undying legion 01 - unbound man (45 page)

Clade frowned.
No, damn it. I need you functional, not like this.
He grabbed the other man’s chin and lifted his head. “Bannard. Look at me. Do what I ask and you can go. Understand? I’ll give you your gold and we’ll go our separate ways. All debts settled.”

Something stirred in the man’s eyes. “When I’ve done…”

“All I want is information. You won’t have to hurt anyone. Just information. All right?”

A listless nod. “All right.”

Clade sat back. The man had screwed himself up for one shot, and now it was gone. He sat in the wreckage of the bench like a stuffed doll.
I need to focus his mind. Get him thinking about what will happen if he obeys — and what will happen if he doesn’t.

“I helped your family, Bannard,” Clade said. “Got them out of trouble with those moneylenders. Remember?” He paused. “I can find them again if I have to.”

Bannard’s head snapped up. “You wouldn’t. Please, no, leave them out of it.”

“I will. So long as you do as I ask. And when we’re done, you’ll have the gold.”

Doubt filled his eyes. “No. You’ll just kill me.”

“
No, I won’t.
” Clade exhaled. “You don’t believe me? I’ll show you.”

“You said you didn’t have it.”

“I’ll take you to where it is.” He stood and held out his hand. The man was too unstable now for them to talk out here anyway. One shout and who knew what attention he might draw. “Come with me.”

Bannard sat motionless for a long moment, then, slowly, he reached up and took Clade’s outstretched hand. Clade braced, readying himself in case Bannard tried pulling him into the water, but the other man simply stood.

Nodding in approval, Clade gestured toward the riverbank. “That’s it,” he said as Bannard began shuffling down the jetty. “Let’s find your gold. And once we’re there, you can tell me everything you know about the urn.”

Chapter 17

The noses of the master perfumers of Kharjus surpass those of all other men, capable as they are of discerning more than fifty distinct scents in a single breath. During the reign of Mazkotto II the Ascetic, in the time of the Kharjik Persecution, the master perfumers assigned words and letters to scents, and so devised a means of communicating one with another unbeknown to the Emperor’s servants — indeed, if you will forgive my saying so, under their very noses.

The aroma denoting the house of Mazkotto II can be smelled to this day, in every closet and privy in the land — though it is said that only a master perfumer can tell whether a particular bouquet refers to the Ascetic Emperor himself, his virgin wife, or one or another of the Emperor’s illustrious ancestors. Whether or not this last is true, I cannot say. But it is an undeniable fact that in all the years since the Persecution, no Kharjik Emperor has ever again taken up the name of Mazkotto.

— Eneas the Fabulist
One Hundred Truths and Ninety-Nine Lies

The endless stream of people, carts, beasts and goods was at last beginning to wane. Arandras sat by the side of the thoroughfare, a cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth, and thanked the Weeper for the night. Despite his efforts, the bitter grit of the road had penetrated his screen, working its way into his eyes, nose, and mouth. At some point he had ceased to taste it; yet its texture remained, a rough, abrasive patina on his tongue and throat like crushed emery.

Across the way and to the right rose a featureless stone building, five stories high, protected by a drab stone wall and a timbered gate. Two ornamental cannon barrels faced each other atop the wall: an unusual design, and all the stranger on an otherwise unmarked and unremarkable edifice. Yet for all its plainness, the building was clearly in use, with a slow but steady trickle of people moving in and out throughout the day. Arandras had watched avidly at first, studying each person in turn; but as the day wore on and the flow of arrivals and departures continued, his enthusiasm and attention had begun to fade.

Any one of them might have been Clade. None of them might have been.

The city garrison had moved him on twice. The second time, late in the afternoon, he’d been warned not to return or risk a fine for obstructing a public roadway. He’d come back anyway. The building was a puzzle, an unsolved text, though not the kind that required translation.
More like decryption.
Solve the puzzle, reveal the text, and he’d be one step closer to finding Clade.

A mounted courier trotted by, the Three Rivers insignia on her saddlebag plainly visible in the combined light of the street lamps and the three-quarter moon. The horse kicked up its hooves as it passed, throwing another spray of fine dirt over Arandras’s face and arms. He bit back a curse, wiping sweat and grime from his brow with an equally grimy hand.

Sorcerer of the Oculus. That was what the registrar’s papers had said. Clade, a sorcerer of the Oculus, whatever that meant. Was the Oculus an artefact? An order? Some old Valdori god? Arandras couldn’t recall ever hearing the name before.
Narvi might know, or Senisha.
Not that he was likely to see either of them again any time soon.
Isaias, perhaps. With the Weeper’s blessing, he might actually give me a straight answer for once.

He coughed, grimacing at the dry rasp in his throat.
Maybe I should just go in.
The thought had come at least a dozen times over the course of the day and refused to die, despite its obvious folly. There was no guarantee that Clade was inside, and in any case Arandras had no way of identifying him.
Whereas Clade almost certainly saw me in Chogon, and would likely remember my face if he saw it again.
No, he had come too far to throw caution to the wind now. He just needed more information…

The door beside the main gate opened again and a man stepped hesitantly out, glancing up and down the moonlit street before closing the door behind him. Something about him caught Arandras’s attention, and he peered across, craning his neck to keep the man in sight as a heavy cart lumbered past. The man wore a high-collared coat that obscured his features, but his gait and posture seemed familiar.

Weeper’s tears. It’s Bannard.

Shoulders hunched, Bannard pulled his coat around him and set off south. Arandras scrambled to his feet, twisting his face free of the cloth, and hastened after him.

“Bannard!” The hunched figure seemed to pause at Arandras’s call, then pressed on, his stride lengthening. “Wait, damn it. Bannard!”

Cursing, Arandras dodged around a portly merchant and broke into a run. Bannard stepped sideways, slipping into a narrow alley and out of sight. Arandras sprinted to its mouth, then halted, peering into the dark passage for any sign of movement. Broken crates partially blocked the lane, and the smell of rotten vegetables hung in the air. From somewhere behind the stack came a soft scraping noise, the sound of boot leather on stone, and Arandras smiled.
Got you.

He rounded the crates to find Bannard huddled on the ground. The man looked up, then instantly flinched away. Arandras eyed him uncertainly, unable to read the man’s expression in the dim light.

“I thought it was you,” Arandras said. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

Bannard drew a shaky breath. “What do you want, Arandras?”

What in the hells?
“I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“If you say so.”

“Of course I say so. Why would I want to hurt you?” Arandras crouched in front of him. “I just want to talk.”

The man would not meet his eyes. “What about?”

“About the building you just came out of.” Arandras paused, but Bannard made no response. “Why were you… oh, Weeper’s tears.”
You weren’t there on Quill business, were you? You were there for some other reason.

Because you’re working for someone else.

Bannard buried his face in his hands and gave a long, shuddering sigh.

“Hey,” Arandras said. “Look at me. Look.” Slowly, Bannard raised his eyes. “I’m not Quill. You hear me? I don’t care what’s going on here. I really don’t.”

The scholar’s hollow laugh echoed off the alley walls. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“Knew what?” Arandras shrugged. “So you’re not really a Quill. You’re…” Something cold took hold of his spine.
You’re one of Clade’s.

But Bannard was shaking his head. “No, I am a Quill! I am! I just…”

“You just what?” Arandras leaned closer. “Why were you in that building?”

Bannard offered a helpless shrug. “To give information…”

“What information?”

“About the Quill. And about the urn.” Bannard’s expression shifted to something almost pleading. “And, uh, about you…”

“
Me?
Who wants to know about me?”

“A man. A sorcerer. Does it matter?”

“What’s his name?” Arandras asked softly.

“Clade.” Bannard paused. “Why? Do you know him?”

Do I know him?
The absurdity of the question left Arandras gasping. “Intimately. Not at all. I learnt his name yesterday. What did you tell him?”

Bannard blinked uncertainly. “I, uh…”

“What did you tell him, man? Is it the urn? Does he still want the urn?”

“Yes! Yes, he wants the urn.” Bannard turned away, breathing heavily. “I told him about it. Told him what we’ve discovered.” His voice fell, making Arandras strain to hear. “He asked me where it was now, and I… well, I told him.”

“You gave him my name.”

Bannard nodded.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. He just asked another question.”

Arandras sat back on his heels.
Clade, asking about me.
The thought made the world seem upside-down. “Tell me, Bannard. You and Clade. How close would you say you are?”

Bannard shuddered, and in that moment Arandras saw all that he needed to see. “Close? Gods.” The Quill closed his eyes, and a tear slid down his cheek. “I wish I’d never met the bastard.”

“Then you wouldn’t be disappointed if he were to, shall we say, meet an unfortunate end?”

“What, you want to kill him?” Bannard spread his hands. “Be my guest. Only I hope you’ve got a better plan than just sticking a knife in him.”

Arandras frowned. “Meaning what?”

“How many people have you killed, Arandras? Lots? Because he has. And he’s a sorcerer.” Bannard shook his head. “If you can kill him before he knows you’re there, great. But if you hesitate, give him a breath before he dies…” He trailed off, cheeks glistening.

“I see.” Arandras shifted uneasily, oddly chilled by Bannard’s words. “What would you suggest?”

The hollow laugh sounded again. “An army would be good.”

An army.
The words burrowed deep into Arandras’s mind.
An army, you say.

Well, now, that might just be an option.

He leaned forward and offered the Quill his hand. Bannard squinted at it, then up at Arandras, blinking through his hair. A muffled sob escaped the other man; then, abruptly, he reached out and clasped Arandras’s hand in his own.

“There, now,” Arandras said, settling himself on the dirty stone of the alley. “There, now.”

Bannard’s sobs subsided. He withdrew his hand, wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“Now,” Arandras said. “Tell me what Clade looks like.”

•

It was morning, and the schoolhouse was bustling with Quill. Arandras strolled down a wide, curving corridor, glancing from face to face, looking for someone he recognised — or, more to the point, someone who recognised him.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

Ah, at last.

Arandras turned. The speaker, a tall, weathered man with fair hair, studied Arandras with the lazy attention of a seasoned hunter, confident he had the measure of his prey. Arandras remembered him from the briefing but couldn’t recall his name.

“I’ll see you out,” the man said, nodding back the way Arandras had come. “This way.”

“I’m here to see Damasus,” Arandras said, resisting the man’s not-so-subtle nudge at his shoulder. “Could you tell me where he is?”

The man shook his head. “The schoolhouse is closed to visitors, Arandras. Fas’s orders.” His gaze flicked over Arandras’s form, his eyes crinkling in friendly amusement. “Let’s do this the easy way, shall we?”

I’d love to, but you’re not giving me much to work with.
The man’s name bubbled up from the depths of Arandras’s mind. “Ienn, isn’t it?” he said, and the man gave a languid nod. “I appreciate that this is a sensitive time, but I really do need to talk to Damasus. And I wonder if the rules might be relaxed for someone who could supply you with,” Arandras lowered his voice, “a certain… map.”

Ienn’s attention sharpened, and Arandras smiled.
So you haven’t found one yet.

“What sort of map might that be?” Ienn said.

Still smiling, Arandras gave a regretful shrug. “The sort I should talk to Damasus about.”

Ienn inclined his head, conceding the point. “Reth,” he called, fixing on someone behind Arandras’s back. “Could you find Fas and ask him to join us in the upper courtyard, please?” There was a sigh and a muttered assent, followed by the sound of footsteps receding down the corridor. Ienn turned, gesturing at a nearby staircase. “Shall we?”

The courtyard was the one Narvi had led them to the day they arrived in Anstice. Ienn settled into a seat by the mouth of the staircase, his legs stretched before him and his eyes half-lidded, leaving Arandras free to wander the rooftop space as he pleased. He ambled to the rail and looked out over the sloping lawn, the sun warm at his back, his shadow stretching almost to where a gardener crouched below, tending to one of the staked saplings.

An army would be good.
At that moment, there with Bannard in the alley, the solution had seemed irresistible. Get back in with the Quill, lure Clade to follow them to the golems’ hiding place, then use the ancient Valdori constructs to at last take his revenge. There was just one problem: convincing the Quill to take him back.
Two problems, in fact. Even if I do get back on the team, they’d never in a thousand years let me take control of the golems.
At least baiting Clade posed no difficulty. Bannard had already agreed to leave signs for Clade showing the path taken by the Quill, and Arandras had convinced Bannard to stick to the arrangement in exchange for Arandras keeping the scholar’s secret.