undying legion 01 - unbound man (22 page)

Arandras snatched up the paper and scanned its lines — but it was only a child’s grammar, setting out the five classes of letter and the rules governing how they could be combined. He set it back down, feeling foolish.

“Careful with that,” Yevin said. “My niece is going to want to crumple it herself.” He put his pen in its holder and folded his arms. “You’re sure you don’t want to check it for secret messages?”

Arandras stared back, his face flushed. He needed something: a word, a lead, anything to keep him on the trail, free from the meddlesome Quill.
No more deals with devils. Not this time.
He sighed, forced a chuckle, and pulled up a stool.

“Let’s start over,” Arandras said. “You’re a shopkeeper. You have costs and expenses, same as everyone.” He spread his hands. “I wish to purchase some information.”

Yevin shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. Not even for customers who have names.”

“I can pay well.”

“No. You can’t.” Yevin’s tone was final. “Just leave.”

I could simply take what I need.
The thought came unbidden, but Arandras allowed it to linger as he looked Yevin over. The man looked about as strong as any fifty-year-old scribe. If it came to it…

Yevin saw his regard and seemed to guess its meaning. For a moment he said nothing, merely returned Arandras’s gaze. Then his brows rose. “Are you a sorcerer as well?”

The question took Arandras by surprise.
As well as — oh.
“Your correspondent is a sorcerer,” he said. “Of course he is.” A thought struck him. “Is he Quill?”

An annoyed expression flitted across Yevin’s face, there and gone again so quickly that Arandras wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. Then a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have the slightest idea, do you?” He laughed, a mocking, grating sound. “Who put you up to this? A friend? A girl? Please tell me you’re not here embarrassing yourself because of a girl.”

Images flashed through Arandras’s mind: Tereisa’s wondering, delighted laugh the day he’d pledged to marry her; Tereisa naked in the moonlight, brow arched, her finger beckoning him closer; Tereisa’s body huddled on the steps of their house, the breeze tugging at her blood-streaked hair in ghastly counterpoint to her stillness.
Embarrassing myself? How dare you?
Rage filled him, and he found himself leaning over the desk, fists planted either side of the half-written page, breathing hard. “Never say that again,” he growled. “Do not
ever
say that again.”

Yevin stood, leaning closer so that their noses almost touched. When he spoke, the words were barely more than a whisper. “Get the hells out of my shop.”

The words burrowed into Arandras’s ears, penetrating his madness. A memory arose in sympathetic echo: Onsoth leering down, his eyes filled with spite; Arandras standing in response, opening his mouth to reply; then those same words, spoken with the same soft fury.

He stared at Yevin, and he stared at Onsoth; he stood on both sides of the desk at once, staring across it at himself. Perhaps this was what Onsoth felt, why he was always so angry. Perhaps he’d lost someone once, same as Arandras, and now had nothing left save his memories and his rage, no course of action that might ease the ache or answer even one of the questions on which his life now stood.

But I do.

The sensation of solid timber pressing against his knuckles brought him back to the present. He straightened slowly, measuring Yevin with his gaze. The creases about the man’s eyes and mouth ran deep. His shoulders had a slight stoop to them. His arms were thin. He would be no match for Arandras. More than likely, Arandras would not even have to lay a hand on him. The mere threat would probably be enough.

Yevin stared back, his face expressionless. But as Arandras watched, he slowly sat back down; and just before he dropped his gaze, Arandras thought he saw a flicker of fear.

The sight cut him open, laid bare the snarl around his heart. Before him sat Yevin, cowed if not yet cowering; behind him in the city, Narvi and the Quill pursued their own advancement; and somewhere out in the world, Tereisa’s killer went about his business, unaware and unconcerned. And here he was, breaking a man’s will as though by doing so he could somehow right a wrong.

Yevin’s hands began to twitch, the confidence slowly draining from his face. But the snarl within, once exposed, could not be covered over again.

This is wrong. No matter what hangs on it. It’s wrong.

It was better to make a deal with devils than become one himself.

With a grimace, and a shiver that had nothing to do with his damp clothes, Arandras turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.

Part 2:
The Comfort of your Tears

Chapter 9

I found him alone in the upper room, perched on his threadbare mat; yet his bearing was that of one seated upon a throne. “The soldiers approach,” he said.

“They are even now at the door,” I returned. “Master, why will you not act? Even rats defend themselves at need.”

His smile was like the morning sun gentled by wisps of cloud. “If I have done wrong, no defence will serve me. If I have acted well, none is required. All else is the province of knaves and fools.”

Alas, his words fell on my ears like seed upon stone. Even now, I can scarce approach their edge. Then, I was only a boy.

— Jeresani the Lesser
The Passing of Herev Gis
(account disputed by the Gislean Provin)

The Woodtraders’ building had originally been constructed with five floors. The sixth had been added only a few decades ago, during the time of Guildmaster Vorace’s uncle. The architect had done his job well. To the rival companies on either side, and to the rest of the city across the river, the new floor atop the building appeared indistinguishable from those beneath it. Inside, however, the compromises that had been made to present an unblemished facade were plain. Narrow corridors and low ceilings made everything feel cramped. Where on other floors the main hallway formed a square of four perfectly straight lengths, here it twisted and turned like a vine grown wild. Most uncomfortable for Eilwen was the stairway. The architect had apparently been unable to find the space needed for a true staircase, and had chosen instead to reduce the number of steps but increase their height to almost twice that of those on the lower levels. Eilwen took the steps gingerly, her leg already beginning to twinge despite the early hour.

“Remember, say as little as possible,” Havilah murmured as they reached the top of the stairs. “Answer whatever questions are put to you simply and without speculation. And watch them. This is as delicate for whoever killed Kieffe as it is for us.”

The masters’ meeting room looked south, past the Tienette to a vista of towers and rooftops and, away to the left, the fields and pastures beyond the city’s edge. The quarter-height windows ran the length of the wall, enough to light the room without need for lamps, but too little to overcome the sense of confinement brought on by the low ceiling. Most of the masters were already seated around a polished jarrah table ornamented with gold filigree. A second, more sparsely populated ring of chairs surrounded the first: the adjunct’s row, one place for each master’s assistant.

“Havilah. About time.” Vorace leaned forward, resting thick forearms on the red timber table. He turned his shaggy head to Eilwen. “This is the one who found him?”

“This is Eilwen, yes.”

“Guildmaster,” Eilwen said, steeling herself to meet his regard. Vorace’s scrutiny was known throughout the Guild: aggressive, almost physical, buffeting in its intensity as though the spark animating his soul was too fierce to be contained by even his bearlike frame. Yet as Eilwen stood braced beneath his gaze, she found her attention caught by the droop of his eyelid, the deep lines of his cheeks, and the snowy tufts of his brows.
He’s getting old. How have I not noticed that before?

As if aware of her thought, Vorace gave a throaty chuckle and turned to Havilah. “Sit, sit,” he said, jerking his thumb at the vacant space between Caralange and Laris. Eilwen followed Havilah’s lead, seating herself in the adjunct’s row behind him. The place behind Caralange stood empty, but on the other side Pel leaned across, offering a ponderous nod in greeting. Further around from Laris sat Soll, the treasurer, and old Phemia, the seneschal. Other than Caralange, only Phemia was alone.

“A man is dead,” Vorace said. “Tell me what we know.”

“The victim’s name was Kieffe.” Havilah leaned forward, and Eilwen could picture his expression as he glanced around the table, hands laced in front of him. “It seems he had already been dead for several hours by the time Eilwen found him.”

Eilwen kept her expression carefully neutral as the others glanced at her. Havilah had told her he was going to do this.
Indulge their curiosity early, then move the discussion along.
With luck, any inconvenient interest in her reasons for investigating Kieffe would be swallowed up in the general eagerness to find the killer.

“And what can you tell us about him?” Vorace said, his gaze flicking back from Havilah to Eilwen.

“Me? Nothing, really,” Eilwen said. “I didn’t know him at all.”

“But you must have. You let yourself into his room.”

“I didn’t know it was his room.” The denial came without thought, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. She took a breath and forced herself to slow down. “The steward’s rolls had that room assigned to Master Havilah. I was trying to find out why.”

“By letting yourself in.”

Eilwen forced herself to hold the Guildmaster’s fierce regard. “I knocked, but there was no answer.”

“Strange that Ged would make such an error,” Soll said, his words soft and precise. “How do you suppose that came to pass?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.” Though if they did, the man might recall her comment about wanting the key to investigate an anomaly. “Perhaps it was just a mistake.”

“If I may,” Havilah said. “The issue at hand is Kieffe. Eilwen is here to tell you what she saw, not to be interrogated.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Vorace waved a hand. “Go on.”

“The room was empty,” Eilwen said. “I mean completely empty. Swept clean. Someone had boarded up the windows. I didn’t even realise he was there at first.” She trailed off. That first moment of recognition had shocked her into stupor. The shame of being found like that by Havilah still burned.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a corpse before. Gods, it’s not like I haven’t made a few of my own.
But she never lingered after a kill, never sat with the body as it began its slow decay. She couldn’t. Not after the
Orenda.
“I’m sorry. It’s just… still a little raw.”

“The body was unmarked, save for a few spots of blood just about the nose.” Havilah said.

Vorace grunted. “What would cause that?”

“I can think of several poisons,” Havilah said. “Witch trumpets, for instance, or bluespine. Tana’s curse.”

Anxious lines creased Soll’s high forehead. “Tahisi poisons.”

“Mostly, yes.”

Vorace turned to Caralange. “Can we find out?”

The sorcerer cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Quill —”

“No,” Vorace said. “No outsiders. Not yet.”

“I’m no fleshbinder,” Caralange said, his raspy voice making the words sound more like a threat than an admission.

“One of your cadre, then.”

Caralange scowled. “Vorace, even the Quill struggle to pluck poison from a corpse, and that’s when it’s fresh. You might as well have the Gatherer’s priests ask his ghost what killed him, for all the good it will do.”

Matching the sorcerer’s scowl, Vorace leaned forward to argue the point. Eilwen turned away, sweeping the room with her gaze, examining each master in turn. Laris sat with her head bowed and hands folded in her lap, apparently uninterested in the debate. Behind her sat Pel in unconscious mimicry, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest. Soll conferred with his adjunct in low tones, his face hidden from Eilwen’s view. Old Phemia looked uncertainly from Caralange to Vorace and back again, plainly out of her depth. Vorace’s adjunct had a stylus in his hand and a wax tablet on his lap, and was watching the discussion with the avid attention of a magpie hunting for insects. All she could see of Havilah was his back.

Which is it? Which of you killed Kieffe?
Surely the person responsible was in the room right now. It was inconceivable that anyone below the rank of master could pull together something like this: to suborn at least one Guild contact, maybe several, and then have a man killed to destroy the trail.
Maybe it’s not just one of you. Maybe it’s two, or even more —

“Fine,” Caralange said abruptly, jerking Eilwen’s attention back to the conversation. “I’ll have Orom look at the body, for all the good it’ll do.”

“Good.” Vorace turned, settling his battering-ram gaze on Laris. “Tell us about Kieffe.”