undying legion 01 - unbound man (47 page)

The Spymaster considered her. “You’re sure we can trust her.”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

He held her gaze for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “Go. And Eilwen.”

She paused, half-risen from her seat.

“Maybe we’re going to win this,” Havilah said. “Maybe not. But win or lose, the Guild will always need people like you.” He offered her a faint smile. “So be careful. Yes?”

It wasn’t true, of course. The Guild didn’t need the real her.

But perhaps she could at least square the ledger.

“Win or lose?” Her answering smile was fierce. “No. We’re going to win.”

•

“That’s him.” Eilwen pointed as a lightly-built man descended the steps from the main building, a canvas bag slung across his shoulder. He glanced around the compound as he walked, eyes darting back and forth. “That’s Orom.”

Brielle nodded beside her in the gloom of the stable. “Got him.” She rose to a crouch. “Boy better not make me late for dinner, or my ma’ll have his hide, and mine too.”

Orom passed out of sight and Brielle moved to the entrance, pausing a moment before easing out behind him. Eilwen waited for the span of a dozen heartbeats, then followed.

Trailing Brielle was easy. The woman’s head rose above most others on the road, bobbing gently in time to her long, easy stride. Eilwen followed at a comfortable distance, watching for the signal that showed Orom had spotted his shadow and it was Eilwen’s turn to step up. Caralange had told her that Orom seemed increasingly paranoid about being followed, even within the compound itself, so Eilwen had decided to give him what he expected, instructing Brielle to stay close and make only a cursory effort to disguise her purpose. With luck, Brielle’s striking height would so capture Orom’s attention that he would overlook his second tail entirely.

And it wouldn’t hurt to show that the investigation was bigger than just her and Havilah, either.
Might make them think twice about killing anyone else.

Orom led them across the eastern thoroughfare and through central Anstice, choosing a course set back from the river but parallel to it, his brisk pace sparking a dull throb in Eilwen’s bad leg. Narrower roads meant fewer people, but the late afternoon traffic was still heavy enough to provide adequate cover. The street bent westward, revealing the glaring sun directly ahead, and Eilwen was forced to squint at the silhouetted heads before her as she hurried in Brielle’s footsteps.

They crossed the western thoroughfare. Ahead, Brielle turned toward the river, then west again, her course taking them along the riverbank where vendors with covered trays peddled the day’s leftover food: loaves, fruit, lukewarm pies. A Mellespene in a wide-brimmed hat stepped into Eilwen’s path, holding out a package of spiced meat wrapped in a grape leaf. Eilwen shook her head, sidestepping and brushing away the proffered food, knocking it from the vendor’s hand. He snatched after it with a curse, catching it at his shins and snarling after her in his thick northern language.

She glanced up to see Brielle scratching her earlobe, her head turned in the direction of the river as she walked away.
Damn, he’s stopped. Where is he?
Eilwen slowed her pace and cast about the promenade in the slow, unfocused manner of one admiring the view. There he was — buying a pastry from a pale, long-haired Jervian. Eilwen leaned against the wall of a spice shop and pretended to examine her fingernails as Orom watched Brielle stride down the riverbank and away toward the coloured spires of the Tri-God pantheon. Her task done, Brielle was now free to head out to whatever eating house she’d chosen to celebrate her mother’s birthday.
And it’s not yet sunset. You might even be early.

Orom waited until Brielle was out of sight. Then he turned, flicking the half-eaten pastry into the river, and resumed his course along the bank. Raising a hand to shade her eyes against the sun, Eilwen followed.

She didn’t have far to go. Orom halted at the pale stone facade of a riverside gaming house, where he glanced after Brielle one last time before ducking inside. Eilwen approached the establishment with a frown. The building’s rear seemed to open directly onto the riverbank, though access to the outdoor section was barred by high timber fences, their boards warped and faded from years of exposure.
Only one way in, unless I want to try swimming.
Gritting her teeth, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, and Eilwen paused in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Tables filled the room, each hosting games of dice or tiles or
dilarj
. The scent of roasting meat hung in the air, growing stronger as she approached an open kitchen door halfway along the wall. Players glanced up disinterestedly or ignored her entirely as she picked her way toward the rear, scanning the faces at each table. Orom was not among them.

The back door stood ajar, just wide enough for Eilwen to slip through. Diners sat around tables facing the glittering river or tucked against the high fence, some combining their meals with a game, some not. A man carrying a tray of empty mugs looked at her inquiringly, gesturing at an empty table; Eilwen smiled her acknowledgement but did not move.

Where are you, Orom?
He had to be here somewhere.
Where have you —

A woman’s laugh caught her ear. Instinctively, Eilwen backed toward the doorway even as she looked in the direction of the sound.
I know that voice.
Her gaze fell on a man wearing the leather and indigo of the city, seated by the fence with two others, both with their backs to Eilwen. Then the woman laughed again, turning her head behind her high collar to say something to the third figure, and Eilwen beheld the features of Laris and Orom.

Triumph filled Eilwen, and with it, an unexpected feeling of relief.
Havilah was right. Caralange, too.
And what was more, they’d both told her the truth.

Laris said something short and pointed, provoking a chuckle from the unknown man. Eilwen retreated further into the doorway and scanned the dining area. The space was a bare rectangle, with nothing to conceal any part of it. Every table lay in sight of every other. But Laris’s table was hard against the fence.
Perhaps…

She turned, pushing past the gaming tables and out of the building, heading around to the side. The fence consisted of eucalypt boards that had clearly never been treated for weathering. Eilwen ran her fingers lightly across the timbers. Though the boards were no longer flush, the gaps between them were still too narrow to see through. Lowering herself to the ground with the sigh of a footsore traveller, Eilwen leaned back against the fence and listened.

“He’s expecting a delivery, but he doesn’t know what,” Laris said. “Your man will need to press it into his hand, like this. Now, go.”

A rough scrape indicated a chair being pushed back, followed by the sound of receding footsteps. A few moments later Eilwen saw Orom retracing his steps along the promenade, one hand resting on the canvas bag at his side.

She gave him something. Damn it.
Eilwen watched his retreating form, torn between following him further and staying put. It seemed a reasonable assumption that the sorcerer was on his way to yet more members of Laris’s conspiracy. But Eilwen had been swimming in assumptions for weeks; now, at last, she had a chance to establish some facts. With a voiceless sigh, she settled back against the fence, returning her attention to the conversation behind her.

“… wouldn’t tell me where he found it,” Laris said. “You know how he is.”

“Dug up somewhere by his cat, maybe?” The man chuckled.

Laris might have shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Good timing, though. Saves us from a bigger mess.”

The man murmured something too soft to make out, prompting a silky laugh from Laris. Eilwen blinked in surprise.
Is this man her lover?

“Very well,” Laris said, her tone teasing. “Tell me where we’ll be
seen
tonight.”

There was a creak as someone leaned on the table. “How about Crescent Hall?” the man said. “Last performance of the Weeping Sisters choir. I hear the archon himself attended a few nights ago.”

“Really?”

“Apparently he hated it,” the man said. “Which means that tonight the hall should be full of people eager to wag their heads at the great man’s lack of taste.”

“To the archon’s boorishness!” Laris replied, laughing.

The conversation fell away, and Eilwen shifted awkwardly against the fence, trying to remain silent as she found a more comfortable position. There was another creak, then a new sound, soft and moist, directly behind her.
Gods. They’re kissing.
Grimacing, she drew up her legs and rubbed her knee.

When the man spoke next, it was almost too low for Eilwen to hear. “I still think this is too hasty.”

“He’s after the body,” Laris hissed, and Eilwen pricked up her ears.

“So what?” the man said. “There’d be nothing left to see by now.”

“Letting him find it at all was bad enough! Now he suspects, and he’s started digging.”

“So he sent someone after it. That hardly means he’s on your tail.”

“He sent
three
people. First my old trader, then Caralange, then another of his. Brielle, the tall one.”

“So he suspects,” the man said. “That doesn’t mean he knows it’s you.”

“No. And I don’t intend to wait until he does.”

Rage filled Eilwen, roaring in her ears.
Got you, Laris, you bitch.
The man said something, but all Eilwen heard was a distant murmur.
You treacherous, murdering shit. We’ve got you now.

“Relax.” Laris chuckled. “No mess, remember? Nobody will be able to prove anything, except that Havilah’s toy turned out to be a little too clever for him. A tragic accident, nothing more.”

“You’re sure,” the man said.

“I’m sure.” A smile entered Laris’s voice. “Now, take me out and give me an alibi that even the Gatherer couldn’t dispute.”

Slowly, the words penetrated Eilwen’s whirling thoughts.
An alibi. Gods preserve, it’s happening now. They’re killing Havilah right now!

She scrambled to her feet, all thoughts of secrecy forgotten. Heart pounding, she broke into an ungainly run, cursing her weak leg as she raced back up the promenade.
Hold on, Havilah,
she thought, shoving past vendors and ambling pedestrians as the sun’s last light slowly leached away.
Just hold on.

I’m coming.

Chapter 18

Two fears drive us to secrecy: the fear of being understood falsely, and the fear of being understood truly. What are the hazards of deceit or betrayal against such perils as these?

— Jeresani the Lesser
The Passing of Herev Gis

The doors were the same all along the corridor: thick slabs of timber, each with an iron ring for a handle. Clade halted before one, counting once more to be sure he had the right room, then knocked.

Her voice sounded distracted. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Clade,” he said, and waited.

The bolt slid back and the door opened. Sera stood within, smiling; but the smile was tentative, not at all like her usual infectious grin. Her hair hung in a mess of curls about her neck. “Hello.”

“Sera,” he said, and the word came out warm and not at all sad, just as he intended. “I was hoping we could talk.”

She nodded and stood aside. “Come in, then.”

The room was a smaller version of his own suite: a narrow cot, a writing desk half the size of his own, a hard chair, a high window. A handful of cut geraniums in a mug graced the corner shelf above a little pile of misshapen wooden blocks. Clade picked one up with a wistful smile. “Are you still playing with these?”

Sera sat cross-legged on the cot, allowing Clade to take the chair. “Keeps me from getting rusty.”

“Was this the one?”

“No, that narrow one on the side.” Something in her face softened at the memory. “My first ever successful binding. You said I bent it like a stalk of wheat.”

“I remember.”
You gave it to me with such delight, such pride. Even then, you were sure that one day you would join our ranks. And here you are.

“Oh,” Sera said, her attention caught by the bandage on his left hand. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, I assure you.” Bannard’s blade had left a clean cut, and the fleshbinders had already begun weaving the muscle tissue back together as best they could for a fellow sorcerer. “I’ll be fine.”

The urn is carried by a man named Arandras,
Bannard had told him, and at first Clade had missed the significance. Only when Bannard mentioned a dead wife did he make the connection. The husband of someone he’d killed. The sixth. Tereisa. She had cursed him as she died, calling on gods and demons alike to witness his crime. There’d been no need for such invocations, of course. Azador had been right there.

Somehow, this Arandras had gained possession of the urn. He’d brought it to the Quill and together they had unravelled the mystery of the golems, discovering coordinates to a location somewhere north of Tienette Lake. The Quill were already preparing an expedition that would leave as soon as a precise destination could be determined. But Arandras, it seemed, had never been interested in the golems. Even now, he was searching for the killers of the Quill who had uncovered the urn — searching for Clade himself.
Thus does our past reappear, with knives. Tiysus had the truth of it, right enough.

But what mattered were the golems. Clade had already sent a summons to Terrel and begun assembling a party of his own.
The sisters, Kalie and Meline. And Sinon. That should be enough to deal with whatever the Quill might bring.
When Bannard sent word that the Quill were departing, Clade intended to be ready to follow within the hour.

“I’m sorry for what I said before,” Sera said. “You know. That thing about posturing, and…”

Clade nodded. “It’s fine,” he said; then repeated the words, gentler this time. “It’s fine.”