City of Bones (36 page)

“No one at all?” Khat asked, thinking of how busy the huge manse had seemed when he had been there. He was worried about Elen. She was a meticulous person, and scrupulous to a fault, and would never have ignored Arad’s messengers, no matter what the circumstances. If nothing was wrong, she would have contacted one of them by now.

“No one in the outer court, or on the part of the terrace that I could see over the wall, and no one moved past the windows on the upper floors.”

“That was dangerous, Arad.”

The scholar shrugged. “I didn’t let Master Riathen pay me for the relics he took. Anyone who saw me there might think I had changed my mind, and wished to see him about that. But where would the Master Warder go?”

Khat shook his head. It was easy to imagine Sonet Riathen being called away on some important business; it was not easy to imagine him taking his students, the other Warders who lived in his household, and the servants who kept the place. It didn’t explain where Elen had gone. Khat put the book aside and stretched. He hadn’t moved except to fold and unfold pages for a long time, and even his hands were cramped.

Either Riathen had been taken away somewhere and all his household dispersed, or he had dismissed them himself and gone somewhere no one could reach him. Khat knew which one he suspected. He just hoped the Master Warder hadn’t taken Elen with him.

“I could try approaching one of the other households of Warders,” Arad was saying.

“No. There’s too good a chance that they would just arrest you first and ask questions later.”

“It’s a possibility, I suppose.” Arad sipped his tea quietly for a moment, then said, “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”

Khat nodded. There was no point in dissembling.

“If it was dangerous for me to stand in the street, how much more dangerous is it for you to try to enter the house?” Arad protested.

“If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it.”

Arad put his cup aside and rubbed his face, sighing in frustration. “We don’t even know if this transcendental device the text speaks of really exists, or where it is. Do you think Riathen’s copy named its location?”

“It didn’t need to. I know where it is, or where part of it is, anyway. So does Riathen. So do you.”

Arad stared. “Where?”

“The first relic Riathen found. It was the plaque that the High Justice had, which was the only piece of the set that was really identifiable as a fragment of an arcane engine. Remember, it fits into the antechamber wall of the Tersalten Flat Remnant. You know,” he added pointedly, “the one to the west?”

“Oh. Oh my.” The scholar appeared to be suffering from great excitement or physical pain. Khat sympathized; it was the reason he hadn’t felt much like eating all day. It was one thing to hypothesize about the existence of arcane engines and “transcendental devices,” but quite another to know where one might be found. Arad asked, “Inside the wall, perhaps?”

“Or under it. No one ever thought to look there. Until now.”

It was full dark when Khat used the quieter streets to work his way over to the tier wall, past closed shops and sleeping houses, avoiding the noise and light of the area around the theater. He still had Elen’s Warder token, but he didn’t intend to use it. It would be too easy for someone to order the tier gate vigils to arrest any non-citizens who presented one.

Khat went down one of the narrow courts that dead-ended at the high wall of the rail wagon’s corridor, and from there into a narrow alley behind the houses, freezing when he heard a baby cry from inside one of them. The cry died out as the child fretted itself back to sleep. He felt along the fine stone of the rail corridor’s wall until he encountered the first handhold. The edges were crumbling, a sign it hadn’t been used in a while. That was probably good. Some of these chinks in the wall had been chipped out by earlier entrepreneurs; some he had added himself. Since the rail wagon had been installed, it made a fine way up to the Third Tier, if you were careful.

Khat hauled himself up, silently cursing the loose chips of rock that his boots dislodged. He reached the top and struggled over, dropping down on the other side to land with a crunch on a pile of broken glass. The black wall of the Third Tier was looming above him; some idiot had probably thrown a bottle off the top. He spent the next few moments picking glass out of his boot soles.

The corridor was only about twenty feet across and stank of tar and grease. The other side was set flush against the base of the Third Tier. He made his way down to the bend, where the corridor turned from crossing the width of the Fourth Tier to run parallel to the tier wall and start its long climb up to the Third. The two rails glinted faintly in the moonlight, but it was impossible to see one lone kris hunkered down against the wall. This was the best way to catch a ride on the rail wagon; jumping onto it from above was too obvious. And waiting here, as the wagon came off its straight path and onto the curving one that paralleled the wall, he would be well below the line of sight of the vigils who rode the top.

After a long, uneasy wait, the rails started to shake, and the dull throbbing roar of the approaching wagon echoed up the corridor. Fortunately his timing wasn’t off, and it was heading up; it would have been intolerable to have to wait for its return trip.

The glow of the running lamps gradually became visible, and the noise was deafening as the wagon drew near. It was actually three steamwagons linked together, with one steering platform in the front. The big, black iron monster slowed as it reached the bend in the corridor and with grinding gears made the turn. It was close enough for him to study intently how the wheels were fixed onto the rails, how the paneled metal sides, etched with decorative scrollwork, kept out the dust, and for the heat to wash over him with the tang of hot metal that was oddly like the taste of blood. There were vigils up on the topside platforms with air guns, but they were fifteen feet above his head, and were watching the track in front of the wagon.
And lazy
, he thought. Now that the novelty had worn off, only professional thieves used the rail wagon to go from tier to tier anymore, and they were never caught.

The third linked wagon passed, then the first of the tall, boxlike cargo wagons. He would have to catch hold behind the first car; the ones further back were more likely to be dropped off on the Second and Third Tiers. Khat stood, caught the handrail at the back of the first car, and pulled himself up between it and the second car. The space was narrow, the second car ominously close behind him, and after a tense moment he found footing on the protruding undercarriage.

Careful to keep his head down, Khat let out his breath in relief. Now the trick was to hold on and try not to think about what would happen if something went wrong and the two cars slammed together And hope no one saw him before the wagon reached the First Tier—he had never ridden it that far up before.

The rail wagon groaned like a dying rock demon as it mounted the steep ramp up to the First Tier. It passed through the short tunnel in the tier wall, and Khat buried his head against his arms, choking on the backwash of heat and steam. The tunnel was blessedly short, and the rail wagon came out onto the First Tier, into a wide flat area surrounded by high walls, though undoubtedly they were there to protect the residents from the sight of the ungainly cargo wagons, not to keep anyone out. Lamps and ghostlights hung at intervals from ornate, twisted metal poles, but they didn’t eliminate all the concealing pools of shadow.

Khat had been lucky; all the cars except the one behind him and the one he was holding on to had been detached at the Second Tier. The luck was nice, but it left him uneasy, knowing the more he had of it now, the more likely it was to fail spectacularly at some later point.

The rail wagon slowed gradually to a halt now, hissing and groaning. Crewmen waiting on the hard-packed dirt of the yard walked up to the first of the steamwagons, calling greetings to the carters and ignoring the vigils who were clambering awkwardly down from their posts.

Khat slipped off the undercarriage and crossed the ground hurriedly, staying low and dodging the pools of lamplight. He circled behind two enclosed passenger wagons and made it to the outer wall, which was far enough away from the lamps to be well shadowed. Once there, he quickly discovered there was no scaling it without a rope and a grappling hook. Cursing to himself, he moved along it to the gate. This was a big iron barred affair with copper mesh panels to make it more attractive from the outside. There was also a small door cut into it for the use of servants and crew, so they could come and go without the trouble of opening the entire barrier. A gatekeeper was slumped against this side of the wall, either asleep or dozing, with only a weak ghostlamp to light his way.

Khat stood back in the shadow, considering his options, then simply walked up to the smaller door and lifted the latch. Without moving, the gatekeeper grunted an inaudible query at him. Khat grunted back, stepped out, and pulled the door to.

Outside he leaned against the wall, getting his bearings. The gate opened onto one of the First Tier avenues, with a tiled marble colonnade on the far side. It was quiet and deserted. The smell of a fragrant garden was in the air, and the sound of water running somewhere nearby. After the stink of the rail wagons, it was a welcome relief.

As Khat had discovered on his earlier visit, the First Tier was ridiculously easy to make your way around in, as long as you stayed away from private houses and kept a respectful distance from the palace environs. There were trees, flowering bushes, fountains, and walkways for strolling Patricians, which also provided plenty of cover for someone who didn’t want to be easily observed. Since access was controlled from the gate, the rail yard, and the private entrances like Sonet Riathen’s, there were few patrolling vigils.

Khat had to hide behind a bench once, and again in a cluster of persea, as silk- and gold-draped litters passed, each accompanied by a mob of lamp-carrying servants. But even for the First Tier it was oddly quiet. Some of the houses were glowing with lamplight from windows and back terraces, emitting discreet music, loud talk, and laughter. But most were locked up tight, with only a few lit windows. The latter grew more frequent as he neared the area of Riathen’s giant manse.

Khat approached it the way he knew best, through the garden where the embassy pavilion stood, where he would have a good view of the raised terrace and the entire back facade. He scrambled over the low wall, brushed through a stand of trees, and found one of the narrow pebbled paths. Staying on it made far less noise than smashing through the greenery.

The pavilion itself was dark, and Khat remembered the kris embassy would have departed days ago. Riathen’s house was just as dark and silent. Moonlight traced the limestone walls, making ghostly shapes out of the flowing carvings on the pediment. He could barely see the outline of the great terrace.

Abruptly Khat halted, crouching down below the level of flowering shrubs lining the path. Someone was moving through the undergrowth about twenty yards off to his right, softly but purposefully heading in the direction of Riathen’s house.

It was too late for a gardener, though not for a lover out looking for a trysting place, but somehow Khat didn’t think the other intruder was either. People were avoiding this area for some reason, and anyone deliberately heading into it was worth talking to.

Khat went down the path, getting slightly ahead of his quarry, then crossed over to the narrow pebbled rim surrounding a pond. Keeping low, he leapt from the end of that to a patch of silversword, and crouched down to wait. From here he should be able to get a good look at the intruder, as whoever it was passed from the heavy bushes into a section of relatively open ground.

Across the little clearing a figure emerged, stepping sideways to free itself from the clinging greenery, glancing around cautiously and not seeing Khat, who was crouched low, just another dark patch on the shadowy ground. It reached the center of the clearing before he recognized it by its walk and build. It was the young Warder Gandin.

And he isn’t just out for a stroll
, Khat thought. Gandin wore a dark-colored mantle, sensible attire for anyone out sneaking by night. The Warder passed his hiding place unaware, and Khat stood, took one silent step, and caught him from behind, wrapping an arm around his throat. As he expected, Gandin tried to throw him over forward, and was unsettled by Khat’s different balance. Khat put pressure on the smaller man’s knee joint, yanked backward, and dumped Gandin flat on his back.

He held him down with a knee on his chest, and said quietly, “It’s me.”

Gandin stopped fighting. “What are you doing here?” he whispered furiously.

“Where’s Elen?”

“She’s not with you? I was hoping…”

“I haven’t seen her since you took the relics from the Academia.” He decided Gandin was telling the truth, and eased the pressure off his chest a little. Gandin took advantage of the moment to try to overturn Khat, who thumped him back down again. “Don’t do that; you’ll make me nervous,” he told the Warder.

Gandin swore, quite creatively for a Patrician, and added, “Get off me.”

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” Khat could sympathize; he hated being helpless himself, worse than anything, and he hated being bested in a fight, but he didn’t intend to beg for information, either. “What happened? Where’s Riathen?”

“Under arrest at the palace. All the Warders are under arrest, but most are confined to their homes. Riathen and the others from his household were the only ones taken to the palace.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! They would have locked me up too, except I wasn’t there when they came for everyone. Will you let me up?”

Khat waited. Frustrated, Gandin swore and added, “Everyone is saying that the Elector tried to have the Heir killed, the way he did her mother, years ago. The Heir escaped and has armed her lictors against him. They say that the palace is an armed camp, with the Elector’s lictors and the officials of the court holding parts of it and the Heir and her men holding others. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. Any other questions, or may I get up now?”

“Why were you going back to the house?”

Gandin didn’t answer, setting his jaw stubbornly.

“Did you think the relics were still there, and that Riathen would want you to keep them safe? I’ll bet you anything they’re gone by now.”

Gandin glared up at him. “I had to try. Did Constans take them?”

He doesn’t know
, Khat thought. Gandin didn’t even suspect, like Elen must have. Constans hadn’t seen the book. He might know about the engine, Arad’s “transcendental device,” but he didn’t know where it was. Riathen knew that, and he had the relics. He said, “Probably,” and let Gandin up, stepping back out of reach.

Gandin eyed him resentfully, and straightened his veil. “What are you doing here?”

Khat didn’t have a chance to decide to tell the truth or think up a good lie. Someone on the dark expanse of Riathen’s terrace uncovered a lamp. They both crouched down, and Khat scrambled into the cover of the bushes. “You were followed, you idiot,” he whispered to Gandin.

“They couldn’t follow me; I’d know,” he protested. “They must have followed you.”

There were moving figures on the terrace, flashes of reflected light on white robes as men dropped over the balustrade into the garden. They must have been First Tier vigils, and wouldn’t have uncovered the lamp unless they were already sure their quarry was surrounded. “They wouldn’t follow me,” Khat pointed out with inescapable logic, scrambling further into the brush. “If they had seen me, they would’ve shot me by now.”

“Well, I would’ve known they were there if you hadn’t distracted me,” Gandin argued, following him.

Children
, Khat thought in disgust, stopping to listen for anyone ahead.
And Warders who think they know everything
.

There was someone, maybe several someones, moving through the greenery between them and the pavilion. A faint wheeze-click echoed from that direction as well: an air gun’s reservoir being pumped up for firing. Khat kicked Gandin to get his attention and whispered, “We’ll split up. Get off this tier if you can and go to the Academia.”

Gandin nodded, and rose to a crouch, pushing his way through the brush toward the garden wall. Khat took the opposite direction.

He came to a clearing where there was a low coping surrounding a little area of higher ground with a small fountain. He skirted the edge of it, staying low, and almost ran right into the man who stepped suddenly out of a stand of trees.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised. The vigil must have been standing silently in the cover of the trees, watching the clearing, or Khat would have heard him. City-bred, the vigil hadn’t heard him moving quietly along the grass verge.

The vigil had a rifle but was too close to use it. Khat saw the barrel swinging toward his head, ducked under it, and tackled. They hit the ground hard, the krismen on top. The vigil still managed to let out a yell. Khat rolled off him, heard running footsteps from all over the garden, cursed, struggled to his feet, and bolted toward the wall. The gun had fallen into the undergrowth somewhere, and he meant to be long gone before the vigil had the chance to recover it.