All the vaults. Even the ones where Spar locked away the worst of the alchemists’ creations.
That zombie isn’t the only undead thing out there.
Carillon imagines what might happen if this map got out. The alchemists would rip up the New City. They’d gut Spar, blast him open to reach those secret vaults. Anything to get what’s buried there. This is what all the spies and treasure hunters seek.
“It’s all right,” she tells him, tells herself. “They’re all dead.” The Gethis Row house was abandoned, right? Whatever happened there, whatever killed them all, they didn’t find this hidden map. Maybe this is the only copy. Maybe whoever assembled it is dead, too.
Maybe, for once, they’ll get lucky.
She closes her eyes, searches the visions. Two streets over, there’s a woman smoking a cigarette. A box of matches in her pocket.
Carillon brushes past the woman a minute later. Steals the matches. Climbs back up to the rooftop.
The papers burn quickly. A fiery blaze against the dim glow of the New City, and then it’s gone, and so is Carillon.
INTERLUDE
Lyrix.
Rasce waits by the shore for his uncle’s ship. The island’s docks are a rough place–lots of mercenaries and pirates–but no one dares bother young Rasce as he sits and waits. The sun turns the stones of the harbour into an oven, so the sea breeze is welcome. A tavern keeper hurries out with an even more welcome goblet of iced wine. A gift, for a scion of the Ghierdana families.
It’s good wine. Rasce takes out his dragons-tooth dagger and displays it openly on the table, signalling that this tavern has the blessing of the Ghierdana.
Uncle Artolo’s ship arrives, and Artolo is first off the gangplank. Limping down, supported by two of his brute squad, he presses a hand to his side. “Don’t touch me, boy,” he says when he sees Rasce. “Bitch saint opened me up like a fish. Is there any more wine?”
Rasce finishes the last of the goblet. “No. Great-Uncle wants to see you right away.” There’s a carriage waiting, to take them up the steep spiralling path to the villa atop the cliffs, to their great-uncle’s cave.
Artolo groans as he climbs on board. “He knows, doesn’t he? About the Saint of Knives?”
Rasce hops up nimbly behind his uncle. “I’m sure he’s read your letters.”
“They told me Guerdon didn’t have saints. The Tallowmen were gone, Heinreil arrested–they told me it would be piss-easy!” complains Artolo. “She was everywhere. Knew everything. And we couldn’t kill her. Look at this!” He produces his own dragons-tooth knife from his pocket. “I cut her fucking throat with this.”
Rasce takes the blade, runs his thumb over the edge. It’s blunted, like someone tried to use it to cut stone. “Well, tell Great-Uncle that. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“I’ll go back. We need more men, sorcerers, too. Hire some Crawling Ones. Get the blessing of Culsan. The city’s ripe for the plucking, don’t get me wrong. I just need more time.”
The carriage races around a steep bend. Now, they’re on the south side of the island, looking out over the sparkling blue ocean. In the distance, there’s a line of greenish steam rising from a lurid scar slashed across the waters. A fence of acid seeds, one of the defences against invasion by Ishmere.
“Now that,” says Rasce, “is going to be more of a problem.”
The carriage comes to a stop at the end of the road. Rasce leads his uncle past the guards, brings him right through the oldest part of the villa. Relatives watch the pair go by, but say nothing. Even Artolo’s own children dare not approach him.
Rasce brings him down the stairs. The air is full of sulphurous smoke, dark and thick and hot.
Great-Uncle hears them approach.
Great-Uncle has famously keen hearing.
Artolo falls to his knees at the entrance to the lair. “I ask your forgiveness, Great-Uncle. I know that I’ve failed you, but I’ve served the family faithfully for many years. You know how hard the gods can be, and—”
The dragon interrupts him.
“Did you find the lost weapons, Artolo? The things of black iron?”
“No. I looked, I found traces, but—”
“Rasce?” calls the dragon.
“Yes, Great-Uncle?”
“Come in. Bring the knife.”
CHAPTER 23
One month to election day.
One month before the mobs march or ride to the polling stations, the ballot boxes in every watch-house and square. A grand harvest of ballot papers will mark the end of this searing summer, as the city chooses a new parliament. And then what? thinks Eladora.
It’s been ten days since her ill-fated visit to Carillon. Ten days spent mostly huddled in backrooms in the Industrial Liberal headquarters that hasn’t changed since her grandfather’s time, far from the changing streets of the New City. She passed Spar’s list of names onto Absalom Spyke, who’d read it, snorted–and come back a day later with a wary newfound respect. Eight of them have already signed on to stand in the election; the others are considering the offer. Kelkin’s pleased, apparently, although it’s hard to tell.
But they need to hold on in the old city, too, and that’s what today is about. Law and order, strength and stability. The outer office of the IndLib rooms in parliament is crowded, but she pushes her way through. Jealous glances as she walks into the inner rooms. Only senior party officials have dispensation to enter the sanctum without an escort or appointment. Eladora occupies–awkwardly, as always–a unique position. She’s not a lawyer, unlike half the other junior staff, and she’s not the scion of some political family that’s been with the party for fifty years.
At least, not as far as they know. She’s careful never to use the Thay name.
Jermas Thay’s mask was made of gold, she remembers, and behind it were the worms. Cold slimy fingers pressing against her, writhing lips reciting the spell to call monstrous gods…
She doesn’t break stride as she crosses the room, but recites one of Ramegos’ incantations in her mind to drive away the memories of the Thay family tomb.
The others can’t know that her experiences in the Crisis are the reason why she’s trusted above other, more experienced political operatives. She’s initiated into that terrible constellation of secrets. She knows all their sins, and they know hers.
She smells Rat from outside the committee room–a distinctive stench of dirt and rotting flesh, and something sharper, a tang of sorcery. That means this isn’t just a regular meeting; the lord of the ghouls wouldn’t crawl up from his throne in the depths without good reason. The guard at the door lets her into the high-ceilinged room. It was a feast hall in the days of the old kings, she recalls, back when parliament was a toothless drinking club for courtiers. Now, oil paintings of stern-faced ministers and clerics stare down from where royal banners once hung.
All the chairs at the long table are already taken by various senior Industrial Liberals. At the far end of the table squats Rat, sitting cross-legged, too huge for any chair. His horns, like monstrous antlers, would scrape against the ceiling if he stood at his full height. The only person willing to sit next to him is Dr Ramegos. Neither Rat nor Ramegos are IndLibs or even politicians, but they’re both loosely aligned with Kelkin’s goals for the city. The fact they’re here at this meeting suggests it’s about the city’s security and defence.
She takes a seat along the side of the room. Kelkin’s reading some letters with another aide. He looks up, addresses the room. “We’ll start at eleven. The Council’s got a meeting with the Haithi ambassador at noon, so if you have anything to say when we start, talk bloody quickly.”
That sets off a buzz of conversation; little knots and conspiracies form as they try to decide who’ll talk, whose concerns are most pressing, what requests can be combined. She could save them time–the whole party’s looking to Kelkin for reassurance, for the promise that he’ll corral the votes they need by sheer force of will. They don’t have anythi
ng to say, so much as a generalised fearful wail. She looks in her bag for a notebook, finds instead the Haithi novel that Erevesic loaned her. She flips through it, bewildered by the sheer weight of the genealogies and histories at the start of the tome. Half the book is prologue.
A shadow falls across the pages. She looks up into the face of a pale young man. His suit, expensive but slightly grubby; his lips pulled back from his teeth in a ghastly approximation of a smile. It takes her a moment to place him as Rat’s lawyer and spokesman. “YOU WENT LOOKING FOR CARILLON,” says the young man, but she can tell he’s not the one speaking. There are little telltale twitches in the muscles of his face, flashes of pain in his eyes as Rat takes control of his mouth from across the room. Like the words are leaden ingots that fall from his lips. “DID YOU FIND HER?” Eladora looks across at the massive ghoul, meeting the gaze of his yellow eyes.
“What business it is of yours?”
“SHE IS HARD TO FIND. OTHERS GO LOOKING. EVEN THE GHOULS. FIND ONLY EMPTY ROOMS AND DOORS OF STONE. SHE IS CLEVER, OUR CARI.” The yellow eyes flare. “WHAT BUSINESS OF IT IS YOURS?”
“She’s my cousin,” whispers Eladora, “the B-Black Iron Gods are gone. She’s not a d-danger to anyone any more.”
The young man snorts, as does Rat across the room. “THERE’S ALWAYS DANGER AROUND CARI. BEWARE.”
“That’s a strange way to talk about your friend.”
“NONE OF US,” says the boy, “ARE WHO WE ONCE WERE. WE MUST… EAT OUR PASTS AND GROW STRONG, SO WE CAN SURVIVE WHAT IS TO COME. HE TRUSTS YOU,” Rat extends a clawed finger towards Kelkin, “AND YOU MUST… REMIND HIM OF WHAT MUST BE DONE.”
“And what must be done?”
“THE GODS MUST BE KEPT FROM THE CITY. ALL OF THEM.” Rat withdraws; the young man gasps for breath, gulping in lungfuls of air, then mutters an apology and stumbles back to his master’s side. A few people, including Ramegos, look curiously over at her; she waves them away.
The ghoul puts one titanic arm around the boy’s shoulders and smirks at Eladora–and then her own mouth moves, and words come crawling out of her throat in the monster’s voice: “I SAVED YOUR LIFE IN GRAVEHILL. REMEMBER IT.”
Kelkin rises, taps the table. The room falls silent.
“The committee’s hearing the Haithi proposal today, so I don’t have time for questions. Shut up and listen.” He begins to speak, outlining his plans to secure the city against supernatural threats. A bargain with the ghouls, trading the city’s dead for assistance in sniffing out saints and sorcerers, keeping order on the streets. “If a cult wants a temple in Guerdon, then they can have the worshippers in life, but no unsanctioned saints or miracles, and the city gets the dead.” Kelkin coughs. “We’ll make them all Kept Gods.” Eladora spots a gleam of savage joy in Kelkin’s eye; his battles against the Keepers are legendary, even though he was once an initiate of their priesthood.
No unsanctioned saints. That would include Carillon. She hasn’t told anyone, not even Kelkin or Ramegos, about her meeting with her cousin. Another secret she’ll have to keep. She finds herself wondering what Aleena would have made of all this. Sometimes, when Eladora’s nervous, she recalls the saint’s comforting presence, her righteous, profanity studded wrath–and the mercy she showed Cari.
Thinking of Aleena reminds her of her mother. Kelkin’s plan to use the ghouls means he’ll have to reject Mhari Voller’s offer of coalition with the Keepers–unless he’s already thinking several steps ahead, establishing an extreme position for some future negotiation with the Keepers.
She’s lost track of the speech. Kelkin’s moved onto the navy, to alchemical weapons. Louder murmurs of approval. He boasts about the new fast interceptors that will guard Guerdon’s coast–and, glancing around the room, Eladora can guess who’s initiated into the secret of the god bombs by who cheers and who bows their heads, cowed by the thought of deicide.
Kelkin finishes up. “All right. The next few days are going to be rough. Expect the alchemists and Keepers to make up ground on us. Expect bad press, hard slog, and dissent in the ranks. The Festival plays to our opponents’ strengths, not ours. But once it’s done, and everyone’s back in the city, that’s when we make our big push. Hear me? As soon as the last fucking flower is handed out, that’s when you run like the Tallows!” He thumps the table. Ragged cheers.
“Now, let me go and entertain some bloody approaches.”
Kelkin stomps out of the IndLib room and up the stairs towards the main body of parliament. Most of the other IndLibs head down towards the exit, hurrying to get back to the city and the campaign. Eladora’s about to go with them, when Admiral Vermeil intercepts her. “You’re wanted for the next meeting, too, I fear, Miss Duttin. In case some ancient skirmish or dispute between Old Haith and Guerdon comes up, and a historical perspective is warranted.”
All of the major parties have suites of rooms on the lower level of parliament, and they are all sending delegations to this meeting with the Haithi ambassador. Flowing like tributaries into the main corridor, joining the churning crowd. She spots Perik trotting alongside the head of the Hawker group, giving some last-minute briefing. Ramegos, huddled in conversation with some Old Haithi diplomat.
And there’s Sinter, as part of the Church group. It’s strange to see him out in daylight, in some official capacity. He’s a creature of backrooms and alleyways and private threats. A gargoyle perched on some cathedral gutter, eavesdropping on the city below. He slips away before they enter the committee room.
There are places at the conference table for the Haithi ambassador and his two aides, and for the committee. Everyone else has to crowd around the edges. There’s a lot of awkward shuffling and whispering; this Haithi entreaty might shape the long-term future of Guerdon’s fraught relationship with its northern neighbour, but, right now, it’s a distraction from campaigning.
A clerk rings a silver bell, signalling the arrival of the Haithi delegation. First comes Ambassador Olthic, towering above the rest. He’s smiling, but his eyes dart around the room, identifying potential allies and enemies. First Secretary Daerinth toddles after, leaning on the arm of Olthic’s brother Terevant. Now that she sees them together, she sees how similar they are, and how different. Terevant’s clean-shaven; Olthic bearded. Both keep their hair short, but Terevant’s is unruly. Both dressed in Haithi military uniforms, but Olthic wears dozens of medals and campaign braids, whereas Terevant’s is almost bare. Olthic strides, he roars, head held high; Terevant looks subdued, and takes the seat furthest away from his brother. It makes her think of Carillon; she and her cousin both have similar facial features–the Thay look–and were mistaken for sisters when they were children. Eladora did whatever she could to distinguish herself from her troublesome foster-sister; if Cari was covered in mud and scratches from playing in the woods, then Eladora kept herself pristine and stayed indoors, and told herself she didn’t want to go playing anyway.
Casting his eyes around the room, Terevant spots Eladora–probably the only person he recognises in the crowd of suspicious faces–and smiles. Perik shoots her a suspicious glance, doubtless suspecting her of plotting with Haith.
Kelkin taps the table, and the room falls silent. “Ambassador, the floor is yours.”
Olthic stands. One hand strays to his belt, and then he snatches it away and holds onto the back of his chair. “Thank you, Mr Chairman. Honoured friends, I bring the greetings and blessings of the Crown of Haith, undying and forever loyal.”
Kelkin grunts and waves his hand, indicating that the ambassador should get on with it. It’s extraordinarily disrespectful–either Kelkin’s trying to undermine Olthic, or else he’s letting his impatience get the better of him. Eladora shifts uncomfortably in her seat–Kelkin’s got his back to her, so she can’t read his face.
Olthic continues. “Haith and Guerdon share common ancestry. Our mutual forefathers crossed the sea from Varinth, and we were one people for many centuries. We share a common tongue, a common history.”
The only person more uncomfortable at the laughter than Eladora is Olthic himself. His knuckles whiten as they grip the chair. He takes a breath, and keeps speaking. His baritone voice remains mostly calm as he continues.
“As the chair wishes–but there is one more similarity which must be noted. You have your Kept Gods, who remain gentle despite the war that presses on your shores. In Haith, we have but one god, Death, but it too remains unsullied by the Godswar. Both nations recognise the folly of untrammelled divinity, and see that the madness of other lands can only lead to doom. Haith wants no part of the Godswar.”
As a historian and a former teacher, Eladora gives the ambassador a failing grade for that summary. While he’s correct in claiming that Haith hasn’t succumbed to the same reality-churning divine madness that marks the other belligerents in the Godswar, it’s wrong to claim that Haith’s pursued the same studious neutrality as Guerdon. Haith has territories and satrapies all over the world that they defend; early in the Godswar, they took advantage of the chaos to hugely expand their overseas holdings. Now they’re in retreat, pulling back to defend their homeland.
She turns her attention back to the speech.
“Haith is one of Guerdon’s best customers. We purchase four in every ten weapons sold by the alchemists; we buy more ships, hire more mercenaries from you than any other nation. For that matter, half the food in Guerdon is imported from Haith; wood and furs, too. We are like siblings–we have quarrelled in the past, we have disagreed, but we are inextricably entangled.
The Shadow Saint Page 25
