undying legion 01 - unbound man (17 page)

Havilah’s brow arched. “Meaning?”

“Dallin,” she said. “Someone else is running him. Supposedly someone from the Guild. Well, what if it’s true? What if someone else in the Guild is trying to cut us out of the loop? Not completely, just enough for us to miss a few things without realising we’ve missed them.”

Havilah frowned. “A difficult thing to do well. They’d need a full list of every agent’s contacts, which would be hard enough in itself. Then they’d need to work out which of them might hear whatever they’re trying to conceal and suborn each one.” He shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Oh,” Eilwen said, deflated. “You don’t think there’s any connection, then?”

“I didn’t say that. Right now we don’t know either way.” Someone laughed in the corridor outside, and Havilah lowered his voice. “Neither Laris nor Caralange can tell me anything about who Three Rivers’ new dance partner is, nor why they might need their sorcerer at the party. We need to find out what they’re up to. Otherwise we’re just blundering around in the dark.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. You don’t know the city well enough yet.” He pointed at her. “You find Dallin. Go to the drop tonight and see what you can learn about this rogue handler.”

Thank you.
“Where should I put him? We’ll need a cell or something —”

“No,” Havilah said, his voice hard. “No cells. You’re not to lay a hand on him. I don’t want him to even know you’re there. Better to lose him than tip him off. Understood?”

“But —”

“No.” His glare cut into her like steel. “We’re not just talking about one man. He’ll have resources and friends, possibly very powerful friends. We do nothing until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Eilwen lowered her head. “As you say.”

“Good,” Havilah said. “And go alone. Let’s not involve any others in this until we have to.”

That, at least, would not be a problem. Alone was how she worked best.

“You can count on me,” she said.

•

Eilwen spent the afternoon alternately listening to and trying to ignore the soft, rhythmic clicks of her new clock. Somehow the steward had managed to find a Rondossan table clock for a price within the Guild’s limits on personal furnishings. He’d delivered it in person the previous day, whereupon she’d given him her thanks and surrendered her bond, to be held by the Guild as surety against damage. Its polished brass face and wood-panel case drew the eye as its clicks did the ear, and as the hours passed Eilwen found herself increasingly entranced by the hand’s near-imperceptible progress. She had never seen so small a clock, even from afar, and the notion that such precision could be captured in a box no larger than a clothes chest enthralled her.
Rondossan craftsmanship. Not even the Quill’s devices can compare to this.

At five hours past noon she left her suite and headed out into the city. Brielle had offered to come along, but Eilwen had declined, glad of the excuse of Havilah’s instruction. She was well used to shadowing a mark alone. But there was no black amber egg tonight, no loop of sharpened wire in her boot, and though she carried daggers beneath her shirt and in her other boot, she hoped to have no occasion to use them. The absence of wire and egg gave her a strange sense of unpreparedness, and she shivered, trying to drive the unwelcome feeling away.
Nothing is missing that has any place in me. Not any more.

According to Dallin, the drop was set to take place near the old wall’s northern gatehouse. The gate itself was long gone now, the house just another building, albeit one that straddled the wide western thoroughfare. The upper rooms were now home to a school, one of many scattered throughout the city. As a child, Eilwen had never visited a school; there was no way her father could have afforded to educate them all even if he had wanted to, and so two of her brothers were schooled while she and her youngest brother spent their days on the street, fighting the rival gangs and learning skills that her father never dreamt of. But every evening she’d asked Den to tell her what he’d learnt, poring over the small, printed primers he brought home, and vowing to herself that one day she would leave and never again feel the sting of her father’s hand against her face.

There were no children at the window when Eilwen reached the gatehouse. On the other side of the vacant archway lay a small square lined with shops: a barber, an oil merchant, two tailors, a locksmith. The late afternoon sun lit the wall’s outer face in fiery orange, highlighting every crag and protuberance in its rough blocks. Eilwen worked her way along the wall, searching for the loose stone Dallin had mentioned; but despite its age, the wall seemed unexpectedly solid. She could find only a few stones that shifted at all, and none that could be prised free or manoeuvred to reveal a hiding place.

Frowning, she retraced her steps beneath the arch.
Maybe it’s on the inside.
But the inner wall proved to be even more solid than the outer, and at length she was forced to admit defeat, scowling at the impassive stonework as its shadow slowly lengthened before her.

A loose stone in the old wall, near the north gatehouse.
Well, wherever it was, she wasn’t going to find it now. The afternoon was fading, and it wouldn’t do to be caught poking around if Dallin arrived early — or, worse yet, his handler. With a resigned sigh, Eilwen drew up an overturned half-barrel, dragging it to a position from which she could watch the thoroughfare in both directions, as well as the alleys that ran along the wall’s inner side. The barrel rocked as she sat on it, its broken rim unsteady on the rough cobbles. She shifted sideways, wedging the barrel in place as best she could; then, pulling her hood over her head, she settled down to wait.

The sun slipped behind the high gatehouse, turning the road to shadow. A lamplighter passed by, Quill sparker in hand, a trail of burning street lights in his wake. Eilwen sat motionless, her face hidden beneath her hood, marking each passer-by and disregarding them as soon as she was sure it was not Dallin. His stride the other day had been long but slightly awkward, even before he had seen Eilwen and Brielle waiting for him. Tonight, under pressure, both length and awkwardness would almost certainly be exaggerated.

All she had to do was watch, and be patient.

It was pure chance that she happened to glance up when she did. A half-hidden silhouette crouched atop the wall, black against the fading cerise clouds, stooped over something hidden from view.
Shit, I didn’t cover the wall itself.
She was on her feet before she could stop herself, staring upward in dismay. The figure straightened abruptly, and she recognised the angular form of Dallin as he scurried away, vanishing and reappearing between the merlons before passing out of sight altogether.

Eilwen sat back down, her mind racing. Of course, the old wall was its own path. Its northern course was almost entirely intact. Dallin might join or leave it anywhere — and so might whoever was coming to collect the drop. The gloom was deepening by the minute; soon, any movement on the wall wouldn’t be visible even in silhouette.
I need to go up. Down here, I’m as good as blind.

But if she did, then what? Up on the wall she’d have no place to wait unseen. Besides, the handler might arrive at any moment; move now, and she risked missing him entirely. She exhaled, frustrated, eyes flicking between the wall and the road. The gatehouse door lay in plain view, as did the crenel behind which Dallin had crouched, presumably to deposit his information.
I can still see everything from here. And if he takes the road, I can still follow him when he comes out.

Gods, I hope he takes the road.

The clouds lost the last of their glow, the sky shifting to deep, twilight blue, then black. Lamps flickered below the wall, spilling yellow light over the battlements and casting the spaces between them deeper into shadow. Eilwen fixed her gaze on the dim crenel, hoping to preserve as much night vision as she could; but as the minutes dragged by, the lamps seemed to burn themselves into the edges of her sight, hovering against the black like tiny, unsteady suns. She cursed, squinting against the dancing spots of light. Nothing remained between the battlements except thick, unyielding shadow.

Damn it. Why is he taking so long?

Movement by the gatehouse caught her eye: a man with ashen hair and a long cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He moved swiftly, without hesitation, opening the gatehouse door with a single motion and disappearing inside. Blinking rapidly, Eilwen flicked her gaze back up to the crenel, peering into the gloom with one hand raised to block the lamps. Something shifted between the battlements, black on black, then stopped — and was that a glint of light on pale hair? She blinked again, unsure.

The darkness shifted once more, passing behind the neighbouring gap, back toward the gatehouse. Then it paused, leaning out over the street, and a narrow face emerged from the gloom, cheeks and chin lit by the flickering lamps below, its stark features framed by shoulder-length ashen hair.
Got you.

The man turned and vanished from view. Eilwen stood, heart pounding, and pressed herself into the locked door of the baker’s shop behind her.
If he doesn’t come out after fifty heartbeats, I’ll have to go up. Damn, I wish Brielle was here.
The gatehouse door swung open, and she tensed; but the man who emerged was short and dark-haired, and his arm was draped around a giggling Kharjik woman. They embraced, the woman locking her arms about the man’s neck, pushing him back against the door post. Eilwen grit her teeth, staring daggers at the couple until at last they broke loose of each other and moved on, the man weaving backward down the road, the woman giggling at his side.

Eilwen stared at the door, willing it to open once more. She’d lost her count, distracted by the idiot lovebirds.
Ten more, then I go looking.
But her heart was racing, and after ten beats she stood there still, counting further. Fifteen. Twenty.

On the twenty-third beat the door opened and the man emerged, a curl of ashen hair peeking out from beneath his now-raised hood. Eilwen relaxed against the wall as he turned his head, sweeping the street with his stare. Then he set off back the way he had come: south, into the heart of the city.

Between the gloom and his hood, the man was hard to keep in sight; and when he turned off the thoroughfare it took her a moment to realise he had disappeared. She dashed ahead to where she had last seen him and peered down the side-streets, hurrying from one to the next in growing anxiety.
I can’t lose you now, damn it.
She paused at the mouth of a dim lane and was rewarded with a fleeting glimpse of his hood disappearing around a corner.
There. Gods, would you just slow down?

Eilwen ran after him, skidding to a halt at the corner and wincing at the pain in her bad leg. There he was, his long, even gait unbroken. She recognised the route, now: a shortcut through to the eastern thoroughfare, one she had used herself from time to time.
Maybe if I duck around and meet him coming the other way, I can get a better look at his face.
But no, that would be foolish. The man might turn in any direction at the thoroughfare. All she had to do was stay patient and she could follow him home right now.

When the man reached the thoroughfare, he turned south once more, and an uneasy foreboding stirred within her.
Follow him home. But I already know where he’s going, don’t I?
And as he led her south along the thoroughfare, then turned onto Traders’ Row, her foreboding grew, so that when at last he reached the Woodtraders compound and knocked at the gatekeeper’s window, she felt no surprise, only a heavy, hollow sense of inevitability.

Too late, she realised that the Row was empty save for the two of them. She froze for a moment, then forced herself to resume her approach. If she backtracked now, he might see her and recognise her. Better to hope he hadn’t noticed her pursuit and continue on. She pushed her hood back, easing her pace and trying to catch her breath. He turned as she neared and she gave him a brief wave, a nod of one colleague to another. Ashen hair framed his face beneath the hood. His narrow cheeks and chin were the same as those she had seen atop the wall.

She didn’t know him.

“I’m Eilwen,” she said as the gate swung open. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Kieffe,” he replied, returning the nod. His voice was soft, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “I’ve been away from Anstice for a while.”

“A trader, right?” Eilwen said. “Where did they send you? North? West?”

Kieffe shrugged. “Lots of places. Here is better.”

They passed within, the gate clanging shut behind them. Inside the main building, they parted with another nod, Kieffe heading toward the stairs as Eilwen turned aside to her own suite. Heart hammering, leg aching, she stumbled inside, kicked off her shoes, and fell onto her bed, exhausted.

Who are you, Kieffe?
she thought, staring up at the gloom-shrouded ceiling.
And what are you doing to my Guild?
But there was no answer, save for the soft clicking of the clock in the next room.

Chapter 7

Before the tree, a shoot.

Before the shoot, a seed.

Before the seed, a thought.

Holy Dreamer, grant us a glimpse of your reverie.

— Liturgy of the First Hour
Tri-God Book of Prayer
Pantheon of Anstice

Arandras fanned himself with some folded papers and tried to concentrate on the open volume before him. The booth was small and poorly ventilated, making the humid air even more oppressive, but Arandras still preferred it to the cavernous public reading room outside. The Library had only a handful of individual reading stalls, and the cost of this one was already running into silver, but the privacy it afforded was worth every copper duri. Whatever the urn was, its value was no longer in question. The fewer people who knew he had it, the better.