Beyond Redemption (37 page)

Wichtig grunted, discarded the empty sheaths he still wore
strapped across his broad shoulders, and strapped on the new ones. The scabbards were flashier than he liked, but the Swordswoman, he had to admit, had good taste in weapons. Still, it was a shame he hadn't killed her himself.

“Are you finished?” asked Bedeckt. “That was like watching a child get a candy he's always wanted only to find the taste isn't what he'd hoped for

“Be wary of gifts from Kleptics,” said Wichtig. “There's always a hidden message.” He happily noticed Bedeckt steal a quick glance at Stehlen and then turn away from her answering smile.

Bedeckt gestured in Stehlen's direction without looking at her. “You got our horses?” The old bastard had a weird soft spot for his monstrous war-horse.

“Of course. Got Launisch some apples too. Didn't even kill anyone.” She smiled sweetly at Wichtig, batting her lashes. “Other than the Swordswoman.”

Bedeckt, ignoring Stehlen, gestured at the rather plain and boring swords still lying on the bed. “What about these?”

“What about them?”

“If I sell them back to the smithy, it'll be at a loss.”

“What the hells am I going to do with four swords?”

“Arsehole,” said Bedeckt.

Wichtig shrugged and checked Morgen, finding the boy examining his perfectly clean hands. A few days on the road should cure him of his odd compulsions; it was impossible to stay clean while traveling.

“We're riding west to Folgen Sienie,” announced Bedeckt, “just across the border into Reichweite. It's a big city-state. It'll be easy to disappear.”

“They found us here easily enough,” grumbled Stehlen under her breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

When they left, the swords remained on the bed where Wichtig had dropped them.

Morgen sat in front of Wichtig, sharing the saddle. The Swordsman rode with consummate ease. They wound their way west through the filthy streets of Neidrig. Stehlen and Bedeckt, each on their own horse, led the way while Wichtig followed behind. Morgen watched the filthy people along the street pretend not to follow their slow progress. He could smell them, even the ones he couldn't see, those hidden in the darkest alleyways. He listened to whispers of desperate thought. Cowardice kept the thieves at bay; stories of Wichtig's death and rebirth had spread quickly.

The Swordsman talked in a low voice, keeping up a continual chatter seldom requiring thought or answer from Morgen. Wichtig liked the sound of his own voice, and fair enough, it was a nice voice.

“We're not going to make it to Folgen Sienie, are we?” asked Wichtig, startling Morgen out of his dark thoughts.

Folgen Sienie? Though he didn't know where they would end up, Morgen knew they'd never make it anywhere near that city-state. He remembered the nightmarish visions he'd seen in the tavern in which he'd brought Wichtig back from the Afterdeath. What was that grotesque spider he'd witnessed sucking the life from Neidrig? It felt like a metaphor rather than an actual depiction of reality. Why had his reflections shown him that? Why hadn't they been clearer, like they often had been in the past? Were they hiding something? Why did everything end in pain and flames?
Where did I go wrong?
“I should have left the cat to die. I made the wrong choice.” His choice would haunt his friends.

“Probably,” said Wichtig, hiding an annoyed look. “The way I see it, it was something you needed to do.”

“I ruined Bedeckt's plans.”

Wichtig snorted in amusement. “The old goat's plans are always shite. So . . .
are
we going to Folgen Sienie?”

Afraid to answer lest he share something he shouldn't, Morgen stared at the ground, avoiding the Swordsman's eyes. Neidrig was doomed. It was his fault. Why couldn't he have seen it earlier? Another, scarier thought occurred: Who decided when the reflections shared things with him? It certainly didn't feel like he was in control.

“I take it we're supposed to at least head in that direction?” When Morgen nodded, Wichtig continued. “Fine. I'll follow your lead. You let me know what you need me to do.”

Wichtig was fishing for information. Should Morgen tell him what he'd seen? No.

“There's no dodging fate,” Wichtig whispered into Morgen's ear.

Head down, Morgen stared into scummy brown puddles as they rode through them, the horse's hooves shattering the images he saw mirrored there.

Had Konig lied about Morgen's creation, had he been born to a woman just like everyone else and not brought into being by the united faith of Selbsthass? Morgen lifted the hem of his shirt and stared at the small belly button. He'd read about birthing cords and the connection between mother and child.
Why do I have a belly button?

A group of children, clad in stained remnants of tattered rags, dashed across the street before the mounted riders. Faces stretched in grins soon to turn to terror, the children played at some indecipherable game.
Strange,
thought Morgen,
how the looks could be so similar
. Should he warn them? If he did, would anyone listen?

He thought not.

The delusions of the elder gods gave birth to man, the mad animal. Though we struggled against our legacy of insanity, civilization is anathema to creatures thriving on worship and fear. United, we grew mighty and the gods knew fear. They toppled us from the pinnacle of our achievement, laid us low. The Menschheit Letzte Imperium shall forever be humanity's first and last true empire.

—V
ERMÄCHTNIS DES
W
AHNSINNS

A
cceptance and Trepidation stood shoulder to shoulder, watching those within the massive mirror. The reflections huddled, bald heads almost touching, over the reflection of Konig's desk, writing and arguing.

Acceptance watched, tonguing the broken shards of teeth that were always catching at his lips. The eye patch covered the ragged wound Abandonment had left when he tore out his eye, but he wished there was something he could do about the mess Trepidation had made of his mouth kicking his teeth in. He glanced to the Doppel at his side.
I'll have my vengeance.

“They know something,” said Trepidation.

“They will share it with me,” said Acceptance, hiding the ruin of his mouth with a hand. Hadn't Aufschlag done much the same? The thought was unpleasant. He'd hated Aufschlag not because he couldn't be trusted, but rather because he had been the closest thing Konig had to a friend. Revealing the scientist's betrayal would truly have been a coup for Abandonment had Acceptance not acted first. “They know the balance of power in this relationship.”

“Abandonment's words before they dragged him into the mirror,” Trepidation muttered.

Acceptance ignored the Doppel, gesturing to the mirror. “See?”

The reflections turned from the desk to face the Doppels in the room and held up pieces of paper covered in hasty scribbles, the letters and words all backward.

“Gods,” muttered Acceptance, “Konig's penmanship is atrocious.”

Trepidation, keeping a safe distance from the mirror, squinted at the spidery swirl of reversed letters. “I can't read a thing.”

“I have an idea.” Acceptance drew out the small mirror he used to examine his ruined face. “I'll read the message in my own mirror. This way the words won't be backward.”

He could feel Trepidation's eyes on him as he turned his back on the large mirror and held up a small hand mirror of the sort ladies carried about.

Acceptance stared, mouth hanging open, at his hand mirror. The reflection of the reflections gathered in Konig's mirror all wore eye patches and sported the battered visage he saw daily in his own mirror. They held up a sheet of paper with their own badly written message. Acceptance slammed his mouth shut, hoping Trepidation—somewhere on his blind side—hadn't seen the look of confusion. He tasted blood as ragged teeth tore fresh wounds in tender lips. He craned his neck, looking over
his shoulder at the reflections in the big mirror. They looked as they always had, exactly like Konig. Unmarred by the beating Acceptance had suffered. He spun to look at Trepidation, but the Doppel still squinted at Konig's mirror, trying to puzzle out the backward message.

Trepidation glanced at him. “Does your mirror help?”

“Not much,” he said, returning his attention to the hand mirror.

The reflection of himself holding the mirror stared at him intensely with a single eye. Behind his reflection, in the reversed mirror image of Konig's mirror, Acceptance's eye-patch-adorned reflections held up a message of their own.

Acceptance read the message:
Konig's reflections plot against you
.

“This is still hard to read,” muttered Acceptance, stalling to gather his thoughts.

“I think I can read it,” announced Trepidation. “It says the assassins failed. The Schatten Mörder and Tiergeist are dead.” He turned to face Acceptance. “Asena is dead.”

Acceptance ignored Trepidation and stared at Konig's reflections.
Do they tell the truth? Is Asena dead?
What could they gain from lying? If he reported this to Konig, and it later turned out Asena was alive, Konig would think Acceptance had lied. He shuddered at the thought of suffering another beating.

“Do we tell Konig?” asked Trepidation.

Acceptance put away his hand mirror and walked to Konig's heavy oak desk. He took hold of the chair and dragged it out into the center of the room, leaving lines in the rich carpeting. “I have another idea,” he said, and threw the chair into Konig's massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. He had time to see the eyes of Konig's reflections grow wide with terror as, with a deafening crash, the mirror shattered. Snatching up the chair, he wielded it like a war club, pounding first at the fragments clinging stubbornly to the mirror's brass frame, and then systematically reducing the shards on the ground to glinting dust.

Trepidation, eyes wide, watched in terrified silence.

Finally, confident that nothing remained of the mirror or its reflections, Acceptance dropped the chair and stood wheezing. Never before had he exerted himself to such an extent.
Is Konig this out of shape?

“There,” he gasped as he righted the chair and examined it. Though somewhat chipped and scuffed, it seemed undamaged by its mistreatment. “Good chair,” he said, collapsing into it.

“There?” Trepidation asked, keeping a safe distance.

“Yes. It's a good thing
we
destroyed the mirror,” he said, flashing Trepidation a broken smile. “The reflections tried to escape.”

Trepidation frowned at the glinting dust on the floor. “I didn't see—”

“Or did
you
destroy the mirror for no reason?”

“
We
were just in time,” agreed Trepidation. “I saw one reach out beyond the frame. It made a grab for you.”

“Yes. They knew taking me would weaken Konig.” He watched Trepidation through his single narrow eye. “There was no message.”

“Of course not. I do hope Asena and Anomie are well.”

“Indeed.”

The two remained silent for a moment, Acceptance watching as Trepidation looked at everything other than his fellow Doppel.

“You realize what this means,” said Trepidation, gesturing at the shattered remains of the mirror. “Konig's Mirrorist powers are growing. His reflections could see what was going on elsewhere.” He glanced at Acceptance. “Perhaps they could even see into the future.”

“I think if they could, they'd have done something to protect themselves.”

But what if they had?

You can lead a horse to water, but drowning it is surprisingly difficult.

—H
OFFNUNGSLOS

H
uddled under her blankets, waiting for the dismal dregs of stained sunlight to slump beneath the horizon, Gehirn smelled Neidrig long before it came into sight. What she first took to be outlying slums turned out simply to be the city. Even Gottlos—which by Selbsthass standards was the kind of place you hurried through in order to get somewhere interesting—seemed like a glistening jewel in comparison. With some longing, the Hassebrand thought back to the time when she crossed the Flussrand River into Gottlos, driven by the knowledge that she served her Theocrat. How long ago had that been? A week? It seemed like forever.

Surrounded by the twenty-some-odd townspeople who had survived both the journey and the Slaver's voracious appetite, Erbrechen's litter moved deeper into Neidrig. As they passed
decaying hovels, crumbling shanties, collapsing shacks—and the many inhabitants apparently not lucky enough to possess even that much—Erbrechen called out his invitation. The fat Slaver's retinue grew quickly as curiosity brought even more of the city's destitute and downtrodden within range of his voice and influence.

Within the hour more than a thousand people were following Erbrechen's litter, drawn by vague promises and ensnared by his desperate need for worship. The more people who believed in him, the stronger he became and the farther his influence reached. No doubt some fled the city, those few deranged enough to to think they saw the future or smart enough to understand the danger, but the vast majority remained.

Erbrechen's friends set up camp in the center of the city. Gehirn, standing beside the litter, examined the view. This was clearly the most prosperous part of town; most of the buildings retained their roofs and some even had a second floor.

Fearing any building he might enter would collapse under his weight, Erbrechen commanded a score of men and women to construct a large tent—made mostly of stained sheets hastily stitched together and tied to poles, buildings, or anything else handy. One corner was held up by a man Erbrechen told not to move. Though his arms quivered with the strain, he stayed loyally at his post, apparently thankful for the opportunity to serve.

Erbrechen wrinkled his nose and smacked pink lips at Gehirn. “They certainly are a ripe bunch.”

“A little fire would cleanse the lot,” muttered Gehirn.

“Don't you dare!” Erbrechen commanded with mock outrage.

The Hassebrand scowled and turned to hide the small pouch of seeds and nuts she drew from within her robe. Even with the pompous Mayor dead, someone still sought to poison her. She picked at the seeds, nibbling like a starved bird. Who could it be? Did Konig have agents in Erbrechen's camp?

Erbrechen watched the tall Hassebrand with concern. The woman was growing ever more unstable.
Not that she had ever been particularly sane,
he thought with a small giggle.

The dilemma vexed him greatly. The Hassebrand was frighteningly powerful and thus as useful as she was dangerous. Erbrechen considered sending Gehirn away on some make-work task. Preferably one ending in her death.

And yet he hesitated.

Once away from me, she'll be susceptible to the influences of others.

But that wasn't it; he couldn't bring himself to let go of her.

He examined the Hassebrand's hunched shoulders, the glistening dome of her bald skull. Why did it matter so much that she love him?

Everyone loves me!

They had to.

But she wants to!

And didn't.

With a grumbled sigh Erbrechen folded chubby hands across his gelatinous belly and cast his gaze about for the remaining blond sister.
Where is the damned girl?
She couldn't have gone far without his permission.

“Did we eat the girl in last night's stew?” he called to Gehirn's back, hoping his joke would break her foul mood.

The Hassebrand shrugged without turning. That stung.
Why is she ignoring me?
He gave her a place at the center of his grand design, saved her from burning herself alive, and she repaid him with rudeness. And lies, he reminded himself.

But I am resilient. Truly kindhearted and forgiving. Already the pain of her betrayal fades.

Why wouldn't she turn and look at him? Was she angry? What could she possibly be angry about?

Allowing himself to feel something for the woman had been a mistake.

She's lucky she's useful,
he told himself,
or I'd send her away.

He giggled and then stopped, annoyed. Where was the damned girl? He needed attention.

“How do we keep losing them?” Erbrechen aimed his question to the gods above. Though there was no answer, he knew someday, someday soon, there would be.

A few hours later, once it became obvious Morgen was not numbered among those who had fallen under Erbrechen's influence, the Slaver sent teams to scour the countryside. Instructed to bring back, unharmed, any young boy they found, these desperate men and women devastated the towns and farming communities surrounding Neidrig. They murdered families in their sleep, stealing young boys and girls away to be dragged back to Erbrechen's tent. Though a few of the groups didn't return, perhaps a result of regaining some sanity once they were free from Erbrechen's direct influence, most did.

In a few hours Erbrechen's army of children outnumbered the adults. He was more than comfortable with this. The young were so malleable, so easy to teach and twist. And those few finding their way into the evening stew were tender and tasty.

EARLY THE NEXT
morning word arrived that two men and a woman had fled west with a young boy rumored to have brought a cat and a Swordsman back from the dead. Erbrechen, sure this must be his prey, ordered the the thronging thousands surrounding his makeshift tent to break camp.

As his new friends packed up the few belongings they'd be bringing—mostly food and blankets—others worked to hastily improve his litter. Both Erbrechen and Gehirn rode within its canopied interior as scores of men struggled to manipulate it down the narrow and winding streets of the soon-to-be-abandoned city.

WHEN THE SUN
once again fell, Erbrechen's retinue had barely traveled beyond Neidrig's outer slums. After they knocked down a few homes for firewood, the orgy lasted late into the night.

The Hassebrand sat in glum silence at Erbrechen's side, uncommunicative and no fun at all.
Perhaps I should let her roast a few of my more annoying friends
. Fire always seemed to lift her mood.
Yes, perfect idea!
Perhaps then she'd see how giving he was.

Erbrechen leaned toward Gehirn and suddenly became aware of the heat emanating from the woman. He'd thought this a lovely warm evening, but when he noticed how his followers huddled around their campfires, he realized Gehirn kept him warm.

Better not play with fire,
Erbrechen decided. The Hassebrand was too unstable.

He heard the piteous yowling of a cat. Moments later the answering yowls of a crowd of voices echoed through the vacant streets.

“What in the hells is that?” Erbrechen asked of one of his nearby friends.

“Cult of the Dead Cat,” the woman answered, beaming with the opportunity to talk directly to him. “They crawl where the cats crawls, repeat everything it says.”

“Are there a lot of them?”

“Hundreds,” she answered.

“Why aren't they following
me
? I say things much more interesting than
meow
.”

The woman, wearing nothing but a filthy yellow shirt, blinked up at him stupidly.

With a grunt Erbrechen sat back. Why
weren't
they following him? What did the cat have that he didn't?

Flickering orange shadows danced upon the remaining walls in sinuous mimicry of the rutting and writhing of those closest to the raging bonfire.

“There's some cult worshiping a dead cat,” Erbrechen told Gehirn, hoping to break her uncomfortable silence. “Imagine,” he mused, “if enough people follow it, it might Ascend.”

“Am I in the Afterdeath already? Is this punishment?” Gehirn asked as if she hadn't heard him.

What the hells did
that
mean?
What was going on in this woman's deranged mind? “Is this so bad?” he asked. “Is being with me such a burden?”

Teeth bared in a canine snarl, she spun to face him “Yes! I . . .” Her words trickled to silence as she looked into his eyes. “No. Of course not.” She swallowed, turning away. “I'm sorry.”

How could she be unhappy, sitting here right next to me?
It was impossible! “You do love me, right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And you're happy, right?”

She nodded without speaking.

“Say it aloud,” he commanded.

“I'm happy.”

She didn't look happy.

“You don't look happy.”

Gehirn smiled sweetly, her eyes full of love.

“Better.”