The Godless by Ben Peek Read Free Book Online

original maps and taken it upon himself to make new ones. Since then, there had always been a Samuel Orlan—male and female, with the cartographer’s final apprentice taking over the name, the legacy and the work of ensuring that the world remained mapped. Ayae was still constantly amazed at the stream of men and women, wealthy and famous, who came from afar to the shop to look for a particular map, or to contract the current Samuel Orlan for a specific job for fees of such amounts that she could scarcely judge them real.
    The first time such a customer had come and left, Samuel had laughed at her expression. “You can make a fortune with the name, if you take it on after me. If not, well, you’ll still likely make a fortune, just without the necessity to grow a beard. It is tradition, you understand.”
    A part of her felt guilty when he said that, for both of them knew that she would not be the next Samuel Orlan, but the guilt was not long lived. She did not have the dedication that Orlan had, did not have the sheer skill he displayed. But she loved the work, deeply appreciated the time that Orlan took to teach her his skills, the growing skill her own hand had, and the joy that came in seeing a piece of land or a continent come together on the parchment she worked upon. Both she and he knew that he had given her a skill that would enable her to live comfortably for the rest of her life, to fund her while she followed the other paths of her art, to the portraits and illustrations that were her first love.
    Behind her, the door chimes sounded.
    Ayae turned from the parchment she was examining, her hand resting on the large table that dominated the room. A man of medium height stood in the doorway. For a moment she did not recognize him, until the sheer ordinariness of him, the plainness of his white skin, close-cut brown hair and loose white shirt and trousers, sparked a recognition:
    This morning. The Spine.
    â€œWe’re not open yet,” she said, her voice so soft that she was forced to repeat herself. “You’ll have to wait half an hour.”
    â€œThe door wasn’t locked.” The man’s voice was polite, easygoing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just walk in.”
    Yet, her hand gripped the table tight. “The sign was on the door.”
    He smiled, a faint, half curve of his lips. “That’s quite the work you’re standing next to. The masterpiece of an artist.”
    The map across the table she gripped was easily three times her width and a foot taller. Kept under glass, it showed the world as it was commonly known, with Orlan’s confident, strong lines and use of color as much a signature as the one in the corner. What set this map aside was that the corpses of the gods had been worked into the landscape: the Spine did not follow the spine of Ger, but was the spine, with Mireea the connective vertebrae to the neck and shoulders.
    â€œI asked you to leave,” Ayae said, a flicker of annoyance alighting in her stomach. “Don’t make me ask again.”
    â€œYou’re not going to ask again.”
    Anger sparked. “Leave now. There are strict penalties for thieves. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of Lady—”
    â€œLady Wagan does not interest me.” Stepping up to the table, the man gazed down at the map. “What is beautiful about this map—other than the craft that is, and we must always admire craftsmanship, child—what is beautiful is the gods. So many maps, so many lives are empty of them now. But not here, not on this mountain, not where Samuel Orlan lives. No, he understands that we sail upon the blood of the Leviathan, as sailors say.”
    â€œYou need to leave,” Ayae said, releasing the table, her anger strengthening her resolve as she walked to the door. “I don’t appreciate being followed. I don’t appreciate you thinking you have a right to come in here