“It’s about to get a lot worse,” said the old man rubbing his bruised knuckles.
Missing his two top front teeth, Wichtig wanted to tell them that when he got off this table he’d kill the two of them. He wanted to tell them he’d do it slowly, carve them piece by piece. He wanted to explain how terrible a mistake they’d made and how his vengeance would be awful and final, like the kind of thing the old gods did when they wiped out entire cities by raising the ocean.
Instead he said, “Pleash don’t hit me again,” lisping wetly though the gap in his teeth.
“You should wear gloves if you’re going to do things like that,” said the fat one.
The old man nodded agreement. “You must be the stupidest spy ever,” he said to Wichtig.
“Shpy? I’m no damned shpy. I’m a Shwordshman. I’m the Shwordshman! I’m Wishtig Lügner, the Greatesht Shwordshman in the World!” Gods he wished he could sit up or at least wipe some of the blood from his face. “I killed Blutiger Affekt, the greatest Shswordshman in that shite hole Unbrauchbar.”
“Blutiger? That was over a decade ago,” said the old man. “You’d have been, what, twelve or thirteen? Liar.”
Damn, he’d forgotten. The last thing he wanted to explain was how he died and the Geborene god returned him to life. “I killed Kurz Ehrfürchtig in Shelbsthash jusht a day ago. Fetch me my bladesh and I’ll teach you shome mannersh!”
“I told you he came from Shelbsthash,” said the fat one.
“Selbsthass,” corrected the other. “He’s missing teeth. You are not. Yet.”
The fat man shrugged. “You never listen.”
The old man ignored him, looking thoughtful. “Blutiger, he died around the same time everyone in that church was murdered.”
“And the Unbrauchbar guard were turned to ash.” said the fat man, nodding. “People still talk about that. Remember that wagon, the one with all the smoke that we didn’t see?”
The old man shuddered at the memory. “King Schmutzig is still angry about that. Replacing those guards cost a fortune in weapons and armour.”
“Wasn’t that a Geborene church?” asked the fat man.
The old man ignored him. “We’re days away from war. The King will want to know what this spy planned.” He leaned close to look Wichtig in the eyes. “Assassination, perhaps?”
“War?” said Wichtig. “Why the hellsh didn’t Morgen tell me there wash a war heating up. Shtupidest god ever!”
“Stupidest spy ever,” said the old man. “Swordsman my scarred arse. Look at him. Not so much as a shaving nick. If ever I saw a Geborene priest it’s this idiot. He’s perfect.”
“There’s the missing teeth,” pointed out the fat one.
Again the old man ignored him.
“While it ish true, I am perfect—” began Wichtig.
“Was perfect,” said the fat man helpfully.
“—I hardly think—”
“He embodies everything they stand for,” said the old man.
“—While granted I’m—”
“He’s even clean,” said the fat one as if this alone were damning evidence. “Well, before you hit him.”
“Because I have shtandards of physhical—”
“I bet he bathes,” said the fat one with a look of disgust.
“Definitely Geborene,” said the other. “Let’s get Schnitter.”
The fat one looked confused. “I thought she was gone.”
The old man shook his head, his lips wrinkled in distaste. “Nope. Though there’s a little less of her than there was.”
“Schnitter?” asked Wichtig, confused and wondering if maybe the blows to the head left him concussed.
“You’ll see,” said the old man.
“And then he won’t,” added the fat one.
The two men left Wichtig alone in the room.
Well that didn’t go quite as well as I’d hoped.
He replayed what he could remember of the confusing conversation. Schnitter was a woman, he remembered that much. Okay, that was his out. He’d be fine.
Never met a woman I couldn’t charm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Afterdeath is something of a misnomer. We know for a fact the Schlammstamm tribes believe their souls are carted to the great grasslands in the sky by some horse god, the Ausgebrochene of the Gezackt mountains hide their souls in dolls made of their own excrement, and the Basamortuan think their blooded warriors live on in Borrokalaria. In truth, I’m not even sure that those who die in Geldangelegenheiten go to the same Afterdeath as those who die in Unbedeutend.
The one thing all have in common however is the belief that there is something after whatever comes next.
—Langsam Brechen - Philosopher