Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (39 page)

The pain in her head was immense, maybe the worst it had ever
been. Pressing her thumbs hard into her temples relieved the effects, but only
in lieu of a different, tighter sort of throbbing.

Faint footsteps grew louder, and Brother Reynard was there
with Sisters Rousseau and Mareau, a surprising muster in light of how busy the
hospital staff had been of late. They laid her on the floor, put something soft
beneath her head, and lifted her so Reynard could press a flask of morphine to
her lips.

Bastille took a sip and waited for cool relief, but the pain
barely receded. “What’s happening to me?”

Reynard hushed her. “Don’t speak. Just relax. Is it helping?”

“No,” she said, voice breaking.

“Lift her again. Let’s have another sip.”

This time the pain subsided a little.

“I think we’d better get you to the hospital, Sister
Bastille. Do you feel you can stand and walk, if we were to help you?”

“I think so.”

It took a long time. Every step made the steel ball in her
head roll and crash from side to side. They laid her in a hospital bed and
connected her to an intravenous line with a refurbished needle. The bed was
softer than her own, and it wasn’t long after they pushed a shot of morphine
into her bloodstream that the room around her dimmed and faded away.

She woke in a cold sweat after a series of strange and
disturbing dreams. The last was the most unsettling; the rains had filled the
basilica walls like a giant tub, rising to the highest parapet. Heathens were
clambering over the top and diving in, while corpses of Cypriests bobbed and
drifted on the surface.

In the submerged depths lay the basilica itself. Priests
floated through the halls, dead and bloated. The avatar of the fates remained
in his watertight cell beneath the conservatory, undiscovered. Eons passed in
the dream, and no one found him. He sank beneath the waves until all the world
was drowned, and the prison which held him never opened.

“I’ll let you out,” Bastille was saying when she awoke. “I’ll
free you.”

“What was that, Sister?” asked a familiar voice. Brother
Travers was sitting beside her bed, slouched in his chair, dreadlocks hanging
over the backrest.

Bastille caught her breath. “What’s the time? Are we late for
class?”

“Class ended hours ago,” Travers said. “It’s long past
midnight now. I took the liberty of finishing the rites myself.”

“You did what? Without my permission?”

“Calm down. You look like you’re about to pass out again.
Everything’s fine. I took care of it.”

“You were not to—” she groaned as a wave of pain swept
through her.

“You’re going to have to let Sister Severin and I do this on
our own at some point,” he said.

“Not yet. Not before—”

“Not before what?”

“Nothing. Why are you here, Brother Travers?”

“I thought you’d like some support. Sorry if I’m bothering
you. It doesn’t seem like you have many friends around here.”

“No, I meant—what did you say?”

“I said sorry.”

“No. After that. About… friends.”

“I said you don’t seem to have many friends. I see you
sitting alone at mealtimes. You hardly talk to anyone. You always have that
thoughtful look on your face, like you’re stewing over something. In class,
it’s hard to get a word out of you, except when you’re droning on and on during
a lecture. You don’t like people very much, do you?”

“Well, I—” Bastille didn’t know what to say. Her blind stupor
didn’t exactly lend itself to rational thought. “I guess I don’t, when you put
it that way.”

“Is that why you like cutting them open?”

Bastille’s head was pounding, but she entertained his remark
anyway. “Do not confuse talent with motive, kind Brother. Enjoying something
and being good at it are hardly the same thing.”

“But you do enjoy it…”

“It’s how I contribute.”

“Sometimes I don’t like people either. Only sometimes,
though. Just when they get on my nerves.”

“And does this happen often?”

“Often enough,” he said. “Every now and then, people really
piss me off.”

We are kindred spirits in that regard
, she thought.
“Why did you come to the Order, Brother Travers? What made you leave your
seafaring life in Spearhead Point?”

Travers cracked a smile, but there was no joy in it. “I
wanted to cut people open.”

Bastille felt a flutter in her chest. She responded in level
tones nonetheless. “You might’ve been assigned to Brother Reynard here in the
hospital if I hadn’t hand-picked you.”

“I would’ve volunteered if you hadn’t. I’m glad you did,
though. I’d rather be doing what we’re doing down there than treating headaches
and sore throats.”

“What was it about the rites that drew you initially?”

Travers pondered. “The Aionach may not have laws,” he said,
“but that doesn’t mean you can go around doing whatever you want. I figured
that out pretty quick.”

Though her head throbbed and her heart was racing, Bastille
took a calming breath and asked, “What are you saying? How did you figure that
out?”

“I had to leave,” he sighed. “Too many people getting
suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what?”

That same smile again. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt
anyone.”

Bastille wasn’t worried so much as terrified. “Brother
Travers…”

“I want you to know how much it means to me to be your
assistant. Your student. I’m learning from the best, and it makes me happy.
Today, when I was preparing that corpse for sacrifice… I realized. There’s
nothing like it. Nothing at all. You know what I mean. You’re the only other
person in this place who does.” His nostrils flared. He rubbed his lips
together. Curled his fingers like claws, as if to grasp something that wasn’t
there.

“I thought you had a weak stomach,” Bastille said. “The first
time I let you handle one—”

“I’m not proud of that. It wasn’t the body, it was the smell
of the chemicals. It reminded me of… something I’d rather not talk about. I’m
used to it now. A necessary evil in our line of work, huh?”

There is something rather evil here, yes
, she thought.
“The embalming fluids do take some getting used to.”

“You know the best part? The rush. I do get a little sick
from it sometimes. I can’t stop, though.”

“You haven’t found that the sanctioned nature of our work
takes the thrill out of it?”

“Oh, no way. It’s not the fear of getting caught that gives
me the rush. It’s the sensation—the sight, the smell, the touch of cold flesh.
Even the taste. I love the way it sounds, the way it feels when it’s coming
apart in my hands. Between my teeth.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I’m
sorry. I’ve been dying to talk to someone about this, and you’re the only one I
knew would understand.”

I do not at all understand
, Bastille wanted to say.
“Yes, well… it is a thankless job we do. One might as well get some enjoyment
out of it.”

Brother Travers rose from his chair and sat beside her on the
bed. “I’ve been enjoying our lessons a lot lately. Without Sister Severin. I
like being there beside you, watching. I’d really like it if you could watch me
sometime too. Soon, I hope. You’ll let me take the lead soon, won’t you?”

It has become apparent that I must do
something
soon
, she thought.
Very soon
.

CHAPTER 32

Revolution’s Harvest

The air was thick with anarchy. Or perhaps that was
merely the stench of the hundreds of parasitic vagrants who followed Merrick
Bouchard day and night, clamoring for him, begging for the chance to beseech
the healer’s graces. Merrick had decided it best to use his gift sparingly, to
keep the crowds wanting more. He found their number grew faster that way. And
so, day after day, the people had come from all over.

They were coming not just from Belmond and its surrounding
suburbs anymore, but from all throughout the Inner East and beyond. There were
seafarers from settlements along the Horned Gulf and Farstranders from across
the Slickwash; coarse mountainfolk from the Vors’ Rhachis; ruddy-skinned
wastelanders from the Amber Coast; drawl-mouthed northerners with their
oversized hats and pompous swagger; and blistered Bleakshorers with savage
blood.

Belmond’s own were not lost in the shuffle. Everyone from
gang outcasts to friendless drifters had shown up on Merrick’s
doorstep—wherever his doorstep happened to be on a given day. Though he never
stopped moving, it was getting harder to hide. His legend had grown such that
he would’ve preferred to establish a permanent home and let the people come to
him. But his home was in the Hull Tower. Until he got there, the danger to his
life remained too great to stay in one place for long.

Raith and Derrow cleared a path through the crowd to let
Merrick pass onto the open circle of pavement where a captive awaited him; a
captive in the khaki and gray fatigues of the Scarred Comrades. Merrick’s
guards had caught the man late the previous night, part of a strike team trying
to infiltrate his sleeping hole. Merrick had no doubt Pilot Wax had sent the
team to eliminate him.

They’d bound the soldier’s hands and feet and strung him to a
crooked street lamp, from which they’d been dunking him head-first into a
rusted fifty-gallon drum of putrid rainwater all morning long. Merrick
recognized him instantly. It was Admison Kugh, one of his closest friends from
Mobile Ops.

Kugh’s eyes were red-veined, his face puffy and waterlogged.
“Bouchard? Bouchard… holy shit, thank the fates it’s you. You gotta get me down
from here, man. These coffin’ bastards are trying to kill me.”

“Wax sent you to kill me.”

Kugh’s mouth gaped open. “No… No, we were just gathering
intel.”

“Intel on the best way to assassinate me.”

“… I had to follow orders, man.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear, man. I swear. You know how Wax gives orders. Mobile
Ops is his bitch. He tells us what he wants, and we do it. No questions asked.”

“You’re telling me you were too stupid to put the pieces
together? How many dways you know in the city south with a thousand people
behind them?”

“Look, man… I tried to help you. That night they rode you out
into the wastes, they were gonna kill you. I stopped ‘em. Bouch… I dropped my
knife in the sand. I left it for you, so you could get free.”

Merrick rubbed the scar between his thumb and forefinger
where his mark had once been. He raised his voice to the crowd. “How many of
you here want to see this man spared?”

The crowd decried the notion with jeers and heckling.

Merrick turned to the ropers. “Dunk him.”

Kugh screamed for mercy, wriggling like a worm at the end of
a line. The rope creaked and the street lamp groaned. Kugh’s head went under.
The crowd raised a shout of approval. Kugh struggled. Merrick heard his head
hit the side of the barrel with a flat bonging sound. They lowered him until
his broad shoulders stuck.

Merrick waited.

The crowd quieted.

Kugh stopped squirming.

“Haul him up.”

They lifted him, coughing and sputtering.

Merrick stepped in close and whispered into Kugh’s ear. “Did
you know they’re calling me Merrick the Mender now? Cute, right? It has a
certain ring to it. They’re saying all a person has to do is stand close
enough, and my miraculous powers will rub off on them. I can keep you alive for
as long as I want. Indefinitely, if it comes to that. You won’t die. You’ll
just keep suffering. Tell me the truth, and I’ll end this.”

“I swear, I didn’t know it was you. That’s the honest truth.”

Merrick stepped away from him and shouted to the crowd.
“Mercy or death?”

“
Death
,” came the reply, a sibilant hiss spiked with
poison.

“This is a man who serves the city north,” Merrick said.

More booing.

“What has the north ever given us?”

“
Nothing
.”

“That’s right. They’ve taken everything for themselves. Life
is fragile, my friends. We live without issue until we aren’t fed, or given
drink, or allowed to sleep. Until our needs go unmet. Look at this place. Look
at us. We scrape by while the people of the north indulge themselves on all the
luxuries we don’t have. Many of us spend our days chasing our next meal, our
next sip of clean water… our next safe place to sleep. The north has let us go
hungry. They’ve watched us lay our heads on hard pavement and hot sand. What
gives them the right to deny us the things we need?”

The crowd seethed.

Merrick waited for the noise to abate. There was a fire in
his chest; a fire not of his gift, but of pride. As his following had grown,
he’d found that the more he spoke, the more they wanted to listen. The jitters
he’d felt speaking before the Gray Revenants had melted away at the acceptance
of his new audience. This filthy rabble were changing him into the great
conqueror he was always meant to become. “Some of you came here searching for a
healer’s touch. But hear me now: the truest healing can never begin until the
barricades come down. Until the walls that divide north from south are broken.
Until our city’s abundance, and the prosperity granted by free trade with
communities across the Aionach, are poured out for everyone to enjoy. Not just
the privileged few.”

The sheer volume of noise made Merrick flinch. He wanted to
cover his ears, but opted to endure the racket instead. “For all this greed,
there is one man responsible. His name is Pilot Wax, and the north has called
him its Commissar for nearly twenty years. So I ask you again: what would you
have me do with this soldier of the north—this servant of Pilot Wax—who hangs
here, a symbol of the north’s treachery? Would you show him mercy, or give him
the death he deserves?”

“
Death
.” A chant grew from that single word, a rhythm
emerging from a disharmony of voices. “
Death
,” they shouted in a
deafening whisper. “
Death. Death. Death
.”

“You hear that, Kugh?” Merrick shouted, stepping in beside
him. “That’s truth.”

“I never did anything to you, Bouch. I stuck up for you. I
even warned you about Wax. Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t put up with somebody
better than him? Didn’t I? I was right. Sure enough, he kicked you out. You
can’t blame me for that shit, man. I thought we used to be buddies.”

“We did,” Merrick said. “And I forgive you.”

“What?”

“I forgive you. You did help me. You did try to stop me from
sabotaging myself. So I forgive you for following Wax’s orders—even though you
knew it was me he sent you to kill.”

“Well… shit, Bouch. Thank you. You don’t know what this means
to me. Because… because I want to join up with you. I want to be on your team.
I can help you do what you’re planning to do. Wax told us all about it.”

“So you did know it was me. The mission last night.”

“No, I—” Kugh’s face was red from hanging upside down, but
Merrick could tell when he flushed with shame. “Yeah. I knew it was you…”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you bet.”

“So you want to help?”

Kugh nodded quickly. “Let’s put this shit behind us and be
buddies again. Like old times, Bouch.”

Merrick gave him a warm smile. “The old times are gone, Kugh.
I’m looking forward to the new ones. These are my people now. And these people…
they don’t forgive you.”

Merrick signaled the ropers and walked away. He heard Admison
Kugh cry out before his head hit the water. His body sank until he was
submerged down to his thighs. When his head hit the barrel this time, it struck
the bottom.

Raith and Derrow moved to clear a path for Merrick, their
faces grim. The crowds cheered, eager hands reaching out to touch his clothes.
They were his army, though they didn’t know it yet. Raith knew. Raith always
knew. Merrick folded his arms and hunched over, hurrying through the mass of
bodies. Behind him, the roar eclipsed the sound of Kugh’s thrashing.

“That was wrong,” Derrow said when they reached the safety of
Merrick’s staging area, a two-room travel agency called ZipTrips located on the
corner of a refurbished strip mall. A faded poster on the wall read: Visit
Villabhai—The White City Awaits, above which spanned a vibrant image of the
beachside mecca on the island of Nebulai.

“You hate the Scarred,” Merrick said.

“Yes, I do. We all do. But—”

“Then stop complaining.”

“You murdered him without giving him a chance to fight back.
All men deserve a fair fight, no matter how despicable they are.”

“Maybe I should’ve thrown him into the ring with you. It
would’ve ended the same for him.”

“Probably. But at least you would’ve shown all those people
that you’re a fair man.”

“I gave him what he deserved. That’s fair.”

“You plan to make these people fight for you,” Raith said.
“For that, they must believe you’re more than just the next tyrant in line.
They want to know you’ll do things differently when you take power. Not the way
Wax did them.”

“Of course I’ll be better than Wax,” Merrick said.

“I don’t mean
better
. I mean showing mercy where Wax
showed cruelty. Offering goodwill to all where he’s offered only prejudice.
Administering justice instead of the oppression these people have become so
accustomed to.”

“I’ll do all that and more,” said Merrick. “I’ll be
greater—better—and wiser, and… all those things… than Wax ever was.”

“Will you start now?”

“Huh?”

“The Scarred have gotten away with too much. The north needs
to be taken, and you have our support in that. But if you want to inspire these
people by your example, start now. Don’t wait until you’re at the top of the
Hull Tower to show them your benevolence. If you let yourself form patterns of
corruption, those patterns will become your legacy. You’re on a path to become
exactly like the man you want to depose.”

“You don’t know anything about the path I’m on,” Merrick
said. “I’ve got plenty of people out there who would die for me already.”

“Would they? Or do they follow you because they’d rather
live?”

Merrick couldn’t fathom why Raith was being so hard on him.
He didn’t think the old blackhand was jealous of his success, but he was
clearly troubled by it. Lately Raith was always challenging him, or warning
him, or pointing out things he perceived to be mistakes. He never let up; he
never told Merrick he was glad for him, or proud of him.
I should stop
thinking I deserve that
, Merrick reflected.
I’m expecting compliments
from a man who isn’t here to flatter me. He wants to find his people and go
home. To him, I’m a means to an end
.

If there was one thing Raith did well, it was teach. Merrick
had only ignited for a few seconds when he’d healed Toler Glaive in the Boiler
Yard all those months ago, yet the sleep had taken him for half a day
afterwards. He’d been burning inefficiently, and Raith was showing him how to
sharpen his ignitions through focus and practice. It was as if he’d been
drinking through a straw full of holes, and Raith was helping him plug those holes
one by one. Between Merrick’s training and his ever-increasing horde of
supporters, things were looking up.

Jiren’s condition, however, hadn’t improved. He’d made no
progress toward normalcy despite Merrick’s repeated healing attempts and hours
of social interaction with the Decylumites. This morning, they’d sat him in one
of the travel agency’s guest chairs. He’d been staring with a blank expression
at the Villabhai poster on the wall the entire time Merrick and Raith had been
arguing.

“They follow me because they know I’ll change things,”
Merrick was saying. “I don’t need your advice, and your criticism isn’t
helping.”

“Of course,” Raith said. “You’ve got everything in hand. It
isn’t as if I know anything about being in charge of a city.”

Merrick laughed. “Oh, that’s good. Rub my nose in the breadth
of your vast experience. Again. How can I deny the prowess of your leadership
when the evidence is standing right here in front of me? There were eighty of
you, weren’t there?” The room fell silent. Raith didn’t flinch, but Merrick
could see he’d hurt him. He didn’t back off. “You might be some bigshot
underground, Raithur. Up here, you don’t know a thing. So stop pretending.”

Derrow stepped in. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d
take Raith’s advice for what it is—a friend trying to help a friend. I guess we
saw out there how you treat your friends, didn’t we…”

“A man in my position has no room for disloyalty,” Merrick
said. “Those loyal to me have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sick in the head, commando. Any blackhand in this
room could tear you apart… aside from maybe Jiren… and you’re talking about
loyalty like you’re some kind of monarch ruling over us. While we’re on the
subject of your sovereignty, what’s with all these promises about the riches of
the city north? You lived there. You know it’s only a little better off than
the south.”

“The north is way better off,” said Merrick. “The Scarred
control every significant resource in this city.”