undying legion 01 - unbound man (42 page)

They passed through the doors into a grand entrance hall. Massive stone pillars supported an ornate indigo-and-gold ceiling, each column sporting a ring of carved leopard heads at its crown. A pale marble staircase dominated one side of the room, curving gracefully out of sight to the upper levels, while the other side opened onto half a dozen different passageways, all unmarked.

Arandras studied the featureless passageways with narrowed eyes. “I assume you know where we’re going?”

“More or less.” Mara set off down a corridor, one hand at her waist to straighten the cutlass that wasn’t there. “This way.”

The passage led them through several turns before opening to a light and spacious part of the building, with none of the heavy pillars that marked the front. A sunny courtyard stretched to their right, decorated with boxed plants and timber benches, the flowers’ scent so delicate as to be barely perceptible. A painter stood at his board before one of the plants, arguing with an older, balding companion. The two fell silent as Arandras and Mara drew near, waiting until they were almost across the yard before resuming their fierce muttering.

The registrar’s office stood at the courtyard’s end, across from a softly playing fountain. A counter stretched from one wall to the other, bisecting the room. Cabinets, drawers, and shelves filled the space on the clerks’ side; on the other, a handful of waiting enquirers stood in a short queue. Indigo hangings adorned the walls, rich and heavy.

They joined the line, Arandras eyeing the jumble of furniture with a frown. “That one,” Mara said, her voice low and close to his ear.

“Huh? That one what?”

“Hush.” Mara nodded toward the edge of the room, where a stoop-shouldered clerk glared sullenly across the counter at a woman in a large scarlet hat. The man gave an exaggerated sigh and leaned forward in the manner of one forced to deal with an imbecile. “That one.”

“What, the clerk?”

She gave a half-grin. “Trust me.”

The line shuffled forward. Arandras glanced at the counter.
Three clerks on duty. Two people ahead of us.
If the sullen one were to remain occupied with the behatted woman for long enough —

“You shouldn’t have left, you know.”

Arandras blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Last night. The Quill,” Mara murmured. “What were you thinking?”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” he said in a rough undertone. “Damasus kicked me out, remember?”

“And you argued the point with him, did you? Told him all the reasons why he should let you stay?”

Arandras fell silent. In fact, he’d done nothing of the sort. He’d lost his temper and marched out. Perhaps he’d expected it all along — that sooner or later, it would come to exactly that point. “They’re the Quill, Mara,” he said. “They’re so obsessed with their own interests that anything else is either a distraction or an obstacle. You can’t work with them, not really.”

“That’s the Quill you’re talking about, is it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you seem to have a talent for burning bridges lately.” She gave him a measuring look. “Tell me, were Druce and Jensine obstacles or distractions?”

“Hey!” The word echoed in the quiet room and he caught himself, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “Weeper’s arse, Mara. They walked out on me!”

“Next, please.” The speaker was a clerk halfway along the counter.

Mara turned to the man behind them. “You go ahead,” she said with a forbearing smile. “We just need a moment.”

Arandras waited until the man was past. “Jensine and Druce chose to leave, Mara. Their choice, not mine.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t see it, do you? People don’t do things in a void, Arandras. They react to the people around them. To you.”

“Yeah, right. That must be why the Quill were so happy to follow my suggestions.”

“I’m serious,” Mara said. “You don’t much care what anyone thinks, I know. You just make up your mind, and you imagine everyone else must do the same. But that’s not how most people are. Deep down, most people just want to catch a ride with someone who looks like they know what they’re doing.”

But they shouldn’t!
It was all he could do not to grab her by the shoulders and shout it in her face. “If so,” he grated, “then
that
is their choice.”

She stared back, her face unreadable.

“Their choice,” he repeated. “Not mine.”

“Who’s next?” The words came from behind him. Arandras looked around, and the stoop-shouldered clerk cast him a surly glare. “You waiting or not?”

“Yes,” Mara said. She strode past and he watched her go, still grasping after the thread of their argument. At the counter she glanced back, eyebrow cocked. Scowling, he marched over to join her.

Mara already had a scrap of paper on the counter, turned around so that the clerk could read it. “We’d like to inspect the ownership documents for these properties, please.”

The clerk sniffed. “Who are you, then?”

Mara smiled. “You don’t need to worry about who we are.”

“That’s precisely what I need to worry about, lady. Only citizens can view documents.” The clerk gave a tight grin. “And when they do, that gets added to the file too, so the rest of the city knows when someone’s been snooping around.”

Damn it!
Arandras glared at the man’s fatuous smirk. Another Weeper-cursed dead end.
The hells take Mara and her bright ideas.

“Of course,” Mara said, as though the clerk had just offered his sincerest regrets at being unable to help. There was a tap of something hard from the hand that rested on the counter, and Arandras caught a flash of silver between her fingers. “But there are always alternatives, yes?”

The memory of Yevin’s shop returned in force, of himself, probing and pushing, hunting for a way around the scribe’s clearly expressed will.
No, that’s not me. That can’t be me.
“Mara,” he began, but she turned and touched a finger to his lips.

“This is
my
choice,” she whispered.

“It’s not mine,” Arandras said; but this time he was interrupted by the clerk.

“No. Lady, I can’t just… that is, we’re not…” He trailed off, staring at the partially concealed coin, his face twitching. “Much as I might want…”

“Sounds like there might be some room for discussion there,” Mara said.

The clerk gave a dry cough. “No. I’m not about to… no.” But his gaze remained fixed on the coin.

Mara smiled. “Forgive me. We want to see documents for two properties. But I’ve only offered you one… alternative.”

She flexed her wrist and produced another coin from somewhere up her sleeve. It joined the first with a soft clink.

The clerk moistened his lips. “Ah.” He glanced at Mara, at the queue of waiting enquirers, at the two silver pieces. Then, abruptly, he scooped the coins off the counter and slouched away.

“What are you doing?” Arandras hisse
d as soon as the clerk was out of earshot.

“Solving a problem.” Mara glanced sideways at the clerk, who was now rummaging through an open drawer. “This is how the world is, Arandras. People react.”

He stared at her. “You don’t.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. Closed it again. Turned away.

Arandras watched as the clerk closed the drawer, papers in hand, and moved off to another cabinet.
I should leave.
But his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

Damn you, Mara. And damn me, too.

The clerk returned, slapping two bundles of paper onto the counter. “Two properties,” he said to Mara, his eyes flicking around the room. “Be quick about it.”

A single glance was enough.

“This one,” Arandras said, pulling the papers toward him. He reached into a pocket, fished out the ransom note and unfolded it. The graceful loops, the hard downstrokes: all was the same.

Heart pounding, he scanned the page. A name. There had to be a name. His hand trembled as he set the first sheet aside, began on the second.

There it was.

Clade Alsere. Clade, a sorcerer of the Oculus.

Arandras rolled the name around his mouth.
Clade.

Clade, the murderer of my wife.

His vision blurred. Somewhere nearby, someone drew a shuddering breath, but it couldn’t be him because this was not a moment for tears. This was a moment to savour.

Clade. You and are I are going to meet soon.

I think I will have a lot to say.

Chapter 16

The sun is fierce upon our brows, and we grow weary.

The earth is hard beneath our hands, and we grow dismayed.

The load is heavy on our backs, and we grow bitter.

Holy Weeper, grant us the comfort of your tears.

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

Eilwen awoke to a throbbing pain in her knee. She groaned, retching as her mouth registered a wad of mushy cloth jammed between her jaws. Edged timber dug into her shoulders, prompting a further unpleasant discovery: she was bound hand and foot, her wrists behind her back and her ankles to the legs of a hard wooden chair.

Shit.

She sat facing a closed door, near enough to touch if her arms had been free. A narrow gap beneath it provided the room’s only light. The close walls seemed to terminate in a low ceiling, though the shadows made it difficult to be sure.
Sixth floor, maybe.
She blinked into the gloom, trying to pick where the walls ended and the ceiling began.
At least they haven’t taken me off the compound.

Her knee burned. She twisted in the chair, straining against her bonds, wanting nothing more for the moment than simply to straighten her leg. But the ropes held her ankles like iron, and at last she gave up, sagging into the seat with a muffled whimper.

Caralange.
The memory of those empty, hooded eyes filled her with dread.
Caralange is behind it all. He had Kieffe killed to keep us from finding out, and now he’s got me.
Even though she’d suspected him, it still seemed incredible. The man had been a Guild sorcerer for decades. He and Vorace had been friends since childhood.

Yet here she was.

He’d want to ask her questions. Find out how much she knew. Eilwen shivered in the gloom. She’d heard stories of people who’d been interrogated by sorcerers. The weak ones, the ones who broke early, they sometimes came out of it more or less intact if the sorcerer was feeling generous. The strong ones broke too, eventually; but afterwards, they were different. No longer themselves. Sometimes, no longer able to walk, or speak, or eat. Occasionally, scarcely men or women at all.

She began to tremble.
Gods, please, not that. Please spare me that.
She twisted again, frantic now, jerking against her bonds with as much force as she could muster. A shriek rose from somewhere within, burning past her throat; but the gag swallowed its fury, and all that emerged was a long, strangled squeak.

The sound was so unexpected that it startled her into silence. A giggle escaped her, then another; and suddenly she was laughing uncontrollably into the gag.
Ah, gods, I’m hysterical.
A fresh outburst took her and her shoulders shook, tears running down her face.
Oh, gods have mercy. Havilah would be proud.

Havilah.

The image of the Spymaster stopped her mad rush of thoughts like an icy blast. Eilwen remembered burying her face in his shoulder, there in the dark with Kieffe’s body bundled against the wall.
He said he wanted someone uncompromising. Instead, he ended up with someone who falls to pieces every time she hits a bump.
She gritted her teeth, clamping down on the coarse, mushy fabric. Not this time.
Not this time, damn it.

Eilwen closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it in her lungs.
Get a hold of yourself.
Caralange was going to be checking on her. She needed to be ready for him.

She exhaled slowly, relaxing her shoulders, then the muscles in her stomach.
Better.
Her attention shifted to her arms, her legs, her throbbing knee. Slowly, deliberately, she tensed the muscles of her bad leg, grimacing at the pain, then relaxed them as best she could.
Good enough.
At least when Caralange arrived, he wouldn’t find her cowering like a terrified puppy.

And then, if she somehow managed to get out of here…

The old hunger stirred in her gut, soft and sibilant, like an old lover, like a winter’s dawn. Fondly, tenderly, it reached out to her as though inviting her back, as though it had turned her away rather than the other way around. She froze, a hare in torchlight, torn between competing desires: to pull back from its seductive call, or to step forward and embrace it.

It reached closer and began to twine itself around her. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned into its touch, savouring the delicious, unclean, sickly sweet taste.
Yes.
Emboldened, it pulled her tighter, a beast returning to its lair, and she groaned, head bowed, as she yielded to its claim.

Caralange was a traitor to the Guild. He deserved to die.

And it was up to her to kill him.

•

The click of a key and the squeak of hinges woke Eilwen from her doze. She blinked up, squinting at the light as the door swung open. The room beyond was narrow but well appointed, with an oppressively low ceiling.
I was right. Sixth floor.
Caralange’s own suite, probably.

As though summoned by the thought, Caralange appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the lamplight.
No sun. What hour is it?
He pulled another chair into view and placed it on the threshold, then sat, stretching his legs. She glared mutely at his shadowed face.

When he spoke, his raspy voice was calm. “If I remove the gag, will you scream?”