The Dragon Lords--False Idols Read online

  The shrug was probably not the right move. Especially not in front of someone as full of self-importance as King Todger.

  “Oh?” he said. “Unimpressed are we? Well, we’ll see how unimpressed you are when I order your death.”

  Lette tried to say something through her gag. It was not particularly successful.

  King Todger gestured impatiently. The gag was removed. Lette took a breath, worked her jaw, and then made scoffing noises.

  Todger leaned forward. “Kill her,” he said. He arched an eyebrow.

  “Nope,” Lette said. “Not particularly impressed.”

  King Todger scowled. “Okay,” he said. “Well, I mean it this time.”

  Rough hands grabbed her.

  “No!” It was Will’s voice.

  “Oh.” King Todger threw a hand in the air with a pained expression on his face. “A round-ear has told me not to. Well, I’d better bow, and scrape, and know my place, I suppose?” He swirled the finger of the hand he was holding aloft. “Now I doubly want you to kill her.”

  “No!” Will said again, because apparently he really didn’t want to learn. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’m not telling you no. I’m telling her no.”

  “So you’re contradicting me now?” asked King Todger.

  “No!” Will said for what was surely a fateful, third time. “I mean, well, I suppose yes. But I really apologize for it. And for Lette. We just … we wanted to help.”

  Lette wished her hands weren’t bound, just so she could claw them down her face.

  “Oh!” King Todger’s expressive eyes were open wide. “Your help. I see.” He nodded enthusiastically. “Because I’m some slack-witted pointy-ear incapable of making my own decisions, or knowing what’s best for me and my people, and I need the help of a round-ear fuckface to tell me what to do. I see. Well, thank you so much. I really appreciate you coming here and condescending to me.” He shook his head, almost sadly. “Kill both of them,” he said. “In fact, see if you can do both of them with just one arrow. That always looks impressive.”

  The rough hands holding Lette started to pull her back through the room. A few yards away she could hear Will kicking and screaming. Waves of fragrant smoke wafted between them, obscuring the struggle. For her own part, she just went limp.

  She was going to have to time this just right …

  The trick would be making sure Will didn’t die.

  She was almost at the back of the chamber when she heard the door creak open. Bodies coming in. People shuffling for space.

  That would do nicely.

  She jackknifed her body, flipped her legs up into the air, then brought them crashing down on the skulls of two of the elves dragging her. She wrenched free of their suddenly slack hands.

  So far so good.

  Then came the yells.

  Slip from the bonds you figured out how to untie on your first day in the Vale. Drop the first knife into your palm. Next sow confusion. Fling the blade into the crowd at the door. A lateral slashing. Aim for the heads. You don’t need death, you need panic. Next focus on Todger. Cut toward him. He’s the only way out of here. Throw two more knives, one ahead to the left, one to the right. Scream. Drop and roll. Slash at hamstrings. Scream again. Keep moving. Keep them searching.

  The cold voice whispered in her ear and she obeyed. She ignored Will’s screams. She ignored Balur’s bellows. She ignored the pain in her wrists. She ignored the slash of a blade along her arm. She focused on the voice. On the plan. On surviving.

  Get to Todger. Duck this guard’s blade. She favors her right leg. Kick her in her knee. Tread on her instep. Feel the bone crack. Thrust up under her chin as she falls. Spin away. Kick her body into an oncomer. Fade into the smoke.

  Someone was yelling at her to stop. She didn’t.

  Wait for a moment. Take a breath. Now step out into the gap. Stab him in the back. Between the fifth and sixth ribs. Angle the blade up. Step away. Just the knot of shieldmen gathered at the foot of Todger’s throne now. Bunched too tight. They’re making it easy. Grab the torch.

  Lette reached out. Cocked the flaming branch, ready to throw.

  And let out a yell.

  Heat exploded in her hand. The flaming torch was suddenly a roaring inferno cooking the skin of her hand. She dropped it, bellowing. Even as it fell, though, the fire spread out, became a circle around her, three-foot-high flames fanning back and forth.

  She hesitated. The whispering voice was at a momentary loss.

  Balur stood in a ring of blades. Someone dragged Will to the foot of the throne. He was still bound and kicking but a sword blade to his throat made him lie still.

  And just like that, their chance was gone.

  Slowly from his throne, King Todger began to clap. “Okay,” he said, “now I’m impressed.” He shook his head and whistled. “It will be a shame to kill you.”

  “Actually,” said a new voice, “I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

  A shadow stepped out of the smoke.

  Lette had seen many things. She had seen a king kill his own family. She had seen a merchant hurling all his wealth from the top of a building to a crowd below. She had seen a disemboweled giant throttle a man with a loop of his own intestines before shoving them back in his gut and limping away. On good days she considered herself hardened. On bad days she would call herself numb.

  Her jaw still dropped. And that was the second time today.

  A woman stood before her. A ragged, bloodstained bandana was wrapped around her head. Mud was smeared in obscuring patterns over her face and bare arms.

  And she was human.

  And Lette knew her.

  The word formed slowly on Lette’s lips, dropped from them almost of its own accord.

  “Quirk?”

  24

  Life Is Preachy

  Outside, they were chanting Firkin’s name. Inside, Firkin perched his posterior in a chair so comfortable, he had to imagine it was composed exclusively of the soft, squishy dreams of virgins. It had been a luxurious gift. And now it lay within a room full of luxurious gifts. And in his hand was a golden goblet full of a magnificent vintage all of which had been bought with money that had simply been given to him. Even the mansion holding all of these gifts—it had been a gift too.

  It was glorious, of course. And it was magnificent. And it was everything he had ever dreamed that preaching could be. But still the hand clutching the golden goblet shook, and the excellent vintage held within trembled against its luxurious confines.

  Because Firkin didn’t remember asking.

  The whisper had asked. And it hadn’t asked him to ask. It had simply opened his mouth, and spoken for him. He had felt its presence stretch out, expand, fill out his mind, and then … he had spoken. It had spoken. For a moment the two had been indistinguishable.

  Was he sober? He couldn’t be sober. He was drinking more here than he had done in years.

  He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that it was something about this place. About Vinter. Everything seemed somehow rooted in its walls, its wine. It tasted of memories. It smelled of them.

  How long had he been drunk again?

  Sometimes he thought about leaving. This house. This city. And yet when he did, something inside him seemed to rebel. But where did that feeling start? With him, or …

  He shuddered.

  He’d interrogated the whisper. He’d screamed at it. He’d thrown a full bottle of wine at the polished tin mirror that hung in the mansion’s bedchamber. But the whisper did not seem to operate on any schedule he controlled.

  He drank again. And again. He leaned back and tried to enjoy all the fine things life had brought him. Outside they were still chanting his name. Sounds of violence had yet to punctuate its lulls. The crowd could wait a little longer. He did not have to go out there yet.

  There was a knock at the door. He jerked and spilled some of his wine on the floor.

  “Piss off,” he mumbled. Company might stop him from being
a maudlin bugger, but on the other hand it might hamper his plan of obliterating all coherent thought.

  In defiance of his holy command, the door opened.

  A small, scruffy child came in, dressed in a loincloth of yellow silk and clutching a wine pitcher almost the same size as his own skinny frame.

  “I am sorry your—” he started, then someone kicked him from behind and he went flying across the room, pitcher spinning away, wine spilling everywhere.

  The High Priesthood of Vinland marched into Firkin’s presence. Three he recognized vaguely from his confrontation with them a month or so before: two wrinkly old men in yellow and crimson robes, and one wrinkly old woman. The fourth was younger, a swarthy fellow who Firkin suspected spent too much time caring for his beard.

  Firkin felt his eyebrows scramble up his forehead. He tried to marshal his few thoughts, then remembered he hadn’t wanted them a minute ago. He spent a moment questioning his own motives before realizing he should probably say something. “To what—” he said, then belched. “Sorry. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Pleasure?” said the first priest, sounding interested. “Where?”

  “I’ll have some,” said the second. She produced a goblet from a pocket in her robes and waved it vaguely around the room.

  “It’s not a fucking pleasure,” said the third, pulling out his own hip flask and unscrewing the top. “We’re the High Priesthood, and we are not high right now. We are down low in scum and shit, with this good-for-nothing merchant of turds.” Then he pointed at Firkin, which Firkin thought was quite rude. They were chanting his name outside after all.

  “I’m sorry,” said Firkin, even though he wasn’t. He felt like he should probably get out of his chair for this. He struggled briefly but it really was far too comfortable. “So … why are you here?” Somehow he’d missed that part.

  “To kick your arse,” said the fourth High Priest. He cracked his knuckles. The effect was slightly offset by the fact that he followed it up by stroking his overly luxurious beard.

  “Kick my arse literally or figuratively?” he checked.

  “Both,” said the fourth priest.

  “It very much depends,” said the third, “on what assurances you are willing to make us.”

  Firkin contemplated this. He realized he was half-expecting the whisper to answer the question. That was a habit he shouldn’t be encouraging. The whisper was an unreliable body-stealing bastard and was to be actively discouraged.

  Unfortunately that meant trying to think up something by himself. “I assure you,” he said, playing for time, “that I shall refrain from having coital knowledge of your mothers.” He thought about that. “Unless I don’t know who they are. Or it already happened in the past.” Important caveats.

  “Well,” said the first, “that’s not at all relevant, but I personally find the gesture of good faith to be a positive sign. I too shall refrain from knowing your mother in the coital sense.”

  Firkin shrugged. He honestly didn’t remember his mother.

  Cantankerous bitch.

  Oh gods. It was awake. Oh Barph. Please smash his thoughts to pieces and bring him sweet oblivion.

  The whisper laughed at that.

  “Look, are we going to kick his arse or not?” said the third priest, who seemed offended by Firkin’s distracted look. “I didn’t come down here to talk about whose mother is or isn’t going to get fucked. I could have happily stayed in my chair to talk about that.”

  “I still don’t understand why we didn’t summon him with guards,” said the fourth, with something resembling a pout.

  “We sent guards,” said the third with a snap. “Two converted to become his followers, and his followers set upon the other three and scattered their limbs about the city.”

  “They can be a little rambunctious.” Firkin hedged. He didn’t want to piss off either the priests or the voice in his head. Everyone needed to stay really gods-hexedly calm.

  “Look,” said the fourth, “if there aren’t guards, am I expected to do the arse-kicking myself? Because I thought I didn’t have to do that anymore. Clean hands was very high on my list of demands when I was negotiating this job.”

  “Shut up,” snapped the second High Priest. “You’re new, and abruptly terminal cases of cirrhosis have been rampant of late.” She pointed a finger at Firkin. “I think this one’s about to come down with it.”

  The whisper stirred. And it felt different this time, spiky and jagged in his head. And it was coming to the fore, he realized. It was demanding to be heard. And he had to shout it down.

  He thrashed his way out of his chair. “Lawl!” he spat. “You’re Lawl.” It was all he could think of. The whisper hated Lawl. Or he did. Or … Everything was confused and mixed up in his head. But maybe, just maybe, if he said what the whisper might say itself, if he anticipated it, it would stay quiet.

  “This is about order,” he managed. He sloshed wine about himself. “This is about rules and bullshit. This is about you betraying everything.”

  Gods, in his desperation he even sounded like he believed it. He slugged wine desperately. But thank Barph, the whisper was quiet.

  The third High Priest, however, was not. “No!” he spat, literally as well as figuratively. Phlegm landed on Firkin’s cheek. “This is about you and the extravagant amounts of bullshit you have been pouring into the ears of our citizens,” he shouted. “This is about the fact that you are wildly off message, sowing seeds of chaos in our city. This is about the fact that there are more people coming to your turding sermons in District Three than there are coming to the High Temple. We were very clear when you first came about the importance of hierarchy. A hierarchy is a stack. Layer upon layer. Like some sort of delicious people cake.”

  “Sounds grisly,” commented the second priest.

  “It’s a metaphor, you ass,” snapped the third priest. He turned back to Firkin. “It’s about balance,” he said. “The stack has to be well balanced, not stacked like some idiot toddler has been swiping bricks out of it.” He stared pointedly at Firkin. “Because then it gets all wobbly, and it falls down.” He nodded fiercely. “I saw it at my daughter’s house just the other day. The exact same thing.”

  Firkin was at a loss. “I have not been playing with any building blocks,” he said slowly. At least not that he remembered.

  The priest stepped forward, pulled back his arm, and slapped Firkin full in the face. “A!” he yelled. “Fucking!” He slapped Firkin again. “Metaphor!” He delivered a third slap for good measure.

  Firkin reeled. The whisper in his head reeled. This was not how it should be treated. There were people outside chanting their name. And they were getting louder.

  “Vinter,” said the priest, speaking slowly, “is like the stack of bricks. Like it. Not it. But like it. And you are like my ass of a grandson knocking it all down and clapping his chubby little hands like he doesn’t need a slap in the face. And we”—he circled at the gathered High Priests—“are like the grandfather about to punt that little turd of a child out of the window.”

  Firkin looked around. “Can’t,” he said with a little more petulance than he would have liked. “There aren’t any windows.”

  And that was when the priest produced a knife.

  “Wait,” said Firkin, somewhat hopefully, while also backing up quite fast. “Which part of the metaphor is the knife?”

  “I was going to kill you because you’re a subversive turd in the toilet bowl of my life,” said the third priest through gritted teeth. “Now I’m going to kill you because you’re deeply irritating.”

  “Actually,” said the fourth priest, “I didn’t follow the knife bit either.” He had the decency to look embarrassed.

  The first priest, standing next to him, now produced his own knife, turned around, and stabbed the fourth in the neck.

  Blood geysered around the room in a thick spray, while the fourth priest dropped to the floor, thrashing like a grounded fish. Slowly
he flopped to a stop.

  “Sorry,” said the first priest, looking at everyone’s slightly shocked expressions. “It’s just he was really getting on my tits.”

  The second priest shook her head. “This cirrhosis epidemic is really getting out of hand.”

  The third priest was not keen on being distracted. He pointed his own knife at Firkin again. “I blame this bastard. Let’s stab him a lot and see if that fixes everything.”

  The whisper pulsed, grew. Firkin felt himself slip-sliding out of control. He desperately tried to hang on to something.

  They were chanting his name.

  He held on to that scrap of identity. He closed his eyes. He listened. A rabid edge had entered the sound. A few screams punctuated the sound. There was the creak of staging being put under increasing strain.

  “Look at me when I’m stabbing you, you fucker,” snapped the third High Priest, still advancing.

  Firkin took a long, slow breath. He planned. And he promised the plan to the whisper. It did not answer. But it did lie still.

  He opened his eyes. “Wait,” he snapped.

  The third priest cocked his head to one side. “Why?” he said, looking genuinely perplexed.

  “Because …” Firkin said, and thought about how best to put it. “Because I need to buy time.” It wasn’t subtle, but it was true.

  “Not good enough,” said the priest, who raised his knife once more. Firkin braced.

  The door behind them all flew open. All eyes went to the door. It was, Firkin realized, the houseboy that the High Priesthood had kicked into the room earlier. The child must have scampered off somewhere among all the posturing and amateur dramatics. Now he was back.

  “Firkin! Master!” he said, breathing quickly, voice sounding reedy. “Please, you must come quick.”

  “Sorry, gents,” Firkin said to the priests. “We’ll have to wrap this up later.” He took a step toward the boy.

  The point of a knife pricked at his throat.

  “I don’t think so,” said the third priest.

  “This is taking a terribly long time,” said the second.

  A very distinct tremor ran through the room.