undying legion 01 - unbound man (36 page)

A pair of women passed by on the other side of the street, their eyes fixed on the paving stones in front of them.

Arandras returned the boy’s glare. The child was thin as a reed, and maybe eight summers old. “I’m not your mark, kid,” he said.

The boy turned his head and spat.

Arandras tightened his grip. “I mean it. The place I live is lousy with your type. They know better than to try me.”

“You’re not from here,” the boy said, making it sound like an accusation.

“That’s right,” Arandras said. “You don’t know me. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

The boy made a half-hearted effort to wriggle free, but Arandras’s grip was firm. At last the boy shrugged.

Good enough.

A thought struck Arandras, and his grip tightened further. “Who sent you, boy? What are you after?”

The boy hacked a cough, shaking his head and pointing at his throat. Arandras cursed and released his grasp a fraction.

“My ma,” the boy said, his eyes lifting to meet Arandras’s in a calculating gaze. “Five of us, there are, all hungry, and my ma’s sister, and —”

“Bah.”
A common street thief, that’s all.
Arandras shook his head. Of course that was all. If the Quill wanted to take the urn by force, they’d hardly employ a half-starved pickpocket.

Without warning, the boy locked his hands over Arandras’s outstretched arm and lifted his feet off the ground, bringing his full weight to bear on Arandras’s wrist. Arandras gasped, dragged lower by the sudden load; then the boy’s feet were on the ground once more. Twisting like a cat, he tore free of Arandras’s weakened grip and darted away, disappearing into a nearby alley.

Damn it.
“Hey! Kid!”

A scuffing sound came from the mouth of the alley. “What?”

Arandras felt for his coinpurse and the urn, and checked the buckles on his bags. All was as it should be. “Where’s a good place to stay around here?”

There was a pause. “Black Bear Inn. North a couple of blocks. You can’t miss it.” There was another scuffing noise, then the sound of scampering footsteps running away down the alley.

Which was as good a recommendation of somewhere to avoid as any he was likely to get.
Right. Anywhere but the Black Bear.

He resumed his course, taking care to walk with one hand on the pouch at his side. What had he been thinking about?
That’s right, the Quill.
Yes, they definitely needed him more than he needed them. All the same, he didn’t have much in the way of other leads. He could, perhaps, make a list of sorcerers in the city and go and knock on their doors. But what would that achieve? He didn’t even know what the man he was searching for looked like.

Weeper’s breath, I don’t even have a name.

No, staying with the Quill was his best bet, at least for now. The more he could discover about the urn, the better his chances of guessing at his quarry’s plan. And now that the Quill anthill had been well and truly kicked, the likelihood of them drawing the attention of any other interested parties had increased dramatically. If someone came nosing around after the urn, he could still be there to see who they were.

But at least he could house and feed himself.

He came to a halt. A dozen doors further down the street was a large, noisy inn, likely the establishment recommended by the young thief. But here, hard against what looked to be a small warehouse-cum-theatre, stood a well-lit lodging house, its sign showing a pale bird pulling up a worm. Through the open window Arandras could see a narrow, half-empty common room. Several patrons sat alone, some drinking, one sleeping; near the front, a group of four or five huddled around cups of chocol, speaking in low tones; and there, in the back corner, a pair of elderly Kharjik women faced each other over a
dilarj
board.

Perfect.

With a smile, Arandras stepped inside.

•

Arandras’s good mood lasted to the next morning. A misty rain had begun falling some time in the night, making the streets slick underfoot, but Arandras paid it no mind. He strode lightly through the fine drizzle, retracing his path of the previous evening, stopping only to purchase breakfast: a rolled flatcake containing almonds, dates, and several other fruits. He ate as he walked, savouring the sweet flavours, sucking his fingers clean when he was done.

The thin-cheeked woman who ran the lodging house had given him a top-floor room similar in size to the one he’d had at the schoolhouse, but with a low, slanting ceiling. Disappointingly, the cured timber shingles proved unable to occlude the sounds and smells of the street outside, or the slow grey light of dawn. But they were watertight — at least against this half-hearted rain — and, critically, the room was his for as long as he wanted it, untainted by the favour or provenance of the Quill.

By the time he reached the schoolhouse, his hair and beard were slick with moisture. Mopping his face with an equally damp sleeve, he hurried inside and made his way to the new workroom.

“Here he is,” Narvi said as Arandras entered, the words apparently directed at Bannard, who sat with several other Quill by the far wall. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

Worry about?
Arandras looked across to Bannard, eyebrow raised, and the other man scowled and looked away.

“Right, then.” The voice belonged to Halli, the woman with the stubbled scalp and bandaged ear who’d asked about the inscription at the briefing. She joined Narvi at the central work table, followed by Bannard, Senisha, and another, unnamed Quill whom Arandras had also seen the previous day: a rat-like man with half a dozen brass and copper rings on his hands. “Shall we begin?”

“By all means.” Narvi turned to Arandras. “The urn, if you please.”

With the meaning of the inscription now clear, the group’s focus turned to the urn’s contents. Hour followed tedious hour as the gathered Quill took turns hefting, shaking, and frowning thoughtfully at the small pewter vessel. Narvi and Halli each attempted bindings to establish the nature of the sorcery sealing the lid in place, to no avail. Bannard tapped the urn’s bowl with a succession of tools and utensils, and tried to judge whether the resulting tone sounded hollow or solid. The rat-faced man — whom the other Quill referred to as Gord — produced a set of scales and an unformed lump of tin and pronounced the urn to weigh just over one-quarter again as much as the tin; but as nobody could state the precise constitution of the urn’s metal, nor how thick it was, the result meant little. Arandras observed the proceedings in silence, his cheer ebbing away as the morning dragged by.

“Maybe it really is empty,” Senisha said, balancing the urn on her palm with her eyes closed.

“It can’t be.” Bannard gave her a look that was half squint, half glare. “People are killing each other for it. How can it be empty?”

“I don’t know. It feels empty to me,” Senisha said. “What do you think, Arandras?”

Arandras shrugged. They’d spent the whole morning learning exactly nothing. “Maybe.”

“Let’s take a step back,” Narvi said. “We’ve got an urn and it won’t open. What assumptions are we making?”

That it matters.
Arandras clamped his mouth shut against the sour thought. Maybe knowing the contents of the urn wouldn’t help; but on the other hand, maybe it would. That was the thing about riddles. You never knew what was important until you solved the damn thing.

“What if it’s not meant to be opened?” Halli said. “Maybe we’re trying to do something it’s just not meant for.”

“No,” Bannard said. “Look at the seam around the top. The lid’s a separate piece, without question.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s meant to open.”

“And
that
doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to open it.”

“All right,” Narvi said. “Assume for the moment that it can still be opened. What could be holding the lid in place?”

“Sorcery, of course,” Bannard said.

“Of course. What else?”

Senisha frowned. “It could be something physical. A mechanism of some sort.”

“Good. Arandras?”

Arandras roused himself. “Not likely. A mechanism would make it top-heavy, which it plainly isn’t.”

“It’s sorcery,” Bannard repeated. “It’s got to be.”

A group of giggling children ran past the window outside. Gord glanced around the table. “What about anamnil?”

“What? No,” Arandras said.
Weeper help us, what a stupid suggestion.
Anamnil might shield someone from the effects of a binding, or prevent a sorcerer from constructing new spells, but introducing it to a bound object rarely made a difference — and when it did, the outcome was anything but predictable. “No anamnil.”

“Not what I mean,” Gord said. “Maybe there’s already anamnil inside.”

Halli shook her head. “I’d be able to sense it. Narvi, too.”

“You’d sense our anamnil, sure. That stuff the Falisi weave out of the Gatherer knows what. But what if the Valdori had something of their own? Something nobody can tell is there?”

There was a pause as the group absorbed the idea.

“That would explain why neither of you can find any sorcery,” Senisha said. “Wouldn’t it?”

Narvi and Halli exchanged dubious glances. “Maybe,” Narvi said, drawing out the word. “If the Valdori had such a thing. But that’s sheer speculation.”

“Perhaps it’s not anamnil, exactly,” Bannard said, thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s something more innate.” He gestured at Halli’s scarred head. “We know sorcerers have a natural resistance to fleshbinding. It’ll be weeks before Halli’s wounds heal. Mine are already fading. Maybe this stuff the urn’s made from is the same, just naturally resistant to sorcery.”

Narvi frowned. “Even if that’s true, what could we do about it?”

“Stop holding back,” Bannard said. “Blast the thing with as much power as you can. The strongest fleshbinders can affect other sorcerers, at least a little. Same thing here.”

“You think I’m holding back?” Halli said. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I can’t hear even a whisper of sorcery in that thing.”

“So stop listening and start pushing,” Bannard said.

“Not so fast,” Arandras said. “I’ve authorised scans, but that’s all —”

“Oh!” Senisha blinked. “Other sorcerers!”

Arandras and Narvi responded together. “What?”

“Think about it.” Senisha looked around the group. “Imagine the Valdori Emperor. Commander of the greatest sorcerers of his time, who’ve created armies of golems ready to respond to his every command. Who poses the greatest threat?”

Narvi shook his head. “Who?”

“
Other sorcerers.
Rivals, outcasts, whatever. The only people who could conceivably challenge him.”

“Exactly,” Bannard said. “So you make it impossible for anyone but the strongest sorcerers to break.”

“No, that’s not it at all.” Senisha selected a book from the stack on the bench. “Just think for a minute. You know exactly what’s going to happen if someone gets hold of something they shouldn’t. They’re going to use the best sorcery they can to try and open it. And no matter how tough you make it, there’s always the chance they’ll manage to blast their way in.” She looked up. “So you create something that sorcery can never unlock. Here.”

She laid the book open in front of them. Dense writing surrounded a small, abstract diagram consisting of lines, arrows, and annotations too small for Arandras to make out.

“It’s like a finger trap toy,” Senisha said. “The more you pull, the more you’re stuck. Except this kind feeds on sorcery. Poke and prod at it, and it just becomes stronger. Try blasting it to pieces and it becomes practically invulnerable.”

Arandras leaned closer, trying to puzzle out the diagram. “So how do you open it?”

“Something physical,” Senisha said. “Fire, probably, or a blacksmith’s hammer.” She frowned. “It must be a lot weaker now, though. I wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“If this will work.” And she grabbed the urn, pivoted, and hurled it against the wall.

The dull crack as the urn hit stone felt like a blow to Arandras’s gut.

“Weeper’s tears, what are you doing?” Arandras leapt out of his chair and lunged for the urn as it tumbled back toward them. But Senisha was too fast, snatching it up and throwing it against the wall a second time. A high peal rang out, like a struck bell; and as the urn rebounded, something skittered away at an angle, bouncing across the floor with the soft clink of a dropped coin.

The urn rolled to a stop beside Narvi. Slowly, he picked it up and placed it on the table.

The six of them leaned over, peering into the open mouth of the urn.

“It’s empty,” Bannard said.

In the silence, Senisha’s muttered reply might as well have been a shout. “Told you.”

Chapter 14

Dissatisfaction, you see, is our natural state of being, as natural to us as breathing. Permit me a simple example. Have you ever lain in bed, half awake, cursing your inability to slumber, only to discover when morning came that, far from being half awake, you were in fact half asleep?

— Daro of Talsoor
Dialogues with my Teachers

Eilwen held the sparker to the lamp and thumbed the nub on its handle. A weak glow flickered briefly around the white opal tip, then sputtered out.

Damn it.

She tossed the drained sparker onto her desk and glared out the window. Though the slender hand of the table clock indicated the last hour of the morning, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Heavy clouds crammed the sky, casting a fine, misty rain that seemed to float as much as fall through the air. The tree outside Eilwen’s window filtered the dim light even further, leaving her suite as dull and dreary as her mood.

Havilah had instructed her to sit tight. He had questions of his own he wanted to resolve, and until he told her otherwise she was to confine her investigation to the records and reports she’d already been over a dozen times. “We can’t afford a single false play,” he’d said, just before she left his office the previous day. “If you want to keep Vorace alive, this is the way to do it.”