Chapter Aubade #2
A hundred feet below the city’s surface, R he sheds a soft, lovely scent, and a budding vine of blood crawls from his mouth. “There he is,” Bertram breathes. “You recognize this one, Corporal?”
“Company president?”
“It’s my uncle. One of them, anyway.”
“Condolences, Bertram.”
“Oh, stop. You were in Ostlerfell. You probably loathed him as much as I did. Colonel Mendel Gorslung?”
“Never met him. I was Third Autotomic. Assigned to the Exultant’s son.”
“Well, count yourself lucky. Even Autotomic was better off than his unit.”
Dawn looks over the bloated face. He doesn’t recall what role the man had played in the occupation, if he had overseen the march north, had ordered the Third Autotomic Brigade to seize Broken Horse Canyon, or simply had complimented the Laurel Chancellor’s tie one day, planting the seed of his obsession with Ostlerfell Blue.
“Take a photograph of this one,” Bertram says. “It proves that the Palas is already involved, if they invited Uncle Mendel over.”
He continues down the line, pointing out the men he recognizes, most of whom he is more than happy to see hanged.
Behind the dangling management, survivors creep across the courtyard, attempting to flee into the cracks.
Some slip away seemingly unharmed, others peel open even as they run, moaning as skin and bone curl back to release new stamens of flesh.
“You ever see that old opera by Lascherhack?” Bertram asks. “Birth of the Deathbed.”
“No,” Dawn answers.
“Before the merchant-kings civilized the valley, the marauders used to make caps from the skulls of their opponents. They’d make cuff links out of teeth, fingers for boutonnieres.
Pirate queens wore tiaras made of dried tongues.
Oldest form of art there is. I think we should bring that back.
And you’re spoiled for choice here, Corporal. ”
Dawn looks down the line of bloated faces, and his stomach twists at the notion of wearing the flesh of any of them.
“Oh, you don’t have to choose one now,” Bertram smiles. “Still plenty of weeding to do.” He lays a gloved hand on Dawn’s shoulder, giving a firm squeeze. “So look alive, my friend. The tulip beds are next.”