The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (10 page)

“What’s that?” Adeleine said. Understanding flickered into
being, and she got as far as saying, “Oh… you want to know…” before Bastille
cut her off.

“Who the father is, yes.” Bastille knew Sister Adeleine would
take a moment to think it through before she responded, but Bastille had
already arrived at the answer.
It’s that grotesquery, Brother Mortial, by
whom we have done a dishonor to our Order in naming. I saw it in his eyes—the
lecherous, fornicating sack of skin. That was a cunning trick, faking sick so
he could leave the preparation room yesterday and keep tabs on his lady love;
that bewildered look on his face when he returned, stinking of fear. He was
right to be afraid. They’ll both be punished for this. Oh, it will be a
wondrous day when they’re brought to justice. They’ll make a fine example for the
others. More feed for the Cypriests. More fodder for the hogs and more
fertilizer for the crops.

“Kind Sister Bastille,” Adeleine said. “Sister Jeanette told
me… not to tell.”

Bastille brushed aside her visions of retribution in favor of
the façade of kindness. “You can tell me, my child.”

“I can trust you,” Adeleine said, looking Bastille in the
eyes for perhaps the first time ever, searching there for some hint of truth.

“Oh, my dear girl. What a precious soul you are, to care for
Sister Jeanette so much. What a loving, compassionate young woman. The Mouth
bless you. It is just as you said; I was exactly the right person to come to
with this.” The saccharine sweetness of it all made Bastille want to gag,
but she held onto her stiff smile and squeezed the acolyte’s hand.

“The father is… Brother Soleil, kind Sister.”

There was certainty in Adeleine’s face. This was something
Sister Jeanette had told her. Even an acolyte knew what an offense like this
could mean for those involved. If it was the truth, the lives of Brother Soleil
and Sister Jeanette might both be forfeit. Brother Soleil was Bastille’s mentor
and friend, but an acolyte’s word was no proof; while Adeleine didn’t appear to
be lying, Sister Jeanette might very well have been.

There came a thud and a splash from the upper courtyard.
Bastille hurried past Sister Adeleine and darted up the steps. The blue bucket
she’d placed next to the path lay on its side, the heel of a slipper print
visible in the wash of entrails covering the walkway. She glanced up at the
outer door and saw it coming to rest in its frame. Someone had been listening.

Bolting up the steps and down the walkway, she entered the
outer door—the one set inside the first layer of thick, tinted glass—then the
second, and finally, the third. In front of her, in a room so large it dwarfed
even the sanctuary, stretched the vast gardens of the conservatory.

The gardens were humid and windless, leaves laying still along
their stems and branches, revealing no hint of where anyone had passed. Sister
Bastille could still hear the faint echo of the choir’s chants coming from
beyond the doors on the far wall. The hogs grunted happily in their pens, no
doubt because they had seen her and were expecting feed. The kitchen doors on
the opposite wall were still, and whomever she had followed inside was nowhere
in sight, so she was almost certain her quarry had disappeared into the foliage
and was somewhere in the midst of the sprawling gardens before her.

She peered into the dim folds of undergrowth and scanned the
ground for prints. She was no tracker; she’d never even been in the wilderness
apart from her journey to Belmond when she first came here. When she had passed
the initiation rites and become a member of the Order, they had taken her on a
grand tour of the basilica. The first time she saw the conservatory and on each
occasion since, she’d found its mockery of nature utterly haunting. The
fabricated environment here was so rich and vibrant, beyond any other oasis or
garden that existed in the natural above-world. As one moved through it, there
came the smells of every delight one could wish for; the fruit trees and their
sweetness; the robust, hearty aroma of the wheat field; the savory herbs; the
coarse fibrous smells of tubers and roots and vegetables. It was all too
perfect to believe, for so much to have grown and thrived in these scorched
and barren lands.

Bastille took her first step into the brush and listened,
aching that some noise would issue forth, drown out the hogs and the chants and
point her in the direction of her quarry. Just then the door behind her flew
open, and she heard footsteps hurtling toward her. She wheeled in place and
saw, to her relief, that it was merely Sister Adeleine, rushing to her side.

Bastille put a finger to her lips and hissed. “Please. Kindly
take these and clean up the mess outside,” she whispered, handing Adeleine a
dingy pair of gloves. “Leave the bucket inside the door. Not to worry; I will
find you later and we shall speak further.”

Wordless, Adeleine took the gloves and went back outside.

Foolish girl
. Bastille turned her attention back to
the matter at hand, watching and listening. Another dozen steps into the
garden, she came upon a juncture where rows of tall trees met a forest of
vegetables—bean vines laced through white trellises, tomatoes in their round
wire cages, high corn stalks standing on their own. The field trailed into
shorter and shorter varieties as it stretched toward the windows. She scanned
the entire area, but saw no sign of anyone.

Before passing beneath a row of fruit trees and over the
gentle arch of the footbridge spanning the narrow artificial stream, she
snapped a small green apple off in each hand, tossing one and catching it to
get a feel for the weight. Not much of a weapon, but with the blood pumping
through her and the little she knew of her quarry’s intent, she was inclined to
take whatever small advantage she might find.

Choir rehearsal must have been over by the time she was in
the thick of the gardens; that, or the shroud of leaves around her had defeated
the sounds of the distant songs. It was nice here in the shade; cool and dark. But
it was also eerie. She would’ve been reluctant to find herself alone in these
densest parts of the greenhouse at any other time.

Perhaps it’s foolhardy of me to continue this pursuit
,
she thought. At best, it was an acolyte who had fled after hearing the
conversation—which is to say that in the worst case, it was one of the
Esteemed. More likely that it was a younger person, judging by the haste with
which they had eluded her. Or else they were older, but still quick on their
feet. Spry, like Brother Soleil. Postulating would do her little good, she
decided; she needed to know.

It wasn’t the information itself so much as what the
eavesdropper would do with it that concerned her. This whole turn of events
could be a boon if she were able to orchestrate the outcome in her favor. With
an unknown third party involved, there was no way to ensure secrecy. That
left too much hanging in the balance for her liking.

Bastille dropped her apples and took hold of a sturdy-looking
tree branch, then hoisted herself into the crook between the trunk and the
branch. It had been a long time since the last trees in her village had
withered and become unfit for climbing. She grappled the next-highest branch,
finding that though her body lacked the agility of its youth her muscles still
held the memory.
The Mouth, how old and soft I’ve become.
As she
climbed, she found that the distance to the top felt longer than it had looked
from the ground. Her keenness paid off, however; she saw the crouched form of a
hooded gray figure in the field of beanstalks that led toward the kitchens.

When she leaned against the branch to search for a way down,
she felt it snap. Before she knew what had happened, she was dangling by one
arm. Through the branches she saw the figure dart toward the kitchen doors. She
made it to the ground after a frustrating climb down, then snatched up her
robes and bolted after the figure.

She pushed through the swinging doors and arrived in the
kitchen just in time to see a shape veer around the corner at the far end of
the long galley, lined with its stainless steel tables, shelves piled high with
metal bowls and utensils, and the old gas stoves that hadn’t been used for
decades. What her quarry must not have known was that they were heading
straight for a dead-end. Around the corner, the kitchens stretched for another
twenty feet or so before reaching the larder, a wide hallway where the Order’s
stores of foodstuffs were kept. At the end of the larder was the heavy
insulated door of the walk-in freezer, which was now used as a second pantry.
The eavesdropper must have been a young acolyte if his or her knowledge of the
basilica grounds was so limited. If they’d turned the other way, they would’ve
had access to the refectory and its many connecting hallways. Instead, they
were trapped.

The door to the walk-in freezer was just coming to a close by
the time Bastille rounded the corner. She smiled as she hurtled down the long
pantry hallway, her robes flapping behind her. Yanking the latch, she felt the
suction give way to a rush of cool air as the door came open. She pushed a
slatted wooden box of potatoes into the way to keep the door from closing
behind her.

Heavy plastic strips hung from the top of the doorframe.
Within the freezer were rows of slaughtered carcasses, smoked and cured; jars
of pickled vegetables and fruit preserves; and an assortment of other more
delicate ingredients that were best kept in cooler temperatures. The freezer
was the coldest room above-surface in the basilica; the chill was almost as
distinct as in the basements below, though the air was fresher.

The light faded toward the back of the freezer until it
became a dim gray pool where the objects were indistinguishable from one
another. Bastille searched for something she could defend herself with, but
everything around made a better meal than it did a weapon. There was no sound
aside from her breathing; not the snap of a crouching kneecap or the shifting
of some item moved by mistake. She tried to quiet herself, but she was winded,
and every breath hissed louder than a waterfall.
Why am I so frightened? If
this person is a member of the Order, which they almost certainly are, then I
have no reason to be afraid of them
. “Alright, this was a fun little game.
Now, out with you.” She walked toward the back of the freezer as she spoke, her
words ringing against the hollows of the room. When she stopped speaking, all
was quiet again.

“Hello?” she asked the darkness, her voice quivering with
uncertainty.

There was no movement; no mad dash as her quarry leapt from
the shadows to pummel her or shove past her toward the door. There was no other
air in the room besides her own. When she came to the back wall of the freezer,
she realized she was alone. The sweat on her neck went cold.
Have I been
seeing things?
Had the wisp of a gray robe fluttering around the bend been
a figment of her imagination? She thought of the labyrinth—the network of passages
hidden below the basilica. She wasn’t crazy; there had to be an entrance
nearby.

She took a step backward, then another, and bumped into something.
She exhaled when she realized it was only one of the hanging carcasses. After a
few moments, she found herself outside the freezer again, still panting. She
kept an eye on the door while she found a candle and lit it with a striker from
the kitchens. Entering the freezer once more, she studied every crevice in the
candlelight, searching from front to back until she had determined that there
was no one else inside.

She held her candle aloft and gazed at the ceiling, which was
the same flat gray insulated plastic as the rest of the walls. The meat
carcasses were suspended from chains connected to a latticework of bars. One of
the carcasses wasn’t connected to the grid at all, though; instead, the chain
ascended through a round hole in the ceiling.

Bastille wrapped her free arm around the hard glistening
carcass and pulled downward, but nothing happened. She set the candle in its
tin holder on an empty shelf behind her and wrapped the carcass in a great bear
hug, pulling downward with all the might she had left in her aching limbs. She
lifted her feet off the ground until she was hanging with her full weight on
the chained carcass, and still nothing happened.

Sliding into a crouch with her face pressed against the
encased muscle, she took the body of the beast in both hands and lifted with
her legs. When it became too heavy, she grunted and let it fall, despondent. As
she watched the carcass jerk and swing on its leash, she considered again that
she might be deluding herself. But when the carcass swung wide and gave the
candlelight a berth to shine past it, she saw.

In the midst of her lifting, while a hundred pounds of meat
had been pressed up against her face, the door had swung upward without a
sound. The gaping hole in the rear wall of the freezer was behind a tall stack
of wooden crates that nearly shielded it from sight. There, a stone staircase
descended into the depths of the basilica.

Her heart leapt in her chest, her pulse quickened, and her
mind began to race. She was no high priest; she had no right to use the
labyrinth. The figure she pursued did, apparently. She’d lost plenty of time finding
the entrance, and she had no idea where the passage led, or how to get back out
again. She could follow her quarry into the labyrinth and risk being expelled
from the Order. Or she could let him go.

Even in her former life, Sister Bastille had always played by
the rules. Perhaps it was time to start making her own.

CHAPTER 10

The Shepherds

Starlight cast the filthy streets of North Belmond in
deep blue. Light from the apartments lining Harpin Avenue shed orange shadows
that made the heaping piles of rubble dance and jump like living things. Figures
huddled in alleys and crept across vacant lots, and Corporal Merrick Bouchard
made his way down the patchwork road beneath a bottomless sky.

After spending the early part of his childhood in the city
south, the streets of the north seemed clean by comparison. The buildings on
Harpin Avenue were tall and stately despite their age. They must have been
filled at one time with the sharp men he’d seen in pictures—the ones wealthy
businessmen paid to make them wealthier. It sounded ridiculous, that men had
once earned their livings increasing the number of numbers that belonged to
other men, but it was true, according to the histories.

My old job was more important than that
, Merrick told
himself. Being reassigned to the Sentries had made him feel like he mattered
little to the Scarred. Still, he spent his days keeping scum out of the city
north. That had to be worth something. On cool nights like these, there was no
substitute for enjoying a walk in relative safety and with little fear of harm.

As a comrade, Merrick had chosen to exercise the privilege of
carrying his own personal sidearm, a silvered-steel handgun he liked to call
Birch. It was tarnished and worn, but in midday it still glinted like a tin
shack.

Sometimes as he daydreamed, Merrick liked to imagine how it
must have been to live in the city north before the Great Heat. Belmond was the
jewel that crowned the desert, they said. A paradise, shining and pristine,
biggest of all the cities in the Inner East; bigger than Tristol, Southcape,
and even New Kettering. The skyscrapers that punctured the clouds had been
gleaming pillars of steel and glass by day; by night, silhouetted behemoths
with glowing bellies. The morning streets would fill up with scurrying workers,
who would race back home to nap when the light was full in the sky, only to do
it all over again as the afternoon drew onward. They had cold drinks and soft
beds with crisp, clean sheets. There were balms that could stop you from
sweating, he’d heard—and plenty of food for everyone. The people spent their
days pursuing diversions whose sole purpose was to pass the time.
Those
would’ve been good days to be alive
, Merrick decided.

But the heaviest stones make the largest ripples. The
desolated HydroPyre station in the center of the northwest district was
testament to that. As soon as convenience died, so too had the majesty of the
desert cities. Merrick tried to envision the wall of angry citizens bustling
shoulder-to-shoulder down the pavement, the translucent shattering of glass,
thieves looting from broken shops, and fires breaking out across the city. When
his visions of those fierce days faded away, all that remained were the hollow,
graffitied structures, the sad heaps of rubble, and the pervasive stench of
piss and excrement and heat-rotted garbage. He could still see the remnants of
the most recent starwinds in the night sky, wisps of sallow green and gold.
Most plasma storms didn’t make him sick, but this last one had been especially
strong, and had rendered hundreds of his comrades bedridden for days.

Merrick’s shifts changed from week to week; he didn’t always
get off at night and he didn’t always work during the day. Whenever he was
off-shift in the evening, the Boiler Yard was his canteen of choice. The bar’s oil
torches came into view as he neared the end of Harpin Avenue. He could already
hear bottles clinking, music playing, and people talking in loud drunken
voices. Those sounds always excited him.

The Boiler Yard’s cinderblock rambler would have been the plainest
single-story building he’d ever seen if not for the patchwork of metallic
roofing panels and tacky adornments that passed for decorations. He crossed the
crumbling footbridge and circled the tower of debris that had gathered beneath
the adjacent apartment building. Tables on the Boiler Yard’s outdoor patio were
brimming with patrons in the throes of raucous conversation, trading tales,
seducing each other, playing games, and complaining about the heat. Weather is
one certainty that will always yield a surplus of grievances, even when nothing
changes from one day to the next. It was the seediest, most disgusting pub in
the city north, and Merrick loved it.

He entered the barren yard through its chainlink gates. At
one time, the enclosure had been leased by an appliance company. The pub owners
had started to relocate the old rusted machines, but they’d abandoned the
effort as soon as they’d cleared a path. The rest of the yard was still
littered with the guts of stoves, washers, and water heaters. It was like a statue
garden, only the more you looked at it, the more it made you want to look at
something else.

The patio’s decking was a hacked-together mosaic of corroded
grates, rusty corrugated steel sheets, and greened copper plating, all riveted
to the wood beneath. The inner city was more forgiving than the open desert
toward man-made things, especially where the tall buildings sheltered them from
the elements. The tables were big wooden utility spools turned onto their
sides, or stacks of plastic crates fastened together and topped with butcher’s
block, or they were made from whatever other scraps the proprietors had
salvaged from around the city.

The bottles, mugs and glasses were a motley assortment, all
used a thousand times before and washed with less than outstanding care.
Washing required water, after all, and water was always in short supply. The
other utensils were just as varied; pitchers made from milk jugs with their
tops cut off; plates and cutlery of every thickness and pattern and color.

When Merrick came close enough so the torches could
illuminate his face, he was greeted with such droll pleasantries as ‘
at
ease, soldier,’
and ‘
look a’ this coffin’ dway,’
and ‘
it’s my
baby boy!’
These were the regulars, and since traders and merchants were
the only visitors the city north ever got, regulars made up the majority of the
pub’s patronage. They weren’t all comrades, of course, but the locals respected
the Scarred men, by and large.

Merrick ascended the shallow steps to the patio. As he began
working his way through the crowd, hands emerged to clap wrists with him and
slap him on the shoulders. They were a crew of misfits and mongrels, soldiers,
barflies, and off-shift city workers. These were people whom Merrick considered
family. Maybe they weren’t relatives, but they were the closest thing he had. Merrick’s
mother had left before he was old enough to remember her. His father had never
stopped blaming him for it, always more preoccupied with feeding his zoom habit
than with caring for his son.

Merrick slipped through the crowd of tables and swung the
door open. The inside of the bar looked much like the patio, except for the
quilt of smog that obfuscated everyone from the shoulders up. Presiding
statuesque over the festivities was Colvin, the hulking bouncer who stood just inside
the entrance. Merrick gave Colvin a pat on the shoulder as he passed by. A pair
of musicians was playing in the corner, a folk song on guitar and hand drum.
Billiard balls cracked, fizzed, clunked. The two ancient tables were warped,
the sticks handmade, and the balls collected from multiple sets. Most didn’t
know the difference, and the tables were in high demand every night. Merrick
was good at billiards, but he rarely played. He was good at a lot of things
he’d given up on or lost interest in, when he thought about it.

“Gimme a tall one of whatever slop you’re peddling tonight,”
Merrick said when he reached the bar. “It’s cool out and I want something with
enough hair to keep me warm.”

The bartender, Flanagan, was a lithe fellow, and only a few
years older than Merrick. He had a well-trimmed goatee and a head
of thick black hair, which never seemed to grow longer than a finger’s width
off his scalp. “Ain’t seen you in a couple a’ long days,” Flanagan said, warm
but unsmiling.

“Working.”

“Right,” said the bartender, pouring him a mug of something
dark and stiff-looking. “Kill any muters lately?”

“Not many since I got put on guard duty. Ain’t too exciting
up in the birdhouse.”

Flanagan pinched his lips together. He righted the mug and
finished his pour, letting the head lift into a perfect pillow. Underneath, the
brew was heavy and aphotic, a shade of even dingier black-brown than coffee.

Merrick’s mouth watered.

“What’re you paying with tonight, more copper?” Flanagan
asked.

“More copper, and some gold.” Merrick drew a coil of thick
electrical wire and a beat-up old necklace from his pocket. He let the necklace
drizzle onto Flanagan’s palm. The bartender examined it before tucking it into
the register.

“Start me a tab,” Merrick said, taking the mug in hand. He
looked past the bartender to the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign posted on the back door. The
locks and bolts all along its length gave one the idea that this was not a
suggestion. The Boiler Yard’s brewery and cellars were set up behind the
building, in a fenced-in lot festooned with barbed wire. Flanagan and his
business partners had rigged up the distillers in a series of truck boxes,
using pipes, gauges, and holding tanks from the dozens of appliances at their
disposal. It was the largest brewing operation in North Belmond, and it kept
them from having to rely solely on the trade caravans for their stock.

Merrick raised the mug, intending to take a long draught. The
brew was bitter and musty, stocky as molasses, and he had to stop after the
first swallow. “New batch?” he asked, grimacing.

“Takes some getting used to,” Flanagan said, smiling for the
first time.

“It’s good… just took me by surprise,” Merrick said. He
wasn’t sure whether he was lying.

“Should’ve smelled it first.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m just thirsty.”

Merrick felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

A soft voice came from behind him. “How you been, sweetie?”

Kaylene
, Merrick knew.

She wriggled under his arm and nuzzled her face into his
chest. In typical fashion, she was already quite impaired for such an early
hour.

Whoever sold you that outfit forgot to give you the other
half
, Merrick thought. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Looks like you’re doing
pretty well yourself.”

Kaylene laughed. “I’m always better when I see you, sweetie.”
She let go and took the barstool beside him, tossing her platinum mane over one
shoulder. “So, tell me what’s new.”

Kaylene was a decade older than Merrick, but she never got
tired of teasing him. She’d be as friendly as it took to earn a drink. Then
she’d be off to earn her next one from some other poor sap. Merrick was used to
the routine.

“Kaylene, I keep telling you. This thing between us? It’s
never gonna happen. I couldn’t live with myself if I ruined our friendship.”

Kaylene laughed again and touched his arm. “Aw, you’re so
sweet, honey. I missed you.”

Merrick was out of patience. He pulled away from Kaylene’s
hand and glanced around the bar. The man on the stool behind him was Wiles
Jensen, a middle-aged city contractor, and the bearer of a considerable white
mustache. Merrick tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned and stared at him
with a blank expression.

Merrick had a knack for remembering people, even the ones who
had no recollection of him. He’d come to accept that maybe he wasn’t all that
memorable. “Have you met this young lady?” Merrick asked him. Then to Kaylene,
he said, “Kaylene, this is Wiles Jensen. Why don’t you introduce yourself and
shake his hand?” Merrick knew the two had met before, but Kaylene was past the
point of recollection.

Merrick grabbed his mug off the bar. “I’ll see you in a
little while, Flan,” he shouted with a wave, receding into the haze of the
room. The bartender smirked when he noticed Kaylene and her mustachioed
paramour.

The first table Merrick came to was manned by three of his
fellow soldiers. They were all part of Mobile Ops, his old unit.

“Hey, Bouchard. What’s new in the birdhouse, comrade?” said
Admison Kugh, a severe-looking man with a flat head and a muscled neck and
jawline. He was about Merrick’s height, but broader in the shoulders and
thinner across the midriff. They called him Adder, or just Q, since his last
name was pronounced like the letter.

“Pick up any mutie girls lately?” asked Coker Reed. He was a
thicker man than both of them, portly through the midsection, but not quite as
tall, with a bulbous nose and round cheeks that were always flushed.

The third soldier, Jettle Trimbold, raised his beer in
greeting, but said nothing. Trim, they called him. He was exactly that, in both
form and function—and he was the tallest of the lot.

“You dways lose a bet?” Merrick said, passing a hand over his
scalp. All three of the Mobile Ops boys were balder than bullets.

“That’s funny, coming from someone who looks like he’s
wearing a cactus helmet,” Coker said. “You’re lookin’ pudgy these days,
Bouchard.”

“And you can still charm the whiskers off a bushcat. Let’s
pull
you
off the beat and see how long it takes you to grow your hair
out and work up a bay window like this one.” Merrick bulged his belly and gave
it a loving rub.

“Seriously, how is it up there?” Kugh repeated, chuckling.

“Sucks. How’d you think it was? The whole city south is
crawling with muties I never get to kill.” Merrick took a more measured drink
from his brew. The taste was growing on him, but even the smaller sip made him
shudder.

“I think the birdhouse would be great,” Kugh said. “Sitting
on your ass all day, a mutie or two for target practice every now and then…
having a piss without some ganger trying to chop your dick off. That’s the
dream, man.”