The Godgame (The Godgame, Book 1) (12 page)

Embla nodded. “Uh-huh. So it’s a crow?”

The man gave her a look of disdain. “No. No. No.” He sighed. “His name is Crow, but he’s a raven. A white raven. A white raven named Crow. Why is that so hard for people to understand?”

Embla raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“You never answered my question. How can I join Marrow’s crew?”

“Ow!” The man flung his arm down. “That’s enough! Find somewhere else to roost!” He rubbed his arm. “Disgusting creature,” he mumbled to himself.

It was Embla’s turn to sigh. “Fine,” she said. “Sorry to waste your time.” She turned to leave, but then stopped herself. She thought of her sister’s letter, felt it absently with her hand through the fabric of her clothing where she’d tucked it.
I should ask
, she thought.
Since I’m here
.

She turned back to the man sitting on his hill of books. “This is a place for answers, right?”

The man let out a snort. “Not practical ones.”

“All the same, what have you heard of the conflict with Nova? Is there a war brewing?”

The man raised his hand and scratched his cheek. He studied her, his eyes betraying a hint of seriousness. “There have been rumors.”

“What have you heard?”

The man blinked slowly. “What was your name again?”

“My name is Embla.”

The man jumped in his seat. “Embla? The Keeper of Beasts?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

His bushy, gray eyebrows rose. And then he said, in a voice that sounded rehearsed, “Do you wish to know of that which cannot be seen?”

Embla could suddenly feel her heart beating in her chest, her palms sweaty, her mouth dry. “I think…” she began, then swallowed and took a step forward. “I do,” she said.

With that, the man seemed pleased. “Good. Beneath you, a panel swings upward. You may descend.”

Embla took a step back. She studied the floor. It was grimy and scuffed, but yes, as she looked closely, she could see deeper lines, breaks around which there was a trapdoor. And, bolted to it, a corroded ring, something she’d kicked earlier—she could remember the metallic clunk sound it had made against the heel of her boot. She looked up at the man on his pile of books—nodding to her—then back down at the ring. She grabbed it with both hands and pulled.

It lifted easily, hydraulic pistons doing most of the work for her, and she was looking down at a descending stairway, lit dimly in artificial light.

~

At the bottom of the stairs, was a cramped, circular chamber, little more than ten feet in diameter. The walls were plastered with pictures, layer upon layer of overlapping images of people and places. Columns of books rose precariously from the floor. In the center of the chamber stood a plush chair, upon which sat a woman, her straight, light-colored hair hanging in her face.

“Good morning, Embla,” the woman said. “Please, have a seat.”

Embla looked around, but there were no other chairs so she sat on one of the steps.

“Do you like our school?”

She looked at the woman, eyes glimmering through a cascade of hair. “How do you know my name?”

“I can hear every word you speak to Bailey from here. My name is Maya. Do you wish to learn from us?”

“I do.”

The woman brushed the hair back from her face. “Excellent,” she said, smiling. “It’s been far too long since anyone made it past Bailey.”

“Bailey?”

“The old man up top,” the woman said, pointing. “He’s unpredictable, but he scares away most who come here looking for shortcuts.”

“So he’s—”

“A test, yeah. To make sure you’re serious. To make sure you are who you say you are.” The woman cocked her head to the side, giving Embla an intense look. “We need your help.”

“You need
my
help?”

“You came here seeking Marrow, is that correct?”

Embla nodded.

“Something led you to believe the School of the Unseen would lead you to him, right?”

Embla nodded again.

The woman clapped her hands together, leaning back with a grin on her face. “Excellent! We’ve been expecting you.”

TREVOR

“This man stands accused and found guilty of treason against the City. He has forgotten the Archon, forsaken the Church, and befouled the sanctity of Talos.”

Trevor stood against the balcony at one edge of the box reserved for exarchs, heirotimates, and their officials, watching Doran, the head executioner, speak. He wore deep aubergine robes, unmarred by insignia or detail, to signify his status as the Archon’s officiate. He wore the robe only when absolutely necessary, preferring anonymity in most of his dealings, but today, if his suspicions were even partially correct, he might have need of recognition among this crowd.

All around him were people dressed in ornate clothing filled with color, hats with large brims, all manner of things perched within them—fruits and vegetables; precarious-looking stacks of multi-colored cubes; one with a twisted wire cage forming a beehive of chambers, each containing a different insect or reptile, a blue toad with a red tongue; another depicting a diorama of sorts, an arrangement of pikas stuffed and preserved, given tiny helmets and spears and posed in grotesque conflict—and dresses that unfolded like geometric designs, while others billowed and flowed like water, with edges frothy, misty, and perpetually wet-looking; and robes for the men, or suits and ties with intricate knots; and one woman with boots that entirely covered her legs so that she lurched around when she walked; and one man with a cane made of glass and filled with tiny, squiggling larvae, all different shades of blue, from grayish to indigo. And two of the exarchs themselves were in attendance today. Auron, from the House of Aesthetics, his enormous girth spilling out from beneath an array of furs, sat near the center of the heirotimate’s box, smiling and nodding to whoever looked his way; and Bergman, from the House of Peace, his bulk less expansive than Auron’s, but still impressive, secured firmly in solid-black leather garments. An impressive turnout, a grand spectacle.

Below the heirotimate’s box, in the open area of packed dirt beneath the Gallows Tree, a crowd made up of those of less repute gathered. They came in their working browns and tanned leathers, some with unwashed faces and some with cuts and bruises from their labors, but they came for the same reasons as the heirotimates. They came to uphold a sacred tradition, to be entertained—they came to witness an execution.

Mingled with the crowd of common people, pushed all the way to the front in their customary spot, stood The Regulars, eagerly awaiting the coming festivities. The five of them, three women and two men, spoke among themselves. They wore plain clothes of earthen shades, as well as their jackets with what Trevor knew were strands of hair and scraps of bloody clothing sewn all about like tassels flapping in the wind—souvenirs from past executions. The Regulars were all of lower heirotimate class, although to which houses they reported, Trevor did not know. They were known for their fanatical devotion to the executions, scholars of its history, and never missed a single event. Trevor had never had dealings with The Regulars himself, had never had occasion to explore their backgrounds, but they certainly piqued his curiosity, and he was sure they had their uses. He would keep them in mind, of course. He had a feeling they might be most useful were he ever in need of certain information regarding the executions, more so than Doran himself.

“This man has been granted the honor of a traditional death by hanging beneath the Gallows Tree,” Doran said to the crowd, fanning one hand dramatically at the thick noose that hung for the crowd to see. Doran turned to his two henchmen who held between them the motionless prisoner, a hood covering the prisoner’s face. “Shall we begin?”

The Gallows Tree was a gargantuan redwood, the last of its kind. There were no trees like it within the borders of the City, nor, it was said, anywhere else in Meridian. Trevor had read that there had once been others. Bellah, an islander, in her early texts on one of her visits to Talos, writes of three such trees. And Yogemkain, a long-deceased arkaine, writes of a time before Talos, when such trees were in abundance and filled the entire area.

Doran waved to his henchmen and one of them removed the hood from the prisoner’s face. A gasp went through the crowd.

Trevor leaned forward, clutching the railing with his hands. Yes, this was the man he’d heard about, the one gallivanting around the city, asking too many questions.

The man appeared calm, his eyes scanning the crowd before him. He had an unusual appearance, a genesis Trevor could not identify. He had one arm, his right, although he might have lost his left surgically or in a fight, so that detail in itself meant little. But Trevor had never seen a man with three eyes. The amans, who maintained a healthy population on the island state of Argaia, of course, had only one, but most geneses, such as his own, had two. This man’s genesis might be one un-catalogued in the official records, perhaps from one of the more remote islands, and that fact alone Trevor found intriguing.

A hush had fallen over the crowd as Doran’s henchmen fitted the noose around the prisoner’s neck. If there was ever a time for Trevor to speak, it was now, at the height of tension, on the very cusp between life and death. He cleared his throat loudly.

“A moment,” Trevor said in his richest public speaking voice.

Eyes turned to look at him. The heirotimates shuffled. “May I come forward?”

Doran gave him a look, but beckoned to Trevor with another wave of his hand. “Trevor Rothschilde,” Doran called out. “Voice of the Archon.”

Trevor stepped down from the hierotimate’s box and threaded his way through the crowd. He ascended the wooden steps of the gallows slowly and deliberately, feeling the eyes upon him, building their anticipation. He stopped directly across from Doran, leaving the prisoner between them. Doran gave him a nod. Trevor turned to the crowd.

“Good people,” he said, his customary beginning. “I owe you an apology for interrupting this event, but it is my duty as Voice of the Archon to ensure justice is always being conducted properly. Do any of you know of what specifically this man has done?” He scanned the faces in the crowd of common folk. He saw immediately they did not. He then scanned the heirotimates, although more quickly, knowing they all knew what the three-eyed man had done. “No? Let me tell you. I believe you have a right to know.”

Trevor paused for a moment, hanging his head in thought. When he lifted his face to the crowd, he knew his eyes were bright and full of passion. “He raped a young woman not of his genesis, a brean, a hierotimate’s daughter.”

The crowd murmured.

“Do you believe, given the severity of such a crime, this man deserves the honor of the Gallows Tree? Do you believe he should be spared the torments of The Rack or The Inscriber or Galen’s Chains before he is given over to death?”

The crowd, especially the common people, murmured more loudly. Trevor nodded dramatically. This was where his strength lay, in his ability to incite the common people. He made eye contact with their grubby faces, something most heirotimates would never do.

“What say you?”

The murmurs became a chant and the chant became a cheer. Trevor glanced at the heirotimates, many who remained unmoved, some scowling, a few clapping their hands politely, including, he was surprised to see, Bergman himself.

“I will see to it myself!” And with that, Trevor turned quickly, whipping his robes about in a flourish, and descended the platform.

~

Trevor had the three-eyed man placed in an interrogation cell. For several hours, he sat and watched the man through a peephole in an adjacent room, but the three-eyed man did little other than sit at the table—the only furniture in the tiny, windowless cell—and tap on the table with his fingers. Trevor could not hear much through the peephole, but after a while he could tell the man was tapping in rhythm, tapping out some sort of musical number. The man appeared quite relaxed, showing no signs of fear or anxiety, or relief at his narrow escape with death.

After hours of this, Trevor was ready to speak with the man.

He nodded to the guard he’d placed outside the cell and the guard produced a key, opened the door, and let him inside.

The three-eyed man looked up from the table at Trevor and smiled. “There he is,” he said. “My savior.”

Trevor forced a warm smile. “Yes,” he said. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat across from the three-eyed man. “What is your name?”

“Galahad,” the man said, his three eyes blinking in unison.

Trevor nodded. “You may call me Trevor. You smile easily for a man who was not long ago moments from death.”

Galahad laughed. “I was never going to die.”

“No? Do you want to know why I saved you?”

“Your reasons don’t matter,” Galahad said. “It was Awa who saved me. I’ve been in worse situations.”

Trevor scowled. “Awa saved you? Your faith is strong. Why you?”

Galahad looked deep into Trevor’s eyes. “I am on a divine quest.”

“Uh-huh,” Trevor said. “For what purpose?”

“I am Galahad, the childless, the last of his kind, of the Order of Saint Neil. I have come seeking a man called Marrow. Do you know where I can find him?”

Trevor looked closely at Galahad. “Why are you looking for Marrow?”

Galahad shook his head. “I am sworn to secrecy. Can you help me?”

Trevor forced another smile. This man was no use to him. He had been hoping for gratitude, for loyalty, for another valuable member of his personal retinue, someone with whom he might build a trusting relationship for future exploits. Instead, this fool sat before him, blind with idiot faith for his god. Trevor stood, pushing the chair out behind him. “Yes, I may be able to help you. I have had dealings with Marrow in the past. I will send for you tonight.”

“Very well. Thank you,” Galahad said.

“I will also send food and drink.”

“You are most gracious.”

Trevor crossed the room and knocked on the door to signal to the guard. Trevor turned back. “Where are you from, Galahad?”

The three-eyed man had risen and stood with his body erect and proud. “I am from the island of Boros, from Bora more specifically, our capital city.”

Trevor nodded. “What are you? Your genesis?”

“I am galvani. Sadly, the last of my kind.”

The door opened and the guard stepped aside. “Did you rape that girl?” Trevor asked quietly.

“No,” Galahad answered, uncertainty entering his voice for the first time. “She…it was consensual...”

Trevor stepped into the hallway and slammed the cell door closed himself. For a moment, the image of that three-eyed freak fucking a beautiful brean girl entered his mind. He was disappointed.

~

Trevor walked briskly down the long corridor. It had been several days since he had been summoned before the Archon. He didn’t think he’d done anything to displease him, but the familiar anxiety remained.

A door opened at the end of the hallway in front of him and a very tall arkaine man ducked his head through the doorway and walked in Trevor’s direction.

“Lemm?” Trevor asked. “What are you doing here?”

Lemmenkainen stopped. He and Trevor faced each other in the hallway. Lemmenkainen was arkaine, serving as a sort of ambassador between his people and humanity. He was constantly bringing news from across the world, warnings and portents. Most of the heirotimates suffered his admonishments politely before sending him on his way. Trevor himself tolerated Lemm, found him little more than a nuisance, another obstacle, however minor, in his path.

“I came to see the Archon,” Lemm said. “I came to persuade him against war.”

“War? What do you mean?”

Lemm looked down at him. “You don’t know?”

Trevor clenched his fists by his sides. If the Archon was planning something, how could he, Voice of the Archon, not know of it? He felt anger, trepidation stirring in his chest.

Lemm grabbed Trevor’s shoulders and looked down at him. “He’ll listen to you. You must convince him.”

Trevor knocked Lemm’s arms away. “Haven’t I told you to come directly to me with the Archon’s business?”

“You have. This is important information I felt would make a greater impact on the Archon if it came from me directly. It did not. Conflict with Nova will not prevent revolution.”

“Revolution?”

Lemm nodded gravely. “Here in the Archon’s Pyramid, you are blind to the happenings on the streets of Talos. The commoners are losing their faith in the Church of Awa. Two factions have formed, run by leaders independent of Talosian government. The Awans believe Awa is male; the Awaes, that Awa is female. There has been fighting over this difference in belief. If the Archon continues to concern himself with foreign nations and does not use his resources to calm his citizens, there will soon be bloodshed in the streets of Talos.”

Trevor met Lemm’s condescending gaze. “I will do what I can,” he said, resisting an urge to strike out at Lemm. “Let me do my job.” He pushed past the arkaine and down the hallway.

~