The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (20 page)

“Is there a garbage can out here?” asked Merrick, putting a
hand to his belly. “I think I’m gonna be sick. That stuff gets to me.”

“Yeah, down that way.” The man gestured.

Merrick was sprinting down the hallway before the chubby man
had shut the door. He joined the crowd and shuffled along with them as they
spilled out into the afternoon. Though the yard was eclipsed in shadow, the
dust was hot beneath his bare feet. Several folding tables had been pushed
together to form a high, narrow stage. An antique ironwood podium stood in the
center. Comrades whose rooms faced the yard were throwing open their windows
and perching on the sills for a better view. Merrick took a spot near the back,
putting a dozen bodies between himself and the entrance in case anyone came
looking for him.

After several minutes, a short, dimpled man ascended the
platform. Each table wobbled on brown metal legs as he crossed the makeshift
stage. When he stood behind the podium, Merrick could just see the man’s chin
over the top of the lectern. Tar-black hair was swept across his balding crown,
and dark bristles clustered at the holes in his fat cherry nose. He was dressed
like a high-ranking officer, but Merrick knew it was only for show. His name
was Shelder Depliades, and he was one of Wax’s chief advisors.

“Welcome, comrades,” Depliades shouted. No one seemed to
notice he was there. He cleared his throat and repeated himself. It was clear
he wasn’t an officer, or at least some number of comrades would’ve given him passing
consideration. After he had repeated himself a third time, Depliades abandoned
his quest for attention and forged ahead without it.

“Commissar Wax is here this afternoon.”

Before the last word had left his mouth, the crowd was
drowning him in applause.

“He is here,” the startled man repeated when the noise had
died down, “to make an important announcement.”

Merrick heard the creak of hinges to his right and turned to
see Pilot Wax emerging from a recessed door in the side of the barracks building.
Wax made his way toward the stage, surrounded by his armed entourage.

The surprised expression never left Depliades’s face. “And
here he is now,” the short man said, the words racing off his tongue as if he
were afraid of interrupting something. He withdrew as Wax strutted up the
stairs and took the podium.

Wax was cleaner than the last time Merrick had seen him. His
oatmeal-colored hair was trimmed, his face shaven, and his eyes rested and refreshed.
“My lovely assistant,” Wax said, gesturing toward Depliades as the man
retreated from the stage.

Someone whistled. Laughter.

Wax waited until the howls and cat calls had fallen off. “I’m
here to talk to you about the future—our future.” Even in that small statement,
there was a radiant, infectious passion in his voice. It was warmth and
confidence and optimism, blended together to form a sound so pleasing it hushed
the crowd.

No wonder he is who he is
, Merrick thought.

“I’ll keep it short. No need to draw this out or leave you
hanging in suspense. Through the long hours and years of hard work our
Engineering Division has put in, I am very pleased to announce that we’ve
finally been able to build a working prototype for our own hydroelectric power
plant.”

A murmur spread across the crowd. Heads bobbed like flowers on
a windswept plain.

When Wax lifted a hand, the silence resumed. “Before you get
too excited, this doesn’t mean we’re going to have power again any time soon.
Our plant is nowhere near as efficient as the ones in the old days. What it
does
have is a strong energy source, and a location that’s underground, better
shielded from the starwinds. As long as we have water flowing through our natural
springs, we have the hope of a better life. Please realize that I wouldn’t be
telling you this if we hadn’t come a long way already. We’re nowhere near
finished with our work. But if anyone has ever needed a reason to put their
hope in the future, it’s us. And this is that reason.”

The crowd erupted.

Wax had to wait again for the noise to die down. “Now, I want
us to expand. The time has come for it. Every time we’ve grown our borders
before, it’s only served to make us more prosperous. There’s a huge area of
this city that we don’t control. There are resources we need for this power
station. Places we can rebuild. More jobs will need to be done, and we’ll need
people to step up and fill those jobs. But I’m convinced that together we can
continue to build the kind of life we once had. We’re killing our problems, one
by one. Killing them with our pride, our ingenuity. Our steadfastness. And as
long as we don’t stop until every last one of those problems is dead and gone,
our lives are going to be the better for it.”

More applause.

The chubby administrator from the infirmary stuck his head
out the barracks door and began to scan the crowd. Merrick fell to his haunches
and leaned against the side of the building. Then he remembered he was naked
underneath his gown, and snapped his thighs together. Depliades was entering
through the door Wax had come out of. Merrick crawled over and coat-tailed him
through, hoping the administrator hadn’t spotted him. He raced down the
hallway, pausing to compose himself before he entered the waiting room. It was
empty—the admin was still out in the yard looking for him, no doubt.

Merrick was hunched over when he came through the infirmary
door, gripping his stomach with one hand.

“There you are,” said the physician.

“I’m sorry, I thought I was about to hurl. I didn’t, but I
still feel like I could. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Will you bring me a
tub, just in case?”

The physician opened his mouth to speak, but he frowned and
started off toward the supply room instead. Merrick hobbled back to bed. The
chubby administrator stormed in a few moments later and met the doctor at the
door. Their lowered voices were almost inaudible from across the room. The
administrator pointed an angry finger in Merrick’s direction. The physician put
a hand to his stomach, then gestured toward his ear. The administrator wrung
his hands and stormed out again.

The physician set the pink tub on the floor beside Merrick’s
bed. “My secretary swears that you said I sent you to get him.”

Merrick shrugged. “I told him I felt sick and thought I was
about to throw up. He must’ve heard me wrong.”

The physician frowned, sighed, and walked away.

CHAPTER 19

Father Kassic

The weight of the three-pointed star in the pocket of
her robes made Sister Bastille restless. She’d fled the kitchen, where Father
Kassic had been watching her through the window, and entered the conservatory
to find Sister Usara educating the acolytes in the art of planting and
harvesting. Though Bastille knew most everyone there, it felt as if each face
she passed belonged to a stranger; every pair of eyes could see through her to the
truth. At any moment she imagined someone calling out after her and pointing at
the iron key in her pocket. ‘
Fraud! Heathen! Liar!
’ Though no one did,
the fear ate at her as she passed through the gardens, past the sounds of the
hogs in their pens, the rustling of the leaves as the harvesters picked the
morning’s meal, the voice of Sister Usara as she guided the acolytes through
their lesson.

“Mulligraws are one of a family of non-fungal plants that can
be grown underground, entirely without daylight,” Sister Usara was saying.
“They form a staple in the diets of many in the Aionach, though many surfacers
find them too dry and pithy to be enjoyable in environments where hydration is
scarce.”

“Kind Sister Bastille,” called a familiar voice, as Bastille
shuffled through the room trying not to be noticed. She gave a start, but it
was only Sister Adeleine.

“Dear me, child,” Bastille said, putting a hand to her chest.
“I’d swear you have a mind to startle me into an early grave.”

“My apologies, kind Sister,” said Adeleine. “I—I’ve been
looking for you since earlier. I had to go to my lesson, but I cleaned the
courtyard like you asked. When I came back, you’d gone. Who were you after? Was
someone listening to us?”

“You fed the Cypriests, of course.”

Sister Adeleine was rattled. “I… no, you… I thought you…”

“You poor
stupid
girl. Where is the feed bucket?”

“The blue one? I—I left it just outside, kind Sister.”

 “The Mouth, child. It’s no wonder Father Kassic has come
down off the wall. He must have smelled his breakfast and wondered why it
wasn’t brought to him. Follow me.” Bastille strode off toward the outer doors
and burst into the courtyard, Sister Adeleine at her heels.

Father Kassic was crouched there, his hands and face as dark
as cherry pie, scooping handfuls from the bucket into his mouth.

Bastille let out an exasperated sigh.

“I’m… sorry, kind Sister,” Adeleine said, close to tears.

“Stop your sniveling. Father Kassic has far more machinery
than most, you see. His feedings must be on time. When he starts going low, he
feels it in every part. Look at him. He’s starved.”

Sister Adeleine observed, trying to indicate through her
expression that she understood. Soon a curious frown spread across her face.
“Is that a wound?” she asked.

“Where?”

“There. See?”

Father Kassic’s black box-woven shirt was soaked around the
inside crook of his shoulder, the edge of his dark armor vest smeared with
blood.

“That’s just feed he’s dropped,” Bastille said, growing less
sure even as the words escaped her lips.

“No it isn’t,” said Sister Adeleine.

Bastille shot her a look, and the acolyte shrank away. “Run and fetch
Brother Soleil. Have him bring a tranquilizer and four strong Brothers with
him.”

“Yes, kind Sister.”

Adeleine’s footfalls faded from the courtyard walls, and
Bastille was left alone with Father Kassic. She could see his usual post on the
parapet, vacant now.
The Cypriests can smell blood well enough. I wonder if Father
Kassic can smell my fear
. She took two steps toward him, wondering if he
would try to protect his meal like some wild animal if she came too close. But
Father Kassic didn’t look up from where he was chewing on something pink and
stringy.

NewTech devices used
everything
their hosts ingested,
so a Cypriest had no need to sleep or make waste. They watched from the
parapets day and night, except when they were eating. Aside from members of the
Order, the Cypriests killed without prejudice; anyone who came close enough to
the walls and wasn’t accompanied by a priest or acolyte could count on that
being the last thing they did. Few dared come near the walls anymore. The
Cypriests dragged in the unfortunate souls who did so Bastille could harvest
them. Otherwise, they kept to their own, meeting in the guardhouses that had
been tacked on in recent years to serve as their shelter. Bastille left the buckets
filled with feed in front of the south guardhouse door, and they were empty
when she returned.

In the two years since she’d joined the Order, Bastille had
never been this close to one of the Ancients—those Cypriests who had been guarding
the walls since the Order’s founding. She’d gotten a closer look at the
nomads today, too. She tried to picture their leader, the one they called
Lethari, standing next to Father Kassic, imagining who would win in a fight if
the nomads ever attacked the basilica. The savages were fearsome and wild, but
the Cypriests were resolute. They felt little pain and they didn’t need wages
or food or plunder. They could get all the nourishment they needed from eating
their slain foes. Perhaps most importantly, their loyalty to the Mouth was
absolute.

“Father Kassic,” Bastille said, crouching down to his level.

The Cypriest stared at her through hollow gray eyes, sweat
beading on his brow, his cheeks slick with blood and bits of flesh. He smacked
his lips as he chewed, his jaw working tirelessly. Bastille could see the hole in
the fabric of his shirt, where the blood was soaking through. Sister Adeleine
had been right; Father Kassic had been wounded somehow, and that was his own
blood coming through.

“I’m going to take a look at that for you. Does it hurt?” Bastille
put a finger to her breast to indicate the site of his wound.

Father Kassic kept staring at her, averting his eyes only
long enough to glance down into the bucket and scoop out another handful. He
never stopped chewing. Bastille heard him make a sound, a soft nasal grunt, as
if to say he was so busy being hungry he didn’t have time for conversation.

It took a long time for anyone to come, but Bastille wasn’t
about to let the Cypriest out of her sight until they did. When Sister Adeleine
returned with Brother Soleil, there were only two others with them: Brother
Padrig, a balding acolyte with bug eyes and a flaky skin condition, and one of
the initiates, a scrawny middle-aged man who walked with a limp.

“What is the trouble, kind Sister?” Soleil asked, his voice
tremulous. A brown leather satchel was in his hand.

“It seems Father Kassic has been hurt. Is there not another
ounce of brawn in the whole basilica?” Bastille eyed Sister Adeleine sharply.
“Even Brother Mortial, with the gnarled spine, looks stronger than this creature.
And by the way, this is a task for members of the Order only. Now get out of my
sight and go find some real help.”

Brother Soleil gave Bastille a sudden look, as though the
phrase
get out of my sight
had triggered something within him. The image
of the nomad severing Brother Froderic’s head replayed itself in Bastille’s
mind, and she realized then that she had repeated the savage’s words.
I
always keep my word. Now get out of my sight before I keep it again
. That
was what the savage had said.

Sister Adeleine and her two aides began to turn away.

“Not you,” Bastille said, waving Brother Padrig over.
“Brother, if you would be so kind as to circle around behind Father Kassic
to prevent him running off. I don’t think he will, but one cannot be too careful.”

“Certainly, kind Sister,” said Brother Padrig, eager to
please.

She watched him pass to the far side of the stone walkway and
place himself between Father Kassic and the courtyard’s exit, assuming a wide
stance as if he were expecting to be tackled. Brother Soleil was preparing a
syringe, drops of clear yellowish liquid spilling from the needle point.

“We may not need that,” Bastille said, “if I can convince
him.” Turning back to Father Kassic, she sought his eyes. When he looked at her
again she heard the whirring of their mechanisms, focusing.
Those eyes. Even
in the heat of midday, they’re so cold
. “Father Kassic,” she said,
standing. “We will clean and dress you now. Please, follow me.”

The Cypriest slipped a veined purple tongue over his lips,
wiping away the viscera that had clotted there. He stood, and there was a
splash in the bucket as he dropped what he’d been holding. He came toward her,
hands dripping, moving as though it was difficult for him. She beckoned him
onward while Brother Soleil packed up his bag and came after.

“The Mouth, he’s bad off. I can’t tell which blood is his and
which he’s been drinking.”

“Let’s bring him below and have a look at him, shall we?”
Brother Soleil said. “All will be revealed in time.”

“Indeed,” Bastille said.
You of all people should not be
the one to wish for such things
.

They escorted Father Kassic down the closed staircase and
into the cellars, past furniture laced with cobwebs and layered in a century’s
dust. There was a wall where panes of filtered window glass leaned against one
another, extras from the conservatory’s construction, kept on hand for repairs.
It was only by the favor of the Infernal Mouth, Bastille knew, that the
basilica contained such a surplus of this specialized material, which was the
only thing that could resist enough heat and light to make farming in the
above-world productive anymore. Without the conservatory, the Order could never
survive here.

Past the privy, below which the city’s derelict sewer system
only carried waste downstream when it rained, they entered a wide hallway whose
doors led off to the old closets and storage rooms the Order had converted to
classrooms and laboratories. Father Kassic was obedient, though his pace was
sluggish.

“Take your time,” Bastille said, wishing he wouldn’t.

She heard the soft thudding of feet on the flagstones, and
Sister Adeleine was there with three new Brothers, though the men were hardly
strapping. Bastille thought again of the savages, their powerful frames, the
sheen of sweat on tanned skin. She wasn’t sure there was a Brother among the
Order who could boast such a physique.
Perhaps my request for brawn was
unrealistic
, she thought, looking them over. “By the Mouth, slow down,” she
said, her voice shrill. “
I’m
getting used to your bounding about everywhere,
startling people. Father Kassic is not. His nerves are wound up tight as a
steel wire. Be careful, or he’ll wind us up with them.”

Sister Adeleine was shamed.

If I can’t scold her into behaving, perhaps I can scare
her into it
.

Two of Adeleine’s chosen were priests of the same rank as
Bastille, Brothers Ephamar and Chaimon. Ephamar was stunted and plain-looking,
with fair skin and short hair. As librarian in charge of the athenaeum,
Bastille knew him well and saw him on a regular basis. Chaimon was a tall one,
shy and handsome in the eyes behind his straight brown locks, a master in the
spinnery. The third was Brother Reynard, one of the Greatly Esteemed and a
constant companion of poor headless Brother Froderic, though he was none the
wiser yet.

Bastille wondered how long it would be before Froderic’s true
fate was discovered. The key poked her thigh through the inner pocket of her
robes. In a way, Brother Froderic’s death was the only thing that had saved her
from the labyrinth’s confinement. The thought gave her a chill.

“All is well, I trust?” said Brother Reynard.

“It’s fine,” Bastille said. “Just a bit of touching up to be
done. Kind Sister Adeleine, the services of these men are no longer required.
You took too long in getting them here. Apologize to them for wasting their
time and come with me, please.”

Bastille opened the door to the large room that served as the
Order’s hospital. Brother Soleil guided Father Kassic inside. Bastille lit the
lamps, set the brakes on the wheeled operating table, and cleaned the surgical
implements while Brother Soleil removed the Cypriest’s armor and trappings.
Father Kassic twitched when Soleil reached for his crossbow.

“No need to be frightened. It’s only me,” said Brother
Soleil, backing off.

Kassic turned to look at him, eye lenses whirring. As if he’d
only just recognized Soleil as a friend, the Cypriest bent and unslung the
weapon. Soleil unstrapped Father Kassic’s armored vest, then removed his shirt,
belt, gear, sidearm, and the rest of his external clothing. His skin was pale
white where the clothing had covered him and baked brown everywhere else. It
had the texture of smooth plastic except along the scars of his previous
surgeries, eerie signs of the machinations by which he now defied age and
disease.

Bastille patted the mechanical table. Without power it was
stuck flat, no longer adjustable. Father Kassic climbed up and lay on his back
over the white sheet, resting his head on the soft sentyle pillow.

“How are you feeling?” Bastille asked, looming over him.

Father Kassic squinted, the hollow slate-gray pupils whirring
open. “Thirs…ty.” The word struggled to escape his throat, like gravel packed
too tight.

The door opened and shut as Sister Adeleine slipped into the
room.

“I thought this would be a good learning experience for you,”
Bastille said. “Father Kassic requires our attention. It would behoove you to
give us yours.”

“Yes, kind Sister.”

Brother Soleil examined Father Kassic through a pair of
surgical magnifiers. The right side of his chest was a purple bruise. In the
center of the bruise was a deep pool of congealed blood with thick veins
squiggling away from it in every direction. Blood was slicked across his chest
and down to his waistband, and when Bastille wiped it away there was a dry
crust beneath.