undying legion 01 - unbound man (15 page)

“I’d offer you wine if I had any.”

The sorcerer nodded. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “I need to ask you something, Arandras,” he said. “I hope you won’t take it amiss.”

Arandras frowned. “Go ahead.”

“Do you know any reason why my field team is still not back?”

Arandras went still. “I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “Can you tell me what they were looking for?”

Narvi blinked. “‘Were,’” he repeated softly, and Arandras gave a silent curse. “They’re looking for an urn,” he said, and gestured with his hands. “About so big, we think.” He paused, examining Arandras closely. “Only Sten tells me someone brought one in the other day just like it.”

Arandras looked away. “Your team is dead,” he said, his voice low. “They were attacked by some other group, I don’t know who. My associate was there. She saw it happen. I’m sorry.”

Narvi’s face crumpled. “You’re sure they’re dead?”

“The last she saw, one was still alive but in bad shape. No match for the survivors of the other group.”

“Gods. Poor Rawlen. He didn’t want —” Narvi broke off, brushing at his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Say what? I thought they were from Anstice. I didn’t even know you had anyone operating out of Spyridon until the other day.”

“What difference does it make where they’re from? They’re Quill, same as us!”

“Same as you, you mean,” Arandras said, and Narvi bridled. “As you well know! You wouldn’t even tell me what they were after.”

“That’s just the stupid rules! It doesn’t mean anything!”

But it did, of course. Arandras bit his tongue, remembering the last and only time he’d tried explaining it to Narvi, the day he left the Quill for good. “I didn’t kill them, Narvi,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were yours.”

Narvi took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Forget it.” He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Arandras recounted Mara’s story, leaving out her dramatic flourishes and relating only the bare facts. Shorn of its frills, the tale lasted only a few minutes. Narvi gave a half-grunt when Arandras told of the Quill throwing the urn into the night and looked up.

“That’s just like Derrek,” he said, smiling through watery eyes. “Never did know when to quit.”

Just like Derrek.
The comment touched something unexpected within Arandras, and he fell silent.
Narvi knew them,
he realised, and the thought was at once a revelation and the most obvious banality. Of course he’d known them. They were Quill. But he’d done more than simply make their acquaintance. He knew who they were. Swallowing, Arandras dropped his gaze. Suddenly, even looking at the other man’s face seemed intrusive. “I’m sorry, Narvi,” he said. “Truly.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Narvi blotted his eyes with his sleeve. “But here we are.” He shook himself, his stout form wobbling like an overweight cat’s. “And we can still salvage something out of all this. Tell me you’ll sell us the urn.”

Ah, Narvi, not that.
Regretfully, Arandras shook his head.

“I can triple Sten’s offer,” Narvi said. “I can go even higher. At least think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Arandras said. “I can’t.”

Narvi sighed. “Because of Tereisa.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I had to ask.” Narvi’s mouth twisted in a sour smile, but there was no reproach in it, only regret. “You understand, I’m sure.”

“Of course,” Arandras said, shamed by the unexpected display of compassion.
Ah, Narvi. You always were the peacemaker, weren’t you?

Narvi shifted in his seat. “This journal page you mentioned,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”

“From Sten, as it happens. Why?”

“We got a similar page.” Narvi drew out a piece of paper and set it on the desk. “Not from Sten — ours came from Anstice.” He leaned forward. “May I see yours?”

Arandras found it in a drawer. He unfolded it and set it before Narvi, who scanned it for only a moment before nodding.

“It’s a match.” Narvi looked like he had just taken a bite from something bitter. “You have the exact same page that we do.”

Not quite exact.
There were a few words different here and there, a few letters out of place.
But still.
“Someone’s playing us.”

Narvi gave him a sharp glance. “You want to find the person who set this up?” he said. “So do I. So does the Quill. We can work together on this. Help each other.”

Arandras pulled back, his lips pressed together.

“No, listen,” Narvi said, suddenly eager. “Come with me to Anstice. We’ve got people there. Resources. Add your expertise in languages, and…” He gestured expansively. “The urn is yours. You know the Quill will respect that. Together, we can solve this. Don’t you want to know what that thing is?”

Arandras shook his head. “The hells with solving puzzles. I want to find the man who wrote that letter.”

“What if they’re the same thing?”

Then I’ll solve it on my own.
Arandras exhaled sharply. Inviting the Quill to join his search was a fool’s move. Sooner or later, their interests would clash with his, and when that happened, theirs would almost certainly prevail.

He shook his head again. “Thank you, but no.”

“I see,” Narvi said. “Well.” He pushed himself reluctantly to his feet. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m heading back to Anstice next week anyway. The offer is good until then.”

Arandras nodded and said nothing.

“All right.” Narvi headed for the doorway, then paused on the threshold and turned back. “Arandras,” he said. “Do something for me, would you?”

“What’s that?”

“Get yourself out of here. This shop. This life.” Narvi’s gesture took in the shop, the street, the city. “Accept our help or not, whatever you like. Just don’t sit here writing dusty letters for dusty people the rest of your life.”

Arandras bristled. “There’s no shame in this,” he said. “Which is more than I can say for some. These people have as much right to a scribe as anyone else.”

“I never said otherwise. Only that this… well, it isn’t you.” Narvi stepped out into the street, his hand raised in farewell. “Be well, Arandras.”

Arandras watched him leave with a frown. The drawer in which the guardsman’s letters had rested was still open, the pouch containing the intended refund tucked into the corner. On the side of his desk sat a bundle of messages awaiting a courier’s pickup: the headsman’s widow’s reply to her boy, congratulating him on his new position of sole responsibility for the farmer’s second flock; a request from the herbalist for several items not readily found in the vicinity of Spyridon; and more that Arandras could not at this moment recall.

Other people’s words, all of it.

Maybe Narvi had a point.

What if solving the urn and finding the man are the same thing?
Narvi had said it, but Arandras had been thinking the same thing ever since his visit to the schoolhouse.
It fits the pattern. First Tereisa, now Narvi’s team. First the dagger, now…

He opened the lid of his desk, retrieving the urn from its hidden drawer, and setting it on the desk.

What are you?

Chapter 6

Power is the necessary companion to wisdom, and wisdom the necessary companion to power. Lacking both, a man may live a long and contented life; but he who possesses one without the other is doomed to frustration and failure. Impotent wisdom destroys a man as surely as mighty folly.

— Giarvanno do Salin I
Meditations on Power

To Clade’s relief, Estelle was largely absent in the days following her arrival. She would leave early in the morning, sometimes even before breakfast was served, heading north along the thoroughfare toward the Tienette and the heart of Anstice. In the evening she would return from the same direction, join them for dinner, then retire to her room where, as far as Clade knew, she would remain until the next day. She made no demands of him, issued no requests, and the subject of his impending elevation to the Council was allowed to rest where they had left it the first evening.

The third night after Estelle’s arrival found Clade wading cautiously through the darkness of the barren forecourt. The air was mild and still, the waning moon’s pale light deepening the shadows that lay across the courtyard. Clade probed the space ahead with his foot, nudging aside something that felt like broken pottery. The heavy gate was locked for the night, but a small door beside it provided entry and egress at all hours to those permitted the privilege of carrying a key. Junior sorcerers and servants wanting passage at night could either explain their need to their betters or wait until morning.

Clade halted before the door and inserted the key, turning first one way and then the other to engage the sorcery. The hinges squeaked softly as he pulled the door open, revealing a bent-over figure on the other side, key in hand. It straightened sharply, then leaned forward, its shape silhouetted against the lamps of the street. “Hello?” it said, and Clade recognised the thin tenor and slight frame of Garrett.

“It’s Clade,” he said, motioning Garrett forward before realising the uselessness of the gesture. “You first.”

Garrett stepped quickly through, brushing the hair out of his face as his gaze found Clade in the gloom. “Clade. I was just running an errand for Councillor Estelle,” he said, and Clade thought he heard an edge of…
something
in his voice. “Is all well?”

“Fine.” Clade peered at the younger man, but the darkness hid the subtleties of Garrett’s expression. “An errand, you say?”

“Yes,” Garrett said, his tone smug.

Frowning, Clade swung the wicker door closed and leaned near. “Speaking of errands,” he whispered, “what progress have you made in recovering the urn?”

Garrett hesitated. “Ah.” He lowered his voice to match Clade’s. “I have several leads, but nothing solid yet. Perhaps you could speak to the Councillor, ask her for more resources, or even her own assistance —”

“No.”

“Look, if you really want to find this thing, we’re going to need —”

“Enough,” Clade hissed. “I understand the difficulties. I do not expect the impossible. But I do expect your best, and
so does the Council.
Do not disappoint us, and whatever you do,
do not
raise this matter with Councillor Estelle yourself. Am I clear?”

Garrett nodded, his face unreadable in the darkness. “Yes.”

“Good.” He considered saying more, then thought better of it. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Clade.”

The door was low, and Clade had to duck as he passed beneath its frame. He pulled the door closed behind him, the lock giving a hollow
thunk
as it re-engaged.
That was… unsatisfactory.

He set off, reviewing the conversation in his mind as he turned off the wide road into a darker, westerly side-street. Traffic at this hour consisted mostly of small knots of pedestrians, with the occasional lone walker or larger, more raucous group. Clade moved quickly through the streets, emerging a few minutes later on the western branch of the great north-south thoroughfare that passed through the city. A closed carriage rattled past to the clop of iron-shod hooves and he fell in behind it, following its course toward the intersection with the Illith road.

It seemed Garrett’s presumptuousness was developing more quickly than he’d hoped. Clade had thought it still in the early stages, but Estelle’s unfortunate attention appeared to have accelerated its growth; and such conceit in a man like Garrett, rooted in his innate self-regard, would be all but impossible to remove.

I need to get rid of him.
The danger of keeping him close was becoming greater than the danger of letting him go. His control over the man was already beginning to slip, and only a fool grasped a snake after it had begun to wriggle free.

Ordinarily, it would be a simple matter to have Garrett transferred back to Zeanes. As overseer, Clade would simply have put him on a ship, confident that his decision was sure to be accepted, no matter how slight the pretext. But with Estelle in town, formalities dictated that he seek her approval; and with his days in Anstice numbered — in her mind at least, if not his own — there was no guarantee she’d accede to his request. And even if she did, a transfer would achieve nothing if Clade too was forced to return to Zeanes. An image formed of Garrett and himself on the ship to Pazia, united in sullen silence, and a wry snort escaped him.

The Illith road followed the line of the old wall, curving northwest toward Bastion Bridge. Little of the original ramparts were left in this part of the city, though here and there fragments of the original wall could be spied in the facades of newer, taller structures. Clade lengthened his stride, enjoying the absence of the crowds that filled the streets during daylight.
Maybe I can cook up some other assignment, something that would take him away from Anstice for a few weeks. Long enough to see Estelle off, one way or another.

It seemed to Clade that men like Garrett were becoming increasingly common within the Oculus; men, and women too, with no higher goal than their own ambition. Clade wondered how Garrett appeared to Azador. Did the god understand the difference between one who believed in a cause and one who believed only in himself? Did its schemes extend to individual sorcerers, plans to use this one and not another to achieve a particular purpose? Or did it regard the body of sorcerers as merely a pool of resources: something to be nurtured, yes, but ultimately to be used?

Perhaps it was pleased with the changing character of the Oculus.

Perhaps the change reflected a shift in the nature of the god itself.

High clouds drifted across the sky, alternately obscuring the scooped moon and revealing its scarred face once more. Soon the bridge appeared ahead, its lopsided walls giving it the appearance of something either unfinished or in decay. The barrier on the city side was narrow, no more than waist-high, but the crenellated wall on the opposing side rose above Clade’s head, the stones large and solid. Narrow bastions projected over the river at regular intervals, the spaces now home to a series of small merchant stalls, each locked up for the night behind a pair of vertical steel-plate shutters.