The road south led to Unbrauchbar, a shite-hole of a city on the Gottlos side of the Flussrand River. Bedeckt had been there once before. It was in Unbrauchbar he first decided he and his pitiful gang of thieves—if Stehlen and Wichtig could be called a gang—would steal the Geborene god-child. The plan was to ransom him back to the theocracy for exorbitant quantities of gold. Like most of Bedeckt’s plans, this one quickly went to shite. Though they kidnapped the boy, Bedeckt almost died during their escape. And that was just the beginning. Wichtig, the self-centred moron, thought to make use of Morgen to further his dreams of being the Greatest Swordsman in the World, and tried to manipulate him. Then, instead of trying to buy the boy back, the Geborene Theocrat sent assassins after them. This time Wichtig did die, though Morgen, making use of whatever delusions and insanities he possessed—and Bedeckt shuddered to think what neuroses polluted the boy’s mind—brought the Swordsman back from the Afterdeath. To say the plan went south after that was being kinder than Stehlen would ever be. But that moment, seeing Wichtig alive and once again entangled in his selfish Gefahrgeist schemes, planted an idea in Bedeckt’s mind.
Death, Bedeckt knew, was not far off. He died back in Neidrig, while they were trying to steal the god-child. Morgen brought him back from the dead. Seeing someone return—knowing it was possible—he began making plans for his return before he died again.
It all depended on this woman, this Mirrorist. No matter how sane she seemed, Bedeckt reminded himself she was not. She was broken, mad. Delusional. She believed the impossible, and her delusions manifested. She suffered several delusions, all pertaining to mirrors. He wondered if this meant she was Comorbidic—and likely already approaching the Pinnacle—or if all this neatly fit into the Mirrorist classification.
Finding a Mirrorist who believed mirrors were a gateway between life and the Afterdeath was the first step. He expected the search to take months, years even. He was dead less than a week when Zukunft found him.
‘I am who you’re looking for,’ she said. Thinking her a whore—and a pretty one at that—he made a rather unseemly offer. She laughed and explained that she knew the future and could lead him to the Mirrorist whose mirror led to the world of the living.
‘I can lead you to what you seek,’ she said. ‘I can show you how to undo the damage you have done.’
How had she known? He pressed her for details and she smiled that cryptic smile women wore when they knew more than you and wanted you to know it. He remembered watching her watching him.
Bedeckt had asked why she was still in the Afterdeath if she knew where this Mirrorist was, and again she refused to answer. Not having much choice, he dropped the subject. He still worried. What was in this for her? Why did she seek him out? Why did she offer her assistance? Motives mattered and she refused to share hers. Not that he was particularly forthcoming about his own. She didn’t seem interested, never asking, never pressing him as to his reasons. Did she already know them, or did she not care? He didn’t much like either possibility.
Since their first meeting, their relationship changed. Realizing how young she was left him plagued with doubt. She was a child, and people around him tended to end up dead. Tended? He couldn’t think of a single soul who’d survived his company. This time, his opponent being a god, he figured there was a lot more death in his future. He’d send her away if he didn’t need her so bad.
Damned list.
People like you shouldn’t have lists, shouldn’t have a code or ethics or morals. Life was too harsh, too dangerous for such delusions. If there were true gods—something above and beyond the Ascended delusions of humanity—they didn’t much seem to care what heinous crimes people perpetrated upon one another.
People like Bedeckt took advantage of the weak, stole from the wealthy and stupid, and left a trail of dead in their wake. Gods, how many had he slain without a thought. Guilt? He laughed at guilt. Guilt was a tool for manipulating morons, nothing more. He darted a glance at Zukunft, watched the easy roll of her hips as she rode, the curve of her breasts, the way her hair fell about her shoulders.
Damned list.
Poets and story tellers always went on about how terrible that first kill was, how it haunted people. Bedeckt laughed every time he heard that. Such utter shite. Murder was nothing. Sure, he’d always remember his first kill, but only because it was his father. The old bastard reached for that belt one too many times, not realizing how large his little boy had become.