The Desert Spear (68 page)

Euchor's eyes narrowed at the men, and the Painted Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.

'I would never ask such of my guilds,' the duke said. 'The crown will cover the expense. After all,' he nodded to the Painted Man, 'the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.'

The Painted Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.

'Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers'' the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Painted Man to be gone.

The Painted Man shook his head. 'I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.' He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.

It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Painted Man headed for the Duke's Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.

As always, the Duke's Library filled the Painted Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons burning the libraries during the Return. Science. Medicine. Magic. History. Everything. The dukes of Miln had collected all that knowledge and locked it away, denying its benefits to all mankind.

As a journeyman Warder, the Painted Man had warded the stacks and furniture of the Library, earning permanent placement in the book of access to the archives. Of course, he had no desire to reveal his identity, even to some acolyte clerk, but his objective wasn't in the stacks this time. Once inside the building, he slipped out of sight and headed down a side passage.

He was waiting in Tender Ronnell's office when the librarian returned, clutching the grimoire of battle wards. Ronnell didn't notice him at first, moving quickly to lock the door behind him. He exhaled then, turning and holding the book out before him.

'Odd that Euchor would give the book to you and not the head of his Warders' Guild, who would be better able to decipher it,' the Painted Man said.

Ronnell yelped at the sound and stumbled back. His eyes widened farther when he saw who stood before him. His hand sketched a quick ward in the air before him.

When it became clear that the Painted Man intended no attack, the Tender straightened and regained his composure. 'I am well qualified to decipher this book. Warding is part of an acolyte's studies. The world may not be ready for what is contained within. His Grace commanded that I assess it first.'

'Is that your function, Tender' To decide what mankind is ready for' As if you or Euchor might have a right to deny men the ability to fight back against the corelings''

Ronnell snorted. 'You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.'

The Painted Man walked to Ronnell's desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender's personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.

The leather-bound book was worn, its ink faded. It was no showpiece, but rather a guide often referred to, its mysteries pondered regularly. Ronnell had commanded Arlen to read from this very copy during his time at the Library, but he had none of Ronnell's faith in the book, for it was built upon two premises he could not accept: that there was an all-powerful Creator, and that the corelings were a part of His plan, a punishment upon mankind's sins.

In his mind, the book, as much as anything in the world, was responsible for the wretched state of humanity'cowering and weak when they should stand strong; always afraid, never hopeful. But for all that, many of the Canon's sentiments about brotherhood and the fellowship of men were ones the Painted Man believed in deeply.

He flipped through the book until he found a certain passage, and began to read:

'There is no man in creation who is not your brother

No woman not your sister, no child not your own

For all suffer the Plague, righteous and sinful alike

And all must band together to withstand the night.'

The Painted Man closed the book with a snap that made the librarian jump. 'What price did I ask for the wards, Tender' That Euchor help the helpless who come to his door' How do I profit from that''

'You could be in league with Rhinebeck,' Ronnell suggested. 'Paid to get rid of Beggars who have become a problem south of the Dividing.'

'Listen to yourself, Tender!' the Painted Man said. 'Making excuses not to follow your own Canon!'

'Why have you come'' Ronnell asked. 'You could give the wards to everyone in Miln if you wished.'

'Already have,' the Painted Man said. 'Neither you nor Euchor can suppress them.'

Ronnell's eyes widened. 'Why are you telling me this' Keerin doesn't leave until tomorrow. I could still advise the duke to rescind his promise to grant succor to the refugees.'

'But you won't,' the Painted Man said, placing the Canon back on its stand pointedly.

Ronnell scowled. 'What is it you want of me''

'To know more of the war engines Euchor mentioned,' the Painted Man said.

Ronnell drew a deep breath. 'And if I refuse to tell you''

The Painted Man shrugged. 'Then I go to the stacks and find out for myself.'

'The archives are off limits save to those with the duke's seal,' Ronnell said.

The Painted Man pulled his hood down. 'Even to me''

Ronnell stared in wonder at his painted skin. He was silent a long time, and when he spoke, it was another verse from the Canon.
'For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh''

'And the demons will not abide the sight, and they shall flee terrified before him,'
 
the Painted Man finished. 'You made me memorize that passage the year I warded your stacks.'

Ronnell stared at him for a long moment, trying to peel back the wards and years. Suddenly his eyes flared with recognition. 'Arlen'' he gasped.

The Painted Man nodded. 'You gave your word that I would have access to the stacks for life,' he reminded the librarian.

'Of course, of course'' Ronnell began, but trailed off. He shook his head as if to clear it. 'How could I not have seen it'' he muttered.

'Seen what'' the Painted Man asked.

'You.' Ronnell dropped to his knees. 'You are the Deliverer, sent to end the Plague!'

The Painted Man scowled. 'I've said no such thing. You knew me as a boy! I was willful and impulsive. Never set foot in a Holy House. I courted your daughter and then left and broke our promise.' He leaned in close to the Tender. 'And I'll eat demonshit before I believe humanity deserves the 'Plague.' '

'Of course not,' Ronnell agreed. 'The Deliverer must believe the opposite.'

'I'm not the ripping Deliverer!' the Painted Man snapped, but this time the librarian did not flinch, his eyes wide with wonder.

'You are,' Ronnell said. 'It's the only way to explain your miracles.'

'Miracles'' the Painted Man asked, incredulous. 'Have you been smoking tampweed, Tender' What miracles''

'Keerin can sing as he pleases about how you were found on the road, but I had my version from Master Cob first,' Ronnell said. 'You cut the arm from that rock demon, and when it breached the wall, it was you that tricked it into the Warders' trap.'

The Painted Man shrugged. 'So what' Anyone with basic warding skill could have done those things.'

'I can't think of anyone who ever did,' Ronnell said. 'And you were only eleven summers old when you crippled the demon, alone in the naked night.'

'I would have died from my wounds had Ragen not found me,' the Painted Man said.

'You survived for several nights before the Messenger came,' Ronnell said. 'The Creator must have sent him when your trial was at an end.'

'What trial'' the Painted Man asked, but Ronnell ignored him.

'A Beggar boy found on the road,' the librarian went on, 'yet you brought new wardings to Miln, and revitalized the craft before you even finished your apprenticeship!' He spoke as if he were seeing each deed in a new light as he mentioned it, filling in pieces of some great puzzle.

'You warded the Holy Library,' he said in awe, pointing. 'A boy, a mere apprentice, and I let you ward the most important building in the world.'

'Just the furniture,' the Painted Man said.

Ronnell nodded, as if fitting another piece. 'The Creator wanted you here, in the Library. Its secrets were collected for you!'

'That's nonsense,' the Painted Man said.

Ronnell got to his feet. 'Pray, put your hood up,' he said, going to the door.

The Painted Man stared at him a moment, then complied. Ronnell led him from his office to the main archive, striding through the maze of stacks as a man might swiftly cross his own home when the kettle began to whistle.

The Painted Man followed no less swiftly. After warding every shelf, table, and bench in the building, its layout was seared into his mind. They soon came to an archway with the path roped off. A burly acolyte stood there to grant entry, and above him, the letters BR were etched into the keystone.

Contained within were the most valuable books in the archive'original copies of books dating back before the Return. These were housed in glass and seldom touched, for copies had long since been penned. Also in the BR section were countless rows of manuals, philosophies, and stories the librarian, always a devout Tender of the Creator, deemed unfit for even the scholars of Miln to see.

The Painted Man had delighted in perusing these as a boy, when the acolytes who patrolled the censored stacks were not about. He had stolen more than one censored romance or unedited history for a night's reading, replacing the text before any noticed its absence.

The acolyte bowed low at the Tender's approach, and Ronnell led them to one of the censored stacks. There were literally thousands of books, but the Duke's Librarian knew every volume by heart, and did not slow to check shelf or spine as he selected a volume. He turned and handed it to the Painted Man. The hand-painted cover read:
Weapones of the Olde Wyrld.

'The Age of Science had terrible weapons,' Ronnell said. 'Weapons that could kill hundreds, even thousands of men. It is no wonder the Creator grew wroth with us.'

The Painted Man ignored the comment. 'Euchor will seek to rebuild them''

'The most terrible are beyond our ability to re-create, requiring vast refineries and lectric power,' Ronnell said. 'But there is much that can still be built by any man with access to simple chemics and a steel forge. That book,' he pointed to the volume in the Painted Man's hands, 'is a detailed account of those weapons and how they are built. Take it.'

The Painted Man raised an eyebrow. 'What will Euchor do when he learns it's gone''

'He will grow wroth, and demand I re-create it from the original texts,' Ronnell said, gesturing to the rows of glass bookcases. Glass the Painted Man had etched with wards himself.

Tender Ronnell followed his gaze. 'When the Warders' Guild began charging glass, I had them put out in the night. Your wards made those cases indestructible. Another miracle.'

'You mustn't tell anyone who I was,' the Painted Man said. 'You would endanger everyone I ever knew.'

Ronnell nodded. 'It is enough for now that I know.'

If he hadn't told Ronnell who he was, Mery likely would have, but he had never expected the strict man to honestly believe that he, Arlen Bales, was the Deliverer. The Painted Man scowled as he put the book in his satchel.

It was the last night of the new moon when the mind demon tracked the Painted Man to Fort Miln. The coreling prince could only rise on the three darkest nights of the cycle, but it picked up its quarry's trail quickly, following a lingering scent in the air, even days after his passing. It was an intriguing scent'not quite human and warm with stolen Core magic.

Atop its winged mimic, the mind demon stared down at the net atop the human breeding ground. The walls were powerfully warded, but there were large gaps in the lines of magic crisscrossing the rooftops. A winged drone, unable to see the net unless it activated, might never find the gap save by accident, but to the coreling prince the pattern was clear, and it guided its mimic to slip neatly through into the city proper.

Windows were shuttered closed, streets dark and empty. The mind demon felt the pull as the house wards tried to leech its magic, but the mimic glided by so quickly that they could find no draw. Clumsy wardnets were cast throughout the city, but the coreling prince avoided them as easily as a man might step around a puddle.

They passed through the city following the invisible path in the air. They paused at a great inner keep, but a sniff at the gate made it clear it was not their final destination. Next they came to a giant building whose wards were so powerful, the coreling prince hissed as it felt their pull even from a distance. There was usually at least one such place at the center of every breeding ground, and they were places best avoided, especially since his quarry had not remained there. A fresher scent headed away from the building.