undying legion 01 - unbound man (18 page)

Four days of research had brought only marginal progress on the inscription’s translation, and none at all on the question of the urn’s origin or purpose. His sole achievement had come on the second day: the discovery of a similar Valdori dialect associated with a region on the other side of the Pelaseans, near where the city of Zonta now stood. With the aid of the word list and a poorly-copied sample text, he’d been able to guess at several of the words encircling the urn. But those fragments he could decipher seemed to offer little more than a rote message of good fortune, much the same as might be found on any worthless trinket, leaving him no closer to understanding the urn’s true purpose.

I could ask the Quill.
The thought hung in the back of his mind, feeding off his frustration. But the attraction was a mirage, he knew. There was no inviting the Quill into something like this, not without ceding them control. He rubbed his beard, frowning again at his transcription of the urn’s lettering.

A knock sounded at the booth door, followed by the high forehead and narrow nose of a librarian. “You asked to be notified when two books became available,” he said primly, the words a statement of fact. “They have both just been returned. You may peruse them now, if you wish.”

Narvi had returned Yevin’s books, at last. Arandras sat up. “Yes, that would be fine.”

The door opened further and the librarian entered, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Arandras’s cluttered desk, and delicately placed the two volumes in a small clear patch on one side. “Have you finished with any of these?” he asked hopefully.

“Ah, no, not quite,” Arandras said. “Thank you.”

The librarian sniffed. “As you wish.” He backed cautiously out of the booth, closing the door with a soft click.

Arandras picked up the first volume. It was the one he’d glanced through at the schoolhouse, an anonymous work titled
Forms of Sorcery.
Clearing a space on the desk, he set the book down and began to read.

A close perusal confirmed the impression he’d received earlier. The book skipped through dozens of purposes to which the Valdori had supposedly applied sorcery, from agriculture to leisure to weapons of war. But the work’s breadth only highlighted its corresponding lack of depth; and despite what Narvi had said, most of the book’s references to religious practices focused on a handful of major orders. Arandras skimmed through its handwritten pages, his pace increasing as he progressed, until at last he closed the book with a snap, frustrated and none the wiser.

The second book was as slender as the first, but where the other volume was fresh and well cared for, this one reeked of mould. Arandras covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, gingerly turning the pages with thumb and forefinger, and tried not to breathe.

Tiysus Oronayan, the famed Kharjik historian, had written more than twenty separate volumes and countless shorter pieces. This was a lesser-known work, shorter than his celebrated
Histories,
but still long enough to merit its own binding. Arandras leafed slowly through the book, moving each page as gently as he could, until he came to an illustration that stopped him dead.

It was not quite the same as his urn. It had handles, for one thing: slender stalks that curved out from the base before bending back in just where the neck began to widen. It was taller, too, or not as wide, and its surface carried writing only, not images. But the likeness was unmistakable. There was the same bulbous base, the same flared mouth, the same flat cap sealing the contents within. The writing, alas, was indistinct — the drawing too small for the copy-artist to accurately reproduce such details — but it spiralled around the same portion of the rounded body and seemed similar in length to the inscription that had so far defied his attempts at translation.

At the foot of the facing page was a reference to the drawing. The Kharjik word that stood for the urn was unfamiliar, but something about it triggered a faint recognition. Arandras paused, puzzling over the term but unable to pin it down. Then he turned the page, and the riddle was solved.

A half-page illustration showed a man lying on the ground, pierced with arrows. At his side knelt another, holding the urn to the wounded man’s mouth. But the man was not drinking. He was exhaling — surrendering his dying breath to the urn, and with it all that he was, to be preserved against the passage of time. And there in the text was the word Arandras had heard the echo of, an old Yanisinian term:
zaki,
the passing of the spirit. Death.

That’s it.
Arandras stared at the page, the image filling his vision.
It’s an ossuary, but not for the man’s physical remains. An ossuary for the soul.

The text below the second illustration was brief, describing the supposed capture of the spirit as a Yanisinian custom that had no parallel among the Valdori. That at least made sense. Preserving the dead was the stuff of Jervian savages, or the fire-cultists who burned their corpses and retained the ashes. The Valdori had buried their dead, sung songs about them, even built monuments to them, but that was all. Nowhere had Arandras ever heard of the Valdori capturing souls of the dead and putting them on a shelf.

Yet the urn was clearly of Valdori make. Only they had ever fashioned such pieces that were impervious to the passage of time.
Why would they make something with no function in their own culture?
A thought struck him, and he shivered.
Unless they made it work.
Was it possible? Could they have found a way to draw out a spirit and imprison it in a small pewter vessel — perhaps the very vessel he now held in his hand?

Was there, even now, a
person
trapped inside?

Reason returned with a rush.
No. It can’t be.
Such sorcery, if possible at all, would surely rank among the most complex and laborious of all the Empire’s works. Any such binding would require an immense physical anchor in which to ground it, far greater than the hand-high urn. For all their power, even the Valdori were not immune to the laws of sorcery. There was no way the urn could hold such a binding.

Arandras closed his hand over the small pewter vessel. It was smooth and cool to the touch, just as it had always been. He grasped it tightly, squeezing hard against the unyielding metal.
Don’t be a fool. There is no spirit within.

But if that was so, what was it for? The thing had clearly been designed to mimic the form of a Yanisinian receptacle, which at least explained why there was no way to open it. The inscription, too, made sense now: not a good luck charm, but a benediction for the deceased. The engraved images presumably showed scenes from the life of whoever supposedly rested within. All the details made sense.
But what is it really? And why does someone want it so much they’re prepared to kill for it?

His hand was still resting on the urn when the door slammed open. Startled, Arandras scrambled to his feet, hiding the urn behind his back and bracing himself for an attack. But the newcomer merely stood there, a self-satisfied grin on his face, and a breath later Arandras recognised the smirking features of Onsoth.

“You,” Arandras said in disgust. He crouched to pick up some papers that had fallen to the floor and slipped the urn into his bag. “What do you want?”

“Well, well,” Onsoth said, his grin widening even further. “What have we here? Could it be Lord Swine himself, studying in the Library he treats with such contempt? Why, yes, I believe it is!”

“What do you want?” Arandras repeated, his voice flat. “Or is it your usual practice to harass people for no reason? No, wait, forget I asked. Stupid question.”

“Harass?” Onsoth folded his arms, still smiling. “What an offensive thing to say. I’m here on behalf of the city of Spyridon. You should show the proper respect.”

Arandras grit his teeth. “What. Do. You. Want?”

“I’m surprised to find you here, you know. Here in the public reading area of the Library. Open to all the citizens of Spyridon.” Onsoth paused, and an unpleasant suspicion began to form in Arandras’s thoughts. “But do you know what I’ve discovered? It’s not just the Library you’re too proud for. It’s the whole damn city! Even citizenship of Spyridon is not good enough for Arandras, Lord of the Swine!”

It was futile to argue. Never mind that in practice, the Library opened its doors to all comers save children and criminals only — nonetheless, its mandate extended only to the citizenry. Anything more was a mere courtesy, one that might be revoked whenever, or from whomever, the city wished.

Onsoth must have seen the resignation on his face. “That’s right, Lord Swine. Pack up your things. The Library is
closed
to you.”

Arandras collected his papers in silence. Then he gathered the Library’s books, stacking them neatly on the small desk. He reached for the musty Oronayan volume last, placing it atop the pile, and Onsoth wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Hells, what is that smell?” he said, fanning the air with his hand. “Get out already. Take your shit back home to your sty.”

It took all of Arandras’s self-control not to punch Onsoth in the face as he left.

•

By evening, the street outside Rhothe’s Bar was slick with moisture, the result of a brief afternoon storm that had done nothing to relieve the oppressive humidity. Inside, the usual hubbub of conversation was muted as patrons slouched listlessly around tables, most barely moving except to raise mugs to their lips or to gesture the serving staff for more. The high windows along the far wall stood wide open, admitting flashes of lamplight, the clop of passing horses and, occasionally, the faintest breath of air.

Arandras found Druce and Jensine ensconced in a booth directly below one of the yawning windows. Jensine smiled in greeting, but Druce offered only a curt nod, his fingers drumming against the table and his eyes roving the room. His drink sat on the table, untouched.

“What’s with him?” Arandras said, then grimaced at the edge in his voice. Onsoth was a bastard, but taking it out on Druce wouldn’t help.

Jensine shrugged. “He won’t say. Not until everyone’s here.” Druce continued his survey of the room, showing no sign of hearing their conversation. “He’s been like this all day.”

Arandras took a deep pull from his cider, watching as Druce shifted restlessly in his seat, eyes flicking here and there, all the while avoiding Arandras’s gaze.
Must be the only one in the city who isn’t noticing the heat,
he thought sourly, cupping the cool mug between his palms.
What trouble have you got yourself into now?

“Have you learnt anything more about the urn?” Jensine said, and Druce’s attention shifted to a point just above Arandras’s shoulder. “You must have translated the message by now.”

“Partly, I think,” Arandras said. “Seems like a blessing of some kind, but I still don’t know what it means. I’m working on it.”

Druce snorted and shifted his gaze back to somewhere in the middle of the room.

Arandras leaned forward. “Something you’d like to say, Druce?”

“What’s going on here, then?” Mara plonked a brimming mug on the table and sank into the vacant seat with a sigh. “Hells, what a pathetic excuse for a storm. I’ve sneezed better storms than that.” Silence greeted her pronouncement, and she glanced around the table in bemusement. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all,” Druce said, his voice tight. “We were just waiting for you.”

“Well, here I am,” Mara said, gesturing expansively. “Proceed!”

Druce sat forward, looking directly at Arandras for the first time since his arrival. “Tell us, please, Arandras,” he said. “How are your enquiries progressing? I speak, of course, of the small trinket Mara recovered last week.”

Arandras’s eyes narrowed.
Put away the theatrics, boy. If you want to ask something, ask it.
“They continue,” he said.

“I see. And tell us, if you would, have you received any offers to purchase it?”

“I told you the other night, it’s not that simple. I need to find out more —”

“Let me make it simple, then,” Druce said. The earlier jitters were gone; he seemed assured now, even cocky. “Just tell us the best offer you’ve had so far.”

Arandras frowned. “I spoke to Sten, on Goldsmiths Lane —”

“No, Arandras,” Druce said. “I’m talking about the Quill. How much did they offer you?” Arandras moistened his lips, and the gesture seemed to set something off in the other man. “Tell us!” Druce shouted, slamming his hand on the table.

“What is this, Arandras?” Jensine asked, her tone cautious. “What’s he talking about?”

“I spoke to a Quill sorcerer,” Arandras said, each word clipped. “He offered to purchase the urn. A specific sum was not mentioned.” He sat back, arms folded, daring Druce to say otherwise.

Druce considered him a long moment. “Maybe that’s true,” he said at last. “If so, I have some good news for you. For all of us.” He glanced around the table. “The Quill want the urn, badly. They’re willing to give us three gold hands for it.”

Three hands.
Fifteen lurundi, each bar a finger of gold. Gasps sounded around the table, and Druce grinned.

“Are you sure the offer’s good?” Mara said. “You know what the Quill are like.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Druce said, the conviction in his tone unmistakable. “I heard a couple of them talking about it. They didn’t even know I was there.” He took a mouthful of ale. “They weren’t joking.”

“This is wonderful!” Jensine looked as if someone had offered to fetch the moon and place it in her lap. “What are you all going to do? I think… I’ll buy a horse. A Halonese cross, if I can find one around here —”

The words seemed to come from someone else. “I’m not selling it.”

Jensine gaped, brought up short in mid-reverie. “But… why? Three gold hands!” She blinked. “Do you think you can get even more?”

“No,” Arandras said. “I’m not selling it. At all.”

“I knew it!” Druce burst out. “Gods, but I knew something was up. What do you mean, you’re not selling it?”

Arandras closed his eyes. The air in the room seemed completely still. “I can’t.”