The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (26 page)

Brother Ephamar raised his eyebrows and pushed out his bottom
lip, but said nothing. Bastille could tell he was still engrossed in his book, his
eyes longing to return to the page.

“We should be more benevolent toward the heathens, I think,”
Bastille said. “It would set a good example for the acolytes.”

“The acolytes could do worse than bearing witness to a few good examples.
That Sister Adeleine of yours, though, she’s something else. Quick as a whip,
if you look past the clumsiness. She’s your star student, I’d wager.”

“Clumsy as an ox, is what she is. If by
star
you mean
the most likely of my students to wind up peeling boiled eggs in the kitchens,
you’re spot on. I haven’t found a use for her yet that she hasn’t bungled
entirely. She does seem to have an exquisite skill at needlework, though.
Brother Chaimon may find her a better fit in the spinnery.”

“What would you like to borrow next, kind Sister?” Ephamar
said curtly, as if he hadn’t heard a thing she’d said.

“Oh, nothing for now. I’ll come back later, once I’ve
decided.”

Ephamar made the same fat-lipped expression of
half-interested musing, but it lasted a fraction as long. His eyes were
wandering down toward the open book in his hands.

“Goodbye, Brother Ephamar.”

“Afternoon, kind Sister.”

Bastille turned on her heel and left the athenaeum. Ephamar
was already lost in his reading again, she had no doubt.

It was early evening when Sister Bastille returned to the
dormitories with one of the refectory’s supper trays in hand. She gave a quiet
knock at the door before entering Sister Jeanette’s bedchamber. The nightstand
shook when she set the tray down, its legs gone rickety with age.

“Oh, kind Sister… you look dreadful,” Bastille said, closing
the door and kneeling at the bedside.

The tiny bedchamber was rank with the sticky smell of vomit,
and Bastille had to gulp and blink back tears to hide her disgust.

“Thank you for coming, kind Sister,” Sister Jeanette said
feebly. Her skin was pale beneath the gleam of cold sweat, dismal in the fading
light.

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t be here sooner. When I heard you
were sick I was beside myself with worry. I abhor to think of one of my best pupils
suffering.” Bastille tried a smile, but the gesture felt as plastic as it
usually did.

Sister Jeanette didn’t seem to think so; she returned a vapid
grin. “You only have three pupils, kind Sister.”

And you’re neck and neck with Adeleine for least promising
of all
. “That’s right, but every pupil of mine deserves special treatment,”
Bastille said, chortling.
The Mouth, listen to me. I sound like a hen fretting
over her chicks
. “I do apologize for my tardiness. There was some horrendous
business in the courtyard that needed dealing with, but that’s all settled now.
Here, I’ve had Sister Usara make up a special batch of her hearty broth for
you. Works wonders. Drink up, now.”

Bastille helped Sister Jeanette sit up, then had her slurp
the broth from its shallow ceramic bowl until the acolyte complained of nausea
again.

“This started yesterday, this sickness?” Bastille asked,
setting the bowl aside.

“Yesterday during lessons. That was the first I got sick.”

“And you have no inkling as to what the cause might be? There
hasn’t been a bug going around, unless you’re the start of it. You haven’t been
playing with the hogs again, I hope.”

Sister Jeanette didn’t catch the humor. She fidgeted with her
blanket, plucking at pills in the wool. “No inkling at all, kind Sister.”

“Need I remind you that lying to a superior is grounds for
reprimand? Tell me how you came to be sick, child.”
When I have your
confession, I’ll be sure to take advantage of it
, Bastille promised.

Sister Jeanette’s face had gone from white to green. “I…”

She vomited. Cheeks puffed out, she leaned over and spewed
into the pail beside her bed, a brown review of Sister Usara’s hearty broth.
The acolyte hacked and spat, then flopped onto her pillow with a groan.

“You poor dear,” Bastille said, laying a comforting hand on
the blankets over Sister Jeanette’s shin. “I’m so sorry if I upset you.”

“You didn’t, kind Sister. It’s just that I—”

“Would it be easier if I told you that your friend Sister
Adeleine has already shared with me the thing you are so hesitant to admit?”

Jeanette gulped and began to turn green again. Bastille
tried not to flinch backward when she thought the acolyte might go for the bucket. A long
moment passed, but it turned out to be a false alarm.

“I’m the one who’s sorry, kind Sister. I never meant for this
to happen. What does this mean for my place in the Order?”

I would worry more for life and limb than for social
status, if I were you
, Bastille wanted to say. “A heathen never means for
his sins to catch up with him. They always do, however. Tell me how it happened,
and I will do what I can to see that your punishment is just.”

Sister Jeanette had to swallow another bout of nausea before
she could speak again. “I was wandering alone in the cellars the first time it
happened. He—”

“The first time?” Bastille interrupted. “You’ve allowed
yourself to be defiled on multiple occasions, then.”

“No, kind—well, yes. What I mean is, I allowed it the other
times because he said…”

“Don’t be ashamed. Tell me everything.”

“Because he said if I didn’t let him, he would make sure I
never got my priesthood.”

“Are you suggesting that Brother Soleil
coerced
you?”

“I need this, kind Sister. I’ve been prone to seizures since
I was a child. The Order is my last hope for a cure.”

“Many join the Order for the same reason, kind Sister. You
are far from the only person in the basilica with such a problem.”

Sister Jeanette gave her an inquisitive look. “Is that why
you joined?”

“Please stay on topic. You were explaining your dalliances
with Brother Soleil.”

“Sorry, kind Sister. Brother Soleil was very kind to me at
first. I was surprised when he chose me to learn the sacrificial rites. I had
imagined myself working in the conservatory with Sister Usara, or in the
kitchens with Sister Deniau. Brother Soleil said it was because he saw a
special talent in me. He said he could never allow such a talent to go to
waste, since so few are ever groomed for the rites. You remember how he had me
assisting him, even before our studies with you began, don’t you?”

I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. That old buzzard
plucked her out like a lamed bushcat. Sister Jeanette has no stomach for guts
and gore. Never has, from the very first
. “I do remember, yes. Continue.”

“I was with him often over the first few weeks. He would
touch me sometimes. Nothing improper, just the quick brush of a hand here and
there. Are you sure I should be telling you this?”

Bastille didn’t want to hear all the details, but she had to
know how culpable Brother Soleil really was. “You should only be telling me if
it’s the truth. I don’t want to hear lies and cover-ups. You tell me how it
happened exactly, or you can sit in here and deal with the consequences on your
own. I can’t help you if you don’t give me an accurate picture. That includes
anything that might implicate you, as hesitant as you may be to admit it.
Believe me when I say that the truth is always best.”

Sister Jeanette seemed to calm a little, a note of resolve
working itself into the dimples beside her mouth. “He held me down. I didn’t
know what was happening at first. He pushed me onto the table and he lifted my
robes—”

Bastille had heard enough. “Okay. That’s all I needed to
know. You did not consent or give him permission to do this. Is that right?”

“Not that first time, no. After… he said he could help me get
an early priesthood and move me up in the Order like he had done for Sister
Gallica, and that if I didn’t want to show him my devotion, he could have me
expelled.”

“Devotion?” Sister Bastille scoffed, but she held her tongue.
A trusting young girl mustn’t look very far to be taken advantage of, it
seems. Far too trusting, this one. That flaw may suit my needs, though.
Interesting, that bit about Sister Gallica. I’m fairer than the she-mutant, but
Brother Soleil has never so much as laid an errant hand on me. Perhaps his
tastes are stranger than they seem. I’ll have to look into that bit about
Gallica…

“My Devotion to the Mouth, yes,” Sister Jeanette was saying.
“He said it was part of my initiation to let him—”

“Enough. It’s the truth I wanted, not a detailed account of
everywhere he touched you.”

“Will I be expelled?”

“Give me some time. It’s clear that you were forced into
these… situations, to some degree. I don’t think anyone could blame you for
that, beyond the fact that you clearly haven’t been reading the scriptures if
your understanding of devotion to the priesthood is so misinformed. More than
anything else, it was your lack of common sense that was your undoing in this
instance.”
Perhaps that lack was the ‘talent’ Brother Soleil saw in you
.

“You’re right, kind Sister. I should be better about my
studies.”

I couldn’t care a whit less about your studies
. “Yes.
Well, there’s quite a deal more you should be better about as well,” Bastille
said, eyeing Jeanette’s chamber with vague disapproval, “but this isn’t a
discussion of your shortcomings. I’ll speak with Brother Reynard in the
hospital and arrange to have you excused from your duties for a further two
days. Be sure you’re feeling better by then. Best not to raise any further
suspicion until we’ve sorted this out. Time is of the essence, now. Don’t speak
of this to anyone unless I’ve given you leave to do so—not even Sister
Adeleine. If she asks, tell her I have the situation in hand. And for the
Mouth’s sake, stay away from Brother Soleil. By whatever pretext is required.”

“Even lying?”

“Lying, in this case, when it’s to save yourself from his
exploitations until something can be done, is… permissible.”

Sister Jeanette looked unconvinced. “How?”

“Tell him you’ve got an awful infection.”
No, he’d offer
to examine her
. “Say it’s your monthly time.”

“I’ve tried that. He doesn’t care—”

“Tell him you’ve had one of your seizures, and you ought not
to be jostled about or you’re apt to have another.”

“I’m not sure that will work, kind Sister.”

“Make it work. If a woman can deny her lover his advances,
surely you can deny an old man his abuses.”

“But my priesthood…”

“You have bigger problems than that just now. Brother Soleil
may have influence, but he won’t be one of the Most Highly Esteemed forever. In
fact, he won’t be long in his place if I have anything to say about it. He has
other secrets that I’ve come to learn recently, and they do not bode well for
his standing. Have faith, kind Sister. When I become one of the Esteemed, I
will remember your plight.”

Sister Jeanette licked her dry lips and gave a pitiful nod.

As Bastille stood and turned toward the door, the acolyte
said, “Thank you for the soup. And for all your help. I’ll find a way to repay you,
someday.”

Bastille looked over her shoulder and gave the acolyte her
best attempt at a smile before closing the door behind her. “You certainly
will, kind Sister.”

CHAPTER 24

Orbs in the Outskirts

When Captain Robling came to visit Merrick in the infirmary,
he’d mentioned the possibility of punishment for future misdeeds. What he
hadn’t mentioned was that he’d already decided on a different punishment to
impose in the meantime.

Merrick reported to the personnel office to get his work
schedule the afternoon they released him from the infirmary. He groaned when the
secretary handed him the timesheet. “Someone made an error. These are the
wrong shifts.”

The secretary didn’t look up from the form he was filling
out. “Not my problem. Take it up with your C.O.”

Merrick calmed himself. “I’m sorry, but you’ve made an error.
These are not my shifts. I’m a birdhouse man. I’m supposed to be going up next
to the Row in a couple hours.”

The secretary put down his pen and glowered at Merrick
through a pair of thick handmade bifocals. He snatched the timesheet from
Merrick’s hands and looked it over. “You’re with the Sentry Division. These
assignments just came down from Captain Robling this afternoon. I was here when
he delivered them. I watched him sign the coffing things myself.”

“Alright, no reason to get excited,” said Merrick. “I wanted
to be sure I didn’t show up in the wrong place. That’s all. Thanks.”
For
nothing
, he almost said.

He looked over the timesheet again. No longer was he a
birdhouse man—which, for its part, could be considered the best job in a
division known for having many of the worst. Instead, Robling had chosen to
shuffle him around between various guard duty positions reserved for first-year privates;
brig security, barracks sentry, and borderguard, among others.
This isn’t a
clerical error at all. It’s Robling’s deliberate ploy. Is this supposed to teach
me a lesson or something?

Merrick may have complained about his birdhouse, but at least
there he had a nice view of an elderly couple who wanted to bang but never got
around to it. Plus, he had the opportunity to put his marksmanship skills to
use on the off chance that they were needed. If he hadn’t felt like a true failure
before, he certainly did now. Maybe it was more in principle than in fact, but
to Merrick it felt like he was being demoted. He was descending the ladder,
rather than advancing toward another shot at getting back into Mobile Ops.
Robling had reduced him to performing a series of jobs that required the combined
posture and mental acuity of a toothpick. Like it or not, he was in for a
desperate struggle to save himself from bottoming out.

Merrick arrived at the borderguard station well before his
scheduled start time in the early evening. Every street north of Bucket Row was
blockaded at ground level as a means to discourage would-be intruders. Some
blockades were built out with guard stations, sturdier gateways that served as
added barriers to anyone who got past the birdhouses. This particular station was
built at the site of a swanky uptown block, complete with boutique storefronts,
an old movie theater, and two cafes with outdoor patio dining. Despite its
upscale history, however, this block was in no better condition than most of the
others.

Merrick could see the ramshackle blockade from half a horizon
away, a two-story mass of plastic, metal, and plexiglass sheeting nailed to a
wooden frame. A staircase climbed the inside wall at each end, peaking at a
one-man lookout perch. The gatehouse was at the left end of the blockade, a
tower of brick and plywood with a corrugated metal awning supported by a pair
of rotting two-by-fours.

Something didn’t feel right. If there were comrades on duty
here, both of the empty lookout perches should have been manned. It wasn’t
until Merrick had come within half a block that he heard, and finally saw, the
three soldiers playing a game of cards beneath the gatehouse awning.

One of the comrades looked up to flick away his cigarette
butt, then returned his attention to the game. Merrick didn’t know any of them
by name, nor did he recognize the game they were playing. They looked beaten to
hell—both the playing cards and the men, though the cards had had the worst of
it. Merrick couldn’t imagine how a manufactured stack of paper had survived for
so long without disintegrating in mid-shuffle. The men sat on stools made of
found objects—a folding auditorium chair with cup holder armrests and ripped
blue upholstery; a pair of chipped gray cinder blocks; and a wrought-iron cafe
chair, which its occupant looked to be having plenty of fun with, leaning from
side to side and making the strained supports squeak.

The lumber that made up the simple plank table was rotting.
The table stood off-kilter, and it rocked whenever the blond-haired soldier
sitting on the cinder blocks propped his elbows on it. At the table’s center
was the pile of oddments that comprised the game’s wager, Merrick guessed.
Lengths of copper wire; an old broken wristwatch; rows of cigarettes,
hand-rolled in lightweight book paper; a small wooden box with a sliding lid,
packed with fresh tobacco; a set of hand-carved bone dice; and an ancient
cigarette lighter of transparent green plastic, with a few drops of fluid left
inside—a hot commodity, and much easier to use than a striker.

“Corporal Merrick Bouchard, reporting for duty.”

“Great, we can leave,” shouted the blond on the cinder
blocks.

“After this game,” insisted the man in the movie theater
chair, the one who had flicked his cigarette away. The big brutish lout had
already lit up another cigarette and was deep in contemplation, studying his
cards.

“What’n the world did you do to your fingers?” asked the
moon-faced man in the wrought-iron cafe chair, whose puff of gossamer brown
hair was overdue to be cut.

“Get in a fight with a flock of hermit crabs?” asked the
blond as he drew from the deck. He studied his cards, then tossed them face up
onto the table. “This game is over.” He held up his arms, gloating. The other
two men leaned in to study his cards, then scowled and cast down their own.

The winner must have thought it best not to prolong his
moment of triumph, because he lifted the hem of his shirt and scooped up the
wagers before hoisting his rifle and hurrying from the gatehouse. The other two
gathered their belongings and followed, heckling him and calling for another
game.

Merrick stood alone, perturbed. He was still early, and he
didn’t know who else was supposed to join him at the station. Playing cards littered
the table and the sidewalk beneath it, some so worn with spots and creases that
they were almost unrecognizable. Smoldering cigarette butts were heaped in the
corners, lingering threads of smoke still twisting up toward the ceiling. Merrick
took a seat in the ripped-up theater chair, the most comfortable-looking of his
three options, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.

There was a brisk rapping at the gate, so loud and sudden it
made Merrick jump. He was on his feet in an instant, slinging his rifle to bear
and listening for another sound.

“Please, let me in,” came a man’s voice from the other side,
shrill with panic. “I need to speak with the Commissar.”

Doubting whether he should make his presence known, Merrick
scoured the long block behind him for signs of his shift-mates. There were
none. No one had taught him the protocol for this kind of situation. Nobody had
ever come to his birdhouse asking to be let inside. Merrick wondered how the
man had found his way past the birdhouses to begin with. “What’s your business?
And who are you?”

“My name is Dashel Thomrobin. I’m Pilot Wax’s cousin.”

Merrick bounded to the top of the staircase. If this was a
trick, the barrel of his rifle would be the last thing the man on the other
side ever saw.

“Say that again,” Merrick said when he had reached the perch,
panting and out of breath.

“I said I’m Pilot Wax’s cousin. My name is Dashel Thomrobin.
Please don’t shoot me. Or at least let me in before someone else shoots me. I
need to talk to him.”

The man was tall and slender, with a bowed posture that was
visible even beneath his robe of muted gray wool. There was a slight family
resemblance, Merrick had to admit. The man had the same green-gray eyes and
oatmeal-blond hair as Wax, though he didn’t look as healthy as the Commissar.

Merrick didn’t know what to do. Without other comrades to
help him operate the gate, man the lookout posts, and tie up this Dashel
Thomrobin fellow, he didn’t have much flexibility in how he handled the
situation. He couldn’t take the risk of messing up again, but he’d be a fool to
let a souther play a trick on him. Fools who messed with southers wound up dead
fools, most of the time.
I should just shoot him and be done with it
.
But if the man really
was
Pilot Wax’s cousin, killing him was as good as
committing suicide, once Wax found out. There were few jobs more menial than
this, and there were only two things below the bottom rung of Pilot Wax’s
ladder: banishment and death.

“Do you have any way to prove you’re related to the Commissar?
And if that’s true, what are you doing in the city south, dressed like a
Mouther?”

“I knew this would happen,” Dashel muttered. “No, I don’t
have proof. I’m dressed like a Mouther because I
am
a coffing Mouther.
You can tie me up if that’s what you want to do, but I’m not going to hurt
anybody.” He laced his fingers together on top of his head, then spun around to
show Merrick he had no weapons outside his robe.

“So, if we open this gate and two dozen of those armed
warrior-priests of yours come running around that corner, then do I have
permission to kill you? I’m sorry, but we just can’t let you through.” Merrick
turned to the imaginary comrade he had decided was standing on the ground below
him. “Keep the gate closed, Corporal. Under no circumstances are you to open
it.”

Dashel Thomrobin frowned. “Excuse me, but isn’t that a
Corporal’s insignia you’re wearing? Are you borrowing someone’s uniform, or did
I just witness one Corporal giving orders to… another Corporal?”

He knows our rank insignia. Strange for a Mouther, unless
he’s spent time in the city north
. “I’ll tell you what. Wait right there.
I’ll have someone go run a message. If there’s a chance you’re who you say you
are, then we’ll know soon enough. If not, we’ll give every station for ten
blocks your description, along with clearance to shoot you on sight. Of course,
you can save us both the trouble if you run away now.”

Dashel took a step back. After a moment, he straightened and
stood his ground. “I
am
who I say I am.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Merrick plodded down the steps and reclaimed his seat in the
movie theater chair. By the time the other guards showed up, he’d begun to
worry that no one was coming. The first to arrive was an older gentleman with
tussocks of gray hair growing from his face, neck, ears, and nostrils, who
identified himself as Sergeant Ladiphar. The second was none other than Keller
Henderthwaite, the lanky, goose-necked gate guard who’d made a report of
Merrick’s fight at the Boiler Yard. Merrick greeted them each in turn and
apprised them of the situation.

“I’m gonna take him to the Hull Tower,” Merrick told them.
“If he’s lying, maybe Wax will want to keep him for questioning anyway. Let me
go up and check on him. If he’s still there, open the gate when I give you the
signal and tie him up as soon as he’s through.”

Sure enough, the Mouther was still there, seated in the shade
of the building opposite the gate. If his continued presence wasn’t reason
enough to believe him, Merrick didn’t know what better evidence there could be.
Before they tied him up, Merrick made him lift his robes, which were
sweat-soaked and bore a large brown stain on one shoulder and a few spatterings
of mud along the hemline. Underneath the robes, he wore the most uncomfortable-looking
white woolen underclothes Merrick had ever seen. Merrick’s guess about the skew
in his posture had been right; Dashel’s spine was curved and twisted, leaving
his shoulders at differing heights.

It was about half an hour’s walk from the gatehouse to the
Hull Tower, a circular pillar of steel recognized as the centerpiece of the
city north’s downtown district. The building’s curved face was littered with
shattered window panes, like a mouthful of broken teeth. The two men hardly
spoke for the whole trip. Dashel held his robes with bound hands and tiptoed
through the rubble, while Merrick followed, prodding him with his rifle
whenever the pace slowed.

At the tower, they approached the revolving doors and Merrick
stopped to speak with the guards. “Prisoner to see Pilot Wax.”

The shorter of the two guards stopped them. “What’s going on
with your hands?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Merrick said.

“Looks like he lost his nail clippers and used a pair of
pliers instead,” said the taller guard.

The short one laughed. “What about the Mouther, what’s the
story with him?”

“He came in at the Olney Street gatehouse. Claims he and the
Commissar are family.”

The guards shared a look.

“Okay you’re fine. Bring him in.”

The taller guard whispered something to Dashel as he passed. “Family,
huh? Aren’t you creative.”

“What was that about?” Merrick asked him once they were
inside.

“That dway just likes to give me a hard time,” Dashel said. “Say,
what
did
you do to your hands?”

“I crawled through a room full of mousetraps,” Merrick said dryly.

They found themselves in a windowed five-story atrium, with a
marble floor covered in broken glass and bird droppings. An elegant information
desk curved in mimicry of the building’s exterior, with a faded
Hull
logo etched into a slash of blue plastic behind it. A faint rush of wind made
the room sound like the inside of a gigantic seashell.
Daylight fell
through the broken windows and made odd shadows that moved amid the echoes of
flapping wings and chirping sounds. Merrick would’ve expected the Commissar’s
headquarters to be in better shape.
What do I know? Maybe he likes a good
mess.