To Die Well:

A Story of Jamin. 

Tarsus' feet hit the plains like twin anvils, flinging up a double handful of dust and sending three grubs squealing away. Leather wings, gray and soft with age, folded casually behind his back. He was the last to arrive, as was his right -- he had been out of favor for fourteen hundred years, but the eight Serpents who waited for him had never been in favor at all. Newborns or newly-fledged, the lot of them; at his token glare, they ducked their heads under their wings and cowered.

His smile, in that moment when all eight of them were blind, was real. Tarsus loved his job.

"Recite," he said sharply, and spread his arms to the sides. "God is dead!"

"God is dead," the eight Serpents reluctantly conceded, twisting their necks to peer out at him from their shelters. One tail twitched in momentary irritation, and Tarsus laughed in the silence of his mind. It was always that way -- some worldviews were harder to reconcile with the Litany than others. He would have to find out if the Balseraph had actually become dissonant, trying; Saminga liked to know such things.

"But what is death?" Tarsus continued. "It is He whose eyes are darkness."

The class recited, in turn, but his attention had drifted. A gremlin was fluttering towards him, wearing the black sash of a messenger -- distinguished from the black sashes of Saminga's other castes by the number of tiny skulls embroidered into the fabric. "It is He whose flesh is dust," Tarsus continued absently, as it approached; naturally, its flight lasted half a second longer than his patience.

"Yes?" he asked, considering the knotty question of whether the gremlin would have looked better in sepia tones. It made a triangle symbol with its thickly nailed thumbs and forefingers; Tarsus nodded, and made a flicking gesture of dismissal.

"It is He whose flesh is dust," the class repeated obediently. "Yes?"

Tarsus gave them a mocking, hyena-like smile. "Stop reciting," he said, "with 'dust.'" He gave them a long and silent pause to consider that in; one by one, each of them convinced themselves that they had in fact stopped there. "Cephas," he said, and beckoned. "Come here; continue instruction from where I left off. Be persuasive."

Cephas' wings shifted smugly, and then he flicked across the intervening space to coil in the air by the Impudite. "Yes, sir!"

"Three hours," Tarsus said, decisively. "No more, no less. Punishment will follow inevitably should the recital end sooner than I have dictated. Have I made myself clear?"

Cephas' eyes dimmed slightly. "Yes, sir. Three hours. No more, no less."

Tarsus cast himself into the air and was gone; a bit of grub poked up curiously through the dust where he had been. Cephas idly hooked his tail around it and brought it to his mouth; it was said among Death's lesser demons that such a diet improved a demon's luck in life. Chewing, he said, "Recite! It is He who rules in Abaddon, where the souls of killers go."

One of the other Balseraphs, a cerise demon named Jamin, got a suitably diabolic gleam in his middle left eye. "You didn't tell us what we were supposed to recite," he pointed out.

Cephas blinked, chewed a bit more of the grub, and shook his head to clear it. "It is He who rules in Abaddon," he said, "where the souls of killers go."

A ripple of laughter washed through the class, and Cephas looked around vigorously. "What? What?" he demanded. "You are supposed to be reciting! Tarsus gave me the authority!"

"You said 'He who rules in Bubbadon,'" Jamin explained, provoking a few more giggles. Cephas' expression metamorphosed from smug to horrified. "You know, you really aren't very good at this."

"A-Abaddon," Cephas said, quickly. "Where the souls of killers go. Recite!"

"The souls of millers?" Jamin asked, incredulously. The class collapsed into a snickering pile of wings and scales on the Abaddon plains. Cephas' yellow eyes flashed.

"You're lying!" he snapped. "I said killers. I did! How dare you? I rule this class! Tarsus gave me the authority, and Saminga gave him his authority --that's, like, treason against the Prince of Death himself!"

"I'm sorry," Jamin said, with the mildest possible repentance in his eyes. "But your instruction! It is terribly bad. You have no language skills."

"My instruction is bad?" Cephas demanded. "My Litany is poorly accomplished?" He drew himself up. "Impossible! I am a master of enunciation and pronunciation, language skills and Litany drills, the arts of persuasion and of gentle evasion, the proper form for each statement and classmaster-pupil beratement, my phrasing's amazing, my grammar's got glamour, and no errors exist in my appearance or manner! Eat dissonance, oh doubting Serpent!"

Jamin grinned. "Nuh-uh," he said, and shook his head. "Your wings! They are held meekly! You will never command the respect of the class."

Cephas glared out at the other Balseraphs, adjusting his wings five different ways before finding one he felt safely commanding with. "I can have you -- all of you -- taken to the cells beneath the Bone Citadel and tortured! Surely this is sufficient incentive for you to give me the respect I so richly deserve!"

Jamin glanced at a classmate. "A Serpent who holds their wings like that probably has little pink wing cozies at home, you know."

Cephas sputtered, and then spun in the air to look at the same classmate. "You have always admired the set of my wings! You think that they are the most noble and proud things about me!"

"Well, yes!" Jamin concurred. "But there's no real competition among his other features!"

"With the notable exceptions of my mind, soul, and body, all of which rival the excellence of the Demon Princes!" Cephas snapped, voice ringing out across the plains. "These features provide worthy but insufficient competition!"

"Indeed!" Jamin agreed. "His body rivals Haagenti's, his mind rivals Nybbas', and his soul is almost as admirable and suited to Death's service as Andrealphus'!"

"Not true!" howled Cephas, and then rocked back as a *spang!* of dissonance hit.

"You see," Jamin said smugly, looking out over the class. Most of them were still in hysterics. One, the target of the recent barrage of lies, was looking rather thoroughly dazed. "You will never command the respect of others while you hold your wings in such a meek manner. Observe my sleek and dominant form; this is the example you should emulate!"

Cephas hissed, soft and low, and then sagged his head, defeated. "Will you please recite?" he asked the class. "It is He who rules in Abaddon…."

Jamin was, insofar as there is ever such a thing, a popular Serpent. It was not his sense of humor, or his generous attitude, or any of his other virtues that earned him this popularity. Rather, he was relatively harmless. He never harmed the other popular demons, and he had injured no demons at all. He had no friends, but he had allies and companions. On the rare occasions when his class was permitted to travel to Shal-Mari, he was never alone; a handful of other Serpents were always with him.

Jamin was studying a collection of nose-rings in a Shal-Mari market when another tail wrapped around his and tugged lightly. He turned his head quickly, eyes alert and paranoid; then he relaxed. "Damaris," he said. "What is it?"

Damaris gestured down the street with his head. "The Impudite down there," he said, grinning. "How'd you like to rub wings with her?"

Jamin's other companion, Gabbai, hissed a staccato laugh. "Why should we do all the work? She should rub wings with us, while we loll about indolently in proper noble style. That would be appropriate behavior!" His eyes lowered. "Although she is sadly unlikely to agree. She has the attitude of a willful and frustrating woman, disobedient to the order of things!"

Jamin considered the Impudite. "I shall rub wings with her," he pronounced, "and have her jump into my coils besides!"

"If you can do that," Gabbai said, "you shall be my idol and my inspiration. But be careful! She might take affront if you resonate on her unexpectedly."

Jamin nodded, looking about, and then slipped away into the crowd. His friends saw him pause and speak briefly to a particularly unpleasant frotling; then he presented himself smartly to the Impudite. "It's only natural to forgive my associates," he said, with a deep sincerity in his tone. "You have no reason to become angry at them."

The Impudite's forehead wrinkled. "I do not know your associates," she said, "nor am I aware of being angry with them."

"Ah," said Jamin. "My mistake; do excuse me."

The Impudite's hand darted out and caught Jamin's tail as he turned. "A moment, Liar," she said. "It occurs to me that your words are transparently true; therefore, I am most likely under your influence. A rare event! But you will make amends now, by explaining why I should be angry at your associates and accepting the dissonance that this will cause you."

Jamin coiled about, uncertainly. "It is a small matter," he said. "Scarcely worth worrying about."

"Nevertheless," the Impudite said, "I would advise you to be worried."

"Well, then!" Jamin said. "I am still morally convinced that this is no reason for anger, or retribution of any kind, but the matter at issue is the 'Mug Me' sign which they have placed upon the back of your wings."

"This is a horror and an outrage!" the Impudite said, and folded her wings about her body so that she could examine the tips of them. "You will remove this sign at once, and tender a full apology to me on their behalf. Otherwise, I will ensure that you suffer one of the penalties that the Prince of the Game had planned to save for Valefor's trial!"

"Very well," Jamin said, affecting great reluctance. "Turn you around, then, and I will see what I can do."

"I will retain my hold on your tail," the Impudite said sternly. "You will have to cope with the awkward position this requires of you."

Jamin sighed theatrically and coiled himself over her shoulder, bending down to nibble delicately on the side of one wing. "It is not coming off," he said, after a moment. "Can you move the wing back and forth? I believe that this will help me find an appropriate grip."

The Impudite considered this, and then shrugged. The wing shifted slowly back and forth, brushing against Jamin's a time or two before settling once again against her back.

"Mm," Jamin said. "And now the other?"

"What?" The Impudite blinked, and then flushed, and tugged sharply on Jamin. He was dragged bodily back over her shoulder and into the field of her glare. "You are using this situation to sensual advantage! I had thought that I appreciated the depths of Balseraph mannerlessness; clearly I was mistaken!"

Jamin beat his wings, but achieved a bit of height and nothing more; her grip was firm. "Remove the sign," she continued, voice strident, "and eeek!"

At approximately that moment, the frotling had squirmed up to the Impudite's leg, and trailed several slimy feelers along it. The Impudite reacted as any good Taker would -- with a frantic beat of her wings and a climb into the bit of sky currently occupied by Jamin. In the confusion of coils and wings that resulted, Jamin took a moment to smile. That smile did not last long.

"Who is taking advantage of my Impudite?" a ringing voice demanded. Jamin flung himself off of her to stare warily down the street at an uncomfortably tall man with burning eyes -- the Prince, he realized, with a slow and sinking feeling, of the Game.

"It was entirely her doing!" Jamin insisted. "I was merely an innocent bystander!"

I'm dead, he thought. And it's such a stupid way to die.

"I must defend the honor of my Servitors," Asmodeus pointed out sternly. "You will know the power of my wrath!"

"Honestly, sir," Jamin began, but Asmodeus was advancing fiercely towards him.

"Surprise Inquisition challenge!" Asmodeus declared. "Where were you on the night of Malphas the 10^th? Have you ever engaged in sexual relationships outside your Band? If you were in an airplane with Saminga and Lucifer, and there was only one parachute, who would you want to have it? Were you being honest with me? If so, how do you reconcile that with your role as a Balseraph? If not, is not that treason to the Prince of the Game? What is your favorite color? Have you ever kept a pet Abaddon-grub? What did you feed it? Do you love Rock and Roll? Please limit your answers to two hundred words or less. Are Japanese movies better than American movies? Is Tenchi Muyo typical of this trend? Why or why not?"

Jamin fluttered nervously backwards. "Um…."

"Spot loyalty check!" Asmodeus continued, sneering. "What is Saminga's worst flaw? What is my biggest mistake? And don't give me any sniveling little weasel-answers -- if you don't have an opinion on these things, you're not smart enough to work for Hell. Why haven't we defeated the angels yet? How do you propose we do so? What is God? Should I crush you right now for embarrassing the Game in a public forum? Don't lie to me!"

Jamin said, nervously, "Um…." Sweat beads formed on all his scales. "Um…."

"Terrifying recruitment offer!" the Prince of the Game yelled. "Wouldn't you like to quit serving your loser Prince and come to work for me? I have a dental plan, a medical plan, a treachery plan, and a game plan! I offer competitive benefits and unequalled job satisfaction! Free ice cream breaks for Servitors between 14 and 15 o'clock every other Wednesday! No other Prince provides his Servitors with anti-juggler insurance! Are you tired of the same old same old in Abaddon? Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to have an exciting career in law enforcement? What are you waiting for? Sign right here on the dotted line!"

Jamin shrieked and fled.

"He's still my idol," Gabbai said.

"I heard that," said the Prince of the Game.

It was two hours later, and Jamin had finally stopped looking back over his shoulder. He slipped down to the street in a nice dark alley corner and allowed himself to shake until the shaking stopped. Then he simply lay still.

"My relic!" a voice cried, outside the alley. "You must pay me for my relic!"

Jamin poked his head around the corner and surveyed the situation. A Djinn, shaped like a giant brine shrimp with the legs of a bear, was frantically pleading with a haughty-looking Calabite; a relic mirror lay shattered to one side.

"It was a worthless relic," the Calabite said. "It did not properly reflect my glorious musculature. You will receive no payment from me!"

"But it was my only relic!" the Djinn cried.

Jamin slithered out the rest of the way. His pride required some show of power; therefore, he announced, "Monstrous Freak, you will pay this Djinn in full measure!"

"Indeed I will not," said the Calabite. "Keep your snout out of other demons' business, if you wish to keep it; otherwise, I may be forced to shatter it."

"You don't frighten me," Jamin said sternly. "After all, your resonance isn't working today."

The Calabite snorted. "Nice try. Is it my turn?"

Jamin frowned, and flicked over by the mirror-shards. "Oh, keen," he said. "I believe that I look even better in this than I do in real life." He glanced at the Djinn. "Is it supposed to have that property? Revealing a demon's inner majesty to anyone who looks? … Of course it is," he said, and shook his head. "Fascinating. It would seem logical that the Calabite saw his inner self therein, and this is why it disappointed him?"

"Yes," the Djinn said, although it had a faintly puzzled look somewhere in its feelers. "That is indeed one of its properties."

"Let me see that," the Calabite said, shoving Jamin out of the way and peering at the mirror fragments for a long time. "Ah!" he said. "I perceive it now. My reflection in the mirror is indeed more glorious than my physical appearance; I must have been seeing the Djinn's reflection instead."

"Then you will pay him?" Jamin asked.

"Possibly," the Calabite said, reflecting. "On the other hand, the mirror that I might pay for, and might have obtained, is now in ruins, and you are the one who has made this fact painful. Therefore, it seems only fair that, for the price the mirror merits, I should also be able to strip a Force or two off of you."

"Perhaps!" Jamin said, looking the Calabite up and down. "But such an action would work the good Djinn here into a murderous rage, and you would be forced to fight two enemies at once -- you might well lose as many Forces as you take."

The Djinn nodded, reflecting. "This action would, indeed, work me into a murderous rage."

"Cool," the Calabite said, and grinned.

I'm dead, Jamin thought again. And it's such a stupid way to die.

"Blood and ashes!" Jamin cried. "This is the Calabite that the Prince of the Game put a vast bounty on! Surely he must be captured, dead or alive!"

The Calabite's brow furrowed. "What in Heaven…."

Down the street a ways, a Habbalite and a Lilim turned, and began rapidly walking towards the confrontation. "Um," the Calabite said. "This could turn ugly."

"True," Jamin agreed. "However, I am willing to vacate the area if you will simply pay the Djinn and leave me be; this will change the odds dramatically, even with the additional complication."

"Fine," the Calabite said, casting down his cloak at the Djinn's feet. "Get lost."

Tarsus brought a companion with him the next time he held class. "This is Imrah," he said, gesturing towards her. Jamin hid his face beneath his wing; she was the Impudite from Shal-Mari. "She is an old and dear friend; further, she has been assigned to work with our dread lord on a mission of interest both to Death and the Game. Imrah, these terrible students are Gabbai, Damaris, Cephas, Jamin…."

"Jamin!" she said, and smiled fiercely. "I have heard of this one."

"Oh?" Tarsus asked.

"Indeed! Everyone speaks of him. He is the toast of Shal-Mari -- loyal to his Prince, capable in every respect, knowledgeable, wise, and sometimes he is almost honest. He is a great credit to your teachings."

"Oh?" Tarsus asked again, brightening. "Come, Jamin, stop hiding your face. I will recognize you before the class as truly a superior Balseraph."

"In this he is unlike some demons of Death," Imrah noted. "Why, just the other day, I met a Serpent of Death in Shal-Mari who took advantage of me in every conceivable manner! He was more than a demon; he was a perverted freak with no respect for the honor of the Game. Such demons, of course, cannot be found in your classes."

Jamin peeked his head out, waiting quietly for the hammer to fall. I'm dead, he thought. And once again, it's a stupid way to die.

"Indeed?" Tarsus wondered, expression darkening again. "Well, do not fear; I am not without influence even in these diminished times. I will ensure that this Balseraph is found and suitably punished! Come, describe him to me, and I will consult my encyclopedic knowledge of the Servitors of Death."

In the distance, a group of demons marched towards the class.

"There is no need!" Imrah exclaimed. "For I see this demon now, right before me!"

"Where?" Tarsus asked, looking off at the figures in the distance. "Your eyesight must be uncommonly keen!"

"Why, it is Jamin!" Imrah gave the Serpent a smug smile. "He has disgraced your teachings and is a discredit to Death; I only hope that the punishment you find for him is as suitable as you have described. Mind, I will help you conceive of it, if you should have trouble!"

"Jamin?" Tarsus asked, and stepped forward to grasp Jamin's wing. "I will kill him! I will scatter his Forces to the winds, and then I will do it three more times! No, you need not worry that I will have trouble deciding on his punishment!"

"Ow!" Jamin said, struggling to pull his wing free. "Really, you are overreacting!"

"After your Forces have been scattered for the fourth time," Tarsus vowed, "I will sell them off one by one to the lust pits of Andrealphus; then I will have them recycled into artifacts of Dark Humor! Further, when this has been accomplished, I will add your name to the List of Shame in Saminga's citadel of bone, and tease you mercilessly about it in front of all those who once respected you. Jamin, 'ow!' will not suffice to express your despair and pain for long!"

The marching figures were now visible; they were Calabim, every one, and among their numbers was the Calabite Jamin had manipulated. Jamin hid his face under his wing again, muttering, "When it rains, it pours!"

"Truly," Cephas said smugly, "now is no occasion to worry about meteorological phenomena and their mysterious absence in Abaddon."

Tarsus released Jamin's wing, and the Serpent somersaulted backwards through the air. "I shall deal with these visitors first," he said, and called out, "Hail the Calabim!"

"Hail to Death!" they called back, and sped up their march; soon they stood before the class.

"What brings you here?" Tarsus asked. "This is a private session, although in truth I am about to be in need of a Destroyer's services."

"That one," the leader of the group said, pointing to Jamin, "caused one of our own to be dragged before the Game without rhyme or reason, injuring both his dignity and his pride. This behavior cannot be tolerated; therefore, we have come to humiliate him before his peers in a variety of entertaining ways. We propose to begin by demonstrating his low tolerance to pain and his fear of discorporation."

"This is intolerable," Tarsus said. "I have committed myself to punishing Jamin; I cannot subcontract this work out. You will have to wait until I have exhausted my own abilities to torment him before I can give you a turn."

"That is unacceptable," the Calabite said seriously. "We must have satisfaction, and we must have it immediately."

Imrah coughed. "A proposal?" she suggested, when the class and the Calabim turned to look at her. "I suggest that Jamin be matched with your two finest minds in a battle of wits; when one side has humiliated the other, it will be over, for better or worse, and you will have achieved your satisfaction. Since Jamin will have the opportunity to defend himself, it will not interfere with Tarsus' claim to his punishment, any more than an attack of plains bats would."

The Calabim considered, muttering among themselves. Then the leader nodded. "We consider this to be acceptable. Karnaim and Laish will represent us in this match of mind against mind, word against word; the loser shall be carted away for display in the Tartaran stocks with a sign reading 'idiot' around their neck! But be warned, oh Serpent; if you should attempt to use your resonance, we will not be able to restrain our natural exuberance and will do the same."

Jamin wrinkled his brow. "I find this objectionable! I am not acquainted with these Calabim; Karnaim and Laish are names unknown to me! Who are these strangers? Whom do they serve? What is the nature of their qualifications in debate?"

"We are as you see," the one called Karnaim said. "However, I will advance this knowledge: we are servants of the Media, and thus excellently skilled in all manners of presentatory arts."

"The Media?!" Jamin exclaimed. "This will be like taking babies from a playground."

"An opening salvo!" Karnaim said, and smiled brutally. "But working for Nybbas has certain advantages! He does not make his Servitors' Vessels impotent, for example, as do some Princes I could name."

"Impotent?" Jamin whispered, and looked at Tarsus. The Impudite looked uncomfortably away.

"Well," Laish said, "sex can be a very life-affirming act." He grinned. "Saminga doesn't trust you to use it properly, in pursuit of the misery of humankind. Of course, you like sex, don't you? You like eating, drinking, flying -- all these celebrations of life. Does this not mean that you, a Serpent handcrafted by the Prince of Death, still refuse to work for his Word?"

"Of course not!" Jamin snapped. "I'm willing to die. I simply want to die well."

"How angelic," Karnaim sneered. "I need say nothing more; judging from you and your Prince, I must wonder if there are any proper demons in your organization!"

"I must admit," Jamin said, thoughtfully, "that Nybbas does contribute a great deal to Hell's cause in the world. But Saminga…" He trailed off in faint confusion.

Laish smiled thinly. "A carbon copy of a bad B-movie monster," he said, stepping into the breach. "Right down to the maniacal laugh and the little foam spiky things. I mean, come on! I've seen better special effects from British science fiction. He's a paranoid gibbering farcical loon, and that is, to be frank, being kind. He is a demon who deserves your service, and this is the deepest defamation I can imagine."

Jamin nodded, looking thoughtful. "You have a point," he conceded sadly.

"You are giving up so easily?" Karnaim asked. "I am disappointed! We have hardly begun."

"Well, that," Jamin admitted. "But I have also been thinking that the demon you have just slandered -- besides myself, of course -- is also a Prince."

"Princes, Servitors, pfaugh!" Karnaim exclaimed bluffly. "All are as one before the razor edge of my wit. Come! You have lost, and we will escort you to Tartarus to extend your humiliation."

"You are aware," Jamin wondered, with a puzzled frown, "that there is a Servitor of the Game standing yonder, listening to our conversation? Not that the Game is particularly fond of Death, or anything…"

Karnaim paled. "Preposterous! We stand in the heart of Abaddon, where the Game dare not go."

"…but certain standards have to be upheld."

"In this he is correct," Imrah admitted. "The Game's authority rests on its broad applicability. An offense against Nybbas, an offense against Saminga, an offense against the Game itself -- these are all crimes under our purview!"

"I win," Jamin said.

"Not yet," Karnaim ground out. "You are hiding behind the Game's skirts, and while that may have a certain positive effect on your morale…"

"Sudden arrest attack!" Imrah cried, and a hundred Gamesters came boiling up from the plains.

"I still owe you a punishment," Tarsus said, heavily. "I am terribly angry, although watching the Media demons and their expeditious removal from the premises was an entertainment worthy of their Word. This punishment must be as horrible and personal as your crime --"

"I have a suggestion," Imrah said, with a thoughtful frown. "Jamin may become useful someday; therefore, he should be tormented in the most productive manner! Send him to the Training Chambers; let his will be stretched on the taffy pulls, let his skill at dissembly be honed upon the nastiest Habbalah of Abaddon, let him suffer the warrior's training that a self-respecting Balseraph forgoes -- give him the iron scale training, if need be! In the Chambers, as he bemoans his fate, he will come to understand the value of discretion!"

"Perhaps," Tarsus said. "The idea has some merit."

"It has my vote," Jamin said, quickly.

"You'll probably die," Imrah said. "I mean, the training camps in Abaddon are rough."

"Ah," Jamin said. "Perhaps I should be tormented in Andrealphus' pleasure pits, instead! I assure you with full certainty that my loyalty to the Word of Death will make the entire experience torturous."

:"The Training Chambers it is," Tarsus said, and smiled.

I'm dead, Jamin thought. Can't I ever die well?