Chapter 19 Mullayne
Mullayne
Langzu – in the mountains east of Bian
Daily arrest log, fourth day of the third month of summer, Bian
Drunken loitering in inner Bian in the early-morning hours. Offender: member of a noble clan. Action: escorted home.
Theft of ration tickets. Offender: citizen. Action: fined and made to return stolen property.
Vandalizing a competing market stall. Offender: citizen. Action: fined and three nights’ imprisonment.
Murder of a royal clan member. Offender: non-citizen (no papers). Action: sent to the barrier.
It had been far too easy for Sheuan to convince the enforcers that he was in fact not Mullayne Reisun, but the murderer of Mullayne Reisun, a common brigand who’d taken a noble’s money, his papers, and his life.
They hadn’t even considered that he might be the man himself.
Under Sheuan’s watchful gaze, they’d taken him into custody, handed his papers – his papers!
– to his cousin, and then tossed him into one of their barred wagons.
Was it really that easy to get someone thrown into the barrier? All one had to do was have the right credentials and dislike a person with no clan rank? It didn’t seem right, or fair – and yet…
He couldn’t deny this was the state he was in.
To his surprise, only two other criminals begged clemency from Kluehnn.
“Not interested. I’d rather have a quick end,” one grizzled woman had said.
Before he could ask exactly what she meant by that, Mull was being pulled from that wagon, put into another one, and then carted over a bumpy road mostly during the night.
During the day, he’d lain on the floor, trying to ignore the sound of the others pissing into the pot in the corner.
Thin gruel, sips of warm water. Even in the depths of Tolemne’s Path, even in all his despair, he’d still had his pen and his notebook, if not a fully functioning mind.
Here, his mind was fully functioning, and it didn’t feel like a blessing. Day bled into night bled into day. It wasn’t a long distance to the den, but it was a climb. He thought he counted seven days. Maybe eight?
But now it was dawn, the bleating of goats was sounding in the distance, and he couldn’t tell if the strong scent of body odor was his or from one of his two unfamiliar roommates.
An enforcer banged on the bars. “We’re here.”
He really shouldn’t have been excited to see the den, but he couldn’t help the rise of curiosity. People didn’t go in and then come back out. He was about to see something few mortals ever did. He hopped out first, stretching his sore legs.
An altered man stood outside the wagon, gray robes embroidered on the front with a white eye.
Every visible bit of skin was covered in spotted fur; a pair of tusks curved out from between his lips.
No dagger at his hip, but a set of black claws tipped his fingers.
“Three,” he muttered. “We could have used more.”
The enforcer closed the bars behind them, the clang echoing off the mountain rock. She shrugged. “Well that’s really not the Sovereign’s problem, is it?”
The man only grumbled. “Line up and follow me.”
Mull was already in the front. As he marched down the path after the altered, the woman at the back made a run for it.
The altered man let out the most aggrieved sigh Mull had ever heard. “Runner!” he shouted.
A soft click, and the woman fell, a bolt in her back. A gray-robed figure rose from behind a cluster of rocks farther up the peak.
The altered man pointed to the winged woman with the crossbow and then to the body on the ground.
“That’s what happens if you run. Some people need to be told.
Some people” – he shrugged – “need to be shot.” He turned and continued to lead them down the path.
“And if you’re thinking of trying to jump me… ”
Mull had not been thinking of that.
“… it didn’t work out that well for the last eight people who tried.”
It was a little cooler here in the mountains, the rust-colored rocks punctuated by small patches of grass and a few trees that reminded Mull of the short, gnarled hands of his grandmother.
The path they walked on split off into others, the dirt and gravel marked with overlapping footprints.
They took a right fork. The scent of earth gave way to something stronger. Something quite unpleasant.
“You’ll be working the latrine ditches.”
Whatever excitement might have been building in Mull’s gut shriveled into a raisin. “Are we not going into the den?”
The altered kept speaking. “We rotate use from the north end to the south end and then back to the north. What you’ll be doing is removing the old, compacted waste and packing it into the provided wagon.
We sell it to nearby farmers. So.” He picked up a shovel.
“A necessary task. And a glorious way to serve Kluehnn.” He handed the shovel across to Mull.
Mull could hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears. He wrapped his fingers around the handle. This couldn’t be it – digging out waste until he dropped from exhaustion or heat or both. He was here to infiltrate the den. “Where do we sleep?”
The altered man’s eyes narrowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“So you heard my first one?”
The altered took a half-step closer. He loomed over Mull, a growl low in his throat. “You asked for the mercy of Kluehnn. This is his mercy. Now get to work.” He pushed him toward the ditch.
If Mull thought it had smelled bad from above, the scent was eye-watering inside the ditch itself.
The filter he’d smuggled beneath his shirt rubbed against his skin.
A part of him was tempted to wear it just to avoid the sting of each breath.
They joined two others already at work – broad-shouldered women who glanced up briefly as they stepped into the filth.
Mull fell into the rhythm of it, his back aching after only a few trips up with his bucket.
There was only one wheelbarrow in use; the other lay broken at the side of the ditch.
He’d been so sure when he’d made these plans that they’d take him into the den, that he’d be able to sneak away and find the tomb.
But there was someone in the rocks with a crossbow, and with his shoes coated in waste, he’d not escape notice. They’d smell him coming.
For the second time in his life, he found himself completely out of his depth.
He’d been accustomed to all the mysteries of the world giving way to the gentle press of his intellect; there’d not been a problem he couldn’t solve given time.
But his mind now was blank, every potential solution discarded as soon as it whispered into existence.
What the fuck had he done? He was going to die here.
What a useless way to die. He’d never been devout. He didn’t care about Kluehnn’s missions or ideals. The only thing that really affected him was restoration, so that had been the only thing he’d cared about.
He watched the woman next to him as she stepped back down into the muck, her black hair shorn close to her scalp. She worked with alacrity, barely slowing. Someone came down the path, lifted their robes, and pissed into the trench only a short distance from where Mull stood.
He caught the woman by the arm before she could take hold of the wheelbarrow again. “Why work so hard?”
She shrugged him off. “If you prove worthy, you’re granted a boon. I’ve been doing this for nearly a year.”
The man who’d arrived with Mull snorted. “No one gets out alive.”
“That you know of,” she panted out. And then she was putting her legs into the work, shoving up toward the shit wagon.
They broke for a meal around noon, their supervisor giving them a bucket to wash their hands in, and then small meat-filled buns when they were finished. They were eating in the shadow of a boulder, Mull savoring each bite, when a cohort of godkillers appeared down the path.
He was on his feet before he’d realized he was scrambling. There was no mistaking them: the fluid way they moved, the daggers at their belts, their embossed leather breastplates and fine robes.
The one in the front had a pair of large black and white wings, which he spread when he was ten paces from the workers.
The godkillers behind him stopped. “You.” He pointed at the woman with the short-shorn hair.
“Your efforts will be rewarded. You have been chosen to descend and speak with Kluehnn.”
She fell to her knees, her food forgotten. “Bless the many-limbed god. Bless his many eyes.”
Mull shrank back into the shadow of the rocks as they took her. The supervisor was there, too, licking at one tusk, his brows low. “Well that’s one less worker for the ditches. They’ll overflow if they keep that up.”
“Where did they take her?”
A blow struck Mull across the cheek, so quick he barely registered that it was the supervisor who’d hit him. He stumbled, struggling to keep his feet beneath him, his face throbbing.
“Too many questions!” the supervisor barked.
By the time night fell, Mull was a collection of bruises, blisters, and aching muscles.
For a moment he hoped they would be ferried into the den, into the shelter of a cave.
Perhaps he could sneak away while everyone slept.
Surely there wouldn’t be someone with a crossbow in the narrow confines of the tunnels.
But the supervisor merely pointed them to a bank of bedrolls beneath a ledge, out here in the open air, nestled into a bed of gravel.
“There are sentries set around the perimeter of the den, and they can see in the dark better than you. So unless you want to end up as a nice pincushion, you’ll get some rest.”
Mull waited until the supervisor had retreated to his own bedroll, somewhere up the slope. He heard the rustle of wood, the faint crackling of a new fire. “How many do they take for Kluehnn?”