undying legion 01 - unbound man (10 page)

Sounds like a low-level coordination problem,
Eilwen almost said, but stopped her tongue in time. Ufeus’s expression was bland, but the tightness about his eyes betrayed his interest.
You know what it sounds like, don’t you? And if I tell you I don’t care, it will be my fault later on when I complain about being kept in the dark.
It was a common enough negotiating tactic, one she’d learnt to recognise years ago. For the first time in the conversation, she began to feel confident.

“All right,” she said. “I want to talk to her. Brielle, was it? Arrange for her to come and see me, please. I’d like you to be there, too. Tomorrow would be ideal.”

Ufeus inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “As you say.”

“Thank you.” She gestured toward the door. “I’m going to go find some breakfast. Care to join me?”

“I ate several bells ago,” he said, and Eilwen winced. Of course he had. He and everyone else. She realised she didn’t even know what hour it was. “But if you require my presence —”

“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “You go on. We’ll talk later.”

Her stomach growled as Ufeus departed and she looked out into the garden, trying to judge the time. Perhaps she could have a clock bought for her office? It couldn’t hurt to ask. Havilah had a painting, after all.

Her eye caught on the bare patch of ground beneath the eucalypt and she turned away, regretting the impulse that had moved her to bury the egg. She should have tried other options first: fire, perhaps, or steel. But it was done, and there was no way she was going to dig it up now.
Or ever.

Perhaps burying it was not so bad, though. Sooner or later the grass would return, and beneath it the tree’s roots would thicken, wrapping around the hated object until nothing short of sorcery could pry it loose again. The egg would be lost almost as finally as if it had been destroyed.

All she had to do was wait.

Chapter 4

Dawn is the Dreamer’s time, before the sorrow of the day begins.

Noon is the Weeper’s time, and none escape its bitter toil.

Dusk is the Gatherer’s time, when dreams and tears meet their end.

— Liturgy of the Bells
Tri-God Book of Prayer
Pantheon of Anstice

Few things, Arandras thought, promised so much yet changed so little as gold.

He picked his way down the narrow, winding street, enduring the hostile glares and bored glances of the hired swords who stood watch over the close-pressed shops. Goldsmiths Lane, the road was called, and though few of the establishments that now lined the street devoted themselves solely to goldsmithery, most still had some connection to the craft that had given the road its name. Type foundries, moneylenders, and jewellers now shared the quarter, along with others who found proximity to such wealth useful.

Arandras found the street depressing. The plated doors, the barred windows, the guards watching his every step — all offered mute testimony to both the allure of gold and its ultimate impotence.
It is steel that rules the world, not gold.
Gold served only to amplify whatever it found, be it fear or charity, lust or hope. Of itself, gold changed nothing.

He rounded a bend, glancing at the faces of the guardsmen as he passed. The Menefiri with the runaway daughter had failed to appear at Arandras’s shop last night; it was possible that he might encounter the man here, though an open street would be an inopportune place for the conversation Arandras intended to have. The letters Arandras had written remained intact, concealed in a locked drawer beneath his desk. During the wait of the previous evening, he’d entertained notions of tearing them up in the guardsman’s face, but now, under the warm midday sun, such theatrical defiance seemed childish. It would be enough to simply return his coin. Anything more would only be an indulgence.

Gold to buy words, and words to invoke steel, if the recipients responded favourably. Even this small transaction demonstrated the limits of wealth. But then, in the end, even steel had its limits. Steel might rearrange the players, but the game was always the same, whether played in an alley for bread, or here for coin, or even between cities and kings. A single, tedious, never-ending game: compel and resist, compel and resist, over and over again.

Arandras hated it.

His mood sour, Arandras drew up at his destination: an antiquities shop, its window and door reinforced like its neighbours, but lacking a guard. The heavy door stood half-open, wedged in place by a wad of leather. The shop within was empty save for Sten, the proprietor, who sat behind the counter with a magnifying lens in his eye, peering into the ear of a seated clay idol of what appeared to be an infant boy. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with a dusty, eclectic collection of objects that had little in common apart from their apparent age.

“Like it?” Sten said as Arandras reached the counter, rotating the idol and fixing his gaze on the clay figure’s vacant eyes. “It’s supposed to be the Gatherer, if you can believe that, although whose idea it was to depict the god of death as a child is beyond me.” He snorted. “Unless it was meant as some sort of substitute. Something for the Gatherer to take instead of their actual child. Like a god’s not going to know the difference.”

Arandras glanced over the round clay figure. The styling of the hands and feet suggested an early Kharjik origin, as did the infant’s complete lack of hair. “Maybe it’s an offering,” he said. “A token of respect, perhaps, or a plea for mercy.”

“Hah, right. ‘Oh Gatherer, I made you this fat clay kid so please don’t kill any of us.’ Good one.” Sten rotated the idol again, then stopped and looked up at Arandras. “Actually, that’s not bad. I might use that. A token of respect, yes. Purchase it to placate the god’s wrath. Should be just the thing for a superstitious merchant’s wife.”

Arandras rolled his eyes. “Weeper spare me.”

“Not his department,” Sten said with a grin. “What brings you here, then? That priest’s page lead you anywhere interesting?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Arandras pulled the urn from his bag and placed it on the counter. “How much would you say it’s worth?”

Frowning, Sten picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “More children,” he muttered, following the progression of images around the urn. “Must be the day for it.” He ran a finger over the engraved surface. “What does the writing say?”

“I don’t know. It’s not in any of the major dialects.”

“What’s inside?”

“I don’t know that, either. It might not open at all.”

“Hmm.” Sten squinted at the urn’s mouth, poking at the cap. “And I suppose you don’t know how it was sealed, either.”

Arandras said nothing, and Sten didn’t seem to expect a response. He put the urn down and removed the lens from his eye.

“I’ll give you one lurundi and two luri for it,” he said, polishing the lens. “It’s pretty enough, but hardly distinctive. Best I could hope for is that it catches someone’s eye and sells itself.”

“One and two in gold,” Arandras said noncommittally, concealing his surprise. The sum was significantly higher than his own rough estimate of the item’s value. Sten would be lucky to avoid a loss if he tried selling it as a purely ornamental piece, let alone make a profit. He frowned.

“One and five, then,” Sten said. “Just because I’m curious.”

“Indeed.” Arandras picked up the urn and hefted it, unsure. One and five was far more than he’d expected, and the prospect of a quick sale held no small appeal. But if Sten was willing to pay that much, what might the Quill offer? They’d sent a party to retrieve it, after all — though as Arandras well knew, every expedition was a gamble. Perhaps this was the piece the Quill were after, perhaps it wasn’t, and perhaps they hadn’t even been looking for anything specific.
And perhaps Sten is gambling too, and this is the best offer I’m going to get.

But Sten’s interest had stirred Arandras’s own curiosity. How long was it since he’d come across a Valdori dialect he didn’t recognise? Not since he left the Quill, at least. And then there was Mara’s account of the urn’s discovery. Someone else was interested in the urn besides the Quill, and if they had the resources to go up against a Quill field team, they’d have plenty to offer when it came to a straight sale.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the find they were all hoping for. Gold enough to step out of the endless, tiresome game once and for all; to leave it all behind and not look back. The only change gold could truly bring: a way out.

Besides, after his visit to the Library, he was going to have to visit Narvi anyway. He might as well ask him about the urn while he was there.

“One and five,” he said, putting the urn away. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It’s a temporary offer,” Sten said. “Might not be available when you come back.”

“I’ll take that chance.” Arandras turned to leave, then turned back. “That journal page,” he said. “How many copies of it did you sell?”

“What?” Sten’s features assembled into something like wounded indignation. “You think I’d make extra copies and sell them without telling you?”

“Of course you would. Did you?”

“Hah. You’re right, I would. I didn’t, though.” He smirked. “Don’t know anyone else foolish enough to throw silver away on something like that.”

“Delighted to hear it,” Arandras said. If throwing away silver brought him artefacts he could sell for gold, he’d do it every time. “Where did you get it?”

The shopkeeper spread his hands. “I really couldn’t say. Are you sure you don’t want to sell that urn? One and five, last offer.”

Arandras said nothing.

“Look, it wasn’t stolen, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know I respect all my customers’ little peccadilloes, even yours.” Sten’s gaze flicked to Arandras’s bag. “Are you married? Think what you could get your wife with one and five in gold. Or your lady friend. Whatever.”

Arandras shook his head and turned away. As he headed for the door, Sten called after him.

“How about an idol? Appease the Gatherer, avert his eye. Protect your family!”

Arandras spun. He reached the counter in an instant and grabbed Sten by the front of his shirt. “Never mention my family again,” he hissed. “Ever. Understand?”

“What did I say? What did —
yes,
yes, I understand!”

The madness passed as quickly as it had come. Arandras stared at Sten, shocked at his own reaction. “Sorry,” he muttered, letting go of the other man’s shirt. “Sorry.” Grasping his bag tight to stop his hand from shaking, he wheeled around and strode from the shop.

The guards and shopfronts of Goldsmiths Lane awaited him, the sunlight glinting on steel as oppressive as ever. Compel and resist, compel and resist. Over and over.

And how different am I to any of them?

He quickened his pace until he was almost running, not caring if the guards stared after him. Every scrape of sword in scabbard and creak of leather armour felt like an accusation, the sounds pursuing him as he half-jogged around the corner and down the slight incline. Steel, endless rows of steel; and even when an ox-drawn wagon lumbered past, the beast bellowing its displeasure at some imagined slight, somehow he could still hear their whispered indictment.

Weeper’s tears, I hate this street.

•

The Quill schoolhouse in Spyridon was as small as any Arandras had seen. Squashed between an ageing tenement on one side and a weaving house on the other, the narrow building was only three floors high. A square, weather-worn banner hung from a top floor window, the ochre feather immediately recognisable even if the black field seemed more like muddy grey. Directly beneath it stood the main doors, four steps up from the street and as narrow as the rest of the building.

The notion of Narvi being in Spyridon had settled somewhat in Arandras’s mind, but the thought of a Quill becoming a member of the Library still sat strangely. After Tereisa’s death, Arandras had moved to Spyridon specifically because the Quill were so few here, a consequence of the city’s — which was to say, the Library’s — hostility toward the sorcerers. Now, it seemed, that hostility was greatly reduced.
Of course it would be Narvi.
Arandras scratched his beard as he considered the pinched doorway.
Always the peacemaker.

Inside, a single corridor ran the length of the building, a cramped staircase at each end. A sign hanging from the ceiling directed visitors toward a partially open door, behind which Arandras found a small waiting room containing half a dozen chairs and a second, closed door on the opposite side. An undersized handbell stood on a low corner table, and when Arandras rang it, it gave a high peal that lingered in the air like the clang of a wind chime.

The inner door opened, admitting a young man with oil-slicked hair and a practised smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Narvi Parhenu.”

“You have an appointment, of course?”

“No. I’m an old…”
Friend,
Arandras had been going to say, but for some reason the word wouldn’t come. “Colleague,” he said at last. “Tell him Arandras Kanthesi is here.”

The young man assumed an expression of regret. “I’m sorry, but Narvi is very —”

“Please. Tell him Arandras is here.” The man seemed about to object again, but Arandras spoke first. “Tell him. If he wants me to make an appointment, I will.”

“Very well,” the man said eventually. “A moment.”

Arandras leaned back against the wall. In truth, he had no idea how Narvi would react to his presence.
We were friends, once. That was a true thing.
But it was no longer something Arandras felt — it was just something he knew, like the dates of the Calamities, or the similarities between late Yanisinian and early Valdori metalwork.
A fact of history. Just another thing that once was.

The door swung open. Arandras looked up, expecting to see the young man again — but it was Narvi who stood before him, brushing messy brown hair out of his eyes and grinning like a Halonan fortune-carving. “Arandras? Dreamer’s daughters, it really is you.” He laughed, grasping Arandras by the shoulders. “Gods, it’s good to see you.”