by Phil Tucker
“So, you suggest we walk straight along the path.”
Audsley smiled. “It’s as good a plan as any, and like all other tactics available to us, pure conjecture. Come. Shall we?”
“I regret my impulsiveness,” Solemna said quietly. “But what’s done is done. Yes. Lead the way.”
“Very noble of you,” said Audsley. “I’d advise that you follow a good five paces behind to avoid the worst of any jets of flame.” Then he took a deep breath and set off along the path.
It was a truly beautiful little meadow. White clover grew across the green, interspersed with patches of buttercups. Curious, he searched for more noxious weeds and found none; the more he examined the meadow, the more he was convinced that it was carefully tended by a scrupulous gardener.
Erenthil.
It took perhaps half a minute to cross from the plinth to the front door, and it was only when he stepped onto the porch that he realized he’d made it alive. He blinked and looked back at Solemna, who was now hurrying after him, and gave her a foolish smile. “We did it! Well, I did.”
The cottage was charming. A gable rose above the front door, and the broad-shingled eaves hung low over the broad window set to the side of the door. A second, larger gable rose over the sole window in the second floor. The window frames were painted a faded green, while the walls themselves were a soft, buttery beige. The curtains were drawn, preventing him from peering within, but a single rocking chair was placed on the porch beneath the eaves, with a stump at its side on which rested a pipe and a book.
“I suppose one’s needs become modest over time,” said Audsley. “After Starkadr and Aletheia, this is... well, very nice indeed.”
“Don’t be deceived,” said Solemna. “Erenthil... Never mind. Knock.”
Audsley turned back to the door. There was no knocker, but that wasn’t surprising. The man wouldn’t expect many visitors. He rapped his knuckles on the wood and stepped back.
The door was yanked open a moment later. A curious man was standing just within. His skin gleamed metallically in the light, as if he were wearing armor of some kind or if his flesh were encased in glass…
No. Audsley peered closer. Not a man at all.
The figure was of modest height, on a par with Audsley, and his body was articulated at the wrists and neck in a manner clearly inhuman. But his proportions were pleasing, and he was clad in a lace-up tunic of rich burgundy material that hung down to his knees and was belted at the waist.
His Aletheian features were sculpted from bronze, complete with tightly curled beard along his jaw, but it was entirely immobile, and the way the reflected light ran liquidly along its surface made Audsley’s skin crawl.
Its eyes, however, were alive; inhuman, yet burning with a smoldering crimson light that fastened on Audsley and rooted him to the spot.
“Who calls on my master?” it asked without moving its jaw; the voice issued from a small hole bored between its lips.
A thought occurred to Audsley: Perhaps this is the trap. “The Minister of Perfection is dead,” he blurted. “We don’t know the — ah — safe words.”
“But I am the Acting Minister in his stead,” said Solemna. “We would speak with the Artificer.”
It was eerie. A living being might turn its head toward one of them, then the other. At the very least, its eyes might swivel. Even an impassive person actively conveyed that they were being impassive. This... automaton... did nothing. Its lips remained curved into a slight, enigmatic smile, and its eyes stared blindly ahead.
“Please wait,” it said after an unnervingly long silence. “I shall return.” Then it stepped back and closed the door.
Audsley exhaled in relief. “My goodness. What was that thing?”
“A creation of the Artificer’s, obviously,” Solemna said, staring straight at the door.
“I saw some of his handiwork in his lab at Starkadr,” said Audsley. “A gauntlet that shot flame. Goggles that allowed one to see in the dark. All powered by... demons.”
“He has had centuries since then to advance his craft,” said Solemna. “While he no longer has access to his original magics, he still wields formidable power over demons.”
“Delightful,” said Audsley. “And, I must say, good news. Though only in these very, very narrow circumstances.”
Solemna didn’t dignify him with a response, so he turned back to the door. The paint was a darker green in the seams between the planks, he saw. How many times a century did he have it repainted? How, for that matter, did one not go mad all alone in a house so small? Audsley’s quarters in the Tower of the Ferret were probably as large, if not larger, and that had been a single room.
The door opened, and the bronze man stood before them once more. “Come,” it said. “The Artificer will see you.”
Audsley felt a pang of fear, the first since he’d set out on this mission. The bronze man’s smile seemed nothing now if not macabre, and Audsley found himself wondering if he’d manage to escape this cottage if he dared to step inside.
“Very well,” he said with false cheer. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 19
Asho
Asho allowed himself to fall farther and farther behind Tóki and the others as they penetrated deeper into the stonecloud. It wasn’t hard; the Hrethings were warriors intent on preserving their lives and looking for threats, not wet nurses focused on his wellbeing. The more Asho drifted from Tóki’s field of vision, the more the towering Hrething forgot about him. Soon, he was almost five yards behind the group, hobbling along in his attempt to keep up, and when Audsley was confronted by an elderly-looking stranger, Asho took the opportunity to duck down a side tunnel.
He hurried through the gloom, one hand against the wall, sweat dripping from his chin and the tip of his nose, breath ragged in his throat. He wanted to vomit, and his guts churned and bubbled in protest. The desire to slide down the wall and rest was intoxicating, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to go on, taking turns at random and always choosing narrower, darker corridors.
Finally, with his pulse pounding in his ears and his vision reduced to a long, narrow tunnel, he stopped. There were no lanterns in this hall, and the walls were of rough rock. They were blessedly cool, too, and he pressed his cheek against one, closed his eyes and worked on remaining on his feet.
He was found soon enough.
“Hey — what are you doing here?” The voice was gruff but not convincingly so, more alarmed and upset than angry.
Asho rolled around, never losing contact with the wall, and saw a black-robed man standing a few yards away. With his vision unfocused, it was hard to make out details, but still, he drew his lips into a smile. “I’m lost. I was searching for the garderobe.”
The man snorted in annoyed disgust. “Were you, now? Too bad for you, as —” The man cut off as he drew closer. “Are you sick? Something contagious?”
“No,” said Asho. He pushed away from the wall and moved closer. “I’ve nothing to give you. I’d like to take something, instead.”
“What?” The man backed away, raising his hands defensively. “What are you —”
It wasn’t graceful. Asho simply lunged forward and fell into the man’s arms. All he needed was skin contact. The sheer volume of the stranger’s robes could have defeated him, but his hand closed on the other man’s forearm, and immediately he sensed the demon lurking within.
Small and gibbering, a fleeting presence coiled deep within the man’s mind. Asho felt darkness all around, a pervasive void that served to dwarf the demonic presence. There was precious little awareness to it; it didn’t react to Asho, didn’t look up, didn’t seek to engage him in conversation.
No matter.
Not quite understanding how he did it, Asho reached out and took hold of the demon by the nape of the neck. It spasmed and kicked, lashing out wildly, snarling and weeping as Asho pulled it forth like a tick from a dog’s hide. Distaste flooded him, but he couldn’t afford to be squea
mish; raising his other hand, he formed it into a dagger and stabbed it deep into the demon’s skull.
His finger slid through its black hide, then his whole fist disappeared into its head. The demon arched its back with a yelp and went still, and in one horrendous rush Asho drained it of its power, sucking it dry so that it shriveled and shrank into itself. In moments, it was gone, leaving only a wrinkled sack of skin behind.
Asho stepped back, blinking, and the tunnel returned. Power flowed through his limbs, washing away the nausea and pain. Not nearly as much as what he’d received from the previous demons he’d drained, but enough. For the first time since he’d woken in Aletheia, he felt himself once more.
The stranger stood swaying, then gasped and sank down to his knees. “What have you done?” His voice was ragged, little more than a rasp. “What have you done?”
“Cleansed you,” said Asho. He stood straight, his spine popping, and pushed his shoulders back. So much better. “Now, you’re going to lead me to where the Sin Casters are kept.”
“I — what?” The man pressed the bases of his palms against the sides of his head. “It’s gone. Where is it?” He began to pound at his temples. “It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone.”
Asho reached down and seized the man by the throat, then with a grunt lifted him to his feet and slammed him against the wall. “I’d encourage you to focus on my words. I’m short on patience and shorter yet on sympathy. Understand?”
The man looked up at him, and Asho could make out his features now. He was young, with a round face, a button nose, fleshy lips and long eyelashes. A sensitive face. But his eyes were glimmering with tears.
“What did you do to me?” he muttered.
“I took your demon,” said Asho. “I killed it and drank its power.”
The tears brimmed and ran down the stranger’s cheeks. “Thank you.”
“I — what?” This, Asho hadn’t expected. “Thank you?”
“Thank you,” the stranger whispered again. “Oh, blessed peace. My mind – it echoes with silence. It aches. I feel — I feel — I don’t know what this feeling is. Do I glimpse sanity once more? Or is this a dream?”
Asho gave the man a sharp shake. “It’s no dream. Where are the Sin Casters kept? Do you know, or not?”
“The Sin Casters? Of course I know.” The man sounded dreamy, unconcerned. “Everybody knows. They’re like your cock: the source of pleasure and every sin. A festering wound in the heart of our communal souls. Oh, but be still, let me enjoy this silence, this peace —”
Asho shoved the man and sent him stumbling down the hall. “Then, lead me to them. The faster you do, the sooner you’ll be rid of me. Then you can go find a hole and enjoy your freedom.”
The stranger’s laughter turned into a sob, and he nearly sank down to his knees before he caught himself and surged forward. “We’re not far. If we could burrow through rock, we’d be there sooner still, but as it is, we can run.” And he did so, breaking into a rough trot that was all elbows and high knees.
Asho ran after him, hand on the pommel of his blade to keep it from banging against his side. They left the narrow corridor for a broader one. The stranger ran down it faster and faster, and for a second Asho thought he was trying to get away until he realized that the man was wheezing with laughter.
They rounded a corner, and the stranger collided with three other Fujiwaras who caught him by the arms as they steadied themselves.
“Anderos?” The eldest was scathing in his disapproval. “What is this?”
Asho slowed to a brisk walk and approached them with confidence. “I can explain,” he said, and he palmed the closest man’s forehead and pounded his head against the wall. The man’s shock was so complete that he didn’t resist. There was a dull crack, and he sank to the floor without protest. No demon was lurking in his soul.
The other two cried out in alarm, but Asho moved smoothly to tackle the second. He caught the man’s outflung arm, wrapped it under his own, then slammed his open palm into the man’s face. He felt the man’s nose break as his head jolted back, then Asho kicked his heel out from under him and the man went down. No demon there, either.
The eldest of the three simply gaped, unable to assimilate this sudden violence. “What? What is this? You can’t do that.”
“Apologies,” said Asho, shaking out his hand, which stung from the blow. “But I don’t have time to parley.” He stepped forward, fist rising, but the older man raised his hand with a cry and summoned black flame to wreath his fist.
Asho kneed him in the stomach, doubling the man over his leg, then shoved him wildly into the wall. The black flame extinguished itself, and the elder collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.
Asho reached down and touched the back of the man’s head. Immediately, he was within the dark confines of the man’s mind, and before him a demon was raging, snarling like a beast, throwing itself at Asho only to pull up short as countless thick chains snapped taut. It towered over Asho, a hulk of muscle and lacerated flesh. Its face was bestial and writhed from one form to another, so that within moments it looked like a hound, then a hog, then something akin to a human, then back to a rat. All of them were horrendously swollen and distorted.
“That’s more like it,” said Asho, and he threw himself into the demon’s embrace, plunging his hand into its open maw and up to penetrate its skull.
The demon froze, its whole body shaking, and then it collapsed forward, sinking into Asho’s hand, draining as quickly as the first, and in moments it was gone.
Chains fell to the floor with a heavy clatter, and then Asho came back to himself. The hallway was bright after the gloom, and he saw that the old man had passed into unconsciousness.
Power raged through him, bubbled and danced through his limbs. Not enough to make him delirious, but enough to make him bounce back up to his feet. He raised a palm, and a wisp of black fire curled up into the air.
“What are you?” asked Anderos.
“A Sin Caster,” said Asho. His body felt light and lithe. With some effort, he felt he could rise up off the ground altogether, but he didn’t want to expend the energy; instead, he pointed down the hall. “Continue.”
“I helped you,” Anderos said in surprise. “Though I’m not sure why I did. I feel very giddy.” He blinked. “Drunk on freedom, perhaps? Made turgid by possibility?”
“I don’t care,” said Asho, forcing himself to stay calm. The power seething beneath his skin made control difficult. “To the Sin Casters. Go.”
Anderos nodded and set off in his awkward lope. Asho noticed him sticking to quieter corridors, once stopping and backing away at the sight of a young woman walking their way.
Finally, they stopped outside a large pair of doors. Anderos was panting as if he’d been running for miles, and he bent over, hands on his knees. His smile, however, was beatific. “Do you hear that?”
Asho paused, narrowing his eyes as he listened. “No. What?”
“Nothing!” With a heave, the Fujiwara stood and spread his arms. “Nothing at all!”
“That’s... great. This the chamber?”
“Yes,” said Anderos. “Anathasisus’ domain. May I wander off now to exult in privacy?”
“Yes,” said Asho. He didn’t think Anderos would betray him. “Thank you.”
He pushed open one of the doors and stepped out onto a balcony that looked down upon a familiar scene. It was the very same room to which Audsley had brought him before. The obsidian table still lay in cracked pieces in the center, but the broken glass and fallen shelving had been cleaned away and replaced. Three men in the ubiquitous black robes were working at their desks, and Athanasius himself was standing before a lectern, reading from a heavy tome.
“Hello,” said Asho.
“Asho,” said Athanasius, pausing in the act of turning a page. There was wariness in his voice, though his desiccated features betrayed no emotion. “I wasn’t aware that you were going to be visiting.”
> “You wouldn’t be,” said Asho. He closed the door carefully behind him, then made his way down the steps, one hand ghosting over the balustrade.
The three helpers rose uncertainly to their feet, glancing at their master for reassurance. Athanasius linked his hands behind his back as he stepped out from behind the lectern. “You seem to be in remarkably good health, given the procedure you underwent.”
“Thank you,” said Asho. He didn’t hurry. He felt a hectic fury deep within his breast that failed to pierce his self-control.
A thin, vertical line appeared between Athanasius’ brows. “Did Magister Audsley send you?”
“No.”
“Have you come for a repeat of the procedure?”
“No,” Asho said, stepping out onto the floor.
“You have questions, then.” Athanasius’ tone betrayed a weary resignation. “I honestly don’t have time to indulge your curiosity.”
“No,” Asho said, cutting in smoothly. “No questions.”
Athanasius studied him, eyes bright and sharp. “Ah. That’s how it is, then.”
“Yes.” Asho drew his blade.
“Very well,” Athanasius said, then cried, “Kill him!” He gave the closest assistant a shove, then turned and darted down one of the tunnels at the back of the room.
Asho killed the three assistants with little more than grim distaste. They weren’t even human in his eyes. He stabbed once, twice, thrice, and the three men fell, the last cut deeply in the back as he turned to follow his master.
Asho stepped over the corpse and hesitated at the threshold of the tunnel. He felt fell and callous, an instrument of vengeance and justice.
The tunnel exuded a stink of despair like a corpse exhaled putridness. No sound of retreating footsteps came from the blackness ahead. Asho’s own form would be starkly silhouetted against the light of the room.
Taking a deep breath, Asho rose to the ceiling of the tunnel. With his back nearly scraping against the rock, he flew forward into the darkness.
Bereft of his sight, Asho closed his eyes and focused on his hearing. He could hear moans from up ahead, faint and constant, misery made audible. The Sin Casters. Athanasius had either escaped through an exit or was waiting in ambush. He was important enough that he probably had his own demon, which meant he’d be standing there, hands raised, ready to incinerate Asho as soon as he discerned Asho’s location.
