Chapter 28

It takes four buckets of water to get the caked-on filth off its flesh. After, the two attendants guide it to a stool to wash its hair and face. They clean the wounds on its arms and legs, and start on the writing on its torso. The soapy water barely smears it. They step back and they huddle with the other attendants, and when they return the woman says, “We think oil will be better than soap for removing the ink. This way, please.

They escort it to the massage table and have it lay down. A third attendant, a young woman more muscular than the others, picks up a bottle of oil and pours some into her hands, rubbing them together to warm them up. The woman spreads the oil, which smells of oranges and cloves, on its flesh. Her touch is firm and pleasant enough that it almost falls asleep until her hands run over the scrapes hidden beneath the ink. The pain pulls it awake, though it makes no sound and barely flinches. The woman still notices and her touch lightens. Once more it drifts toward sleep, though it never quite makes it.

The oils work and the attendants wipe the ink from its back until their cloths no longer come away black. They have it turn over and do the same on the front. After, they ask it to return to the wash station and clean the last of the oil from its flesh before gently drying it with long, soft towels.

Another man comes forward with a basket of bandages and antiseptic. His hands are quick and efficient, and the antiseptic he uses stings but doesn’t burn like the one at the manor. Soon its arms, legs and torso are wrapped in new, clean bandages. The attendant who took away its filthy loincloth steps forward, holding a set of clothes.

The clothes are servant’s garb: white shirt and loincloth, kilt in Council grey, and a pair of sandals, no doubt taken from the council’s storerooms. The man hands the clothes to it one piece at a time, allows it to dress at its own pace. It’s a simple gesture that gives it control, and with it, strength.

When it finishes dressing, it feels cleaner and healthier than it has in days. It bows to the attendants. “Thank you all.”

They bow back and smile before returning to their waiting positions. The two deaths step up beside it and once more grab its arms — a reminder it that it still at their mercy. They lead it out of the bathing chamber through the main doors. Another servant is there, waiting. He nods his head and says to the Deaths, “Follow me, please.”

They take it through the marble-tiled hallway and up a wide set of stairs whose sweeping curve take them past the main floor to a long, wood-floored hallway with small doors set at irregular intervals along its length. Most are closed, and behind the few that are open it sees men and women working at desks. The servant stops two-thirds down the hallway, opens a door and gestures for it to go inside. It looks first, sees small room with a narrow window, and a table with eight chairs around it. No one else is inside, but in front of the chair at the far end of the table is a tray with a tureen with its lid on, a spoon and a small stack of flatbreads.

“You are to wait here,” the servant says, “until summoned by the council.”

It goes in and they lock the door behind it. A look out the windows shows that the afternoon sun is making its way down from the sky, the drop to the ground is 30 feet, and that there are guards looking up at it. It puts away its thoughts of escape and turns its attention to the tureen. Lifting the lid reveal what was once a hot soup. It is cold, now, and the oil has started to separate, covering the surface with a rainbow sheen. It sniffs it and gets a nose full of spices, vegetables, and fish. It picks up the spoon and sits at the table.

A quick stir recombines the oil and broth, and its first, tentative taste tells it that, cold or not, the soup is good. It eats slowly and steadily, alternating spoons of soup with bites of flatbread—stale, it notices. Given what was being made it the kitchen, it suspects that they gave it the leftovers from the servants’ lunch. Its stomach doesn’t care, but it knows that this is the Council’s next attack.

They gave me food but not good food. They didn’t bring my weapons, and they locked me in. They’re showing they listened, but I’m still a prisoner, and they won’t meet all my demands.

What’s my counter-attack?

It has no answer, so it finishes the soup and flatbreads, then goes to the corner of the room farthest from the door and curls up on the floor. With luck it will get some sleep before the council starts their next attack.

The sound of the lock clicking wakens it, and it’s on its feet before the door opens. The room is dark, and it wonders briefly what hour of the night it is before it sees who is in the hallway.

“Come,” Councillor Davina says, and steps back from the door.

A servant stands on either side of the hallway, a lamp in their hand. Both Deaths are still there, and a pair of guards as well. The councillor and servants walk ahead, and the others form a square, the guards between it and the Councillor, the Deaths walking behind. None of them have weapons out, and none try to touch it.

They don’t trust me but they aren’t treating me like a prisoner. If they were, they’d hold my arms or have me in chains. It isn’t certain what is going on, but it knows it isn’t in control. It thinks about asking for its daggers again, but doubts the Councillor will answer. So it stays silent down the stairs and through the hallway.

The big doors to the council chamber come in sight, closed shut but with two guards standing ready. When the see the councillor they pull them open. Davina stops at the door, and it can see her steeling herself before she leads them inside.

The inside of the council chamber is packed with people and stinks of fear and blood and death.

There are easily three hundred men, women and children in the room. They sit in groups, each a little distant from the others. Men and women wearing bleak expressions rock babies and cradle sleeping small children. Older children sit, hugging and leaning against one another. There is terror on every child’s face. The older ones try to mask it for the younger, but don’t succeed.

Council guards stand along the walls, swords in their hands, watching the crowd like they expect a riot to break out.

The Councillor walks down the aisle without looking at any of them. She leads it to the front where the four men and two women stand, three on each side of the aisle, facing the council’s platform. The six tremble with fear, their eyes either wide with the horror of what they’ve seen or closed tight as their mouths move in rapid prayer.

Four bodies lie on the floor between the standing men and women and the platform steps: two men and two women, lying in pools of their own blood. Their bodies are broken, and holes stud their flesh where the demon’s tentacles tore into them.

Four terrified, pleading ghosts stand over their own corpses, demanding to know why this is happening, and begging for help and release.

Seven shallow steps above, the six House elders sit in six chairs across the front of the platform; three on either side of a single, empty stool. Tralique, Glarin and Paskoni’s elders sit on the left; Darlona, Recinta and Flecina on the right. None wear chains anymore, and each has their Master of Death behind them. Their expressions are grim and fearful, until they see it walk up the aisle. As one they straighten and it sees hope come into their eyes.

Behind them, sitting at the council table, is the Trimagh, her face pale, her expression grim. Her attendants stand on either side, their own faces impassive, but tight-reined anger showing in their postures and clenched fists.

Councillor Davina does not notice the ghost she steps through as walks to the council platform and stops, just below the empty chair. She turns, spreading her arms to take in all the families sitting on the church floor.

“These are the remains of Houses, Glarin, Tralique, Paskoni, Darlona, Recinta, and Flecina,” she says. “All the survivors of the main Houses, and all the cousins. We brought them here together, so they could all learn what horrors have been wrought to make their Houses successful.”

She nods at the Deaths. They lead it up the stairs, turn it, and make it sit in the centre chair, where every eye in the place can see it. Then they take positions behind it.

“It is about time you brought it,” the Litarch of Felcina says, her voice petulant. “Has the thing grown any less stubborn?”

“You’re the key to all this,” Davina says to it, loud enough that everyone in the room hears. “Every man, woman and child in this room will die, torn apart by the demon, unless you take part in the ritual.”

It looks at the crowd; the frightened parents, the angry young men and women, the terrified older children, and the uncomprehending little ones. All look toward it, hope and accusation in their eyes.

“The demon is killing every hour, now,” Davina continues. “So tell us, Death of Kilcharni, will you stop it?”

Chapter 29 comes June 20th!

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