Chapter 34
Slant spent centuries, aeons, in and out of consciousness. rising above the deep waters of his pain for a few minutes only to be pulled under moments later. He was sometimes dimly aware of a presence beside him, something watching him, a curious predator, but more often he felt tremendous pain and faded.
When he woke fully, he was in an unfamiliar bedroom: it was sparse, but what little furniture was on display was expensive and old. The atmosphere was light and airy with its thick, velvet curtains thrown open. It was as good a place as any to wake up. The air smelled of strong soap and his own sweat.
His stomach hurt too much to make the mistake of sitting up quickly. He instead lifted the covers. Strong, tight bandaging surrounded his midriff. There was no blood. The sheets and bandages seemed fresh: he supposed they had been replaced regularly. And carefully.
Slant prodded the wound and a dull pain that focussed on his teeth echoed out. He was surprised it hadn't woken him before. Perhaps whichever Doctor looked after him had kept him drugged, distanced him from the worst of his recovery.
With great care and deference for his wound, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Trying his legs, he felt such atrophy that he knew he couldn't walk. How long had he been in this bed? With no answers around him, he sat and awaited a visitor, tried to ignore the growing pain in his stomach and flour-dry mouth.
After maybe an hour, a young girl with a pile of fresh sheets under her arms entered. She was whistling, a song she punctuated with a shriek when she saw Slant sitting up.
“Sol, you scared the... No, sorry, 'tis not your fault, sire. I'll go fetch Doctor Mandate.”
“Wait!” Slant croaked.
The Servant jogged off, never to hear his request for water. His throat felt like it had been roasted for days. He sought for a source of water he'd perhaps previously missed, but there was none. He'd have to wait for the Doctor.
Another half an hour passed before someone knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Slant creaked.
An elderly man in red Doctor's robes entered. With him were Junior Doctors, both young women, who carried food, bandages, and, mercifully, water. They stepped inside, the elder Doctor moving with the elegance of a Councillor, his Juniors hanging their heads like Servants.
“Good morning. My name is Mandate. I'll presume you are thirsty, Slant,” the old Doctor said, his wrinkled jowls jiggling with each word. “Let us feed and quench you, shall we?”
The Junior Doctors brought the food and water forward and placed it on a bedside table. One Junior Doctor, a redhead with freckles and a hair lip, filled a small cup and raised it to his lips.
“I can feed myself.”
“After so long–” the Junior Doctor started.
“You do not speak!” Mandate shouted. His hands twitched. Then he coughed, smoothed his robes out. “My apologies to you, Slant. You have been without food and drink for weeks, only drinking nutritious liquids of my own design. It is usually a good idea to slowly ease yourself back into partaking of usual food, because your body can reject them in such a situation.”
Slant nodded dumbly, and let the Junior Doctor tip water into his mouth. He swilled the first sip around, replenishing his mouth’s lost moisture. His gums and tongue felt cracked, which would only make his fruit breakfast more painful. After carefully swallowing, feeling the now-warm water slide down him, he took more from the poor Junior Doctor.
With the cup empty, Mandate snapped his fingers. The redhead stepped back and her counterpart, a blonde with burns peeking up through her robes, fed Slant lemon, apple, unsalted meat, and cheese. As he’d suspected, the citrus made his mouth burn, but he wolfed it down regardless. His stomach was calling for more when Mandate snapped his fingers, and both Junior Doctors left the room.
“This jug will be left at your bedside,” Doctor Mandate said, pointing to the jug. “You will drink from it only slowly and carefully, like each mug could be poisonous. Am I clear?”
“You are,” Slant replied.
The Doctor knelt and brought a bedpan up from under the bed. He placed it purposefully beside the water. “The Servants will clear your waste daily. They will also check on you every hour. If you feel dizzy, faint, or anything other than the pain you currently endure, you tell them.”
“How do you know what I'm feeling now?”
“Not only did I perform flawless surgery on your guts, Slant,” the Doctor said with a sneer, “but I have been in here every day to check your progress. You were very lucky with how the knife cut you: nothing major was hit. I imagine that, within months, you'll be back up to... whatever got you into this mess.”
Slant let the insult slide. “So, where actually am I? Who has paid for all of this? Have my family been told what happened?”
“I will be the one to answer those questions,” Wasp said as he entered the room. He wore the grey robes of a Custodian and had a strange, bulbous sack in his hands.
“Ah, good. I'll leave him to you.”
“Thank you, Mandate.”
The old Doctor pointed to the water, and said, “Slant, you be careful with the water. The last thing we need is for you to throw up when you're still recovering. Hear me?”
“I hear you. Thank you, sire.”
Mandate nodded to Slant, then to Wasp, and excused himself.
Wasp closed the door behind him. After looking around the room, he carried a chair over to Slant's bed. The sack dragged on the floor, its contents rolling and bashing into one another.
Wasp sat. The scarred man looked Slant up and down. “I'm told your recovery will be full.”
“So am I,” Slant replied.
“That's good.” Wasp leant forward. When he did, a sickly scent wafted from the sack and across the bed, a nauseous stench. “We'll need people like you for the next phase of the Custodians. You are a strong, powerful young man, one with a ruthless strength, and a will to do the right thing.” He paused. “I am... disappointed about what happened to you.”
“Where am I, Wasp?” Slant asked.
“This is Mandate's private care facility,” Wasp said, gesturing around the plush room. “Your recovery is covered, don't you worry.”
Slant shook his head. “How can you afford to spend so much money like this on me, sire?”
Wasp sat back in his chair, cupped his hands. “We have access to funding, Slant. You don't need to worry about that. People know that we are doing good, and they are willing to support that.”
The stench from the sack seemed to be getting worse. Slant breathed through his mouth as best he could. “Why are you here, then, if people are paying for our important work?”
“I wanted to apologise to you for what happened. Your stabbing. I feel responsible.”
Slant shifted in his bed. “Why would you be responsible?”
Wasp licked his lips, sat back. “I arranged the party at which you were attacked. I oversaw the hiring of the men who came at you, killed those poor whores–”
“Fuck, they... they killed Seed and Cap?” Slant saw the two of them, saw those beautiful people who sold themselves, and balled his hand into a fist. His stomach seemed to hurt a little more at that.
“Were those their names?” Wasp asked.
“Yes, those were their fucking names, Wasp!” Slant hissed. “How could you not even learn their names, if you felt guilty for what happened to them?”
Wasp looked away for a moment, his calm mask cracking into rare guilt.
“It's because you only feel guilty for what happened to me,” Slant whispered. “Fucking Lun, Wasp, you're saying you didn't care about Cap and Seed because they were whores? What sort of opinion is that for someone who deals in justice to have? Don’t they deserve justice too?”
“There is a flaw in my character, Slant... No, there are many flaws in my character,” Wasp said, looking straight at Slant. A sorrow was in his eyes, though it was quickly replaced with hard contrition. “I am a mere man, created by Sol, tempt
ed by Lun. One flaw is a lack of respect for people who sell themselves. And I find it... difficult... to respect a man who would fuck another man.”
“Like me?” Slant asked.
Wasp nodded. “Had I known before that you were... so inclined... I might not have taken to you as I have. But you proved yourself, you found Heresy, so it doesn't matter how you conduct yourself in private. Just like Heart, whom I also had no idea about. However, it's very possible that I gave my people the impression that... your sort... were lesser.”
“That or you fucking picked people you thought felt the same way. And there aren't any women in the Custodians, are there?” Slant hissed.
Wasp took a deep breath. His neck muscles tensed as he slowly said, “What I'm trying very hard to say is this: I have been wrong. And I am sorry.”
Slant tried to hold himself calm, still. His sexuality had nothing to do with his desire for justice, with wanting to look after his family. Sex had never really been a part of his life. When would he ever have had the time to meet people? A small, rational part of him whispered how unfortunate it was that, the one time he let his guard down to enjoy sex, such violence had erupted...
“I will be changing my ways,” Wasp continued. “My discomfort with... your kind... will cease to play a part in my leadership. After all, what if this had happened to Heart, or it had happened before you were able to make your key contribution? No, what matters is that you are a strong, capable man. Nothing more. So, Slant, please forgive me.”
Slant looked him up and down. For what it was worth, he did seem to be genuine in his desire to apologise. Which made the bag in his hands all the more worrying.
First thing was first, though: “Have my family been informed of my situation?”
“They have. I last visited them yesterday,” Wasp said. “Your sister, the Cleric, understood the need for secrecy, and has visited you often. I arrange a full escort both ways. She brought your mother last time.”
“Mother left the house?” Slant asked, amazed.
Wasp nodded. “The Mentalist seems to be doing a good job. I even spoke with her, would not have been able to tell she was ill. If leaving the house was a problem before, it seems less of one now.”
The thought of his Mother leaving the house, coming to visit him and not having an episode, swept away his anger and distrust. The man might not be perfect, but he had helped Slant's family. He would always know Wasp thought him lesser, but he couldn't begrudge the man who was saving his Mother's sanity.
“What else can you offer me, for my forgiveness?” Slant asked.
“A place by my side. I will make you a First Custodian, let you shape how we proceed, catch me when I... slip.” Wasp gestured at Slant with the sack he held. “More, I have these gifts.”
“What... what are they?”
Wasp placed the sack on Slant’s bed. That horrible scent wafted over him, made him gag. He didn't want to know what these gifts were. But Wasp's face was so urgent, so honest, that he had to look. Slowly, Slant opened the sack. He immediately recoiled from the three bloody, severed heads of those who had attacked him and killed Cap and Seed.
“This is what I offer you, Slant. It is a promise: I swear that, no matter who breaks the law, they will be punished. And no matter who is wronged, there will be punishment. One day, no one in Geos will hurt an innocent without facing Sol's punishment. This I promise with these gifts.”
Slant took deep breaths, tried not to break his stitches by throwing up. It took supreme effort, and a hand clamped to his mouth to stop his stomach rising through his throat. He spluttered, tears rolling down his eyes, and swallowed air.
This... 'gift' proved that Slant had no choice but to accept Wasp's apology, to try and stay in the Custodians. If he were to leave, what might happen to him, to his family? If... that could happen to his fellow Custodians, guilty as they were, what might he do to someone who he took into his confidence?
He looked at Wasp and saw disappointment. What did he expect from Slant: joy, visceral satisfaction? Slant didn’t want this to happen to those who attacked him: he wanted a normal execution, a quick, sharp sword. Whatever execution method Wasp had used for those Custodians hadn't been quick.
“Forgive me,” Slant managed, “my stomach is still weak after the attack.”
“Oh. Of course! That makes sense. I should have thought.” Wasp smiled and lifted the sack from the bed. “Tomorrow, we can start planning our future. Until then, thank you Slant.”
“For what?” Slant asked.
“For forgiving me, of course.”
Slant nodded. “Of course. You are forgiven, sire,” he lied.
Wasp flashed him a sharp grin and marched out, his ghoulish sack resting on his shoulders.
Slant watched the door long after he'd gone. The image of what had been done to his fellow Custodians stayed with him, that sack of rotting meat. He told himself that execution was at the discretion of the Contegon who administered it, and some had been found to use 'unusual' methods, but nothing could calm his rising panic at being trapped in an organisation run by a butcher.
It would be less horrifying than having his mother infirm and incapable. He told himself that over and over. Even after a thousand times, he was not convinced.
Snow
“But I ask you, what if Lun were able to plant some seeds so deep that Sol could not see or reach them? What, then, would be the fate of us and our people?”
--Lord Blind in his 'Treatise on the War Against the Dark Brother'