Beyond Redemption (35 page)

Wichtig set a hand on the boy's shoulder and flashed his best look of honest confession. “It seems,” he said, “I am now yours to command.” He slid off the bed and gracefully took a knee, bringing his eyes slightly lower than the boy's. He bowed his head in humility. “What would you have me do, My Lord?” He'd have to remember to keep up this deferential act for as long as possible. Who wouldn't trust a servant bound by some magical bonds reaching from beyond the Afterdeath?

“Truly?” Morgen asked, sounding surprised.

Wichtig didn't answer. He merely kept his head bowed. Best not to overdo things. Simplicity was the key to manipulating Morgen. What he didn't say would have more effect than what he did.

“I am unaccustomed to command,” admitted the boy. “They should have better prepared me,” he murmured. Finally he said, “Rise.”

Wichtig rose smoothly to his feet and smiled down at the boy. It was only then his good humor faltered. “Where are my swords?”

“Stehlen left them in the street when she carried you away.”

“Stupid ugly bitch!”

“I don't think she—”

“She did it on purpose.”

“How could she know—”

“She carried my corpse because she knew you'd bring me back.”

“But she couldn't—”

“She left my swords because she knew it would piss me off. Ugly, stinking, snaggletoothed, murderous, lying, stealing, cheating—”

“You should be nicer to Stehlen,” Morgen commanded.

Wichtig dipped a quick bow. “Of course. My apologies. I'll try and be nicer.”
And then I'll kill her.

Morgen examined his hands, checking under pristine fingernails. He grimaced in distaste. “Fetch me some water so I can clean up.”

Wichtig resisted the urge to smack the boy. A quick glance about the room showed everything perfectly ordered. The rug sat perfectly parallel to the wall and ended exactly at the foot of the bed. The sheets were meticulously folded and tucked tight. Wichtig's boots sat neatly arranged, and cleaner than they'd been when he'd bought them, near the door.

“Did some cleaning?” he asked.

Morgen, frowning at the slightly rumpled sheets of the cot Wichtig had just vacated, nodded.

When Wichtig returned with soap and water, Morgen scrubbed his hands pink and raw. The boy then dried them on a carefully selected piece of towel seemingly no cleaner than the rest.

What a strange, strange kid
. Those Geborene pricks had no idea what they'd created. No doubt they thought they'd made their perfect little god, but this child was riddled with delusion.

“Much better.” Morgen examined his fingernails again with a critical eye. “What was the Afterdeath like?” he asked.

“Much like the Beforedeath. Anger, manipulation, violence, and sex.” He watched for the boy's reaction. “And it was filthy.”

Morgen paled. “But Bedeckt said it was a chance at redemption.”

Wichtig snorted. “Nobody believes that, though, and that's what matters. Right?”

“Everyone is afraid of dying,” Morgen said

“Because it is worth fearing. I wasn't there long, but everyone I met died a violent death. It's a world populated by walking corpses forced to serve those who killed them.” A slight exaggeration, but a far better story.

“Not everyone dies a violent death.”

“Like I said, I wasn't there long. Everyone
I
met was either killed or murdered.”

“You are glad to be back?” Morgen asked.

“Eternally grateful. I owe you my life. Literally.” Wichtig let out a slow, dramatic breath. “I should abandon my quest to become the World's Greatest Swordsman. Perhaps if I live a more peaceful life, I might die a more peaceful death. And find a more peaceful Afterdeath.” He didn't have to fake the shudder. “One not populated by those I have slain.”

“You already
are
the Greatest Swordsman in the World.”

Aha!
“I know. But I'm not the
Greatest Swordsman in the World
. It's a title, not a just an achievement. Being the best is meaningless unless everyone knows it.”

“Why does that matter?”

Wichtig blinked. Was that the stupidest question he'd ever heard? “What other reason is there ever for doing anything?”

Morgen stared at him for a moment, looking like he was trying to make up his mind about something or think up an even stupider question. Then he shrugged and said, “You won't give it up. You still have a role to play.”

A role to play?
The only part he played was the lead role. The hero. Why did people never see they weren't at the center of things? He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the boy's solemn face. Well, obviously he wasn't going to give up his quest
now
. Not when he had a would-be godling in his pocket who could bring him back to life every time he got killed. Nothing could stop him. If he wasn't actually unkillable, at least he knew he wouldn't remain dead for long.

Wichtig nodded slowly as if accepting something difficult. “I suppose you're right,” he said. “I can't give up now. Not when you need me.” He expected Morgen to look happy at this, but instead the boy seemed to deflate. Why did he look sad?

Wichtig tried to change the mood back to something a little more appropriate for someone who had just rejoined the land of the living. “You could have left me there a little longer, though.”

Morgen blinked up at at him in confusion. “Why?”

“I was about to bed the sister of the man who killed me. Could there be a more fitting revenge?”

The boy turned away, but not before Wichtig saw his damp and red-rimmed eyes.

“There's always another death,” the boy whispered. He stared at his hands.

WHEN STEHLEN AND
Bedeckt stumbled in several hours later, Wichtig was glad for the distraction. The boy had become withdrawn and quiet and the Swordsman found himself, as always, to be poor company. Who could he mock and manipulate when alone?

The stench of vomit, urine, and ale wafted over Wichtig and he plugged his nose. “Gods! You two stink to all the lowest hells! I can't believe you went drinking while I lay here dead. What kind of friends are you?”

And then he remembered the sight of Bedeckt fleeing, abandoning him to face the Therianthropes alone. He knew the answer to his question and it hurt. He'd given them so much. Loyalty, honor, and his friendship. They were wretches, so beneath him, undeserving of his many gifts and talents. Still, he knew better than to show he'd been wounded by their betrayal.

Bedeckt wobbled and then caught himself. “Yer a lie?” he slurred.

“A lie? Alive? Yes. No thanks to you, coward.”

“Heese nuh coward,” Stehlen snarled with drunken defiance. “You a moron.”

“How sweet, she's defending you.” He would have said more, but he caught Bedeckt's furtive glance in Stehlen's direction. He studied the two as they struggled to maintain both balance and composure. Wrinkled clothes. Stehlen was missing many of the stolen scarves she wore wrapped around her bony wrists. The arse of Bedeckt's breeches was soaked through and he was missing his right boot.

Oho! I know this disheveled look.

Wichtig decided to toy with them. It served the selfish bastards right. He couldn't believe Stehlen chose Bedeckt. It beggared the mind.

“You're missing your right boot,” Wichtig pointed out.

Bedeckt looked down at his mud-caked foot and beamed happily. “Good. The rye. Thanks t' the boy, still god leff.”

Why was he so happy to be missing a boot? “And your pants are soaked.”

“Fell,” Bedeckt muttered, looking everywhere except at Stehlen.

“No doubt.” Wichtig smiled sweetly at Stehlen. This was payback for not bringing his swords. “Better check your pockets,” he said to Bedeckt. “I bet you've been robbed.”

“Arsehole,” she muttered as Bedeckt searched his pockets.

Grimacing, Bedeckt shrugged and lost his balance, collapsing backward onto his arse. “Can't remember how mush anyway.”

“I noticed when I . . . awoke . . . I'm missing some funds,” Wichtig lied. A safe enough bet that Stehlen rifled through his corpse's pockets. A Kleptic could never pass up such an opportunity. “She's not as powerful as she thinks,” he said to keep her off balance and undermine her self-worth. “I always know when she's taken money.”

“Liar,” she snapped. “You never notice.”

“While you two were out rut—”

“Leave them alone,” commanded Morgen. “They need each other. This is all they get before—”

“They need?” Wichtig asked, interrupting.

“Before?” Bedeckt asked.

“You don't,” Morgen said to Wichtig. “Not when . . .” The boy trailed off to silence.

Wichtig understood. Not when he would be the Greatest Swordsman in the World. Not when he stood with the boy-god he could so easily manipulate.

Again he examined Stehlen. Scrawny and wiry. Rat-nest hair. Yellow teeth and watery yellow eyes. On a good day her breath could drop a bull at a hundred paces. This was definitely not one of her good days. She was filthy and unappealing in every possible way. Why then did he feel such anger at the thought of Bedeckt bedding her? Well, maybe not
bedding,
neither looked like a bed had been involved. Her betrayal stung.
How could she want Bedeckt more than she wants me?
He was perfect. His body was flawless. He was funny, kind, and giving. He poured so much of himself into his friendships and got nothing in return.

Morgen patted Wichtig's back like the little shite somehow understood what he thought and offered comfort. “It's okay. Just leave them alone.”

It stung Wichtig to let this go. To not fully explore the hurt and embarrassment he could inflict upon the two went against his every instinct and desire. But it was more important the child believe he had some hold, some measure of control, over Wichtig.

“As you wish.” He ducked a quick nod to Stehlen and Bedeckt, who stared at him in bleary confusion. “Sorry. Being dead is exhausting. I'm going to take a nap.”

“I'm glad you're nod dead,” said Bedeckt.

“Me too,” agreed Wichtig with feeling.

Stehlen spat on the floor at Wichtig's feet. “Not me.” When they made flitting eye contact she added, “Not so much.”

The morning sun streamed through the open window and hammered at Bedeckt's eyelids like it desperately needed to reach the back of his skull. His overheating head throbbed with the sluggish beat of his heart. His liver felt like it had surrendered and gotten a head start on the rest of his body in the race to decompose. He sat up slowly, careful not to move too quickly lest his head fall off, and saw the wrinkled, mud-caked toes of his right foot. A grin snuck across his scarred face and fled just as quickly. Thanks to Morgen, he'd moved his stash of coins to the left boot. He glanced around the small room and found himself alone. They'd left him sleeping on the floor where he'd fallen, sprawled in the center of the room.
Other than the mess Bedeckt had made, the room was eerily spotless.

They must have gone in search of breakfast. Bedeckt's stomach threatened violent upheaval at the thought of food.

Only flashes of memory remained of the previous night. Unfortunately, those glimpses were all of things he didn't want to remember. They'd rutted in an alley like drunken teenagers.
Gods, she might be pregnant!
The thought swept away the hangover, replacing it with sick fear.

“No,” Bedeckt said to the empty room. If belief defined reality, hopefully his desire not to father a child would shape the days to come.

Stehlen, a mother. Wichtig would love it. Suicide was always an option.

Bedeckt leaned forward with a grunt—the scars on his back had stiffened overnight—and dragged his remaining boot off. His emergency stash sat wedged in the hollowed-out heel. A small hoard of coins. He poured them into the palm of his half hand.

“What the hells?” There hadn't been this much gold.

No doubt Stehlen's Kleptic power clouded his memory when it came to how much money he had, but he'd never been overly worried. If she didn't steal it he'd waste it on whores and ale. And when she did take it, he could always rely on her to pay for rooms, food, and drink. But this, finding more gold than there should have been . . .

Bedeckt dimly remembered Wichtig accusing Stehlen of stealing from them. It had been a stupid accusation. Of course she stole from them; she was a Kleptic. Had Stehlen been upset by Wichtig's allegations? Had she felt bad enough enough to return the missing coins with considerable interest? Why now, after all these years? It made no sense. Not unless . . .

“Oh gods, no.”