The Godgame (The Godgame, Book 1) (7 page)

“Cool place,” Ash said. “What’s back there?”

“Nothing,” Brent said. “That’s for me and Pera. You’re not ready yet.”

“Whatever.” Ash sat on one of the stumps.

“I’ve been lost in these woods for weeks,” Pera said. “I was alone until Brent found me. Now we live here together.”

Ash looked at Pera, nodded his head. “Uh-huh.” He turned to Brent. “You have to come back. With me. Right now.”

“Why?” Brent asked.

“They’ll think you’re a deserter.”

“So what?”

“They’ll shoot you!”

Brent leaned back on the stump where he sat and laughed.

“Why is that funny?”

“Shoot me?” Brent said. “Shoot me?”

Ash looked at Pera, who shrugged.

“What are you going to do then?” Ash asked.

Brent touched his chin with his hand, thinking. “Not sure,” he said. “Hang out here, I guess. Until I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Yeah,” Pera joined him. “Ready for what?”

It was Brent’s turn to shrug. “Whatever,” he said.

Ash looked around. “What do you guys do out here?”

“We wander around the woods,” Pera said.

“Hm,” Ash said. He stood. “Well, I need to get back to my post.” He walked to the door, which was still open.

“You’re not going to report us, are you?” Pera said.

Ash stopped in the doorway. He shook his head. “No. But I’ll come back and check on you guys again.”

Ash stepped through the door and marched back to camp.

JOSEF

“Don’t worry, the Talosians will never come to Fallowvane.”

He had volunteered, tried to join the militia, but the officer had said, “Our orders are to take only one member of each household and no one over forty.” So they had taken Ash and left him behind. He had watched his son being whisked away on one of the militia’s scavenged buggies. And when Josef had asked the officer the reason for such an order, the officer had told him the Novan committee had decided there should be “able-bodied” individuals available in each town so as not to leave them defenseless.

“Josef? Did you hear me? I said the Talosians will never come to Fallowvane. There’s nothing here for them.”

Josef looked up from his work, blinking. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s why we’re safe. We have clean air, open land, and cold winters—nothing the Talosians are interested in. I mean, hell, I barely like living here,” Daryn said, and laughed. “Come on, don’t look so down. Your son will be back in a couple of months.”

Josef nodded. “Yeah, I suppose,” he said, returning to the job at hand: sanding the legs smooth on a table he was making for the Braxton family.

He could feel Daryn watching him closely, but when he didn’t say anything, his assistant returned to his own work.

That morning, Josef had kissed his wife, although she had barely been conscious, given her frail shoulders a light squeeze, and left a bowl of broth and a glass of water for her on the nightstand. “I have to go to the shop today,” he’d told Kya back in the living room, her large eyes blinking up at him. “I owe an important customer something.”

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Kya had said. “I’ll stay with her.”

“Good, and watch after your sisters.” He’d turned to leave.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

When he’d turned back, Kya had given him a look of complete seriousness. “Are the Talosians coming to get us?”

He’d gone to her, held her. “No. Course not.” He’d cupped the back of her small head in one hand and rocked her. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

And then he’d left her. He’d hated himself for doing it, but he’d had to. He had a debt to pay.

When he’d gone to Mother Marlena for medicine for his wife, he’d had no idea how expensive it was going to be. He, of course, had not had the money to pay for it, so he and Mother Marlena had struck a deal. She had requested he make her something in exchange for the medicine she claimed would cure his wife. It had, as it turned out, been a simple enough thing to make, nothing beyond his abilities, and he’d quickly agreed. He was, however, not to tell anyone about what he was making and certainly not who it was for. He hadn’t said a word, especially not to his wife.

Which was why, although his assistant Daryn was perfectly capable of running things on his own, he had come into the shop today.

She’s not getting better. The witch promised the medicine would make Lena better, but it’s not working.

“Their machines and their rules, that’s all they really want. That, and power. Well, that’s their choice. This, this right here, our farms and our simple laboring—this is what life is really about. It’s about living, an honest living. The Talosians don’t want that. They want things: lavish houses, servants, faces as wrinkle-free and smooth as the day they were born. And they all want to live forever. Well, pah on that! That’s not living. That’s… Hey! Hey, are you even listening?”

Josef looked up at his friend. “Yeah, sure.”

Daryn shook his head. “Ah, I’m just blathering is all. I’m sorry. I’m glad you made it in today. I guess your wife must be doing better, huh?”

“A little.”

“Good. That’s good. She’s always been a quiet one, your wife, but strong; I can tell. And pretty too, if you don’t mind me saying so. I know some in town have never trusted her, because, you know...she’s different. But it’d be a shame to lose her.”

Josef looked at Daryn. “She’ll be fine.”

Daryn came over and clapped him on the back. “Of course she will. And don’t worry about your son. It’s like I said, even if the Talosians come all the way out here, what are they gonna find? Nothing. We’ve lived in peace all these years because we have nothing those greedy sons-of-bitches would want. They leave us alone and we leave them alone. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Josef smiled at his friend. He truly appreciated Daryn’s efforts to comfort him. “Of course,” he said. “Of course everything’s going to be fine.”

~

Mother Marlena came in the early afternoon, her strange robes wrapping her stocky frame like a writhing mist. She climbed the steps and her bulbous head peeked through the doorway. “Are you alone?”

Josef glanced across the room at Daryn, “I think it’s time for a lunch break, don’t you?”

“Sounds great,” Daryn said. “My wife packed me some leftovers, if you’d like to join me. She makes a hell of a meat pie. More than enough…” He stopped himself when he saw Mother Marlena in the doorway. “I’ll just… Maybe I’ll go home for lunch. I’ll see you in a little while.” He put his tools down and moved toward the back of the store.

Josef heard the back door open and then close.

Mother Marlena stepped into his shop. Her huge, watery eyes blinked. She smacked her lips, licking them moist with her tongue. “I’ve come for it,” she said.

Josef took a step back. “Yes,” he said, forgetting everything he’d meant to say. He wanted to ask her some questions, to confront her about the medicine for his wife, but instead he walked to his storage closet. He fumbled the key from his pocket, and pulled the rusty padlock free.

Inside rested the item he’d been making for Mother Marlena: an ironwood cane meticulously shaped to give it a flowing appearance, twisting from one end to the other and topped with a gnarled knot Josef had carved into a screaming face, its open mouth turned upward and hollow. He reached his hand out for it, then stopped, hesitating. He shouldn’t give it to her until he knew for sure his wife was getting better. What if the medicine the witch had given him was nothing but mud? What if the witch was tricking him? He was too trusting; he had to remind himself to be wary of people and not let them take advantage of his good nature. He closed the door and replaced the lock. He turned back to Mother Marlena, palming the key awkwardly, dropping his fists by his sides.

The old woman came forward. “Do you have it?”

“It’s...not ready yet.”

The old woman’s brow furrowed. “You told me to come today.”

Josef licked his lips. “I… Yes, but…my wife...”

“You wife?” Mother Marlena smiled and darted up to him, surprisingly light on her feet considering her size and figure.

Josef tried not to cringe, but Mother Marlena was mian (a descendent of the original known as Mia) and her facial features were grotesquely large. Even in Nova, where diversity was common, Josef found Mother Marlena’s appearance disconcerting. He had met people of many different geneses, but none quite like Mother Marlena, who was the only mian he’d ever seen. He, of course, was the last person to judge anyone on appearance alone, since he was, after all, married to a woman from a genesis different from his own, and he had children by her, something strictly forbidden by the hallowgeons and, by association, the Talosians. But the darker skin of his wife was nothing compared with Mother Marlena’s features: her head nearly the same size as her squat and muscular body; constantly watering eyes like gelatinous pools; mouth of large square teeth hinging on a jaw wide enough to swallow his entire head…

“What about your wife?” Mother Marlena asked again.

“Nothing... I mean, she’s still sick.” Josef held his ground, trying not to look uncomfortable at Mother Marlena’s proximity to him.

“She will get better. I said she would, didn’t I?” Mother Marlena took a step back. “Now, where is this cane you promised me? I hope I have not misjudged your craftsmanship skills. That was a very special piece of wood I gave you. Where is it?”

Josef took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. It’s right here.” He unlocked the door of the storage cabinet. He lifted the cane and one of Mother Marlena’s stubby arms snatched it from his grasp before he could hold it out to her.

“Hm,” Mother Marlena said, running a stubby hand of gnarled fingers over the wood. “Not bad. This might work.”

Josef watched Mother Marlena. “Is there anything else you can do for my wife?”

Mother Marlena raised one of her hands dismissively, her eyes fixed on the cane. “She’ll be fine.” She began to waddle toward the exit.

“But…” Josef swallowed. His throat was very dry.

At the door, Mother Marlena turned back to look at him. “Oh, I almost forgot. There is
one
more thing I may be able to do for your wife. Why don’t you send your boy Ash to pick it up?”

“Ash is gone. He joined the militia.”

Mother Marlena stiffened. “What! When?”

“Almost a week ago.”

Mother Marlena gave him a look, something like disgust. She whirled in the doorway and left his shop.

“Wait,” Josef said. “But my wife… Should I come to see you later?”

Mother Marlena was gone.

MOTHER MARLENA

Bergy, her four-legged companion, hissed at her as she swept up the stairs and into her hut. The air was muggy with the earthy scent of boiling root vegetables. She slammed the door closed behind her and threw a kick at Bergy, the kylix dodging it easily, darting into the maze of detritus piled in a corner.

“The boy,” she muttered to herself. “There’s something about that boy…” She laid the cane Josef had made for her flat on the table and moved to stir her simmering stew.

For several minutes she stared sightlessly at the burbling muck. What was the boy? What had she smelled? She was still waiting for a reply to her letter of inquiry. She stomped the floor in frustration.

“Oh, yes,” she said, remembering her new cane, dismissing the boy from her thoughts. She turned to one of her shelves and began to scan its contents. “Now where is that…? Why is it I can’t find anything when I need it…? Ah, here we go.” She snatched a small box from the shelf. She brought it to the table and peeled back the lid. Inside were six shriveled husks, dried like raisins.

“Umbriate larvae,” she said—particularly rare, which she had been collecting all her life. These had once been in the form of insects with segmented legs and long stalks tipped with blinking eyes, now barely recognizable.

She lifted the cane and looked into its screaming face, carved from the bulbous knot of wood at its end, just as she had instructed. She smiled. Very carefully, she took one of the dried larvae between her fingers and placed it in the open mouth of her new cane.

At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the cane’s mouth closed and began to chew.

TALOS

TREVOR

Windows. Yes, he was always looking through windows.
His
windows. Always on the outside—watching—looking in. The window into which he currently peered flickered, as if to signal a momentary error in reality. He watched listlessly as the crowds milled through Market Street like cattle unhurried on their way to the next grazing sight. He turned to another window, a distant, bird’s-eye view of the inside of Galen’s largest temple, row upon row of pews below the monstrously large statue of Galen. The temple was only half-filled to capacity with people, Trevor noted, which was proof enough of the growing dissent of the citizens of Talos. Through the next window he watched the limbs of trees shifting restlessly, birds of various colors and species roosting and flitting about in the aviary. Through another window, he saw an empty stadium hall, rows upon rows of seating spiraling down into the murk. And on the next one, light flickering in a cavernous chamber. And on the next one, a view only of a dark room, crumbling detritus littering the floor, a single chair resting in a column of light clotted with spinning dust.

The Ziggurat was a strange place, few were allowed inside to explore its mysteries. It had stood for countless generations, built by a people so ancient their history had long ago been forgotten. Some claimed it had been built by sapiens during the Second Age of Meridian in an attempt to touch the sky, others that it was even older, built, perhaps, by the arkaine. Whatever its original purpose, it now stood at the center of Talos, home to the Archon and most of the exarchs and their houses. Most no longer thought of its secrets, the exarchs content with the sectors they had shaped and festooned to fit their varying needs, but occasionally a new chamber would be discovered, opened by an exarch looking to expand his or her territory, and, although most of such chambers were found to be dark, empty and cold, sometimes things of greater value were discovered.

Remains had been found, the brittle bones of humans from geneses long extinct, as well as arkaine with their elongated limbs and enlarged foreheads, sometimes scattered or festooned with things of great value: gemstones and chains of gold, weapons inlaid with all manner of polished rocks that caught and refracted light, glittering impressively, blinding in the dank depths of the Ziggurat. Such things, when found, were either kept or sold to the highest bidding heirotimate, locked away in one vault or another.

The Archon had, several generations ago, declared the worship of “pretty things which come from the ground” a barbaric and false pursuit. A more civilized method for the control and distribution of wealth had been established. The printing and value determination of the Talosian currency was now controlled by the House of Awa. Yet still, unearthed treasures found in the Ziggurat or elsewhere were traded among the heirotimates, sold and hoarded discreetly.

Sometimes, however, stranger things were found. Once, a crew of Auron’s—the exarch to the House of Aesthetics—had tunneled into a chamber filled with a previously unknown animal, a sightless creature that crawled about on a nest of fleshy tails. The creature’s unnerving cry had terrified the first excavators, who had lost their minds and fled. It was discovered later that the barking cry made by the darlows—as they were later called—sounded something like
burr-live
, which had been mistaken by the first excavators as several voices whispering “buried alive” from the dark.

But there was one particular discovery that had piqued Trevor’s personal interest, and which had begun his habit of exploration. He had been employed at the time by Doran (Embla’s father) on the lowest level of the Ziggurat as a trusted and personal messenger and advisor between Doran and Exarch Bergman, the exarch to the House of Peace. Known for his eidetic memory, Trevor had carried detailed schedules of weapons manufacturing as well as lists of names of those suspected of various plots and betrayals to Bergman, always flawlessly and with the utmost discretion. It was during this time, during his fledgling years among the heirotimates, a new chamber had been discovered. It had been a major deal at the time, everyone talking about it, because it had been on the first level of the Ziggurat where he had worked, long thought completely explored. Trevor had attended to every detail as the rumors had spread.

Apparently, a cleaning crew had been working in one of the storage chambers, where many of the outdated and unused devices of torture were kept, when one of the workers had knocked over a pile of crucifixes. A hole had been torn in a wall of mortared bricks and a small chamber had been discovered. Within, in total darkness, beneath a blanket of dust, they had found a machine they did not recognize and had run to tell their superiors of their discovery.

The machine was something like a large buggy made from thick plates of steel. It had three wheels beneath it and a hatch on one side that led into a space inside just large enough for a single person to sit and use the controls. Buttons and switches and levers lined the walls and ceiling, with only a narrow slit to give its driver a view of what lay before it.

The Bravo Apparatus, as it was to be called, was taken before the heirotimates of The Mechanicus—the house responsible for the maintenance and repair of machines and technological devices in Talos—but their tinkers were unable to identify it, pulling levers and pushing buttons at random with no visible effect. The tinkers requested the apparatus be left in the care of The Mechanicus for further examination and experimentation, but Bergman felt that because the apparatus had been found among the ancient torture devices in storage, it must belong to such a class of device and should be kept by the House of Peace. The tinkers of The Mechanicus protested, but when Bergman requested to speak with Toloran directly, the tinkers had made excuses, claiming their exarch was “too consumed by his work” to be disturbed. Bergman had ordered the apparatus to be placed in a secure chamber and studied, but the heirotimates of the House of Peace are not known for their patience and skills with experimentation, and soon the apparatus had been abandoned, forgotten, and once again collecting dust.

But Trevor had never forgotten. He made it his business never to forget and, forever intrigued by antiquities of the past, he had years later had the Bravo Apparatus moved discreetly into what he had made into his personal chambers on one of the upper levels of the Ziggurat. He had studied the apparatus himself, along with a select crew of trusted scientists and engineers he employed personally, and they had discovered the apparatus could do many unusual things. Buttons and levers pushed in various combinations caused the apparatus to move, to lift its mechanical arms, to produce seemingly pointless beams of light and phosphorescent bubbles. It could also do more dangerous things, things with blades and fire. He had it catalogued and stored for a day when he might need it.

Trevor had also made it his business to explore the Ziggurat. While the majority of heirotimates were busy with their schemes to acquire further wealth, to seek further hedonistic pleasures and decadence, he used his time to map the Ziggurat, to learn of its halls. He was sure he knew them better than anyone. Certainly there were exarchs who knew their own levels perfectly, but Trevor had made it his business to know them all, and to discover their secrets.

There were hidden passages, dark forgotten corners, and doorways into rooms he had found he thought no one living must know of but him. While others forgot, he remembered. Such knowledge, he felt, made him useful, and powerful. He had found stores of clothing, piles of shoes, food preserved in cans, and caches of weapons. He had found unknown ways into the personal chambers of many of the exarchs that they did not know of themselves. He had found curiosities, things of mysterious origins, and saved them all secretly. He had, over the years, graduated from Doran’s personal messenger, to Bergman’s counselor, to a consultant to all of the exarchs. Most of the exarchs now turned their ears to him, held him as a trusted source of advice and gossip and he was now the personal advisor to the Archon himself.

He had once even stumbled into the Corridor of Visions, a phenomenon he’d read about and sought, but that had seemed so incredible, he had thought it couldn’t be real. He had been stepping carefully along a long and narrow, but otherwise unremarkable, hallway, an electrical light strapped to his shoulder, another in his hand, when something strange had happened. The air had brightened, everything around him—the cracks in the stone, the cobwebs in the corners—appearing abruptly clear and crisp, as if a veil had fallen over the world, and the tunnel before him had been gone. He had walked forward into cometlight, grass suddenly beneath his booted feet, and clear sky above, blue and crystalline. Above him, at the top of a small rise, there had been a road of black pavement, the pungent smell of tar in the heat. There had been a small stream to his left, babbling, crowded with birds squabbling among themselves, cawing and chirping a lively conversation. He had swallowed and stared. The landscape had been flat in every direction, farmland, like that which existed on the outskirts of Nova, but which he’d never seen. There had been a house in the distance and a windmill, turning lazily. And then a sound had drawn his eyes upward and he’d seen something in the sky. It had been too large to be a bird and had moved much too quickly to be Marrow’s Aerial, leaving a trail of cloud in its wake, a line too straight to be anything natural, and it had filled the air with a booming, rumbling sound.

And then he had been in the dark once more, blinking at the pulsing blobs looming before him as his eyes failed to adjust to the sudden change. He had been confused, and filled with wonder. What had he seen? What did it mean? He had felt as if he’d caught a glimpse of another world. He had returned to that hallway many times since, but never again found the Corridor of Visions.

Yes, the Ziggurat was a strange and mysterious place.

For a moment, the windows before him blinked, their pictures shuddering. They lined the wall, some of the screens gray and blank, his face reflecting back at him. In the past, Archons had used them to govern Talos, to keep a watchful eye on its citizens, but the current Archon had little interest in such things. They were
his
windows now. Trevor’s windows. And one day, perhaps soon, he would put them to good use.

But they were not the only windows into which Trevor cast his calculating gaze. He had found others in the Ziggurat, and kept their secrets for himself.

Yes, windows—always an observer, never a participant, watching, looking out. But one day soon, that was all going to change.

~

As he climbed the spiral stairway, Trevor touched the letter he had intercepted from Embla, tucked into his breast pocket. It told of a new chantiac, one to replace Galen, who had fallen out of favor with the people of Talos. This could be his opportunity. If he was allowed to personally see to the training of this young boy, he might further grow his power and influence.

That, and the desperate need of the Church of Awa to regain the favor it had lost. The people had grown weary of Galen, bored, restless. Small groups had begun to talk of change, of injustice. Certain peasant heretics were preaching the need for more food, improved living conditions, and a redistribution of wealth. The church had always calmed such notions. It gave the people purpose, a nebulous god to which they could air their complaints and request further comforts without the need for false promises from their superiors. When the things they sought did not come, it could always be said their faith was not strong enough, that they must be more devout, and pray. A new prophet, one capable of showing the people of Talos new miracles, would renew the faith of most, and bring peace to the City.

This task
, Trevor thought,
I must see to myself. Just as I have made the governance of Talos mine, so shall I also make this boy. He will be like a son to me.

The top of the stairs opened up to a large area, the floor tiled, the walls falling away. He was outside, on a viewing platform—another window of a sort—drawn suddenly into fresh air and cometlight. He inhaled deeply and crossed to the railing that marked the edge. He looked out at the city of Talos. From here he could see the domed hovels of those who lived on this, the poorest side of the Ziggurat. A little further on lay Market Street, and beyond that, the dreary cluster of crowded structures that were Luto’s Court, where some of the poorest citizens lived and a haven for criminals. And rising above it all was the Theater Verrata, a doorless and windowless tower of stone carved smooth and un-climbable (and likely empty), yet another of Talos’s secrets hidden in plain view Trevor had yet to uncover, although inquiries had been made and rewards offered.

The letter he carried had not said what abilities this boy from Nova possessed or why the hallowgeons had deemed him a chantiac, but such things were only minor details. It took only very minor miracles to impresses the common folk. What mattered was how the boy behaved among the populace. Could he be calm and smile? Was he charismatic? Could he speak publicly? Command a presence of authority and purpose?

Galen had been very good in his time, a dreamseer, interpreting his dreams and able to use them to predict certain events of the future. He had also been kind and very good looking. But, over the years, the stress and pressure of his position had worn on him, aged him prematurely. It was said his dreams had grown dark and they had consumed him. He had flagellated himself, leaving ugly scars across his body and face. The true Galen, the man, was now hidden away and no longer allowed before the public, a wanted criminal. His appearance disturbed adults and frightened children. Statues were erected in the likeness of his younger self, and lesser preachers and trained lookalikes now ran his temples.