Paul Hoffman - The Left Hand of God

The four kept behind the column heading to the south. For an hour they kept pace with them as the preceptor chanted the marching song of shame:

“Holy Redeemer!”

“BANISH OUR SINS!” came the groaning response from a hundred and four voices.

“Holy Redeemer!”

“CHASTISE OUR CRIMES!”

“Holy Redeemer!”

“SCOURGE OUR LUST!”

“Holy Redeemer!”

“THRASH OUR…”

And so it went on until a sharp bend around the first hillock of the Scablands, when a hundred and four voices became merely a hundred.

From the battlements the Lord Militant watched as the five hundred emerged from the low fog and after a mile or two began to split into five. He stood until the last one was out of sight and then turned back to go to breakfast, his favorite-a bowl of black tripe and a hard-boiled egg.

The boys would have made forty or even fifty miles before night but for the fact that Riba was a liability. Beautiful, plump and pampered, she had in the last five years barely moved at all, walking only from massage table to hot bath and from there, and four times more in a day, to a dining table filled with stuffed vine leaves, pig’s feet in aspic, spice cake and anything else fattening you could think of. As a result she could no more walk forty miles than she could fly thirty. At first Kleist and Cale were just irritated and told her to move herself, but when it was clear that bullying, threats and even pleading could not push the poor girl to go another step, they sat down and Vague Henri began to get her to tell them about her daily life in the hidden realms of the Sanctuary.

It was not just a wonderful story of luxury and comfort, of body spoiling, of care and warmth. It was also incomprehensible. Every time Riba added a new detail of a way in which she and the other girls were petted, mollycoddled, pampered and indulged, the three acolytes became more mystified about why the Redeemers would behave in such a way to anyone, least of all to creatures who were the devil’s playground. And how did this astonishing kindness make any sense at all in the light of the hideous practices performed on Riba’s friend Lena, a cruelty so grotesque not even the boys would have credited such a thing to the Redeemers. But it would be a long time before any of them could begin to put together the terrible story of which the three acolytes, Riba and the Lord Militant were now a part-and not least since Cale had put the sweet-smelling object he had found in the dissecting dish in one of his rarely used pockets and forgotten all about it.

But they had more pressing matters than the fate of mankind to deal with: how to stay alive while hauling along the beautiful but hefty Riba. They made ten miles that day, something of a tribute to Riba’s willpower, as the most strenuous work she had done in her life before this was to raise a piece of fried chicken to her lips or turn over on a massage table to have rich foams and unguents stroked into her smooth skin. Needless to say, this determination on Riba’s part was not much appreciated by the three boys. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the ground as soon as they stopped for the night. Then as they ate the dried meat prepared by Kleist, the boys discussed what to do with her.

“Let’s leave her here and run away,” said Kleist.

“She’ll die,” said Vague Henri.

“We’ll leave water. Let’s face it,” said Kleist, scanning her overfed body, “it’ll be a long time before she dies of starvation.”

“She’ll die anyway if we move at this rate, and us with her.” This time it was Cale who spoke, not so much forming an argument as pointing out a simple fact.

Vague Henri tried flattery. “I don’t think so, Cale. Look, you’ve fooled them completely. They already think we’re miles away. They’ll probably think we had help to get away that easily.”

“Who the hell would help us against the Redeemers?” said Kleist.

“What does it matter? They think we’ve got away. And we have. They’re not going to realize for a long time how we did it, if they ever do. We can afford to go slowly.”

“It’s a lot better if we don’t,” said Cale.

“They’ll catch us at this rate,” said Kleist. “It’ll take more than a trick and some badger shit to keep them off our trail.”

“We’ve gone through all of this to save her. We can’t let her die now.”

“Yes, we can,” said Kleist. “The kindest thing is to cut her throat while she’s sleeping. Best for her and us.”

Cale let out a brief sigh, not especially regretful.

“Henri’s right. What’s the point if we let her die now?”

“What’s the point?” shouted an exasperated Kleist. “The point, stupid bastards, is that we get away. Free. Forever.”

The other two said nothing. It was true enough.

“Let’s vote,” said Vague Henri.

“No, let’s not vote. Let’s use our brains.”

“Let’s vote,” said Cale.

“Why bother? You’ve made up your minds. We keep the girl.”

There was a bad-tempered silence.

“There’s something else we should do,” said Cale at last.

“What now?” groaned Kleist. “Go and find enough goose feathers to make that fat beezle a mattress?”

“Keep your voice down,” said Vague Henri. Cale ignored Kleist.

“We have to decide who’s to do it if the Redeemers catch us.”

It was an unpleasant thought, but they knew he was right. None of them wanted to be taken alive back to the Sanctuary.

“We’ll draw straws,” said Vague Henri.

“There isn’t any straw,” said Kleist, miserable.

“Then we’ll draw stones.” Vague Henri searched for a minute and came back with three stones of different sizes. He showed the others, who nodded their agreement. “Smallest loses.” Henri put the stones behind his back and then held out his left hand, fist clenched in front of him. There was a pause-suspicious as always, Kleist was unwilling to choose. Cale shrugged and held out his hand, palm up, eyes closed. Without letting Kleist see, Vague Henri dropped the stone, and Cale closed his fist around it. He opened his eyes. Then Henri brought out the remaining two stones, one in each fist. Still Kleist was wary of making a decision in case he should, in some way he couldn’t quite put his finger on, be taken advantage of.

“Get a move on,” said Vague Henri, unusually irritable. With great reluctance Kleist tapped Henri’s right hand and closed his eyes. Now they all had one stone each.

“On a count of three. One, two, three.”

The three boys opened their fists. Cale was holding the smallest stone.

“Well, at least you know it’ll be done properly.”

“You needn’t have worried, Cale,” said Kleist. “I wouldn’t have had any problems slotting you.”

Cale looked at him, but the trace of a smile was still there.

“What are you doing?” Riba had woken up and had been watching them. Kleist looked over at her.

“We’ve been discussing who we eat first when we run out of food.” He looked at her meaningfully, as if to suggest that the answer was pretty obvious.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Vague Henri. “We were just deciding who’d take the first watch.”

“When is it my turn?” said Riba.

All three of the acolytes were surprised at the defiant, even irritable note in her voice.

“You need all the rest you can get,” said Vague Henri.

“I’m ready to do my share.”

“Of course. In a few days when you’re more used to this. For now we need you as rested as possible. It’s best-you can see that.”

It was, of course, hard to argue.

“Would you like something to eat?” said Vague Henri, holding up a piece of dried rat. It did not look appetizing, least of all to a girl raised on cream and pastries, chicken pie and delicious gravies. But she was very hungry.