The Incorruptibles (27 page)
Read The Incorruptibles Online
Authors: John Hornor Jacobs
He pulled back the tarp.
It was the
vaettir
, Berith.
An apple-sized hole was punched through his chest, directly through the heart.
I laughed out loud.
What a beautiful sight.
It was a long, hard winter and, by the end of it, when the thaw finally came, the
Cornelian
had mostly been repaired and there was a new village on the shore at the point in the river where the boat had been locked in ice. The legionaries and lascars called it Winter Camp, but the settlers who had begun to appear during the first blushes of spring called it Bear Leg. The Senator was inordinately proud of the name.
When winter released its icy grip on the Big Rill and the grasses became green once more, the trees filled the air with a thousand motes of pollen – making some of the men sneeze terribly – and a group of us gathered on the western shore of the river, in a clearing in the gambels, to perform a ceremony.
Ruman weddings are always held under the vault of sky, so that all who may wish to, can bear witness to the joining of two immortal souls. The marriage of Hieronymous Fiscelion Catalan Iulii and Livia Saturninus Cornelius would be no different.
Fisk had awoken from his dream state groggy and bruised. He never spoke of it, but I could tell he remembered everything. His eyes were haunted, and something had given when the
daemon
rode him. He’d changed, found it easier to laugh, easier to smile. I have to think that when the Crimson Man had Fisk in his terrible possession, Fisk came to understand that life is too short to be unduly stingy with affections or their display.
I was so very glad to have my friend and partner back. And so happy to lose him to Livia.
We stood in a circle, with Fisk and Livia at the centre, to witness their vows.
Livia was beautiful, dressed in a gown of white that almost concealed the growing bulge of her stomach. And Fisk was garbed in Gnaeus’ finest uniform and laureled with a grass crown, Rume’s highest military honour. Fisk had told me, late one night when we were in our cups, that Cornelius had drawn him aside and said, ‘If you’re to be the father of my first grandchild and the husband of my eldest, however independent and strong-willed she is, you’re damn well not going to embarrass me by being a lowly scout. Congratulations, you now have the rank of legate and are assigned to advise on all my decisions regarding the Hardscrabble Territories. You shall be honoured for your sacrifice regarding the
daemon
hand.
‘Now, wipe that look off your face and have a drink.’
The day of the wedding was perfect. As the air blew warm with only the faintest hint of the fast retreating winter, it ruffled the gambel tops and stirred the grasses.
Cornelius performed the invocation. Holding high the knife, he said, ‘Above you the sky, below you the stones; as time passes, remember – like a stone should your love be firm, like a star should your love be constant. Let the blessings of Ia guide you in your marriage; let the strength of your wills bind you together inextricably. Let the strength of your dedication make you inseparable. Possess each other, yet be understanding. Have patience with each other, for storms will come, but they will pass quickly.
‘Hold out your hands.’
Livia and Fisk, facing each other, held out their hands, palm up.
‘Will you, Livia Saturninus Cornelius, take up the knife?’ asked Cornelius.
‘I will,’ said Livia.
‘The wound you make is the essence of all pain and hardship in life. For any two people to be joined, there must be sacrifice,’ Cornelius intoned.
Livia drew the knife across her palm, cupping her hand afterward to collect the blood. Her father took the blooded blade from her.
‘Will you, Hieronymous Fiscelion Catalan Iulii, take up the knife?’
‘I will,’ Fisk said.
Cornelius handed the knife to Fisk, who gripped it, looked from the blade to Livia’s beautiful face, luminous in the spring light, and smiled as he cut his hand.
‘The pain you feel is her pain, always. The joy you feel is her joy, always.’ Cornelius stopped, raised his arms, and joined his own hands together. ‘Let your love be incorruptible and undying. Now join hands as man and wife and go forth with the gods’ blessings.’
Fisk and Livia clasped hands. The blood from their wedding wounds commingled and joined, dripping to the ground. And when they smiled at us, the cheering crowd, they did it as one.
I rode out of Bear Leg on Bess with only enough food for two days. This time I wore Manius’ guns, loaded with silver and holly.
Up we rode, into the Whites, for I needed to be alone and to look upon the earth from a great height.
We were hours climbing, and the sun grew old in the heavens and fell past the lip of earth and the sky turned purple and pink like a floral explosion.
I reined in Bess, who hawed once at me and then playfully nipped at my leg, showing green teeth. I dismounted, letting the reins fall. Bess would go nowhere without me and would find me if I called.
I hiked upward for hours, even in the dark of night. Once I heard the screech of a mountain lion but it did not molest me and I hoped to all the gods that it did not find the scent of Bess appealing.
Sweat, pouring from my brow, had darkened my shirt and vest by the time I stopped and took up my vigil on a rocky promontory high above Bear Leg and the Big Rill.
Below me, far below, I could see the dying fires of the camp and the flickering yellow
daemonlight
of the revivified
Cornelian
glimmering on the waters of the Big Rill. It would be steaming south soon, with me on it.
I did not know when I would be able to return to these peaks, to feel rock under my feet, the comfort of the mountain. I am
dvergar
, and this is important.
Throughout the night I knelt, watching the lights die, listening to the wind, the breath of the world, the sigh of the mountains. The stars, shining indifferently above me, wheeled in the heavens.
I felt them then, I think. Ia was gone, dead to me, but there were the old gods, the spirits of rock and tree, of water and wind. The numen.
I needed some kind of faith.
The night grew old and everything stilled and it seemed that I was the only living person in the world awake at that moment. The
daemonlight
from the Cornelian, the smoke from Bear Leg, all gone. The world was dark, and I felt so rooted to the mountain and the sky that I couldn’t tell where I left off and the others began.
I felt whole, once more.
The sky in the east lightened as the sun rose. It crept over the rim of the earth, its light streaking forward and painting the land in oranges and reds, purples and deep blues. Rocks and trees cast long shadows in the slanting light. I watched as the night gave way to day.
My thoughts turned to my friends, those I had known and loved, those far away, those near, and I felt a connection with them all. But darkness filled me too, as I sat looking out at the land from that vantage. As I rose and prepared to make my way back to Bess, I looked out and imagined countless fires on the plains, sending black smoke up to the vaults of heaven.
Fire calls to fire, they say.
I lowered my eyes from the view and made my way down the mountain. I’d had enough with flame. I wanted to see no more.
War was coming.
Big thanks go out to Stacia Decker, my agent, for her guidance regarding this industry in turmoil and to John Rector whose enthusiasm for this novel has not waned in the intervening years since he first read it. Much gratitude goes out to Mark Lawrence, Myke Cole, and Pat Rothfuss, all of whom, at the time of writing this, were kind enough to read and say nice things publicly about this work. I’d like to thank Steve Drew of Reddit for his encouraging words, Chuck Wendig for his humor and signal boosting, and all the people of the Twitters and Interwebz who have helped to get the word out about
The Incorruptibles
.
Huge
ups to the team at Gollancz – especially my editor Marcus Gipps and copy editor Olivia Wood – who’ve been extremely supportive and a pleasure to work with. Edward Bettison created an amazing cover for this book. Somebody buy that team a drink. They deserve it. Possibly a backrub, but don’t get too handsy.
Of course, I must mention my lovely wife and children who’ve been a constant support and source of motivation for me. And let’s not forget the Cookie and Bear, my mongrel canine muses, always down for a little scratchy-scratchness to ease the heavy burden of the writer at work.
Finally, I’d like to thank you, the readers, who remain the true reason why I do this whole writing thing. I would give you a big ole kiss if that wouldn’t be too creepy (or a disease vector).
No? Well, okay, then. We’ll just settle for a fist bump. Thanks. Y’all rock.
Copyright © John Hornor Jacobs 2014
All rights reserved.
The right of John Hornor Jacobs to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London,
WC
2
H
9
EA
An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2014 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN
978 0 575 12363 2
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.