The Gate of Gods (Fall of the Ile-Rien)

by Martha Wells

  “Who was Berganmot?” Ilias asked as he fell in behind Tremaine, still keeping an eye on the passages behind them.

  “He was a Rienish sorcerer who came to our house sometimes, so he must have done things for Nicholas,” she told him. She raised her voice to ask the others, “We know Berganmot is actually dead? There’s no chance that he’s—” She gestured vaguely, indicating something about the size of one of the big Gardier crystals.

  “He died in an airship bombing,” Gerard replied repressively, as they passed a cross corridor. “I doubt there would have been any opportunity—”

  Ilias heard a faint sound and sensed movement in the corner of his eye. He clicked his tongue to alert the others, stepped to the wall beside the opening and flattened himself against it. Tremaine and Giliead both stepped to the wall, Tremaine ducking down beside Ilias, her shooting weapon suddenly in her hand. It was a little tight in the passage to draw his sword; Ilias slipped the knife out of the back of his belt. Nicholas threw them a glance and drew Gerard further down the passage, continuing to speak in the same quiet tone, “Of course, it’s quite out of the question…”

  When the figure peeped cautiously around the corner Ilias slammed him in the head with his knife hilt. The intruder made a strangled noise and staggered, but Ilias had already seized him by the shirt and jacket. He knocked the shooting weapon out of his hand and flung him against the far wall, pinning him and setting the blade at his throat.

  The man was young, dressed in rough gray and brown, with narrow features and greasy dark hair. Ilias felt him reach for another weapon in his belt and growled, “Don’t,” pressing the knife in a little harder. Tremaine had already collected the shooting weapon from the floor, and now reached under Ilias’s arm to pull a second one from the man’s belt.

  Nicholas stepped up beside her, scrutinizing the man carefully. The captive’s eyes flicked from Ilias to Tremaine, to Nicholas, to Giliead and Gerard standing behind them. He saw the carved horn handle of Ilias’s sword hilt where it poked up through his coat above the shoulder. His wary expression turned a little incredulous. He said in Rienish, “You’re not Gardier.”

  “You should realize by now that that isn’t an assumption you can safely make,” Nicholas told him deliberately. “You’re using the hidden cellar at number 12, Street of Courts?”

  Now the man’s eyes widened. He was sweating in the chill air. “Who are you?”

  Giliead had slipped past them to investigate the passage the man had come down, one of Gerard’s curse lights drifting along after him. Now he ducked back to report softly, “There’s another Rienish curse down here, a big one, not so subtle. I think it’s hiding something. And the ground shows recent signs of people coming and going through here.”

  Giliead had spoken Syrnaic so the man couldn’t understand him, but his face tightened with suspicion at hearing an unfamiliar language.

  Nicholas stepped back from the captive, his eyes hooded. “Bring him.”

  Ilias threw an inquiring look at Tremaine, who rolled her eyes and gestured for him to follow Nicholas.

  Giliead and Nicholas went down the passage first, cautiously, with Giliead checking for curse traps. Gerard and Tremaine followed. Ilias hauled the captive along, still keeping the knife to his throat, as they continued down the passage. He couldn’t tell whether Nicholas meant to kill the man or not, so he knew the prisoner himself couldn’t have a clue. Personally, Ilias hoped not; unless the man had one of those implanted crystals, his gut said this was a Rienish survivor and not a Gardier spy.

  Within only a short distance the soft white curse light fell on smashed blocks of stone and broken beams, some charred by fire and still stinking of smoke. Then the passage ended abruptly in a wall of broken brick and rock, as if a Gardier bomb had caved in the buildings above. As if, Ilias thought, watching Giliead carefully. But these were the people who had curses strong enough to make the Ravenna look like a stretch of empty water.

  Giliead stared at the wall, his expression tight with concentration. “Is it an illusion?” Gerard asked quietly.

  “Part of it. There was a cave-in here.” Giliead’s arm lifted as if he was in a daze and he pointed to a section of the collapsed wall. “But there’s also a door …there.”

  Nicholas stepped forward, reaching for where the handle should be, even as Gerard and Tremaine both drew breath to protest. Ilias had just enough time to clap a hand over the captive’s mouth.

  Between one blink and the next there was a wooden door in the wall, the brick framing it rough and broken. Nicholas produced a shooting weapon out of nowhere, giving the door a hard shove.

  Ilias nearly had his arm wrenched out of the socket by the young man’s attempt to struggle free, and missed what happened next. Occupied by restraining his captive and muffling his attempt to cry out without either strangling or stabbing him, Ilias was only peripherally aware of the door swinging open and the startled shouts of those inside. Giliead reached back and caught the captive’s arm, helping Ilias haul him forward as hostage.

  Past the door was a big stone-walled room, large beams overhead, with a faint odor of damp earth and the bitter scent of the oils the Rienish burned for fuel. There were no curse lights here, just a couple of glass-shielded lamps giving off a warm glow of firelight. There were five men inside and one woman, all dressed roughly in drab Rienish clothes. One of them had a shooting weapon pointed at Nicholas, but he hadn’t fired because Nicholas and Tremaine were both pointing their shooting weapons at him.

  For a moment no one said anything and Ilias felt his skin prickle with tension. Their captive had stopped struggling, breathing hard with exertion, and the silence was taut with expectation. Then the woman stepped forward into the light, and Ilias saw Tremaine twitch with the effort not to fire at the abrupt movement. He felt a flush of relief; if Tremaine had fired her weapon, they would have all killed each other in the next few heartbeats.

  The woman had gray hair pulled back from a strong-featured handsome face, and wore a gray-blue dress with a brown shawl over it. Ilias could tell from the way she held her arm that she had a weapon concealed under the shawl, but she was staring incredulously at them. No, not at them. At Nicholas.

  Giliead flinched suddenly, turning to face another door half-hidden in a shadowy corner. “Gerard!”

  Gerard turned sharply, gesturing, one hand on the sphere’s bag. Light burst for an instant, scourging shadows. Ilias caught sight of a man in the doorway before the brightness forced him to wince away. Something banged and an odor like burned air, as if lightning had struck nearby, came to him in a puff of breeze. Ilias looked back to see a man, short and sharp-featured, stagger out of the other doorway and fall to his knees, coughing. “That’s enough, young man,” Gerard said sharply. “I could have killed you. And you should realize that genre of attack adjuration is useless against the Gardier. Save your strength for illusions and charms.”

  The man looked up, his face white in the blending of firelight and curse light, and Ilias realized he was barely out of boyhood. Staring at Gerard, he choked out, “Who the hell are you?”

  But the woman was still regarding Nicholas with an almost reverent expression. She said slowly, “God above, is it your ghost?”

  Ilias heard Tremaine swear under her breath, and mutter, “I knew it.”

  “I’m all too solid, and ghosts don’t age.” Nicholas smiled slightly, though it was a smile that gave nothing away. He nodded toward their baffled hostage. “Your son, Madame Cusard?”

  “My nephew, Ricard,” she said, then urgently, “But how—”

  Nicholas interrupted, “I recognized him. He has his grandfather’s nose.” Though Ilias didn’t think that was the question the woman meant to ask, and he thought Nicholas knew that as well.

  The woman blinked. “God, it is you.” She told the men with her, “Put the guns away, boys.” More sharply, as they hesitated, “Now.”

  As the wary men complied, Nicholas pocketed his shooting weapon a
nd said in Syrnaic, “Release him.”

  Tremaine didn’t object, though she hadn’t put her weapon away. Ilias glanced at Giliead, who gave him a resigned shrug. Ilias turned the young man loose, propelling him forward just enough to keep him from grabbing a weapon from any of the others.

  Ricard stumbled, caught his balance, and joined the woman, demanding, “Who is he?”

  She threw a look at him, her mouth a tight line, but something about her spoke more of elation than dread. “Who do you think it is, turning up here, back from the dead, with a real Rienish sorcerer—”

  “Hey!” the young wizard, still on the floor, objected.

  “You’re one of Berganmot’s apprentices, aren’t you?” Gerard said to him, still sternly. “Found and trained on the battlefield?”

  “Yes.” The wizard studied him suspiciously. “What have you got in the bag?”

  “Take care or you’ll find out,” Nicholas told him, with a lifted brow. The words could have been a joke but Ilias was sure they weren’t. These people might know him, but Nicholas was only trusting them so far. I hope, Ilias thought worriedly. Nicholas eyed the woman again. “We need reliable transportation, a safe distance outside the Cabellard Gate. Tonight.”

  She nodded, businesslike. “You’ll have it. At the old mews on Vintner’s Row, in two hours.”

  Nicholas inclined his head to her. Tremaine, obviously having had enough of this, said tightly, “We need to go.”

  Nicholas nodded. He told the woman, “The Gardier will be concentrating on Castillion Gardens tonight. Avoid it for the next few days,” and swept out of the room. Gerard, with one more severe look at the young wizard, followed. Ilias and Giliead backed out with Tremaine. Ilias tried to keep an eye on the door as they retreated down the passage, but the shadows closed in and he couldn’t see if the illusory part of the cave-in had returned or not.

  “Come along,” Nicholas said from the corridor, deadpan. “We’re wasting time.”

  Tremaine jammed her weapon back into her coat pocket with a snarl.

  “One of those men was wearing an army fatigue jacket, and Berganmot’s apprentice must have been with the retreat,” Gerard pointed out quietly.

  “Yes. Madame Cusard and her nephew were the only ones I recognized,” Nicholas admitted. “I left her in charge of part of my organization when I left Vienne last. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was recruiting the retreating soldiers, but it will make her vulnerable to spies. She will realize that herself, of course. I don’t expect any of the other remaining members of the organization to have contact with anyone but her.”

  “Oh, that’s jolly,” Tremaine muttered. “So who do we think is going to be at the Vintner’s Row mews?”

  “The Gardier will be there, of course,” Nicholas said with a faint air of impatience. “The person we actually want to contact will be waiting for us near there.”

  Tremaine swore under her breath, and said to Ilias, “Do you understand why I’m like this now?”

  “I understood before,” he told her, and got a suspicious glare in response. That didn’t help. He resolved just to look blank if she asked him something like that again.

  They started down the corridor and Giliead asked Nicholas quietly, “Will you give them a sphere?”

  “That boy may have some natural talent, but he’s a bit undisciplined,” Gerard objected.

  “If the right person is waiting for us at Vintner’s Row,” Nicholas answered obliquely, “they’ll get their sphere.”

  Tremaine had to admit the rail tunnels had been a good idea, even with the encounter with Nicholas’s old gang. The tunnels had allowed them to rapidly leave the Castillion Gardens area without being seen. But once they climbed up to street level again, the situation hadn’t changed much. From a vantage point down the dark street they could see there were Gardier at the Cabellard Gate. A large party with spotlights and a sorcerer crystal was camped out to one side of the two-story stone arch that framed the giant gate. But past the patrol’s lights the night was silent and intensely dark.

  The old city wall wound off on both sides, with inns, shops, a garage and even a tumbledown block of flats built right up against it. For decades the wall had been nothing but a quaint historical obstruction and some of the buildings leaning familiarly against it had been there since the previous century.

  Giliead and Ilias went ahead to scout a way over, while Tremaine, Nicholas and Gerard waited in the shelter of a looted grocer’s shop, safely out of sight of the gate. Ilias returned after a short time to guide them down Cabellard Street to a set of flats that had been artists’ studios. The artists had had a little patio atop the flat roof, and it was an easy climb from there to the broad top of the city wall, and from there a slightly harder climb down to the roof of an inn.

  Once they got down to the ground, Nicholas led the way through the maze of smaller avenues to Vintner’s Row, barely hesitating in the dark. It was a good distance from the gate, and Tremaine’s feet were beginning to hurt by the time they reached the street. They took cover in a Martine-Viendo Wire office that had lost its front façade in some small explosion. “The mews is the building down toward the end, the one with the three arches,” Nicholas said, taking a cautious look around the edge of the empty doorway. The bay window and most of the storefront was blasted out, with piles of broken brick and shattered glass mixed with plaster dust. Nicholas had chosen it in particular; Tremaine felt he had a reason, but wasn’t going to oblige him by asking for it. “It used to be a large stable but was converted to an automobile court. There may still be a supply of gasoline there. I rather hope so. It will make a handy diversion.”

  Behind her, Tremaine heard a faint movement as Giliead twitched. Quietly grim, he said, “There’s a Gardier wizard crystal up there somewhere. I just felt it.”

  “They’re going to blow that place up, aren’t they?” Tremaine asked quietly. “Not the Cusards, but whoever Madame Cusard reported to.”

  “What about the Gardier?” Ilias asked, keeping his eyes on the back entrance while Giliead watched the front. “Can’t their crystal stop the building from blowing up?”

  “It could, if the Gardier knew there was a bomb,” Gerard answered softly. “But I suspect they don’t know, and even if they’ve done the mechanical disruption spell as a precaution, it won’t work on a few sticks of explosive and a long fuse.”

  Nicholas turned his back, using his hand torch to look at his pocket watch, shielding the light from the street. “We should know in the next—”

  The explosion from the far end of the street made Tremaine flinch back against the brick and clap her hands over her ears. Plaster chips and dust rained down from the ruined ceiling above and the ground trembled. Fire lit the night, making the area around the ruined telegraph office even darker. She shook the plaster dust out of her hair and over the not-so-distant roar of fire, heard Nicholas say with satisfaction, “Yes, I think the gasoline was still stored there.”

  A dark-colored automobile roared out of a side street, executed a hairpin turn in the center of Vintner’s Row, and screeched to a halt beside the office. Startled, Tremaine pushed off from the wall, aiming her pistol. Ilias whipped around and Giliead and Gerard backed rapidly away from the opening. Nicholas just looked over his shoulder, one brow lifted.

  It was a big black touring car. Nicholas took a step forward, standing in the red glow of the fire now illuminating the street, deliberately showing himself to whoever was driving the automobile. Tremaine hesitated, wondering if he was mad, then realized it was a highly unlikely motorcar for the Gardier to be driving. The front passenger door flung open and a man leaned out. The firelight revealed the face of a handsome older man with long gray hair and Tremaine recognized Reynard Morane. “Get in,” he snapped.

  Nicholas strode to the motorcar. Gerard followed, saying under his breath, “I should have known.”

  I did know, Tremaine thought, rolling her eyes and hurrying to pull open the back door. She climbed in, s
crambling across the broad bench seat to make room for Giliead and Ilias. The two Syprians moved quickly enough, though Ilias made a disgusted noise. He hated automobiles.

  As Nicholas made room for Gerard, Morane said, “Good God, it is you. What took you so long?” Tremaine had met Reynard Morane for the first time in Vienne, while the city was being evacuated. She had known before then that he was Captain of the Queen’s Guard; she hadn’t known that he was one of her guardians and a former crony of Nicholas’s.

  “I was unavoidably detained,” Nicholas told him. As soon as the last door was shut, Morane slammed the motorcar into gear and sped off.

  The headlamps weren’t lit as the automobile tore through the dark streets. Morane took the next turn, tires squealing, and Tremaine grabbed the back of the seat, swaying over into the door. The interior smelled of the fine glove-soft leather upholstery and faintly of old cigar smoke. Morane said, “Damn it, Nicholas, tell me where you’ve been.”

  “How did he know where we were?” Ilias demanded in Syrnaic.

  “To certain members of my original organization, ‘Vintner’s Row mews’ is a code for ‘Martine-Viendo Telegraph Office,’ ” Nicholas answered in Rienish, sounding vastly satisfied with himself.

  “Of course it is,” Tremaine said under her breath, as Ilias swore in disbelief. The car jolted, throwing her against the door. God, he drives like me. She hoped Morane knew what he was doing. In the front seat, braced for an impact, Gerard said thickly, “If you’d like, once we’re far enough away from the Gardier patrol at the Cabellard Gate, I can cast an illusion so that no one outside the car can see the lamps.”

  The motorcar took another turn and Tremaine heard Ilias swear softly, though Giliead was stoically silent. Her eyes had adjusted again and she could dimly see a street like a cavern, buildings leaning in close on either side. “That would be handy.” Morane sounded intrigued. “I didn’t have time to get our sorcerer to prepare anything— I only found the car half an hour ago.” In rising exasperation he added, “Nic, if you don’t tell me where the hell you’ve been—”