Beyond Redemption (15 page)

“Did you place a wager?” Stehlen asked Bedeckt.

“I put all of Zweiter's money on Wichtig.”

“Awkward,” she said, “if Zweiter kills him.”

“These Swordsmen dance pretty enough,” said Bedeckt, “but they are never ready for a complete lack of finesse. Act like you're chopping trees and they're no great difficulty.” It was all bluff and bluster—both on the part of the Swordsmen and, at the moment, Bedeckt. A strong breeze would probably fell Bedeckt right now. Even the short walk had left him out of breath.

The ringing sound of steel on steel caused the crowd to gasp as the two men blurred into a flurry of defenses and attacks, leaving both breathing heavily but neither wounded.

Stehlen massaged Bedeckt's stiff shoulders, working at the knots.

“You need to learn to relax,” she said, grunting as she dug at a stubborn knot of muscle. “You really think you could beat Wichtig in a fight?”

Bedeckt stifled a groan of pain as she worked at the muscle. He'd seen Wichtig move inhumanly fast—not at all like the fighter he watched now—and with such grace and skill it left him dazzled. “No. But if you ever tell him”—he glanced over his shoulder at her—“I'll kill
you
.”

Stehlen snorted. “You
definitely
don't have what it takes to kill the likes of me, old man. Real speed comes from a state of relaxation. You're so damned tense you'll be immobile in a few years.”

Her words struck a little too close to Bedeckt's own recent thoughts. He shrugged her away angrily, and if she noticed, she made no complaint. “Never underestimate a scarred old man. The only thing you know for sure is he's been in a lot of fights and he's still—” A savage fit of coughing ruined the sentiment
and doubled Bedeckt over. He stood, hands on knees, until it passed.

“If you were any good with your monstrous woodchopper, you wouldn't have so many damned scars.” She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Old men are so cute when they get all defensive. Any time you need help relaxing,” she offered, stepping closer, “I can always—”

“Stop mucking around already!” Bedeckt bellowed at Wichtig. “Kill him and let's be about our business.” He glared at the two fighters, avoiding Stehlen's eyes.

Wichtig dipped a quick nod toward Bedeckt and transformed. Gone was the awkward clumsiness. He no longer breathed heavily and seemed perfectly relaxed and poised. A gasp passed through the crowd as they realized what they'd just seen. Wichtig was toying with Zweiter and they all knew it.

“See,” said Bedeckt, gesturing toward the fight. “Wichtig understands; to win them over they had to first doubt him. It isn't enough to simply kill your opponent, you must be an entertainer. He plays the crowd well,” he admitted. “It's all about manipulation of expectations.”

Stehlen shook her head in disgust. “Grumpy old men make the worst philosophers. If you want a man dead, kill him.”

Wichtig pressed Zweiter hard while looking entirely bored at the same time. He spent as much time winking at girls and blowing kisses as he did fighting. The mob ate it up.

“Though I agree,” said Bedeckt, “our goals are different. He's a Gefahrgeist. He craves attention like I crave a pint. He wants to be the Greatest Swordsman in the World. He'll achieve it or die trying.”

“Die trying,” Stehlen stated without hesitation.

“Probably. But have you noticed he's getting better? He was always good, but look.”

They watched as Wichtig disarmed Zweiter and then, with
a grand and noble gesture, allowed the man to fetch his sword and return to the circle. Wichtig disarmed him three more times before the man stood over his sword, gasping for breath, hands on knees.

Wichtig nodded to Zweiter. “I think you are still the second-best Swordsman in Selbsthass. But don't be disappointed. Before GroBe died, you were actually the third.” The crowd laughed and clapped. “It's been a pleasure,” he called to Zweiter. “Keep practicing.”

As Wichtig took his time bowing to the crowd and basking in their adoration, Zweiter slunk away like a beaten dog.

Stehlen poked Bedeckt with a hard finger. “The idiot isn't even going to kill him?”

“No,” he said, equally disgusted. “Remember, though, it's all about the crowd. None of this matters unless everyone knows who he is. And the people love a well-mannered killer. If Swordsmen weren't so romanticized by poets and storytellers, Wichtig would never even touch a sword.”

“I'd have killed Zweiter and been done with it.”

“Me too. But then we'll never be famous and he'll be remembered as—”

“The Biggest Idiot in the World.”

“Yes,” agreed Bedeckt a little sadly. Wichtig was the shallowest man Bedeckt had ever met. And yet still Bedeckt couldn't figure him out. The man fought without fear even though he was a complete coward in so many other ways. Wichtig had fled his wife and child rather than chance failing at fatherhood. He'd abandoned his art and poetry—Bedeckt would never admit how impressed he was by Wichtig's talents—when on the very brink of success. Some days Bedeckt wanted to crack the man's head and send him back to his family. Wichtig had everything Bedeckt wanted and could never achieve, and he'd thrown it away rather than chance failure. Even mentioning any of this to Wichtig
caused the man to become a violent and sulky drunk for weeks on end. Bedeckt figured it best to be philosophical about this kind of thing. If Wichtig wanted to waste his considerable talents on petty crime and violence and likely suffer an unpleasant and brutal death, who was he to judge? If Bedeckt spent his life trying to make Wichtig and Stehlen better people, he'd have no time left for breathing. He wasn't even doing a particularly good job of breathing right now. He plugged a nostril and tried to blow the other clear. Nothing happened other than his ears popping violently.

Stehlen poked him again and he grunted in pain.
How does she always find the softest spot?

“What the hells is going on in your thick skull, old man?” she demanded. “You look like you ate a cat turd.” She tried to poke him again but he batted her hand away. “Ho ho! Old man is grumpy. You spend too much time thinking. Explains your cat-turd face. I'll fetch the idiot. Let's go back to the Leichtes Haus for drinks.”

“Fine.” Bedeckt turned into the crowd and shoved his way through. People complained only until they caught sight of his scarred face and body and the massive ax slung over his shoulder.

He heard Stehlen shouting at Wichtig, “Hey, idiot! Cat-turd face needs a pint.”

Late in the day the sky became overcast and the air smelled of sodden dog. Heavy cloud cover blotted the sun from view, plunging the streets into murky darkness. When Stehlen snuck out of the Leichtes Haus on her way to steal the god-child, she found Wichtig and Bedeckt waiting for her.

She stood, hands on slim hips, staring at them with ill-concealed anger. “I suppose you think you're clever.”

“Of course,” said Wichtig. “Step one of our plan was: collect
Stehlen as she tries to sneak out and grab the child without us.” He mimed scratching something off a list. “Step one complete. Shall we get the little shite and be on our way?”

The last laugh was, of course, hers. She'd suspected they'd be waiting and brought along the robes she'd stolen—the size and color carefully selected—from the Geborene temple in Gottlos. Bedeckt gave her an odd look but, after examining the brown robe, the only one that would possibly fit him—scowled and said nothing. Stehlen thought the grizzled old warrior looked even worse than he had earlier. The man needed a week in bed, not the half a night he got—most of which he'd spent drinking.

Wichtig sniffed gingerly at his robes and flared his perfect nostrils in distaste. “These smell terrible.”

In the distance echoed the ominous rumble of thunder.

The hand-plucked rose loses meaning as life is leached. Red love, once clutched to breast, putrefies and is thrown to the midden.

The hand leaked life as meaning was plucked. Putrefaction clutched love and was thrown to the midden.

—H
ALBER
T
OD
, C
OTARDIST
P
OET

T
hough easily big enough for a hundred students, Aufschlag had reserved this sprawling classroom for his single-most-important pupil. When not in use, a pair of Otraalma guards, both capable of becoming monstrously twisted demons, remained stationed here to ensure no one touched the lessons left out on the massive oaken tables. Now the two guards waited beyond the closed door, ready to give their lives should any attempt entry.

The Chief Scientist sat rigidly. Morgen paced back and forth in front of him, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted forward, eyes locked on the floor. Aufschlag had not seen this mannerism before.

Morgen stopped pacing and faced Aufschlag. The boy glanced toward a mirror and then back at the Chief Scientist.

“Konig watches me. Always.”

“Even now?” Aufschlag asked.

“He thinks so.” Morgen smiled. “But Schwacher Sucher is not much of a Mirrorist. It's easy to fool him when I wish.”

“And you wish to now?”

“Yes. I don't mean to hide things from Konig, but there are some things I find awkward to talk to him about.” The boy's face went from confident to worried and scared and back to confident so fast Aufschlag wondered if he'd imagined it.

“Morgen, you can always talk to me. You know I will always be here for you.”

“Konig expects something from me, doesn't he?”

“Of course. You will be the Geborene god—”

“I mean something more specific. Something personal.” Morgen watched him, face open and trusting.

Should he tell Morgen? Yes. To hells with Konig. “Konig is a powerful Geisteskranken,” he said.

Morgen just looked confused.

How we have shielded this child that he doesn't know this simple axiom!
“It means his delusions are also powerful. And growing in power. He will share the fate of all Geisteskranken. Eventually his delusions will seek to wrestle control from him.”

Morgen's eyes widened. “His Doppels! I have to save him!”

“Well, yes, but—”

“But . . . but how?”

Aufschlag stifled the desire to laugh. Details had never been Konig's strength. “I don't know,” he admitted. “He just believes you can . . . believes you will. His belief is enough.”
Or so he believes
. Aufschlag had doubts. “Don't worry. You will do what needs to be done.”

The boy flashed a look of gratitude. “I've been thinking about
what it is to be a god. No one has ever really told me what is expected. What will happen when I Ascend?” He waved his hands around as if trying to grasp at an idea. “Will I retain my physical form? What will I look like? What will I be capable of?”

Aufschlag made a placating gesture. “The truth is . . . we don't know.”

“Konig says I won't be the first man-made god, but I will be the first intentionally man-made god. He used the word ‘designed.' I didn't understand what he meant before, but I do now.”

“It is not with malice,” Aufschlag said softly, unsure if he lied.

Morgen studied the Chief Scientist. “I know.”

Thoughts of Morgen's Ascension left Aufschlag feeling tired, old, and sad. For Morgen to Ascend, he had to die with enough people believing he'd rise again as a god. For two decades Konig had been shaping the Geborene Damonen, and all the people of Selbsthass, for very this purpose. Soon the child must die.

Why hadn't I thought this through before bringing my plans to make a god to Konig?
He'd been desperate to please his only friend and that desperation had blinded him. Konig took Aufschlag's plan, saw possibilities the scientist had missed, and twisted it in ways both appalling and stunning.

Morgen must soon die.

But healthy children don't just die on their own. The realization sickened the Chief Scientist, as he had grown to love the precocious child. For a brief moment he considered stealing the boy away, rescuing the child and fleeing the fate Konig planned. That was just as quickly dismissed, though. There would be no escaping Konig. The High Priest was an unstoppable force of will. And he'd release the Schatten Mörder, his Cotardist assassins, to punish the scientist. The thought turned Aufschlag's guts to water.
No, the boy will die as Konig plans
.

Morgen laid a gentle hand on Aufschlag's shoulder. “You look sad.”

Aufschlag forced a smile. “I was thinking how quickly you've grown up.”

Again Morgen studied Aufschlag, searching his eyes. What was the boy thinking? Had he seen through the lie?

“I've been thinking about gods,” Morgen finally said. “Gods aren't bound by the same rules as people. People gain power from their beliefs and delusions. The stronger the belief, the more power. I had assumed this was true of gods as well, but I'm no longer sure. You see, people generally have one delusion. Some, Comorbidics, may have secondary delusions, but these are always minor in comparison. Like Konig. He's first and foremost a Gefahrgeist, but he's also developed Doppelgangist and some minor Mirrorist tendencies. Though he's a powerful Gefahrgeist, he has little control over his Doppels, and still has to go to Schwacher Sucher in order to
use
a mirror.” Aufschlag could hear the boy struggling to frame his thoughts and sound adult. “People are defined by their primary delusion.

“But this isn't true for gods.”

This caught Aufschlag's attention. “What do you mean?”

“A god doesn't require delusion or insanity, because his worshipers suffer for him. Yet in a way, he has
all
of their delusions.”

“How do you know this?”

The boy smiled happily. “Because I am not limited and I will be a god.”

If that's true, perhaps he doesn't have to die to Ascend!
Konig wouldn't like that. Morgen's death was a critical part of the plan. Those whom you slay must serve in the Afterdeath; the boy's death was control. Aufschlag swallowed a lump of nervous tension. “Can you show me?”

Morgen held out his left arm and wriggled the fingers. “Watch.”

Before the Chief Scientist's eyes Morgen's arm turned black. The skin peeled away and the stench of putrefaction filled the
room. In moments the boy's arm was nothing but leathery gristle clinging to bone.

“Cotardist—”

“Watch.” Morgen's arm writhed as flesh grew outward from his shoulder, wrapping the bones in glistening tendons, squirming veins, and thin slabs of muscle. When the arm was whole the boy smiled and a nearby table burst into flames. It was ash in seconds. Aufschlag opened his mouth to speak, but the boy exploded, engulfed in roaring fire. The floor was scorched and Aufschlag was forced to retreat from the heat. Yet Morgen, still smiling at the scientist's shocked expression, remained unharmed. Then the fire was gone and Morgen stood in a circle of burned floor. He gestured toward the mirror and dozens of his reflections scrambled out. The room soon filled with hundreds of identical children all holding different conversations.

Aufschlag stood paralyzed with fear.
The child is demented! We haven't created a god, we've made an insane monster!

“We're scaring Aufschlag.”

The Chief Scientist couldn't tell which boy said this; presumably the one still standing in the charred circle. As one the Doppels—
or are they reflections?
—stopped talking and turned to face him.

“We're sorry.” One hundred voices spoke in perfect unison. “We had to show you so you'd understand.”

The boys formed rows and climbed back into their mirror. One child remained. It wasn't the one in the burned circle.

“Are you . . .” Afraid of the answer, Aufschlag couldn't finish the question.

“Yes. The original.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fairly.” He suddenly stepped forward and hugged Aufschlag, burying his face in the man's chest. “I had to show you. I knew you'd understand.”

Understand?
If anything, all the scientist had was more questions. Was the boy's control as perfect as it seemed? If so, maybe he truly was a god, maybe they hadn't failed after all. Was the child correct in stating he could make use of his worshipers' delusions without sharing in them, or was Morgen's mind shattered beyond all redemption? And with that shattering, did that mean his inevitable fall was soon to come, like every other Geisteskranken?

But these questions paled when held against the one thing Aufschlag had learned.

Morgen is ready. But does he still need to die?

He knew Konig's answer. Yes! Unless Morgen died at the High Priest's hand, Konig would have no sure means of controlling the god. What then should he tell Konig?

Aufschlag's unanswered questions fled, forgotten, drowned in the desperate wave of love washing over him.
I have to save the child
. If the child was a Mirrorist, Doppelgangist, and Hassebrand, why not Gefahrgeist too? Even as the thought occurred to him he saw what had to be done.

Aufschlag hugged the boy close and struggled to keep his tears in check. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held another person. “Morgen, you have to listen carefully.”

The boy pulled back, confused but nodding. “Okay.”

“You cannot show this to anyone else.”

“But why? Konig will—”

“A good god is humble.” Aufschlag forced himself to be firm with the boy. “A good god doesn't show off. Konig would be very disappointed with such an ostentatious display. Think back: Have you ever seen him show off his Gefahrgeist powers?”

Morgen's brow crinkled in thought. “No. And he does keep his Doppels mostly confined to his chambers.”

“Right.” Konig had other, far more desperate reasons for confining his Doppels, but the boy didn't need to know them. “You must do as Konig does. You must learn subtlety.”

When the boy had promised not to tell anyone of his abilities, Aufschlag sent him on his way. He'd have to order a work crew to replace the burned table and clean the scorch marks from the floor. He was treading dangerous ground. Deceiving Konig for long would be next to impossible, and if he was caught, his punishment would be a long and lingering death. Yet he knew the risk was worth it.

A new feeling took root in the depths of Aufschlag's soul. A warmth he didn't recognize. He was, for perhaps the first time ever, truly doing the right thing. He loved Morgen as a son and no man would allow his only son to be slain. Not without a fight.