“Tell us,” the crow said, “of this Lady of Beneficence.”
“A goddess, a minor one. Severe, miserable, a nose like a pig’s, tilted up, you understand. At least it’s so on the statues and idols depicting her.”
“A goddess?”
“I assume so. Believed to dwell in a pit in the Grand Temple. Why?”
“She is now the city’s official patroness.”
“That bloodthirsty bitch? Gods below! If I wasn’t a shriveled up thing hanging here, I’d-I’d-well, it’d be different!”
“Well, King Necrotus, I would point out, you are not alone here on these walls.”
“I’m not?”
“And so I now ask you, are you of a mind to partake in ousting your brother, the King of Quaint?”
“Beats hanging around. Let’s hear your plan, corbies.”
Emancipor stood in front of the small bush, listening to the birds chirp to greet the morning whilst he emptied his bladder.
“Look well on that yellow, murky stream, Mister Reese-”
The manservant started at the voice beside him. “Master! You, uh, surprised me.”
“Thus reducing you to a trickle. I believe, in case you are interested, that only a few minor cantrips would convert the toxins in your flow, such that a single gesture could set that unfortunate shrub to flame. But as I said, look well, Mister Reese. In a few days you will be astonished to witness a stream issuing from you so clear that it is nigh water.”
Emancipor finished with a few final, spasmodic spurts, gave himself a shake, tucked in, then fumbled at retying the front of his trousers. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Master-”
“To dwell unobtrusively in the city, Mister Reese, you shall have to abstain from all unhealthy indulgences. You might well return from this mission a new man.”
The manservant stared at Bauchelain. “Abstain? Completely? But, can’t I sneak anything-”
“Absolutely not, Mister Reese. Now, divest yourself of the relevant items on your person. The crowd of traders on the low road is reaching ideal density.”
“I’m not sure I want to do this.”
“Ah, but you are in my employ, are you not? Our contract stipulates-”
“All right! Of course, Master,” he added. In a calmer tone, “Can I not break my fast, as it were, before heading down there?”
“Oh, very well. Let it not be said I am a cruel master.”
They returned to the encampment, where Reese quickly filled his pipe with rustleaf and durhang, and broke the wax-sealed stopper on a bottle of wine.
“When you are done,” Bauchelain said, standing nearby and watching, “there is some wild anise growing here beside the trail. Chew the feathery leaves. This should assist in hiding the various smells emanating from your person. Would that we could find some wild garlic, onions, skunk-bulbs… Not too much of that wine, Mister Reese, it will not do to have you weaving and staggering at Quaint’s gates. You are producing enough smoke to launch a fire-fighting crew from the city-I think that will be enough, Mister Reese. The anise-”
“It’s fennel, Master,” Emancipor said.
“It is? Well, whatever.”
Head buzzing, the manservant marched over to the weeds and began pulling the thin spidery leaves from the stalks. “I feel like a damned caterpillar.”
“The white and black banded ones?” Bauchelain asked. “I am pleased to inform you that those transform into the most beautiful butterflies.”
Emancipor stared over at his master.
Who stared back.
A moment of silence, then Bauchelain cleared his throat. “Yes, well, off you go, then.”
Imid Factallo wandered down Runner’s Avenue, strange twitches spasming across half his face. They had started up a few days ago, some consequence of the wound he had received in his head, which he’d thought fully healed. But now… in addition to the twitches he was having strange thoughts. Desires. Illicit desires.
He wondered if he and Elas Sil had done the right thing. But it was too late now. That sorceror, Bauchelain, was… frightening. In a peculiar, uncanny way. As if a warm thought had never once entered his mortal soul, and all that hid within was dark and cold. And the stories Imid had heard from the city up the coast… there was said to be a second sorceror, given to hiding, with the most venal appetites. Thus… evil.
A concept Imid had rarely thought about, but now it haunted him. There had been little particularly good about old Necrotus the Nihile. The usual assortment of unsavory indulgences common to those with absolute power. A score of repressive laws intended, as Elas Sil explained, to keep the king rich and free to revel in excess at the expense of the common folk. But if you paid your tithes and killed or robbed nobody important, you could live out your life without once crossing the path of trouble. And of course, such systemic corruption flowed down easily enough, the poison of cynicism infected the lowest city guard as much as it did the king. Bribery solved most problems, and where it couldn’t, swift and brutal violence did. In other words, life was simple, straightforward and easily understood.
And, perhaps, evil. In the way of apathy, of indifference, of tacit acceptance of inhumanity. A cruel king made cruel nobles, who in turn made cruel merchants, and so on down to cruel stray dogs. And yet, Imid Factallo longed for a return to those times. For, it turned out, an earnest king, a king obsessed with goodness, delivered to all below him a certain zeal from which all manner of cruelty derived. Born of harsh judgmentalism-Elas Sil insisted such a word existed, and if didn’t before then it did now-the sheer frenzy of noble ideals put into practice without flexibility or compassion was proving as destructive to the human spirit as anything Necrotus and his ilk may have contrived to inflict upon the people.
Evil possessed myriad faces, and some of them were open and genuine.
Whilst others, like Bauchelain’s, revealed nothing, nothing at all.
Imid could not decide which of the two was more frightening.
He arrived at the home of Elas Sil, knocked thrice as custom dictated, then entered, as the law now permitted since privacy invited… private things. Entered, then, to find her quickly emerging from the curtained backroom, adjusting her tunic with a decidedly guilty expression on her face.
Imid stopped two steps in from the doorway, frozen in horror. “Who’s back there?” he demanded. “He’ll get castrated! And you-you-”
“Oh be quiet, there’s no one back there.”
He stared at her. “You were masturbating! That’s illegal!”
“Nobody’s ever proved the unhealthiness of it, have they?”
“Not physically, no, but emotionally unhealthy! Is there any doubt of that, Elas Sil? Your mind is drawn into base desires, and base desires lead to sordid appetites and sordid appetites leads to temptation and temptation leads to-”
“The end of civilisation. I know. Now, what do you want, Imid?”
“Well, uh, I was coming here to, uh, confess.”
She advanced on him, smelling of women’s parts, and with a growing sneer said, “Confess, Imid Factallo? And what must you confess to a fellow saint, if not temptations? You hypocrite!”
“I confess my hypocrisy! There, satisfied? I’m having… impulses. All right?”
“Oh, never mind,” Elas said, turning away and sitting down on a nearby chair. “It’s all so pathetic, isn’t it? Did you hear? They’re stealing babies, now. If it screams, it’s breaking the law. If children play-fight in the street, they’re breaking the law.” She looked over. “Have you done your required exercises today?”