Bad Faith Page 22

  He could hear them whispering excitedly among themselves as he walked away. They would tell others, he knew. More people would “stumble” into his path. There would be no peace.

  There was a voice in his head that whispered he was being a selfish ass, that told him he was taking the sacrifices of men and women for granted, as if he—of all people—actually deserved worship, as if this were somehow his birthright and not the result of his taking the Deep Ones into himself.

  He ignored it, though. It wasn’t even that hard. Instead he used the scrap of illusion that remained to him to step behind a tree and not emerge.

  35

  She Has Her Reasons, Dammit

  Lette wasn’t even sure whom they were fighting this time. They were near the end of the ugly, angry tangle that the Vale had become, so really it could be anyone. Barphists? Gratt’s once-dead army? Some confused and overly aggressive peasants? In the dark of the day’s end and the shadows of the canopy nothing was clear.

  Lette knew their opponents’ identity ought to matter, of course. It was just that it didn’t. Whoever these people were, they stood in their way. They opposed Will. So she fought. They all fought, hurling themselves at their enemy with scavenged weapons and homegrown ferocity.

  It was a more vicious attack than normal. It was difficult to position themselves in among the tightly knit tree trunks. It took a little longer than usual to get the momentum of their inevitable victory going. But by this point Will’s followers were getting pretty good at the whole fighting business. There was plenty of on-the-job training. Plus they had dragons.

  And Will.

  She worried about him, of course. Just not in battle. Not anymore. Now he was something else. Now he was graceful and beautiful in battle. He was like a champion stepped out of a bard’s story in all his improbability. Now she watched him as he appeared to flow between their enemies. Fighters came apart in his hands like fresh-baked pastries, spilling stuffing and heat. And at the end he emerged unscathed, barely out of breath.

  But she did worry. She worried, because it wasn’t like Will to be that sort of man. That sort of killer. And she worried because it wasn’t truly human to be that sort of warrior, and Will had taken something inhuman into him. And she worried because … because of the coldness that she felt in him sometimes. Not toward her. But toward everything else.

  One of the things she had always loved about Will, no matter whether they were tumbling in the sheets or spitting curses at each other, was that when you tore down everything else, there was a core of iron in him that was utterly unbreakable. There was a part of Will Fallows that simply refused to bend. But now … it was as if that core had grown, was pushing away all the softness that made it palatable. And, yes, she did worry over that.

  But then she slit a man’s throat and the fight was over, and all she could really do was wipe her blades clean and take in the adulation of the crowd.

  Will stood a short distance away, ringed by the dead, roaring dragons above his head, the crowd cheering all about him. He looked dazed, eyes not focused on the here and now. She went over, gripped his forearm, trying to make it look congratulatory and not concerned. After a second his hand gripped her back.

  “Are you okay?”

  He blinked, then nodded. “Of course.”

  She caught his gaze, made him look her in the eye. He didn’t blink or look away. And praise the gods, his hair was covering those other little eyes. Right now he was … just Will. A little tired. A little harried. More than a little blood spattered. But Will. Her Will.

  “I’ll need to give a speech,” he said. He did not sound overly excited.

  “That has rather become your thing.” She leaned up, planted a kiss on his bloody cheek. “Give them time to recover, though. People have lost family today.” Will had a tendency to want to rush through the aftermath of things these days.

  “Right,” he said, and nodded. He blinked again. A thought seemed to occur to him. “Are you all right?” He reached out, touched her cheek.

  Lette assessed. A blade must have nicked her right flank. And to be honest, her ribs felt more than a little bruised. And her knees ached. And someone had stamped on her left foot. And her arms were aching so furiously she wasn’t sure she would be able to make a fist for another hour at least.

  “I’m fine,” she told him.

  Will looked around. “I think I need …” He trailed off, looked up to the heavens. And for a moment she thought maybe he would tell her. Not some superficial thing. But what he actually needed. What it was that kept him up long after she had gone to sleep. But then he looked at her and said, “I think I need some time alone anyway. Before talking to them.”

  He gave her a quick grin. And it was tentative and shy, and so very Will that she couldn’t help but kiss him again.

  “You deserve it,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said, and stepped into the adoring crowd, and then was gone. Actually literally gone. Invisible. He was using his tricks of illusion more and more these days, she’d noticed. Another potential worry.

  She would find Balur, she decided. She and the lizard man hadn’t spoken much since their disagreement over her newfound enthusiasm for battle a few weeks ago. She had been so drunk she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d said. But Balur seemed to have taken it badly. He hadn’t sought her out often since then, and if that was how he was going to be, then she wasn’t going to be the one to go begging to him. Perhaps now, though, enough time and fighting had passed that they could just share a drink and bypass the whole stupid apologizing business.

  She wandered through the crowds slowly working through the aftermath of the fight. Some folk were celebrating already, drinking scavenged wine and elven moonshine. Others were industriously cleaning the weapons they’d scavenged from the fight. Others were shoveling shallow graves. Quirk was directing people to gather up their enemy’s dead in preparation for the dragons’ feeding. Children came out of hiding places and slashed at each other with sticks and fallen branches, shouting crude battle cries. Some wept at the news of who’d been lost this day.

  But for all the people she saw, she did not see Balur. No eight-foot-tall lizard man loomed over the crowd. She had glimpsed him back in the thick of the fighting, she knew. But she’d lost track of him before the end of the fight.

  She went back to the dead, her heart tap dancing in her chest, but no, he wasn’t there, thanks be to the gods.

  That left the chirurgeons’ tents, though, which was not much better than the pile of bodies waiting to be buried. Half or more of those who wound up in the tents screamed their way to the grave anyway.

  Yet when she arrived at that grim boneyard, those with gashes in their arms and chests and skulls still grinned at her and clapped her on the arm and slapped her on her bruised back. They said, “Thankee” and “Much obliged” and doffed caps and helmets when able.

  It still struck her as strange, that gratitude. To be congratulated for the chaos she caused? To be celebrated? That hadn’t happened even back in her mercenary days. Not beyond a grateful nod and slightly heavier sack of coins, anyway.

  “Balur?” she said to the smiling, blood-flecked faces. “Have you seen Balur?” And they nodded, and they pointed, and her heart grew heavy.

  When she finally found the lizard man, though, the only blood on him belonged to other people. He was outside a tent, pacing a groove in the dirt. And truly, this was where she had to stop and wonder what Will had done to the world, because Balur was surrounded by a small crowd. A small crowd patting his arms and shoulders and telling him that everything would be all right. That the best that could be done was being done. A consoling crowd. A comforting crowd. And there was no roaring. No flailing of limbs. No rage. Just concern. The crowd for Balur. And Balur for …

  “Oh shit,” she said. “Cois.”

  Balur didn’t even look up from his pacing, just nodded.

  She elbowed her way through the crowd, fell in beside him. “How
bad is it?”

  “Arrow to the shoulder,” he said.

  Lette hesitated, fell out of step with him. “Wait. That’s not … It’s just an arrow to a shoulder.” Which was perhaps not sympathetic, and which the crowd around them didn’t seem to take particularly kindly, but in the end it was just meat and bone there. There were none of the more vital organs to worry about.

  “Zhe is a civilian, Lette.” Balur had rounded his turn and was bearing back down on her. “Civilians do not injure like we do. They suffer. Cois is suffering.”

  “Cois,” Lette started, then lowered her voice and fell back in step. “Cois used to be a god. Zhe is not going to die from some poxy arrow in hir shoulder.”

  Balur ground his many, many teeth.

  “Could be worse,” Lette said. “Could have been her knee.”

  “Shut up,” said Balur, but there was the slightest of grins on his face.

  “Your companion is right,” said one man.

  “If you tell me about the time you took an arrow to your knee, so help me …” Lette had a knife in her hand. The man backed up.

  “I meant no offense. Only to help assuage Master Balur’s fears. His lady—”

  And there Lette tried not to scoff.

  “—is being cared for by the finest chirurgeon in Master Will’s host.”

  His host. Gods. These people were busy deifying Will. That was something else to worry about.

  And then she was distracted from that thought by Balur going and putting his meaty paw on the shoulder of the man who had promised a fine chirurgeon and saying, “I am thanking you kindly.” Which prompted her to say, “The fuck, Balur?”

  He turned and looked her.

  “What?”

  “Did you just thank someone kindly?”

  Balur nodded and pointed. “This man.”

  “Like a total pussy?” Which was of course fighting talk, but if Balur didn’t punch her now then she would know something was seriously wrong.

  Of course if he did punch her, then something would be seriously wrong, but with her sternum, and not with her lifelong friend’s mental well-being.

  He didn’t punch her.

  “Gods,” she said. “Screw the arrow to Cois’s shoulder, what about the one that removed your balls?”

  Then he did hit her, but only gently, so she just sat down hard two yards away but didn’t break anything.

  “I spoke to you,” said Balur from many feet above her spinning head. “I was telling you that you were messing with the order of things. That you were playing with a successful dynamic, but you were not listening. And so I was having to talk to Cois. That is on you.”

  “Zhe did this to you?”

  Balur’s tongue tasted the air. “You are trying to goad me,” he said matter-of-factly.

  She stood up. “Yes! I am trying to goad you into being yourself.” Lette rubbed her head. “I think I was less worried when I thought you were dead.”

  Balur looked at her with as beneficent a look as his pointed snout could summon. “Why are you throwing yourself into battle like you are being a berserker?” he asked. “Why are these people here?”

  “Why are you talking like you took a blow to the head?”

  Balur sighed. He looked at the tent.

  “Zhe’ll be fine,” said someone from the crowd. He put a hand on Balur’s forearm. It was a familiar gesture.

  Balur sighed. “Will is going to be talking soon,” he said to Lette. “Be coming with me. We will be watching him. You will see.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I watch Will talk all the time. It’s always the same crap.” And that did get a gasp from the crowd. It felt somewhat satisfying to shock these cattle. There was a chance it would get them to think critically. Not that she wanted them to stop following Will … but …

  Gods, she didn’t know what she wanted.

  She wanted to be steely, but not too steely. She wanted Balur to be happy with his love, but not different. She wanted the crowd to worship Will, but not give in to blind faith.

  She wanted to stop worrying. But she didn’t know how. And perhaps that meant Balur was not the only one who had changed.

  So she went with the lizard man. Because what else—in the names of the gods—was she going to do?

  Some people had set up Will’s makeshift stage, well away from the chaos of the earlier fighting. He was pacing around at its edge while the crowd gathered. Again, he hadn’t washed himself clean. He looked lean, hungry, powerful—a wolf waiting for his chance to lead his pack in baying at the moon. And her heart beat just a little faster looking at him. And everything made a little more sense. She had a purpose here.

  “Cois brought you here?” she asked Balur, who was sitting quite peaceably on the ground beside her. He was nodding and smiling to those gathering around her.

  “We have been coming often,” he said. “For the past two weeks. After the night we were having our disagreement. Zhe was trying to explain things to me.”

  “What things?”

  “Wait,” was all he said. Like an irritating prick.

  The crowd gathered around them. There was a warm, friendly air to proceedings. People passed wineskins around. Cheese and flatbreads too. People greeted Balur by name, and he smiled back at them. Old blankets and sheets were spread out. You would never have known these people had been fighting for their lives only a handful of hours ago.

  Then Will took the stage, and the crowd roared, and again she felt that sense of reassurance. That no matter her confusion, she was on the right path. That purpose was pointing her feet in the right direction. She even got to her feet to clap along with the others, just so she could watch him pace and snap and snarl.

  “They came again today,” Will said, his voice ringing out, sharp and clear. “They tried to stop us again. Barph tried to resist the tide of change that we represent. And he failed again. So how powerful can he truly be? Compared to us, how powerful is he truly? How scared do we have him running?”

  We. Us. Against him. Against Barph. Slowly he wove them together. And Lette watched him do it. And she smiled.

  Balur tapped her on the shoulder. She ignored him. There was something meditative to this. She didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Balur shoved her shoulder. She turned round, glared at him.

  “Do not be looking at him,” Balur said. “Be looking at them.”

  Lette furrowed her brow. Whom was he talking about? But then she saw that he was looking not at the stage but all around them, at the people sitting to their left and right. And despite her still-furrowed brow, Lette followed his gaze.

  All about her, people of all ages, races, creeds, and colors sat. All about her were elves, Batarrans, Vinlanders, a few rogue Verrans, and Kondorrans. A family of Salerans she had done her best to ignore. The injured. The whole. Children and grandparents. A broad swath of Avarran life. And here and now they all wore a singular expression. Rapt attention. They stared at Will. They watched his every move. They smiled. And it was exactly the same expression she had worn just a moment before. Just before Balur tapped her.

  At certain moments Will allowed the crowd to breathe. And it was not a sophisticated speech, Lette knew. It was jingoism and platitudes. But in those gaps the crowd looked at each other and caught each other’s eyes, and they smiled. And they caught her eye, and they smiled at her. And she couldn’t help but smile back. Because here they were. Here they stood. Together. United.

  “We are having a cause, Lette,” Balur said softly. “We were doing our best for a long time, and we were having a good run. But we are having a cause now.”

  And of course she knew they had a cause. Will bound them all together with a cause. His cause had given her a way to be herself—to kill—without losing her humanity. His cause, her cause, their cause was the death of Barph. It was the struggle toward the ultimate end point. It was what he was standing up there shouting about.

  Except now she realized that it wasn’t.

 
Her cause was people. Her purpose was people. These people. And she was their purpose and their cause. And Will was too. And they were his. They were knit together by bonds of desire and delight. And she saw all of it now, all of those connections, stretching out. And for once in her life, instead of feeling trapped or confined … she felt as if she’d come home.

  36

  Power Relations

  Barph knew he should be watching Will. Will had a plan, after all. He had a track record of landing surprisingly devastating strikes on opponents who outmatched and outclassed him. He had chosen a course of action that had a chance of success—albeit a chance so thin that you could stick a dress on it and pass it off as a Fanlornian princess. Barph should be keeping an eye on Will.

  And yet here he sat, feet dangling over the edge of the heavens, Avarra spread out below him, and he could not take his eyes off Gratt.

  He waved a hand, caused another goblet of wine to spin itself out of gold, took a sip.

  Gratt had them chained right there. Lawl, Betra, Toil, and Knole. Poor Klink was lost to the Void. And Cois was with Will, of course. He should keep an eye on Will …

  Lawl was on his knees. He was talking to Gratt as they rolled over the border of Batarra and into Salera. Gratt was pretending to ignore Lawl. Gratt thought he had disdain for Lawl, Barph knew. Gratt thought he harbored ill will toward Lawl for the years of servitude that had been forced upon him. He thought he had been injured by Lawl.

  Gratt, Barph knew, was a petty and pathetic creature who did not begin to understand the depths of pain that Lawl could inflict, nor the depravities of betrayal that he enjoyed. Gratt was not nearly as tricky or chaotic an upheaval in Barph’s plans as he had hoped for. He was an unimaginative conqueror marching across Avarra with nothing but a hard-on for subjugation in his hand.

  He should really be keeping an eye on Will …

  Barph adjusted the focus of his attention. Impossible miles above Lawl, he heard every word as clear as a bell.

  “Salera is the key,” Lawl was saying. “The cities that believe in Barph heart and soul. You need to go there. You need to undo their belief in him. Only then will he take you seriously. Only then will your challenge be serious.”