The gentle rocking motion of the ship did nothing to ease Mortis's mood. Demons do not, after all, have mothers to cradle them throughout the night, and therefore they can not associate rocking with comfort. He lay on his undersized crib, hands under his head, staring at the wood ceiling.
The sailors had almost jumped over board when he dropped from the sky and landed heavily on the deck. Only the Captain's cries of 'hold' stopped them from doing so. Obviously Braca had had words to him, and the gruff old man was able to calm his crew quickly and quietly with a few barked orders.
"Thought ya'd been kilt," the Captain said through a mouth full of pipe. "Git yaself below deck now, ya spookin' me men enough."
On any other day, Mortis would have grabbed the man by his poorly groomed beard and tossed him into the crows nest. But not today. He was tired, furious, and grief stricken all at once. He wasn't in the mood for anything but sleep.
Following the Captains directions, he swiftly found his cabin, bolted the door, and there he'd stayed for the past two days.
He rolled onto his side now, peering into the dark corners of his room. The shadows spoke to him, danced figures in front of his eyes. He wished for sleep, but feared it as well. Perhaps some of the Dust of Radament hadn't been completely washed away, for when he did sleep the dreams were vivid and real. And not his own.
A hundred times now he had seen that swinging tavern sign, heard the screams and saw faces of people he knew, just seconds before they died. A hundred brief dozes, where he'd thought it safe to close his eyes for just a minute, and his mind had slipped from this world into unreality. But it was real, the things he saw, and he knew it.
The grief had passed, or so it felt. Now he was just numb. The haunting images always made him wake with a start, but he no longer felt the urge to do that strange body function humans called 'cry'. Now he was just numb. Just numb.
He awoke on the third day after the longest sleep he'd managed since leaving Lut Gholein. There had been dreams, but not like before. Perhaps his body had finally purged itself of Radament's influence, for these ones had been of jungle. Of great green trees and marshy swamps. It had all been familiar, and he knew why. It was Kurast. The place on Sanctuary he'd first arrived upon leaving Hell.
"Mortis, Mortis, Mortis," the voice of Braca came out of the darkness like a shadowy wraith. The demon started, almost leaping right from his crib, then settled back with a groan.
"Damn you, Braca, that's the second time you've done that."
"Yes, but this time I made sure I was well out of head butt range."
Braca sat on a small stool in the far corner of the room. He looked as neat and preened as ever, his strange black suit creaseless to the elbows. The nervous tick in the corner of his mouth was as subtle as ever, but still in easy sight.
"Mortis, Mortis" the man repeated, "You really got yourself into a mess this time didn't you?"
Mortis sat up, his head resting on the palm of one hand, eyes facing the floor.
"Yes. I believe I did."
"It's an evil world out there, my friend. Full of evil men who long for power. And I think you've seen now the extent in which these men will go to get it."
"I know evil. I am from Hell. And I've been on Sanctuary long enough to know the capabilities of men." He took his hand from his head and brought his fingers together in a peek. "But you know, I'm beginning to wonder which is the better evil."
Braca raised an eyebrow in the dark.
"Oh?"
Mortis sighed.
"Demons – Hell Lords aside – aren't usually intelligent creatures. When we are bound to the Lords eternal wills, we are mindless killing machines. We don't know the difference between good and evil, we are just evil. Full evil, and we have no qualms about it. It is our way of life."
Braca nodded understandingly. Mortis thought it odd that the man would agree that easily, but dismissed it as he continued.
"Man, or men, on the other hand, does know right from wrong. It may depend on their upbringing, but generally every human being I've had palaver with has an understanding of good and evil. Therefore, when they do evil acts – such as condemn a fellow man to his death – they do so with full knowledge of what they are doing."
Mortis looked up and locked eyes with the strange man who had employed him.
"So which do you think is better? An evil act done in ignorance? Or one done with knowing purpose? In cold blood?"
"I don't know. What do you consider your acts to be?"
Mortis stiffened. It wasn't a question he was prepared for.
"That's different. I destroy evil now. I'm hired to remove evil men from this world."
"And what if the people who hire you are the evil ones? The ones you kill, innocent? What then?"
"I… I can usually tell. I can… sense it."
"Can you be sure? Did you not believe Brent to be innocent at first? Yet you still killed him."
"I… you… explained. He was going to become evil, against his will. It was in the best interests of everyone, including himself, that he be… released from his fate."
Braca smiled, what light that did shine through the rooms porthole illuminating his teeth eerily.
"My point is Mortis; no one can ever be one hundred percent sure that what they are doing is right. I know the acts you have committed. You've let your rage get the better of you before; you've killed knowingly and in cold blood. Why, you even threatened me when I first proposed employment. Remember?"
A whisper from the past drifted into Mortis's mind.
"What's there to stop me from simply taking the gold and your life right now?" he had said. It felt so long ago, yet it may have been no more then a week.
"Yes," he admitted at last, "I do my fair share of cold blooded killing. I am demon. I am assassin. And I am hired by man. It is inevitable."
"Then who are you to judge?" Braca smirked, "Think also that it is possible to commit evil by mistake. Or perhaps, because one is forced."
Mortis looked up sharply. Did Braca know everything about the Summoner's manipulation? If so, how? He found himself wondering how far the sight of these mystery employees stretched.
Braca seemed to read the thoughts on Mortis's face, and nodded in reply.
"Yes, I know all of it. This 'Summoner', as you called him, has been a wanted individual by my employers since he first began to dabble in the art. Unfortunately, he was unbelievably crafty, and he disappeared from our view quite some time ago. Till now, of course. We had no way of knowing he was going to interfere."
Whether Braca realised it or not, he had just answered one of the questions Mortis had pondered the most. He studied his employers face, looking for any signs of untruth. There was none. Not even the mouth tick.
"So you really had no idea of this Summoner or his plans? Did you know of Radament?"
"We don't tend to consider people that have already perished. Radament paid for his sins long ago. He was a non-factor in our plans."
Braca suddenly started, as if he'd said something by mistake. Mortis didn't react. The man continued.
"So no, we didn't predict those two or the havoc they could reap. We did, however, know that the possibility of interference was there. The Sultan was a hated man, after all. And if you'd read your contract thoroughly, you would have seen our warning."
Mortis raised an eyebrow, and Braca nodded. Closing his eyes, the demon concentrated and called in the piece of parchment on which his assignment had been written. He opened his eyes, and began to read over thoroughly while Braca waited patiently in the corner. One leg crossed over the other and bouncing nonchalantly, his hands folded neatly in his lap, Braca seemed the picture of calm.
Mortis read the words slowly, even mouthing them as he did, and groaned as he reached the final lines. The last line; Atma had disturbed him and he'd vanished it before he could finish reading. Now the words were there in plain view, and Braca could not be denied.
"…People who have such little respect for their fellow man have no place in this world.
Braca
P.S. You are not the only one who wants the Sultan dead. Keep your eyes open, and Don't. Trust. Anyone."
Don't trust anyone. Three simple words. Yet how useful they could have been. What had the Summoner threatened him with after all? Rumours? Rumour's lives are short; they die far faster then fact. No matter how the Sultan's murder had been worded, people would have come to forget, perhaps even welcome the ideas. The task had just seemed so simple.
Invade a tomb. Read a scroll. That simple.
"How was I to know?" Mortis mumbled.
"How indeed," Braca replied.
The neat little man smacked his hands on his knees and gave a sigh.
"Well, I've enjoyed our chat. I'll let you sort out your thoughts and rest. I'll be back to discuss you final contract later." He stood, nodded a goodbye, and left as silently as he'd arrived.
Mortis lay on his crib, his mind swirling. Good and evil, man and demon. Was there really any true defining characteristics? His experiences had been vast, yet it was not a question he could answer without doubt.
The capabilities of man, now that he knew. All too well.