undying legion 01 - unbound man (46 page)

All the same, there ought to have been a simpler way. Except, try as he might, he couldn’t think of one.

Oh, no doubt he could have found someone to put an arrow in the man, or drop a rock on his head, or some such. But that was no good.
I need to look him in the eye. I need him to know who’s killing him, and why.
That meant finding a way to render Clade powerless without actually depriving him of his senses. From Bannard’s account, the man clearly had a capacity for destructive woodbinding, and likely other sorcery too. And that left Arandras with only two options: another sorcerer to counter the man’s abilities, or else anamnil to nullify them. But sorcerer mercenaries were rare, and prohibitively expensive. Anamnil was cheaper, but not cheap enough to make a difference — and in any case, the moment Clade sensed its presence he’d immediately be on his guard.
I might as well hire a herald to announce my presence.

No, the only reliable way to subdue a man like Clade was with overwhelming force, leaving Arandras no alternative but to seize control of the golems.
But only until Tereisa is avenged.
The Quill could have them afterwards, for all he cared. Weeper knew Arandras didn’t want them. Once he’d dealt with Clade, his use for them would be at an end.

“Ah, Arandras.” Fas strode across the courtyard, the sunlight bouncing off his bare pate. “Back for your gold after all, I see.”

“Actually, no.” Surely Ienn’s friend had mentioned the reason for his visit. “I’m here to discuss maps.”

“Maps,” Fas repeated, his face inscrutable.

“That’s right. You need one. I have one.”

“Is that so?” Fas folded his arms, tapped his fingers against his elbow. “I don’t see any parchments under your arm. No scrollcase at your feet. What, then? Have you just recalled a secret cache of maps that unaccountably slipped your mind until this morning?”

“No,” Arandras said with forced patience. “But I know someone who —”

“Ah, you know someone. And who might that be? No, let me guess. Someone whose name you can’t possibly reveal in advance. Am I right?”

“No, again.”
For the Weeper’s sake, just shut up and listen.
“The man I refer to is Isaias.”

Fas gave a dismissive snort. “We already tried him. And Peni, and Qulah, and every other dealer and fence in the city. Forget it.”

“You were misled,” Arandras said. “Isaias has the map you seek. It’s in his shop right now.”

“And how do you know this, exactly?”

“I know because I put a deposit on it the day before last.”

Something shifted in Fas’s expression. “Is that so?” He chuckled. “I was right to begin with, then. You are back for your gold, and more besides.”

“We’ll need gold to complete the purchase, certainly,” Arandras said. “But that’s not what I want.”

Fas tapped his foot against the paving stones. “What, then? Spit it out.”

The words piled up in Arandras’s throat, resisting his efforts to force them through. He swallowed. “I want to get back on the team.”

“You what?”

“Back on the team,” Arandras said, firmer this time. “I go with the retrieval party. I’m there when the golems are found.”

“No,” Fas said. “I can’t allow —”

“And not just me,” Arandras continued. “Mara, too.”
If she’ll come.
But he’d caught the look in her eye when he first mentioned the golems.
She wouldn’t miss this.

Fas scowled. “You, perhaps, I could make a case for. A former Quill assisting us in the field. That might be accepted back in Chogon. But that woman is an entirely different matter.”

“Nonetheless,” Arandras said. “If you want the map, she comes too.”

“And is that all? Any other conditions on your assistance?”

“One more.” Arandras considered the other man.
Ah, hells. It’s worth a shot.
“I want a golem.”

“You
what?
”

“Just the one will do.” It would be enough to justify an interest in controlling the damn things, and if he couldn’t figure out a way to get to the rest, even a lone golem might be enough for a half-decent shot at Clade.

Fas shook his head, a disbelieving laugh playing at the corner of his lips. “That’s absurd. What in the hells would you do with it? Make it your golem manservant?”

“Why not?”

Fas turned away, still shaking his head.

Don’t walk away, damn it!
Voice tight with frustration, Arandras called out to Fas’s retreating back. “Look, do you want to find the damned things or don’t you?”

Fas halted at a side railing, running his hand over his domed head. “You’re sure Isaias will give us the map?”

“He’ll give it to me,” Arandras said. “I’ll go alone, or maybe with Mara —”

“No.” Fas turned, the angle of the light casting his face into odd relief. “You want to spend my money, then I’m going too. Hells, let’s all go. You, me, Mara, Narvi, Ienn…”

No, you fool.
“Isaias’s deal is with me. He’s not going to like having all those others there.”

“Nonetheless,” Fas said. “If you want the money, we come too.”

Oh, very clever.
“Fine,” Arandras snapped. “You come. We get the map. Mara and I join the party, and I get my golem.”

Fas studied Arandras for a long moment. At last, he gave a grudging nod. “Get us the map, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

•

Eilwen sat in the garden outside Havilah’s suite and yawned. She’d slept poorly the previous night, and the night before that. With darkness came memories of the narrow closet in Caralange’s quarters, the gag cutting into her mouth, the hard chair beneath her. But it wasn’t her brush with hysteria that haunted her dreams. It was the moment after, the moment she’d tried so hard to prevent ever since burying that accursed egg.

I am not a killer. Not any more.
But the words rang hollow, and she knew them for a lie.

In that moment, she would have killed Caralange.

It was the
rightness
of it that tore her awake in the middle of the night. As though murder was something that could be justified. No, more than that: as though, in the right circumstances, it could be
demanded,
and she be nothing more than its hand.

She had welcomed the beast back into her heart, and it was as though it had never left.

But I haven’t killed anyone. Not yet. And I won’t.

She sat in the shade of the building’s east wall, heels scuffing the dirt beneath the low bench. The high, piping call of an unseen bird sounded from the tangled branches above her head, its plaintive chirps hanging unanswered in the mid-morning air. Despite the hour, Havilah’s curtains were still drawn. Eilwen glanced along the row of doors and windows. Laris’s suite shared this side of the garden with Havilah’s, though the Trademaster’s door was at the far end, almost in the corner. If Caralange was loyal, as it now seemed he was, the traitor had to be Laris.

Almost certainly.

But there was still an almost. The conclusion was logical, even obvious. Yet they still lacked proof.

A sudden urge filled her to go and find out. The garden door in her own apartment had no lock, merely a latch on the inside and a conveniently placed window beside it. Presumably Laris’s was no different.
I could go in tonight.
The broken window would tell the Trademaster that someone had been there, but it wouldn’t tell her who…

But no. She’d already skirted Havilah’s instructions more than she should have. Impulsiveness was not her friend.

Gods, I should know that by now.

The Spymaster’s door opened and Havilah stepped outside, standing at the edge of the garden and rolling his neck and shoulders. Mouth dry, Eilwen stood, allowing herself to be seen.
Now? Or later?
Anticipating reproof was bad enough without having to wait for it.
Can we do this now, please?

Havilah’s eyes narrowed when he saw her, but he continued his exercises with no other acknowledgement of her presence or her implied request. She stood before the bench, feeling increasingly foolish as he stretched his arms and chest and back, then bent over to touch his toes. At last he straightened and turned to face her, tilting his head in the direction of his suite before disappearing back inside.

Well.
Her shoulders twitched in a jerky echo of the exercises she had just witnessed.
Good.

Her father had known only one answer to her childhood infractions. He’d made a point of only striking her with an open hand — fists, he said, were the weapons of bullies and drunks — yet his blows were still hard enough to bruise, and she’d taken to rubbing her face with dirt in an attempt to hide her discoloured cheeks from the other children. Later, when her anger at his maltreatment began to emerge, she abandoned the dirt and began wearing the marks as a badge of defiance, imagining herself to be shaming him by refusing to conceal the work of his hands. Only after he died, claimed by an outbreak of sweating sickness in the same year as the
Orenda,
had she finally realised the truth.

The marks, not the pain, had been her true punishment. There was no such thing as a private rebuke. Only by making her sins known to the world could they be expunged.

But Havilah is not like my father. He will not parade my disobedience before the Guild. He cannot.

She stepped inside and closed the door. As she turned, she found herself rubbing her cheek, and she snatched her hand away.

Havilah was already sitting behind his desk. “Sit,” he said, the accented word sounding more like an order than an invitation.

Eilwen sat.

“Repeat to me what I told you,” Havilah said.

She swallowed. “Don’t go back to Qulah’s,” she said. “Don’t talk to the masters. Don’t —”

“I told you to
tread lightly.
” The Spymaster spoke softly, enunciating each word separately, as though she were the one unfamiliar with the language. “Tell me what you think that means.”

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” Eilwen said, grimacing at the quaver in her own voice. “When I came back from the Quill shop I should have come straight to you.”

“No, you should never have gone there in the first place! Burning Mother, what were you thinking?”

“I —” The words wouldn’t come. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

Havilah exhaled through his teeth. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Eilwen,” he said softly. “Do you understand that?”

Passion bloomed in her chest, a heady mix of pain and anger and other things she couldn’t name. “And why does that matter?” she demanded. “This is about the Guild, remember? That’s what you said. So long as the Guild is protected, who cares what happens to you or me or anyone else?”

Havilah had gone still. “I care,” he said.

“Why?”

“For the Guild’s sake,” he said. “And for mine. And for yours.”

She shook her head.
You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was.
But those sins still hung about her neck, secret and unpurged, and there was no longer any way to remove them.

“Eilwen,” Havilah said. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, she met his eyes. “
We are
the Guild. You, and me, and Ufeus, and all the others. All of us. Without our people, what else is left?”

“And the traitors?”

He pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.” She buried her hands in her hair. “Look, I know I let you down. I’m sorry. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

Havilah frowned, but the expression held more disappointment than anger, and more sorrow than either. “As you wish.”

Thank you.
She took a breath. “So. What news about the cannons?”

“Nothing yet,” Havilah said. “And our woman from the chocol house seems to have gone to ground. But I have received word from someone close to the East Mellespen Syndicate.” He leaned forward. “Mercenaries, Eilwen. The Syndicate has taken a contract to supply several hundred siege-ready mercenaries to an unknown buyer. Possibly as many as a thousand.”

“Gods.” Eilwen stared. “An invasion.”

“It looks that way,” Havilah said. “I’m hoping to receive confirmation later today.” He paused. “Another thing. It seems an old woman was seen several days ago entering the house of the Falisi legate.”

“She’s buying anamnil.” Which meant she expected to be fighting sorcery — or, perhaps, that she wanted to protect her swords from the work of her own binders. “A major city, then. Maybe even one of the Five.”

“Just so.” Havilah folded his hands. “I spoke to Caralange.”

Eilwen nodded. She’d explicitly invited the sorcerer to confirm her story with Havilah, and when her anticipated summons from the Spymaster had failed to materialise after her release, she’d guessed that Caralange had taken her offer up — and in so doing had delivered all of her news ahead of her, leaving nothing for her but rebuke. “What are we going to do?”

“Do you believe him?”

“Who? Caralange?” Eilwen thought back to her interrogation. “He was furious at first. Convinced I was in league with whoever killed Kieffe.” She shivered. “I don’t think he was acting.”

“Which leaves us with Orom.”

We have to follow him. Find out who he’s meeting. What other leads do we have?
The words hovered on her lips. But there was nothing in them except what Havilah already knew. And she was tired of urging action only to be shot down by the arrows of Havilah’s caution.
He’s going to make the call regardless of what I say. Let him decide and be done.

“I think we should follow him,” Havilah said.

Eilwen blinked. “Oh. Good. So do I.”

“We’ll use a double tail: you and me, one following the other. When Orom spots the first tail, they drop off and the second takes over.”

She shook her head. “Double tail, yes, but not you. You’re too easily recognised. Make it me and Brielle.”

Havilah’s frown returned. “We can’t risk bringing anyone else in on this. Not even Brielle.”

“She’s already in. Didn’t Caralange tell you what happened?” Eilwen sat forward. “She came after me, Havilah. Somehow she figured out that he’d grabbed me, and she came and put a knife to his throat. If that’s not enough to earn our trust, I don’t know what is.”