Land of the Beautiful Dead by R. Lee Smith Read Free Book Online

reached the edge of the dais and stopped, staring up at him—Azrael the God, the Conqueror, Azrael Who Is Death—and he leaned forward over his table to look down at her—Lan, who had no more home and who was no one’s daughter. There were only three shallow steps to climb the dais, three more short strides to take her to his table. She could go right to him. She could get close enough to hear his breath, if he breathed. She could touch his hand if she dared and see if it was cold and dead or hot with the hellish fire that burned out of the holes in his mask.
    Lan stood where she was, shivering.
    He spoke first, in a slow wondering way that did not, for change, seem feigned: “Why, you’re a child.”
    “I’m old enough,” Lan insisted at once, before she even stopped to think what she might be insisting upon.
    “Hm.” Azrael settled back in his throne, considering her. At length, he raised one hand and swept it outward in an open gesture toward the many tables around her, the gluttonous wealth of his unnecessary feast. “Be seated, child. I see no reason you should not be fed before I decide your fate.”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “It is not wise to lie in my presence, even in such trivial matters. Those without my borders hunger always. I have seen to it. And even if you had a field of crop and pens groaning with stock, still I would hazard your belly to be too full of nerves to allow for much of a meal before setting out on this endeavor. Share mine.”
    “I ate before I came here.”
    “Out, then,” he said curtly, shoving back his heavy throne to stand. “I do not waste my time with liars. Guards!”
    The doors opened at once. In desperation, Lan said, “I did eat! It was just…a while ago.”
    Azrael paused, no more than one long stride from the table. She could feel his eyes on her, cutting deep wherever they rested. “A while.”
    “Last night,” she admitted. “At a waystation.”
    “Fed from the hand of your ferryman, I suppose.” After a long moment, Azrael returned to his chair. Lan saw the shadows cast by his laconic wave and heard the guards once more retreat and quietly close the doors. “One of mine?”
    Lan hesitated, knowing she was too near to being thrown out and that this chance would never come again, but unwilling to betray the man who had brought her into the city.
    Her hesitation was answer enough for Azrael. “Did you think I did not know? And who else would have such certainty of passage through my walls that they could sell the privilege? I bear them no ill will,” he said without concern, almost without interest. “They do me no harm. What did your ferryman feed you?”
    “Stew.”
    “Ah yes. Roots boiled in sweat.”
    “It wasn’t that bad.” It hadn’t been much better, though. “There was meat.”
    “Hm.” There was so much knowing amusement in that small, wordless sound that he hardly needed to say, “Rat or crow?”
    “I don’t know,” Lan said, blushing. “And I don’t care. I’ve eaten worse.”
    “So have I,” he replied mildly. “Which is why I prefer to eat better. Come. It may be grotesque to your young eyes, but I assure you, there is nothing more succulent than the cheek of a young boar. You are hungry,” he remarked, watching her stare at the pig’s head that was the centerpiece of the imperial table. The boar’s eyelids had slipped down over the empty sockets, giving it an appearance as if it were only sleeping, but its swinish mouth leered in such a way as to suggest that its dreams were not particularly pleasant. “Are you not?”
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    “Yes. And there is nothing so terrible to feel as hunger, even for just one day, two or three wanting meals. It gnaws at you.” He scratched one claw through the thick sauce that pooled over his plate and slipped it into the mouth-slit of his mask to taste. “That is why I reserve it for those who rebel against me. But you are not guilty of that crime. Yet. Therefore,