Jay Lake - Green

The crack was like the breaking of a tree.

His fur slipped beneath my feet, and I rolled forward onto my freshly wounded arm. I bellowed with my pain and came back to find myself in the street of wounded and their weapons.

The Rectifier rose, shaking off the blow, but he was not moving correctly now. I crabbed sideways, leery of my own pain, grabbing again for a weapon. The spear was gone, but I nearly tripped over a sword. The handle was big, the blade was too heavy, but I heaved it into my grip.

He wasn’t in front of me. Instead, the big pardine charged toward Endurance. The Rectifier’s pace wove as he ran. Skinless stepped in to block him, but he knocked the pain god’s avatar aside with a mighty blow.

The ox did not even lower his horns. He stared at his attacker, lightning circling in those deep brown eyes, as the Rectifier leapt onto Endurance’s shoulders like a hunting panther onto a kill.

I realized I was running, dragging the too-heavy sword behind. At the ox’s bellow, I dropped the weapon and sprinted the last few steps to grab at the Rectifier’s tail.

“Help me stop him!” I shouted. “Before he kills our new god!”

The Factor was at my side. Two of the city guards. Chowdry. A man in the plain suit of a clerk, marred by soot and burns. The Tavernkeep. A pardine I did not know. Mother Iron.

Our little mob clawed and clutched at the Rectifier. The knucklebones woven into his chest were toggles. His skin stretched. Hair tore, some popped free, others crackled with the last energies of their former owners.

Finally the Rectifier tumbled loose from Endurance. The ox bellowed again, then charged away into the darkness followed by his train of guardians. Little flowers bloomed where his blood dropped to the cobbles.

I stood aside as a dozen others bore the Rectifier to the ground. My lungs gasped for air so hard, I feared I would spew. My body shook as I placed my hands above my knees and leaned forward.

Finally I straightened and looked around.

The Rectifier was still down, blades and crossbows and pistols now keeping him there. The ox was gone, as were the rest of the divines and the ghosts. A small crowd of people surrounded us, the circle drawing closer as more and more streamed into Lyme Street.

“Anyone else?” I asked wearily.

The Tavernkeep stepped forward and took my arm. “I believe it is done.”

“Good.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

People pushed closer, except in a little lane where the tracks of the fleeing god left a stream of lilies blooming tall in the moonlight. These were not the survivors of the Interim Council. These were not priests and bankers. They were just people.

Questions flowed. Amid the buzz, I realized they were asking themselves, each other, me, what happened. Not fear, now, though there were dead and wounded aplenty already being borne off.

“Let me tell you a story,” I said quietly. Somehow my voice echoed loud, pushing a ring of silence away from me. When I opened my mouth again, I spoke to a thousand listening ears. Swallows chirped as they circled overhead.

“Let me tell you a story,” I repeated, “about a people who gave up their power long ago. A city man took it from them. Some agreed to this, but not all.”

The silence held. I continued: “This man made himself prince of his city. He ruled for generations. There was peace, prosperity, a time of quiet. The gods fell silent, for the power was like a blanket to them. This took the soul of the people, for what are gods if not the sum of everyone who follows them? Choices fell away, as the power cared only for itself. Even so, the bargain was good for most.

“In time, some of the first people conspired with some of the city people to wrest the power back from the prince. The city would be free to be ruled and grow as it chose, to have gods once more. The people would have their souls restored and rediscover their might.”

I paused again, but still the street was filled with listening ears.

“This theft went awry, or perhaps the power was stolen yet again. It came to rest in another. After centuries of replacing the habits of the gods of the city, the power thought itself a god. It rode the man it wore as worms might ride the heart of a dog. This new god would be feared in every land between the city center and the boundaries of the plate of the world.

“It wished to be a titanic reborn. It lacked only a last shard of the old power, a final measure of grace.

“Tonight this god has passed from the world, and taken the luckless man with it. In its place has been reborn a god of patience. The first god of this city come anew in more centuries than I know to count. This god is the ox Endurance. Voiceless, that the city might listen. Handless, that the city might not be quick to fight. Capable of drawing a plow deep in the soil, that the city might grow.

“Give a prayer to Endurance, for the soul of the man Federo. Give a prayer to Endurance, for the sake of the city in this tale. Give a prayer to Endurance, that he might bear you in your journey beyond death as he bore my grandmother so long ago.”

I bowed my head. The crowd slowly dispersed without responding. No cheer. No catcalling. Just people talking quietly.

The wounded and the dead went with them, for tending. So did most of the mess in the street-souvenir-takers or just civic pride. Torches were set in front of the ruins of the Textile Bourse as some went in and others came out.

Eventually the Tavernkeep leaned close. “Come to my place,” he said. “You must eat, and be warm awhile.”

Chowdry held my arm as we followed the pardine through the city. The tavern was crowded to overflowing with the Tavernkeep’s people-they held a remembrance for those lost, and discussions concerning those being cared for in the upstairs rooms.

A place was cleared, and some good Selistani curry set before me. The Tavernkeep sat with me a moment.

“Why are they not rising in anger?” I waved my spoon at the room.

“They followed the Dancing Mistress here to stop Choybalsan. Very few knew of her deeper purpose with the Rectifier.”

“The conspiracy within the conspiracy,” I muttered. Conspire to rid the city of the Duke and then conspire to reclaim his power.

“I do not think she had always intended that.”

“I will miss her,” I told him. “I would have loved to hear it from her lips.”

“Are you leaving?” He seemed surprised.

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well, she is not dead. She lies in one of my rooms upstairs.”

Shoving the curry aside, I nearly knocked over my chair in my haste to rise. “I will go see her.”

A bustle erupted at the door. Two of the city guards pushed in, looking haggard. One had a bruise mottling his face. They brought Mr. Nast with them.

“Where is Mistress Green?” the clerk asked in his thin, severe voice.

“Here,” I said. The Dancing Mistress waited upstairs while this piece of business bedeviled me.

His eyes caught mine across the room. “Begging your pardon, Mistress,” he said, “but Captain Jeschonek would like to know what you plan to do about the army camped on the Barley Road. They’ve raised some bloody great fires out there.”

“For the love of all that’s holy,” I began, then stopped myself. “What does Jeschonek want from me?”

“The captain says it was you that mislaid their god, it should be you that explains to them.”

A thousand armed men on the verge of riot. I strongly considered telling him no. The Interim Council would have a difficult time winkling me out of this place where I was surrounded by dozens of the Dancing Mistress’ people.

Still, I’d gone to a great deal of trouble to stop them from fighting. Starting it all over again seemed deeply pointless.