirn felt her stomach rebel. The bilious slug ignored the woman's efforts, the glint of intelligence in its eyes all but lost in fat cheeks.

Fire,
Gehirn decided,
would get this shite heap's attention
. She burned half a dozen people to ash before she could bite down on the sheer sexual joy of ravaging flame and bring it under control. Always best to start with violence and attempt communication second. People reacted more favorably when they knew you would snuff a few lives to get what you wanted . . . or for no
reason whatsoever. She hated the entire you're-bluffing-no-I'm-not process. She returned her attention to the slug.

“I am Gehirn Schlechtes, Hassebrand to High Priest Konig Fur—” She stopped, mouth suddenly dry. “Konig Furimmer. I seek—” Konig seemed a distant memory, a faded image, a small man with small, unimportant goals. “I seek—”

“Me.” The voice sounded too small to emanate from such a large body but somehow fit the round baby face. “You seek me.”

Gehirn tried to shake the tangled cobwebs from her mind. “I am following . . .” She lost the thought, uncertain of what she had been looking for.

A fat hand flailed in an attempt to scratch at an armpit, couldn't reach, and fell heavily back. “I like you,” said the small voice.

The words were so ridiculously out of place Gehirn could only ask, “You do?”

“Yes. I like you. A lot.”

Startling sea-green eyes stared at Gehirn expectantly. She'd never seen such gorgeous eyes. She blinked and felt a tear leak down her cheek. No one ever liked her before, not really. Sure, Konig
said
he did, but she saw the disgust in his eyes. There was no doubting this—she was beginning to think of it as a man—person truly liked her for who she was. The idea of having a friend intoxicated Gehirn. Even so, some small part of her mind screamed to burn the camp and all the stinking gypsies to so much ash while she still could.

In a moment,
she thought.
In a moment
.

“Your kind are very, very rare; I've never had a Hassebrand friend before,” said the obese slug. “What did you say your name was?”

“Gehirn Schlechtes, my . . .” She wanted to add an honorarium but didn't know what would be acceptable. “Lord” somehow seemed too small a title for this man. “Friend,” she finished.

“Gehirn, welcome to my wandering tribe of friends.” The fat man waved at the gathered crowd. “I am Erbrechen Gedanke.”

Gehirn bowed low. “I love you, Erbrechen Gedanke.” She had never said these words before and was amazed at how easily they came. She spoke utter truth. Erbrechen was the bright spark in a world of darkness and corruption, a glowing spirit one could believe in with no fear of betrayal. Tears streamed freely down Gehirn's cheeks as she rose and realized for the first time just how beautiful her new friend was. Erbrechen's other friends remained as wretched and filthy as they had always been, but the joy of being near Erbrechen made the cost of tolerating their stench well worth it. Gehirn felt a stab of jealousy; the young woman got to be so close while Gehirn still stood several feet away. She desperately longed for some chance to show Erbrechen her true worth.

“You shaved your eyebrows?” Erbrechen asked.

“No. Lost to fire.”

“Of course. You have nice eyes. Lovely blue. Very cold. Funny, for a Hassebrand.”

Gehirn opened and closed her mouth, uncertain what to say. No one ever complimented her appearance.

“And your hair?”

“Burned.”

“I like fire,” said Erbrechen, eyes gleaming within greasy rolls of fat.

Gehirn laughed happily.
Of course Erbrechen likes fire!
He was perfection personified, with none of the pitifully desperate flaws and faults Konig always sought to hide. Talking to Erbrechen was like having your father tell you you'd finally made him proud after years of neglect and abuse. For the first time in her life Gehirn knew what home felt like.

It was beautiful beyond words.

She simply bowed.

Erbrechen clapped happily, sending ripples undulating down
his body. “I want to see the fire again.” He scanned his crowd of friends. “Who wants to make me happy?” The clamoring answer was instantaneous as hands shot up and people jostled and jockeyed for position. “Quiet, quiet,” cooed Erbrechen. The crowd settled immediately. “You six . . .” He pointed out six men seemingly at random. “Step forward so our new friend can show us her fire.” They stepped forward, glorious in their chance to please Erbrechen and prove their love. The young woman, still hard at work and arm-deep in Erbrechen's crotch, ignored all of this.

“Fast or slow, My Lord?” Gehirn eyed the six men hungrily.

Erbrechen, looking pleased, asked, “How fast can you?”

Gehirn's already unstable sanity shuddered and crumbled. A concussive blast knocked several of the thinner onlookers off their feet and six vaguely man-shaped pillars of ash stood where there had once been men. She'd never let it out so fast before and had to struggle to bring it back under control. Only fear she might hurt Erbrechen kept her from dissolving into a chaotic hurricane of flame and destruction.

“Oh!” said Erbrechen with surprised pleasure. “That
was
fast.”

A gust of wind sent the ash swirling into the air and toppled the mounds. Tiny glowing cinders of bone danced like fairies in the breeze. In seconds the crowd scattered, coughing and choking and clawing at stinging eyes, except Erbrechen, who coughed and clapped joyfully like a child with a new toy.

When the hacking coughs had passed, Erbrechen waved over a squat and ugly man with thin, greasy black hair, bulbous eyes, and fewer teeth than fingers. “This is Regen Anrufer.” Regen, dressed in filth-matted animal skins, reeked of long-dead skunk and sour dog shite. “Regen is one of my favorites.” The ugly man beamed a gap-toothed grin leaking brown drool between browner teeth. “He was shaman to some tribe of shite-collecting, mud-worshiping horse stickers—what were they called?”