undying legion 01 - unbound man (29 page)

“Depend upon it, my dear.” Isaias beamed, his fingers laced over his belly. “How wonderful it is to be of service to such considerate friends.”

“Speaking of which,” Arandras said, leaving the display case and returning to the counter, “perhaps we might ask a small favour.”

“Of course, my friend, of course! Name it, and it is yours!”

“Just a question,” Arandras said. “Has anyone come to you recently looking for a Valdori piece shaped like a small urn? About this big?”

“An urn, friend Arandras?” Isaias gave a sad sigh. “So many people approach me with so many enquiries that I find myself quite incapable of remembering them all. Truly, their sheer volume is all but overwhelming. How it is that so many people come to hear of me, I really do not know.”

“Come on, Isaias,” Mara said. “We just want to know if you’ve seen any interest. You can tell us that much, right? Perhaps you’ve had a sorcerer or two come by, maybe in the last week or so, who asked after an urn?”

“Dear Mara, I would be elated if I could help you in even this very small matter,” Isaias said regretfully. “But every one of my customers is a man or woman of discernment and fine character. They come to me in confidence, trusting to my discretion. You would not have me betray their faith, would you? No, no, I know you would never entertain such a motive. Forgive my uncharitable thought, I beg you.”

Arandras exhaled through clenched teeth.

“However,” Isaias said, and the expression on his face shifted from sorrow to earnest goodwill. “If you should come across a piece such as you describe, do remember your good friend Isaias. Nowhere else in Anstice — nor, indeed, in the whole of Kal Arna — will you find so generous a buyer as he who now stands before you.”

Thank you, Isaias, that’s very helpful.
Arandras glimpsed Pinecone slinking between cabinets and felt a sudden urge to leave before Isaias spotted her too and began another round of babble. He shot Mara a glance and turned to go, but was halted by a sudden exclamation from Isaias.

“But of course! My friends, there is a simple solution to your quandary. An obvious solution, truly, if only one will think of it. You say you seek a sorcerer, one with an interest in Valdori artefacts.” Isaias clapped his hands together. “Friends, have you considered the Quill?”

•

The next morning, Arandras returned to the workroom to find Bannard circling the table like a fox. “Took you long enough,” he said the moment he saw Arandras’s face. “Where have you been?”

Arandras blinked. “What?”

“It’s an hour past sunrise!”

“Which is when we’re supposed to start, isn’t it?” Shaking his head, Arandras produced the urn and began to unwrap it.
Weeper save me from morning people.

Bannard folded his arms. “You know, we could get a lot more done if you’d leave that thing here, or in the coffer.”

“Not going to happen.” Arandras tucked the wrappings back into the pouch. “Where are the others?”

“Narvi’s tied up with other things.” Bannard shrugged, as if to say he couldn’t imagine what else might be more deserving of Narvi’s time than this. “Said he’d join us later, if he could.”

“And Senisha?”

“Here,” came a quiet voice from behind him. Senisha shuffled in, a high stack of books balanced in her arms, and slowly set them down on the central table.

Arandras blinked. “What’s all that?”

“A bit of everything,” Senisha said. “Valdori sorcery. Yanisinian sorcery. Death rites. Metalworking. And these.” She picked a trio of slender volumes from the top of the stack and offered them to Arandras. “Minor ancient dialects.”

Arandras opened the first one, expecting to find the pages filled with dense writing; but the book held printed text, interspersed with woodcuts to illustrate variations in Valdori letter shapes and writing styles.
Huh. How about that?

Senisha responded to his surprise with a shy smile. “Do you like it?”

He returned to the beginning, looking for the printer’s page. “Is this a new work? Or a printing of an older one?”

“A new one. There’s a team in Chogon doing language research now. These three arrived just a few months ago.”

“And the printing?”

Senisha looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“How many copies are there? Do you sell them to the public?” Arandras knew the Quill operated a shop in Anstice, but he’d never been inside.
Are there books on the shelves now, alongside the sparkers and chillers?

“Oh, no, we don’t do that,” Senisha said. “Each printing is very small. Just enough to send a copy or two to each schoolhouse.”

“Right,” Arandras said, amused at his own foolishness. Of course the Quill would keep their knowledge to themselves. Start giving it away and there was no telling where it might end.

The morning passed in relative silence. Without Narvi to debate, Bannard kept his thoughts to himself, either unwilling to interrupt Arandras and Senisha, or doubtful of their capacity to appreciate his thinking. Arandras did likewise. He scanned the books Senisha had brought him, searching for similarities to the phrasing and lettering of the urn, but the meaning of the inscription continued to elude him. Here was a variant on the Valdori root word for rest, with an apparent connotation of deep, undisturbed slumber. Here was an unusual term that sometimes meant
substance
and sometimes
spirit,
and sometimes both at the same time. But the context of the inscription and the meaning behind it remained frustratingly out of reach.

The images, at least, were recognisable, even if they failed to illuminate the mystery. Each showed one or more figures against a stylised backdrop. In one, a single figure strode through a forest, arm outstretched to brush aside a branch. In another, a trio stood atop a city wall alongside a smaller figure. Two figures crossed a bridge; one stood surrounded by children in a marketplace; a multitude assembled in a cavern. None carried any distinguishing mark or gave any hint to their identity.

Around midday a servitor arrived, bearing a tray of bread and fruit and a tall jug of lemon water. Arandras put a marker in his book, set it down on the bench and joined the others around the table.

“Any progress?” Bannard asked around a mouthful of pear.

“Not yet,” Arandras said. “You?”

Bannard shook his head.

“Those books are remarkable, though,” Arandras said. “How long has this research been going on, do you know? There was nothing like that happening when I was there.”

“Not long, I suppose,” Senisha said. “Those two were both printed last year. But there are lots of teams now, printing books on all sorts of subjects.”

“How many is lots?”

“At least a dozen,” Bannard said. “Most of them focus on sorcery, naturally. The rest are about different aspects of Valdori history. What happened under which emperor, how they organised their armies, that sort of thing. And languages.”

“It’s the new magister,” Senisha said. “He says we have no idea how much we already know. So he’s having it all written down and sent out to all the schoolhouses.”

Bannard reached for another pear. “About damn time, if you ask me.”

Arandras chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread. He’d seen the previous magister a few times back in Chogon, but all he could remember of him was the way his eyes only ever opened halfway, as though he were constantly fighting to stay awake. For someone ostensibly in charge of the entire Quill organisation, he’d never seemed to actually do very much.
Sounds like the new guy has no lack of energy, though.

“So what other sorcerers are there in Anstice these days?” Arandras said. “Besides the Quill, I mean.”

Bannard frowned. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“There’s a dozen Bel Hennese on the Illith road,” Senisha said. “Right next to the building with the bright blue roof. Then there’s that crazy woman up near East Bridge who says she can bind clay. Sometimes one of the street kids will ask her for lessons, but they never last long. Oh, and there’s another group on the eastern thoroughfare, with fake cannons above the gate —”

“Who more or less mind their own business, same as all the rest,” Bannard broke in. “Crazy women aside, of course.”

“Is that true?” Arandras asked Senisha.

She nodded. “There’s always a few little bands of supposed sorcerers making noise about how dangerous they are, but that’s usually a good sign there’s not much to them. The ones who keep quiet are the serious ones.”

Bannard chuckled. “Who’d have thought?” he said, his tone just short of mockery. “It seems our own librarian is an expert on the sorcerers of Anstice.”

Her face reddening, Senisha lowered her eyes and turned away. Bannard shot a glance at her back as she returned to her stool, but made no further comment.

The afternoon sun slanted through the narrow windows, the dusty sunbeams stretching and narrowing as the hours slipped by. Arandras was halfway through the second of a new batch of books — a handwritten volume, at least fifty years old — when the text abruptly ceased its study of Valdori tongues and shifted to a discussion of old Yanisinian. He turned the page, then stopped as a heading caught his eye.
Yanisinian grammar: Fourteen rules of declension.

Something sparked in his mind, and he looked back at the inscription on the urn.
Surely not.
He scanned the page, looking for confirmation — and there it was. A three-letter suffix, the same as on the inscription’s first word. A suffix that had no parallel in any known Valdori dialect.

“Um,” he said. “I might have something here…”

The second word was harder, and for a moment he thought he had been mistaken; but there it was, an almost identical word form given as an example of the sixth declension.

The third word was effortless.

Arandras laughed. “Weeper’s tears, that’s it! No wonder I couldn’t make sense of it.”

“What?” Bannard’s squint was comical for its urgency. “What are you saying?”

“The inscription!” Arandras grinned delightedly at the others. “Each word combines a Valdori root with a Yanisinian declension to make an entirely new term. You can recognise some of them, sort of. But you’d never be able to decipher the whole thing knowing just one language.”

“But you can?”

“Oh, yes,” Arandras said. “Just give me a minute.”

Bannard and Senisha crowded behind him, watching over his shoulders as he set down the translation, word by word. When he was done, he picked it up and read it aloud.

“‘Here lies the Emperor’s first legion. May its spirits rest undisturbed until the end of time.’”

“Spirits?” Senisha said. “What spirits? What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” The flush of success slowly drained from Arandras. “Has anyone ever heard of a first legion?”

“I have.” Bannard looked as though he had just swallowed something both sour and sweet. “You have too. Everyone has.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bannard picked up the urn. “See these figures? They’re not people. Not the large ones. The small ones, they’re people. The large ones — they’re the Emperor’s first legion. Better known to most of us by another name.”

Hells.
“Golems,” Arandras said.

Bannard nodded. “A Valdori golem army. Tucked away somewhere out of sight for the last two and half thousand years.” He held up the urn. “And this is the key to finding them.”

•

“Nothing,” Clade said.
Again.
He leaned across and dropped the stack of papers by the others. “What next, do you think?”

“The lower shelves, maybe?” Sera looked up from her own pile of paperwork. “We’ve barely touched them yet. Maybe that’s where your man is hiding.”

They sat together in Garrett’s room, alone but for the brooding presence of the god. The room had been a mess even before they’d started. Now it looked like the site of a windbinders’ duel. Shelves overflowed with an eclectic assortment of items — bottles, feathers, coppers, books, even eating utensils and items of clothing — and in and through and among it all, endless reams of paper. A few of the upper shelves stood empty, their former contents now rising in haphazard piles along the far wall where they had been dumped by Clade or Sera after painstaking review. Somewhere in the room, Clade was sure, was an address, or a contact, or something to indicate the means by which Garrett had communicated with the men he’d sent after the urn. All Clade had was the leader’s name. Terrel.

And he wouldn’t even have had that if Garrett hadn’t slipped up.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Ignorance bought deniability, and deniability had seemed essential. But with deniability had come dependence; and now, with Garrett out of the picture and Estelle demanding progress, ignorance was a hindrance he could not afford.

And never mind Estelle. This Terrel might have the urn right now and be waiting for Garrett to come and collect it.
One way or another, Clade had to find him.

He pushed himself to his feet. The tall bookcase ran almost the entire length of the wall. A long-legged spider hung from the corner of one of the shelves, its web extending over half the shelf’s width and encompassing a tin cup, a pair of dice, and a sealed inkwell. Thick sheafs of paper jammed the neighbouring shelf, shoved in among mismatched, yellowing tomes. He pulled the documents free with thumb and forefinger, shaking them off at arm’s length. A pair of dead moths fluttered to the ground.

A mercenary named Terrel shouldn’t be that hard to find. How many can there be?
Not that Clade had much idea how to go about finding out. That was what Garrett had been for.
Damn you, Garrett. Even in death you find ways to hinder me.

The man’s body remained in the cool Oculus cellar, sealed in a eucalypt casket not three paces from where it should have been: Clade’s stillbox, a man-sized, sorcery-charged box, its true function a carefully guarded secret, kept for precisely this contingency. It was his hidden die, to be rolled only when no option remained but to remove someone from his path. If Clade had only kept his wits, Garrett might be lying there right now with nobody the wiser. Instead, the stink of his corpse had begun to seep through the wooden casket, its stench filling the thick cellar air; though to Clade, the whole building already seemed full of the scent.