undying legion 01 - unbound man (16 page)

The grand Tri-God pantheon crouched on the other side of the river, its coloured spires grey in the thin moonlight. A filigree gate stood ajar, opening onto a wide, many-sided courtyard. Three great carved figures looked out from the centre of the yard, each twice the size of a man: the Dreamer, the Weeper, and the Gatherer; their various expressions of rapture, sorrow, and tranquillity lost in the night’s gloom. Behind them rose a vast temple, the spectacular colours of its polished marble exchanged in the dark for a solemn, obscure immensity. Lamplight shone from narrow ground-level windows and spilled out from a partially ajar door at one end.

Clade eased the door open and seated himself on one of the low stools scattered throughout the long anteroom. The sanctum itself was already closed; soon the assistant priests would come through to usher the few remaining worshippers outside and shut the gates. Clade had deliberately timed his meeting tonight to allow himself a few moments in the pantheon beforehand, just in case the god chose this night to accompany him. It was, of course, out of the question to hold the meeting itself in a temple like this. Such places were useful for ridding himself of the god, but they were far too visible for even a semi-regular rendezvous. Concealment from Azador meant little if more mundane privacy could not also be guaranteed.

A fat woman with a tear-streaked face shuffled past Clade toward the door. She paused beside the iron-bound collection box, whispering a prayer and dropping in a pair of silver lengths. They landed with a loud clink, as though reminding all who listened of the surest way to the Tri-God’s favour.

And what of Azador’s favour?
The purpose of the Oculus was nothing less than the restoration of all that had been lost when the Valdori fell. Everything the Oculus owned and did — its silent stake in the Crimson Sails, its even more silent investments in Pazian pirates, the research, the scrambling after artefacts overlooked by the Quill — all of it was directed to that end. Such was the god’s greatest passion.

So Clade had been told, and so he had believed, even as he’d begun searching for a way to free himself from its influence. But the Oculus also told its sorcerers other things, things Clade knew to be false. What if the god’s supposed passion was just another lie?

A pair of assistant priests emerged from a side door and approached a thick-limbed Jervian man, murmuring to him in muted tones and gesturing toward the door.
Dismissing the faithful. Just as Estelle and the Council dismiss the rest of us.

Only she hadn’t. She’d reached out to him, invited him inside. Offered him the chance — no, the right — to speak on behalf of his god. After all, wasn’t that what every worshipper wanted?

But I am not a worshipper. I want nothing from Azador, save the one thing it will never give me.

The priests turned toward him, both faces showing the same expression of sombre self-satisfaction. Clade shivered. He pushed himself his feet, thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, and hurried out of the temple into the cool night air.

•

The tall granite redoubt stood close to the riverbank, its heavy martial design offering stark contrast to the soaring pantheon. Fourteen such strongholds had originally been built around Anstice, but only nine had survived the centuries since their construction, and most of those were now enclosed within the city’s expanded walls. This tower now served as storehouse for the city’s armaments, including a sizable stockpile of gunpowder. The powder works was situated nearby, a large building with two great waterwheels protruding from its side into the Tienette. The wheels were said to drive no fewer than four separate mills within, perhaps as many as six, though Clade doubted the truth of the more extravagant reports. The building lay quiescent in the fickle moonlight, silent but for the rhythmic slap and creak of the wheels.

A short jetty extended into the water between the bridge and the powder works, and as Clade approached he saw a figure seated on the rough bench that ran the length of the jetty’s downriver side. Clade stepped onto the jetty, causing the warped boards to squeak beneath his feet, and the figure raised its head, pushing back its hood to reveal the familiar features of the Library scribe.

“Pleasant evening for it,” Yevin said.

“Indeed.” Clade sat, stretching his legs. The Tienette lay spread out around them, undulating gently, the reflected lights at its edges dancing like giant fireflies on the shifting surface. Ahead, beyond the waterwheels, the river and its banks terminated abruptly as though cut off by a great pitch-black curtain: the new wall, the arched channels at its base hidden in the darkness. A few specks of light hovered near the top of the dark mass, just below the inky peak of the gatehouse.

Yevin withdrew a sheaf of papers from his satchel and passed it across. “It’s all there,” he said. “Everything the Library can tell you, including some they don’t like to admit they have.”

“Thank you.” Clade handed Yevin a fat pouch, and the scribe tucked it away in a pocket without opening it. “Did you have any trouble?”

The man might have shrugged. “None worth mentioning.”

Clade nodded, looking out at the dark river. “Were there any accounts of the actual spell?”

“Perhaps. I think so. I don’t know.” A wry note crept into Yevin’s voice. “Honestly, I’d be fortunate to understand even half of what’s in those papers. Descriptions of sorcery are like a man talking in his sleep. You recognise each word, but together they sound like so much nonsense.”

Clade laughed. “I know what you mean. The archon here has a similar gift.”

“A common malady.” Yevin chuckled. “Still, I found several accounts of spellcraft matching your description.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Clade leaned back against a wooden post, his hand on the papers beside him. Not just one account, but several. A better result than he’d anticipated.

“I had to return the books you asked me to hold,” Yevin said. “Had a note from the Library just before I left. Apparently someone put them on reserve.”

“Oh?” Something anxious shifted within him and he walled it off. “Who?”

“The Quill.”

The caged emotion beat against its prison, but the walls held. “I see.” It was hardly a surprise that the Quill, having discovered the existence of the urn, would seek to learn more about it. Clade had asked Yevin to keep the books for precisely that reason: to keep the Quill at bay until such time as he, Clade, took possession of the urn.

Pity about that.

There was nothing to be done about it now. If the Quill figured out what the urn was, nothing on Kal Arna would prevent them from joining the hunt. But with luck, it might still be a while before that happened.

Clade pushed the Quill from his mind. The black waters of the Tienette shifted all around him, mesmerising for their dark beauty. Somehow the scene put him in mind not of a river but of a lake, with wavelets moving up and down as if anchored to the spot, and the nearby waterwheels ploughing the surface as through driven by a brace of oxen marching in slow circles within the building.

Yevin stirred, his feet scraping over the rough boards. “Your letter didn’t mention the additional diary copy. I assume it reached its destination? I had it sent via the shop, just like you said.”

Irritation at the reminder of the failed scheme flared and was confined. The scowl evaporated before it touched his face. “Yes.”

“Was something wrong with it?” Concern sounded in Yevin’s voice.

“Hmm? No, no, the copy was fine —”

It came without warning, as it always did, disorienting him, forcing him to steady himself on the bench: the familiar, alien
wrongness,
swirling darkly like a swarm of invisible flies. The presence of the god, here,
right now.
The air thickened in his lungs, smothering him. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to gasp, and held up a hand to forestall any action or word from Yevin.

I have to leave. Right now, before it sees or hears anything it shouldn’t.

Fighting for air, he took a deep breath, then another, the god’s presence settling over him like a shroud. The papers lay on the bench beside him; eyes closed, he gathered them up, feeling to make sure he had all of them. “I must go,” he said, standing, and raised a finger to his lips to indicate silence. “Thank you for your help.” There was a soft rustle of clothing from where Yevin sat. Perhaps he nodded.

Clade turned, making his way awkwardly back to land. The creak of the waterwheel and the hollow clunk of his steps rang in his ears. He cringed inwardly, lightening his steps, increasing his pace. When he reached the bank he opened his eyes a fraction, peering through the lashes just enough to get his bearings and find the road back to the bridge.

He was halfway home before he dared open his eyes fully. The god stayed with him all the way, riding him as he climbed the stairs to his suite, still there as he pulled off his clothes. He crawled into bed and lay on the thin mattress, staring up at the empty, brooding darkness, and waited for sleep to take him.

•

Eilwen had little opportunity to reflect on her encounter with Dallin, occupied as she was with the demands of her new position. There was a never-ending succession of details to be absorbed, players to become acquainted with, and connections hinted at but left unstated. At first, the sheer volume of information threatened to overwhelm her. Gradually, however, the great, tangled web of self-interest began to take shape in her mind. It was as though some vast, inhuman parasite lay at the city’s heart, sucking on its wealth the way a leech sucked blood.
This is Anstice,
she thought more than once as the image formed in her thoughts.
This is my city.

The other agents seemed little happier to meet her than Ufeus. Most were politic enough to try to hide the fact, though none tried so hard that she might actually make the mistake of thinking herself welcome. Yet what frustrated her most was neither the squalor of her city nor the disfavour of her colleagues, but the seemingly endless sprawl of her new field of responsibility. As a trader, she’d been able to focus on a single negotiation for hours or even days in advance. The world of intelligence offered no such luxury. Everything was connected to everything else, and nothing could be understood on its own.

Each morning, Havilah quizzed her on the threads of scheme and counter-scheme that permeated the city, and every day she was able to explain more, earning more of the quick, flashing smiles with which he rewarded a correct answer. When she told him about her encounter with Dallin, he listened in silence, then nodded and thanked her for her report. On its implications for the Guild itself, he said nothing.

Something is going on,
Eilwen thought as she made her way down the corridor to Havilah’s suite.
Not out in the city, but in here.
Dallin’s drop was scheduled for this evening, and so far Havilah had neither instructed her to be present nor forbidden it. Not that it mattered — either way, she was damn well going to be there.

She pushed the door open and was greeted with the sound of a low, rasping voice, abruptly cut off. Caralange, the Guild sorcerer, stood within, his mouth half-open; and beside him, Trademaster Laris, her face hidden behind the high collar of her jacket. Havilah sat on the edge of his desk, a faint smile on his lips.

“Oh,” Eilwen said. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back later.”

“No, come in,” Havilah said. “You should hear this too.”

“Should she?” Caralange pressed his lips together and shook his head. “This is pointless.” The sorcerer glared at Havilah, then at Eilwen; then he turned and strode from the room, his untidy grey hair brushing Eilwen’s ear as he swept past.

“Eilwen.” Laris extended a hand, inviting her in. “Congratulations, my dear. Master Havilah’s a fortunate man.”

Eilwen stifled a laugh.
Gods, you make it sound like I’ve wedded him.
“Thank you.”

“Truly,” Laris said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the Spymaster was running short on coin. Gods know you made more for me in your time than anyone else.”

Which was a lie, albeit a flattering one. Pel had never let her near the genuinely lucrative deals. “As you say, Trademaster.”

The other woman gave an easy smile. “Call me Laris.” She nodded to Havilah, still perched on the edge of his desk. “Havilah.”

“Trademaster,” Havilah returned pleasantly to her departing back. Only when her footsteps began to fade did he tilt his chin at the open door and murmur to Eilwen, “Close that, would you?”

Eilwen hastened to obey, then turned, the door hard against her back. “Sorry for barging in like that.”

“Not at all.” The corners of Havilah’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “In truth, I was hoping you’d come by sooner.”

“Caralange didn’t seem very pleased to see me.”

“Caralange was unhappy before you got here,” Havilah said. “So was Laris.”

“What happened?”

Havilah rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Rumours,” he said. “It seems there’s a new player in town. New money.”

Eilwen shrugged. Aspiring traders came to Anstice all the time, some seeking to expand an established business or start a new one, others hoping to quickly parlay a small sum into a fortune by means of some starry-eyed scheme dreamt up around a barrel of ale. The illusions of the latter typically lasted only days. “A rich northerner, perhaps?”

“Maybe,” Havilah said. “Whoever it is, they’re wealthy enough to make Three Rivers sit up and take notice. They’ve sent word to Neysa recalling their sorcerer.”

“Their
sorcerer?
Who are they dealing with, a Kharjik prince?” A thought struck her. “I haven’t seen anything about this in the reports.”

“No. And that’s what worries me. If someone like that’s in town, we shouldn’t need our agents in Neysa to tell us about it. We should already know.”

Like we should have known about Dallin.
But then, it wasn’t that they hadn’t known Dallin was an informant. It was that someone else knew, too.

“We should already know,” Eilwen repeated. She looked up. “What if we do?”