The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (35 page)

Raith crossed the room without a moment’s hesitation and took
the stairs in three deep strides. “Keep it cracked, Ros,” he said, and slung
the door open.

A flurry of gunfire converged on him as he lumbered to the
curb. Jiren saw Raith’s shield ignite, a series of quick blinks lasting
fractions of a second. Each oncoming round splintered away with stunning
precision. It was a thrill to watch the man work—to witness such incredible
skill and focus, the result of a lifetime of practice.

Jiren thought of all the work Raith had done with him,
forcing him to repeat each lesson and exercise until he was so frustrated he
wanted to tear down the walls. But Raith had never let him stop until he’d done
it right a hundred times. On days like today, Jiren was thankful for that
discipline. Seeing Raith put those lessons into action when it really counted
was the truest evidence of his quality.
As highly as I think of myself, I’ll
never be that good. I’ll never be able to protect our people the way he can.
That’s what makes him the hero we need, even though so many back home are
quick to doubt him
.

Raith roared like a father calling his child home. “Derrow
Leonard. Get in here.”

Derrow scampered across the lot so fast he almost went
sprawling headlong before he found his legs. After Derrow made it inside, Raith
began to move backwards, his shield liquefying each fusillade that came his
way. He let out a growl of exertion as he backed to the curb, then came up the
steps and over the threshold. When Rostand pulled the door shut, inch-deep
impressions dimpled its surface like a tiny metal mountain range, the metallic
clangor ringing through the lobby.

Raith supported Jiren the rest of the way up the staircase.
Then he pressed his fingers to Jiren’s temples. A wave of heat ran through him,
and Jiren felt it wake him like a shot of caffeine. Raith took an immense
breath, and there was a moment when the energy seemed to settle inside him like
a raindrop in a puddle. “Now…
now
, follow me.”

“Hold on, Councilor Entradi. Where are you taking us?”

Raith turned to face his sister’s nephew. “Frasier… I heard
what you said earlier. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to earn your trust. I’m
sorry things turned out this way. I feel like I’ve failed the people of Decylum.
I led us into this massacre, and for that I put no charge or blame on anyone
but myself. I will stop at nothing to get the rest of you out of this city
alive. If you still have cause to believe I can, then follow me. We need to
leave.”

Frasier Dent scraped his teeth together. “So you met with the
Commissar and lived, did you? Tell me what happened. How did you know about the
other entrance? How did you get past the soldiers?”

Rostand came halfway up the steps. “Frasier, we’ll have time
to talk later.”

“I want to know,” Frasier insisted. “I’m not following a man
who keeps secrets from the people who support him. We deserve to know.”

Raith listened toward the entrance for a moment. “Ros, keep
watch at the door.” He turned back to Frasier. “The Commissar offered to
rescind the many charges against us. I refused him.”

Frasier put his fingers to his forehead. “This is exactly
what I knew would happen. Their Commissar is a decent man who treats you with
respect, and somehow it isn’t good enough for you. You wanted a royal welcome
to the city, our feet kissed and our shoes shined, in that order, in
addition
to a full pardon?”

“The Commissar isn’t a decent man,” Rostand said from the
bottom of the stairwell. “He’s an evil man.”

A soft smile came to Raith’s lips. “I’m not inclined to
believe there’s such a thing as an evil man. There is only what a man wants,
and how far he’ll go to get it. Some operate on subtlety, others with force. If
it were up to the Commissar, he would’ve forced us to stay here.”

Frasier’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He scratched his head,
loosening a sweat-pasted tuft of hair into a wild tangle. “So what? Look
around. Would that have been any worse than what we’ve gotten ourselves into
now?”

Raith glanced at the door again. “If you’ll let me finish
answering your question so we can go… the Commissar has a scale model of the
city. I used the model and one of his maps to find my way back here. I had
planned to sneak in and free you from the cell block, but you’ve already done a
fair job of that yourselves.”

Frasier fired off a series of curses, rambling about the
impending catastrophe. The others ignored him as though he were a fly buzzing
around the room.

He’s practically in hysterics
, Jiren thought.
I bet
a solid knock on the jaw would bring him back to his senses
. He restrained
himself, waiting on Raith’s command instead.

“Is Hastle with you?” Raith asked.

“I
wish
granddad were here,” said Rostand.

Jiren shook his head. “We haven’t seen him.”

There was concern in Raith’s eyes. “I don’t want to leave
Belmond without him, but it’s too dangerous to stay.”

“Before we were attacked, granddad said we should regroup
over the horizon before dawn. I keep thinking he and the others went out there
to wait for us.”

“We’ll have to hope that’s what he did.”

They all knew how thoroughly the soldiers had searched the
desert for survivors. They could only hope Hastle had managed to avoid the
Scarred and find shelter and food somewhere.

“Raith, let’s get out of here,” Jiren said.

Raith nodded. He led them into the hallway, hopping over the
twisted ruins of the first gate before realizing Frasier hadn’t followed. “It’s
time to go, Frasier. Have I answered your questions satisfactorily?”

Frasier stopped mumbling long enough to sneer back at him,
then pushed past the others on his way down the staircase. Then he was opening
the battered front door and raising his hands in surrender, waving at the
soldiers outside. Jiren could only stare, a bystander watching an accident
about to happen. He turned to go after Frasier, but Rostand grabbed him by the
arm.

“Let him alone. Alone is what he wanted.”

A string of bullets hammered the entrance and echoed down the
hallway. Frasier spasmed. Then his head and arms were dropping out of sight, deep
crimson-black spatters silhouetted in the afternoon light, and the door was
swinging shut behind him.

CHAPTER 32

Research

Sister Bastille made sure she was on Gallica’s left as
they strolled through the conservatory gardens. The high priest’s errant
spittle was less prolific from this angle, and her face had a less gruesome
cast to it in the yellow-tinged light coming through the thick heat-resistant
windows. It had taken a few days for Bastille to procure more than a few
moments of Sister Gallica’s time. Gallica wasn’t in charge of one particular
area of the basilica, like most of the other priests; she played the role of
general overseer, and she did it well. The woman had a way with efficiency like
nothing Bastille had ever witnessed. What she was always so busy doing,
however, was beyond Bastille’s understanding.

“You wanted to speak with me. So speak,” said Gallica, hands
clasped behind her back.

Finally the she-mutant deigns to converse with such a poor
lowly creature as I
, Bastille reflected. “I thought it best we speak in
private, due to the nature of the matter at hand.”

“Sister Usara’s staff are done with their plucking for the
day. The conservatory fields are as private a place as can be had, unless you’d
prefer to stand outside in the afternoon.”

“Not at all, kind Sister,” Bastille said, staving off the
affront. “There is the business of Father Kassic and—”

“We sorted that out the other day. There’s nothing more to
discuss.”

“Your Enhancements, kind Sister, are what I came to discuss.”

The mere mention of it put Sister Gallica off balance.

“Arrangements are always made for those standing to become
inheritors,” Bastille continued. “With the Father Kassic scare and your
unofficial nomination last week, I think it’s time you were prepared. In the
event of a Cypriest’s retirement, it would be best for your affairs to be in
order.”

Gallica thought for a moment. “I do appreciate Brother
Liero’s gesture, but the true inheritor is far from decided. My health has been
less than satisfactory, yes, but that isn’t the only determining factor in who
is chosen.”

Bastille saw her opportunity and planted the seed. “Surely
you don’t mean to suggest… Brother Soleil as a potential candidate?”

Sister Gallica almost laughed. Instead she snorted, and when
she turned her head there was a glob of something dangling from her chin.
“Brother Soleil? I know you read a lot, kind Sister, but could the scriptures
really have addled your mind so much? Oh, dear me, no. Brother Soleil is too
important. As the only experienced practitioner of the Enhancements, he is
essential to the future of the Cypriesthood. He couldn’t possibly operate on
himself, now could he?”

Bastille tried not to grimace.
She knows as well as anyone
that Soleil has trained me to perform the Enhancements. He’s not the only
‘experienced practitioner’ here
. Brother Soleil had been with Bastille
every time they’d operated on a live patient—first as surgeon, then as
Bastille’s assistant after she’d gained sufficient experience to take the lead.
She knew the procedures backwards and forwards now. She’d practiced on dozens
of cadavers. She could operate without him. And after what she’d learned about
him recently, all the better if she was operating
on
him. “No, I don’t
suppose Brother Soleil could perform surgery on himself… though it’s an amusing
thought.”

“I don’t very well see the humor in it,” said Sister Gallica,
slowing her pace.

“No, I suppose it isn’t very funny, come to think of it, kind
Sister.”
If I’ve shown Sister Adeleine half as much hostility as Sister Gallica
is showing me, may the Mouth forgive me for it
.

They had come to the small grove of apple trees, near the
tree Bastille had climbed a few days ago to get a better view of her surroundings.
Her quarry that day, whom she now knew was the acolyte Brother Mortial, still
hadn’t turned up. It was possible that Bastille alone knew Mortial had left the
basilica through the labyrinth. She couldn’t admit it, of course, without
admitting that she’d used the secret passageways herself. If she were to do
that, questions would no doubt be raised about how she’d gotten back inside.
They might even search her bedchamber for the key, and that was an object she
wasn’t ready to part with just yet…

Sister Gallica gave a soft satisfied grunt, as if she’d lent
some clarity to Bastille’s low sense of humor. “Tell me more about the
Enhancements. How long does it take? Will there be pain? What will I feel when
I wake up?”

Bastille wasn’t sure which question to answer first, so she
did what she always did when she wasn’t sure what to say. She said everything
she could think of. “It depends on what sort of Enhancements you’re receiving,
the condition of the components, and your body’s willingness to accept the
foreign entities as its own. All Enhancements are a multi-step process with a
minimum of two phases, with an additional phase for each NewOrgan to be
implanted. The first phase is the installation of the central NewNexus, which
all inheritors must receive in order for the other NewOrgans to work properly.
The Nexus itself is only about the size of a flattened peanut, but installing
it takes several hours and requires a small amount of drilling through the thin
layer of bone at the back of the nasal cavity. The procedures for the other
organs vary widely in length and complexity. When you wake up you’ll feel
groggy and sore from the incisions, but after your recovery you should enjoy a
prolonged Cypriesthood without any of the ailments you experience now.
NewOrgans are incapable of being corrupted or damaged by disease, as are natural
organs. As long as they’re given adequate fuel they will last hundreds of years
and will be reused many times after your passing.”

This summary did not appear to have given Sister Gallica
pause. “What about my memories? Will I still remember… life?”

You discredit my experience, yet you presume to ask
questions only an expert would know the answer to?
“You’ll still be alive,
Sister. Debatably less so, but still alive. The Nexus does interact with parts
of the brain associated with breathing, heart rate, balance, awareness,
posture, and sensory perception, but it shouldn’t cause memory loss. You should
still remember all the details of your past life as you remember them now.”

“Life’s perfect enemy, leave me undevoured,” Gallica muttered.
Then to Bastille, she said, “What about the pain?”

“You shouldn’t feel a thing until you wake up. Then I’d
imagine there will be quite a bit of pain until you’re fully healed. The Nexus
is designed to help with that.”

“How so?”

“The Nexus’s technical workings are a bit beyond my ability
to explain,” Bastille said. “Or perhaps they’re beyond my understanding. I
don’t make them—I just put them in. The way Brother Soleil explains it, think
of the mind as a musical instrument with strings that are slightly out of tune.
The Nexus tightens up the strings and makes them resound with perfect pitch.
This is necessary to ensure that whatever NewOrgans are installed will operate at
maximum efficiency.”

“It all sounds terribly dreadful,” said Sister Gallica,
with muted enthusiasm.

It is
, Bastille wished she had the nerve to say.
Instead her reply was, “It sounds that way, but I’m sure you’ll find it to your
liking.”

“It isn’t me we’re talking about, remember,” Gallica reminded
her. “It’s whoever is chosen as our next inheritor.”

Bastille made a stiff smile with her lips, but as always, the
rest of her face wasn’t involved.

They were crossing the arched plank bridge over the man-made
stream that flowed up from the basilica’s well, making their way toward the
edge of the conservatory. Bastille had spent the last few days watching and
listening for signs of entrances to the labyrinth, hoping to find others before
she had to risk using the key again. Now she noticed that at the end of the
artificial stream where the water fell into a shallow grate, there was a round
slab of cast iron, like a manhole cover, obscured by a thin layer of dirt. She
guessed it must have been a seldom-used remnant left by the people who’d built
this place, and she wondered why Brother Mortial hadn’t used it to enter the
labyrinth here instead of fleeing to the kitchens. Maybe he hadn’t known this
existed. Something else had been bothering Sister Bastille, too.
If Brother
Mortial overheard my conversation with Sister Adeleine and left the basilica
because of it, who did he go off to tell?

Bastille made a mental note to come back to the spot later—maybe
during her morning chores, before Sister Usara’s gardeners and Sister Deniau’s
cooks descended. “I’ll recommend to Brothers Liero and Reynard both that the
inheritor be chosen soon,” she said. “With all the strange things that have
been going on, I’d think it best to be prepared.”

Sister Gallica’s pockmarked face sagged into a frown.
“Strange things… how do you mean? Aside from Father Kassic, what else?”

“The disappearances don’t strike you as strange?”

Sister Gallica relaxed. “Oh, that. Brother Froderic is our
most charming emissary to the heathens. His passion is to be with them, right in
the midst of the sinners’ toils. He has a gift for reaching the lost—and making
shrewd trade with them at the same time. He’s always out and about doing one
thing or another, making an impact for the benefit of the Mouth. I’d bet my
supper he nabbed Brother Mortial, pressed him into service as a pack mule, and
took off into the city to trade and evangelize.”

A pack mule with a crooked back—now
that’s
an
amusing thought. The she-mutant has no idea what kind of trade Brother Froderic
had been making before he died, does she?
“Someone should check in the
storerooms to see if there are any supplies missing,” Bastille said, “and we
should ask the Cypriests at the gate if anyone has been in or out lately.
They’ll know. They always know.”

“No need,” said Gallica, revealing a hand for the first time
during their stroll to wave away Bastille’s suggestions. “Let’s not get caught
up in idle theories or hearsay. You’ll have the whole basilica in a riot before
long. Belmond is a dangerous city, kind Sister, but if there’s one thing
Brother Froderic has proven, it’s that he knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he’ll
return to us in no time at all.”

She
does
know, and she doesn’t want me looking into
it. Or is she really so ignorant?
Gallica is either blissfully unaware
of anything that’s happened, or she’s a more cunning deceiver than I’ve given
her credit for
. Bastille was more uncertain now than she’d been before
speaking with Sister Gallica, but she wasn’t ready to back down. “And if he
doesn’t return? If neither of them do?”

Gallica’s face hardened. “Then may the Mouth devour them
quickly. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sister Bastille?”

“Put your affairs in order. Be sure that Brother Lambret is
prepared to assume oversight of the basilica in the event that you’re chosen as
inheritor. And feel free to let me know if you have any further questions about
the Enhancements.”

“I’m sure Brother Soleil will be more than happy to explain
things in greater detail, when the time comes.”

“As you wish, kind Sister.”

Sister Gallica gave a nod and a soft grunt before she marched
away and left Bastille standing on the edge of the gardens, along the outer
glass wall between the hog pens and the courtyard exit. After the high priest
disappeared through the wide double doors into the sanctuary wing, Bastille
took in a fast, deep breath, as if waking from a trance.
There goes my hope
of gaining Sister Gallica’s trust.
The Mouth, am I the only person in
this place who hasn’t made half a dozen secret alliances? It’s as though I’ve
gone to the market before closing and found only the rotten fruit left. I used
to think I was the clever one. That was before I came to live in this house of
jackals. Frauds and hypocrites, every one of them, all vying for the same thing:
freedom from the constraints of the human lifespan. The Order is nothing more
than a means of disguise for those seeking a NewNexus of their own. Even
Brother Froderic was devout once. How did such a man fall into Brother Soleil’s
clutches?

Bastille had to find a way to force an opening in the Order’s
upper ranks and worm her way into the Esteemed. The other high priests would be
more apt to give her their loyalty when she’d risen high enough to earn it. If
Sister Gallica doubted Bastille’s skill in the surgical Enhancements, few
others must have known she was even qualified to perform them.
They should
all be tripping over each other to win my affections
, she thought.
When
Brother Soleil is gone, I will be the only person between them and the thing they
want so badly
.

That was why Bastille was so desperate to find a protégé of
her own; Brother Soleil would be chosen as inheritor long before it was her
turn to undergo the Enhancements. If no one learned to perform the surgeries
after Bastille, she would never become a Cypriest. She would never find respite
from the tortures of her life, the stabbing pain of the headaches that seemed
to grow worse with each passing year. Brother Mortial was missing and Sister
Jeanette’s days in the Order were numbered. That made Sister Adeleine the only
viable candidate, unless Bastille could find a promising apprentice among the
next batch of initiates that came through the basilica’s gates.
The quality
of each new group is worse than the one before it
, she desponded.

There was a reason Gallica was being so unhelpful in locating
the two missing men. If Brother Soleil had helped Gallica accelerate her rise
through the ranks, as Sister Jeanette had confessed, then there was little
doubt Soleil had Gallica in his pocket. That accounted for half the Most Highly
Esteemed. If Brother Liero or Sister Dominique were in similar debt to him,
Brother Soleil might have the entire Order under his thumb. If that was true, then
there was nothing Bastille could do about it.