Death's Baby Sister by Bill McCurry

Author:Bill McCurry [McCurry, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780984806256
Publisher: Infinite Monkeys Publishing
Published: 2019-06-04T22:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN

I have rarely met a priest I didn’t want to slap. Some were nice people, and some were repugnant, but too many of them were idiots. Most got offended if I didn’t agree to follow them around and act like an idiot too. They spent their days and nights worshiping when they could have been drinking and chasing women . . . or men. Or, if they really aspired to be wholesome and good, they could play with their kids and gossip with their neighbors.

I have never met a sorcerer who worshiped the gods. Five minutes of conversation with a god will convince anybody that the gods are not beings to worship. They are beings to keep a close watch on if you’re carrying anything valuable. If some benevolent entities created us and love us, Krak and his brood are not them.

Priests talk to gods, but they never get a direct answer. Sorcerers have actual conversations with gods, and if every sorcerer has a low opinion of the gods, priests should think hard about whether any worshiping should happen.

Nothing sorcerers ever say to priests matters. They go on worshiping gods the way Manon’s hounds worshiped her.

A young monk met me in the stone dining room, empty except for my companions. Another monk was bringing bread, cheese, and pitchers of awful beer to the long, scarred tables. Two hours later, everyone and their chubby bellies dozed on benches, except for me. I eased myself off the bench and took a step toward Cael. He opened one eye and watched me until I sat back down.

Red Sam opened the door, leaned in, and whispered, “Bib, it’s time.” He grinned and shrugged.

I trailed Sam across the courtyard, the tiny orchard, and through another door. We walked into a stone corridor that must normally be dim and sad, but light showered down on me from Harik’s aggravating gift.

Sam smiled back at me. “Thanks for the light, Bib. Helpful, really. I hate those goddamned candles! Sorry. Blow out all the time . . . no oil for us priests, though. Sad. Come on.” He led me through a minor canal of moist corridor, through turns, up steps, and down ramps. At last, we wandered into a large room that was bright with windows and lamps. I detested rooms like this one, with religious tapestries, lots of hard furniture, and a well-organized desk in the corner. The twelve guards with drawn swords didn’t charm me, either.

Sam bowed. “Your Grace.”

Marta, the temple priestess, sat writing at the desk. A black quill held her graying hair in a bun. She waved at Sam without looking up, giving him leave to go. He went. She scratched a few more words with a different quill and laid it in a box that was just the right size to have been made for that purpose. She stood and smoothed her gray skirt, then stretched her back while she scrutinized me. She squinted for a few seconds at the light rising from me to the ceiling.

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