Before abandoning the ruined city, Morgen ordered the Unbrauchbar survivors gathered together and crushed their will with his drowning need for worship. They followed as additional support staff. Now that he admitted to himself what he was, it became easier. He needed them and they needed him. Symbiosis, he told himself. I’ll make them perfect people in a perfect world. Until then, he needed unquestioning loyalty and obedience. He made the enslaved a cadre of thoughtless worshippers. He told them exactly what he needed them to believe and they believed it. It was past time to take his theories off the gaming table. Nacht was right. Playing with toy soldiers was nothing like real war. It was a hard lesson, but he learned it.
Gottlos would be different. At the capital, he wouldn’t let Nacht distract him from his perfect plans.
I’ll practice with these few thousand enslaved souls. Unsure exactly what it was he wanted from them, he would take time to fine-tune their beliefs. Come to think of it, Misserfolg was more agreeable since Morgen saved him from the burden of free will. He obeyed commands perfectly and unquestioningly. Morgen glanced over his shoulder at the ranks marching behind him. If they were all like that, the tragedy at Unbrauchbar never would have happened.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A philosopher once told me there were no facts, that in a responsive reality there could be no truth. He was wrong. It’s all fact. Everything is true.
—Anonymous
“I can’t believe people think they can work this land,” said Wichtig, nodding at the remains of a farmhouse. Half the building looked to have burned down and fallen in at some point in the last century. A woman with three children sat in the other half, skinning something scrawny to the point of emaciation. The kids watched Wichtig and Opferlamm ride past with distrustful eyes, ready to dart for corners and hiding places should the riders prove dangerous.
We’re dangerous, but only to people with a damned sight more wealth than you lot.
Out in a field, a gangly man chopped at the clay soil like he meant to kill it.
“Who does this?” asked Wichtig. “Who wanders out into the shittiest part of nowhere so they can work soil that’s more stone than earth?” He slapped Opferlamm on the shoulder and pointed at the farmer. “Look at him. Look how hard he’s working.”
“My pa said hard work made a man,” said the young Swordswoman.
“Your pa is an idiot. Look at him,” he said again. “His back won’t last more than five years of that. He’ll be old and broken before he’s thirty, and what will he have to show?”
“A field, cleared by his own hand and a crop of whatever he’s going to plant?”
“Don’t be a fool, nothing grows here.”
“What about that?” asked Opferlamm, pointing at a bent tuft of something fibrous jutting from the mud.
“That shite grows everywhere,” said Wichtig. “Can’t eat it, can’t cook it, can’t even weave damned baskets out of it. That’s why it’s called Gods’ Joke.”
The girl squinted at the plant. “Is it really?”
“How the hells would I know? Do I look like a damned farmer?”
Opferlamm accepted this without comment. “You came south, from Selbsthass, right?”
Wichtig growled at the memory of the border garrison and the K?rperidentit?t torturer. “Yes.”
“I heard it was a militant theocracy, that everyone has to wear white and wash their hands a thousand time a day.”
Wichtig grunted.
“What is it really like?”
“You know how Gottlos is cold and grey and hasn’t seen the sun in forever?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how Unbrauchbar is an utter shite hole, how the streets are filthy and crooked and smell of puke and piss?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how everyone south of the Flussrand looks like a rat crawled up their arse and died, how they all seem to be waiting to drop dead?”
“Yeah.”
“You know how Gottlos already seems beaten even though Selbsthass hasn’t made a move against them? You know how it’s always cold and shitty and the ground muddy and the women mean and no one has ale, just that awful kartoffel shite?”
“Uh huh,” said Opferlamm.
“Selbsthass isn’t like that.”
“Oh.” Opferlamm rode on in silence for a dozen heart beats. “So it’s better?”
“Everywhere is better than Gottlos,” said Wichtig. He thought about it, scratching his chin with the ruin of his left hand. “Except for Neidrig. And Neidrig is gone.”
The day, already overcast, grew darker. Wichtig went from pleasantly cool to shivering and cold in less time than it took Bedeckt to finish a pint. He huddled his cloak tighter for warmth and gestured at one of the rare trees as they rode past.
“Look at that. See the way the edges of the leaves turn to the colours of fall first, like the blush of a virgin on the edge of orgasm.”
“Huh?” Opferlamm fidgeted in her saddle. “It’s kind of orange.”
“Orange?” Wichtig sighed. “Being a Swordsman isn’t about hacking people into pieces, though that part is fun too. You must be a poet. You must notice the world around you, see it in a way different than the dull minds of the common folk.”
“It’s a pretty orange.”
“Winning duels means winning people. How can you win people if you cannot turn the language to your advantage?” He studied Opferlamm with grim displeasure and she sank deeper into her saddle as if trying to hide. “And more importantly, how are you going to talk boys into bed?” Wichtig gestured at a jagged rock ahead. “There. Tell me about that.”
“It’s a rock?”
“Make it beautiful,” said Wichtig.
“Do you do this?” asked Opferlamm. “Do you practice describing things and winning crowds?”