undying legion 01 - unbound man

by karlov, matt

  The noise of the chase receded, leaving the clearing silent but for the low keening of the blinded attacker. Derrek wished the gods would strike him dumb. I’m dying, and you don’t hear me wailing about it. It occurred to him to wonder whether the gods had ever actually struck anyone dumb. The Gatherer will take me soon. Perhaps I’ll ask him. His thoughts were wandering, he realised distantly. Somehow, he could no longer summon the energy to care.

  But something was gouging into his side. He dug his hand beneath his body, hissing at the pain, and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a rag. Of course. The urn. This was what the men were seeking. Or perhaps not. Perhaps they had attacked for some other reason, and the urn, like everything else he carried, would soon be nothing more than loot. A trophy of a kill.

  Rage swelled within him. To be brought down like a beast! To be killed not for who he was, nor even for what he was, but merely for what he carried. The contempt of it burned, worse even than the pain in his gut. The gods blind you all, you murdering bastards. And if the gods ignored this last request, as they had so many others in his life, there was still breath in him yet. He could still deny his killers this one thing.

  If he had been uninjured, he might have used sorcery to drive the urn deep into the earth; but sorcery was beyond him now. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his knees, his injured arm clasped over his belly to hold himself together. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he swayed, sucking down air as a cry rang out from the forest. Rawlen. Gods, I’m sorry.

  Despair flared again and he fought it, pushing it away, using it to fan his rage. He straightened, raising himself to his full kneeling height; then, with a great, gasping breath, he hurled the urn into the trees before him. The force of his throw pitched him forward, sending him face-first into the rough clearing floor. He grunted at the impact, dirt filling his senses as the last of his strength left him.

  He drifted, his thoughts breaking apart and reforming like clouds. He was badly hurt, he knew that. My arm. No, not my arm. My gut. Perhaps Cal could still save him if she came soon. But no, they had killed her already. And they had killed Rawlen, too; and now, at last, they had returned for him. He could hear them arguing somewhere nearby, but the words were muffled, indistinct, as though both they and he were underwater.

  “This one’s still alive!” The voice was right next to him. Something pushed into his side and turned him over. Strange. That was where he had been stabbed, but there didn’t seem to be much pain any more.

  Hands groped beneath his jerkin. A face drew near, and he felt himself being shaken. “Listen to me. Listen!”

  Derrek tried to focus, but the face swam before him.

  “We know you had an urn. Tell me where it is, and I’ll ease your passing.”

  An immense satisfaction flooded through him. They were seeking the urn after all, and he had kept it from them! He wanted to smile, to laugh, but it seemed his lips had forgotten how. He gathered up saliva to spit in the face above him, but succeeded only in dribbling. Blood washed through his mouth, metallic and bitter.

  The face disappeared, and Derrek heard the man move past the top of his head to where his arm lay outstretched. A moment later he felt the arm shift slightly and heard the crunch of breaking bones. My hand? No, probably my wrist. There was no pain at all now. Dying didn’t seem so bad after all.

  The face returned. “I will ask only once more. Where is the urn?”

  Derrek looked sideways, toward where he thought Cal had fallen. He didn’t feel so bad about the others now that he knew what dying was like. Maybe they had been allowed to wait for him, and the Gatherer would take all three of them together. He hoped so.

  The argument began again, the voices distant, the words blurring and overlapping. The breeze caressed his face, whispering in his ears and sending a leaf skittering past his cheek. Sipping the mild night air, Derrek closed his eyes and waited to meet the god.

  The boot stomped down and crushed his throat.

  Part 1:

  The Falling Pebble

  Chapter 1

  You are a child of a fallen people.

  You carry a worm within you.

  It coils ever tighter around your heart.

  In the end it will devour you.

  — Sarean birth chant

  The argument was in full swing when the courier from the Three Rivers Trading Company stopped by Arandras’s shop to drop off the parcel of letters.

  So intent was the city official on his harangue that he failed to notice the courier, putting Arandras in the awkward position of trying to acknowledge the new arrival without seeming to divert his attention from the other man. A quirked eyebrow and a flick of the fingers were not enough to convey that the courier should simply leave the bundled letters and go, and when Arandras attempted to clarify the message with a shooting glance, the official spotted it and shifted his diatribe to home in on this new display of contempt.

  “This is the respect you show, yes? What is it that you find more pressing than the interests of the city? What could — humph!”

  The official noticed Grae at last and snapped his mouth shut, blinking at the courier in bemusement. Oblivious, Grae bent his head to his bag. “Got some letters for you,” he said, his voice trailing off as he rummaged through the bag. “They’re just here…”

  “Thanks, Grae.” Arandras turned as the nameless official seemed about to object. “A moment,” he snapped.

  The man glared, but made no other response.

  “Not those… ah.” Grae pulled an unusually bulky sheaf of documents from the bag and dropped it on Arandras’s writing desk with a thud. Arandras thanked him again, tossing the bundled letters into the low basket he kept for that purpose. Still absorbed in the contents of his bag, Grae paused at the door, insensible to the official’s mounting irritation behind him; then, muttering under his breath, he flipped the bag shut and at last took his leave.

  “Well,” the official said, folding his arms with exaggerated patience. “If you’re quite ready to resume our discussion?”

  Weeper save me. “Of course. Forgive me, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Onsoth. Officer of the City of Spyridon, as I believe I mentioned. And —”

  “You did,” Arandras said. Onsoth scowled at the interruption, and Arandras hurried on before the man could work himself into another tirade. “Truly, I went through all this with your predecessor.” Who was able to express himself in far fewer words, and at a much lower volume. “And he agreed that nothing I do here requires either Library membership or a licence from them.”

  Onsoth’s scowl deepened. “I’m sure he did. But my predecessor was, perhaps, not in possession of all the facts? Such as the fact that your business, Arandras Kanthesi, goes beyond correspondence and the like, and in fact extends to schooling?”

  Arandras spread his hands. “I don’t know what you —”

  “Of course you do. You’ve been teaching the local brats their letters! The ditch-digger’s whelp, for one. How many others? Do you know the fine for teaching without a licence? How much is he paying? How many others are there? Well?”

  “No others! He only —”

  “So, private tutelage. How much is he paying you? Must be a sweet sum to make it worth your while. No wonder the kid looks like he hasn’t eaten for a month. How much?”

  “Nothing! He just watches me work sometimes.”

  “An apprentice, then! Well, if that isn’t the worst of them all.” Onsoth grinned broadly. “And is this apprenticeship registered? No, of course it isn’t. No scribe or notary can register an apprentice without first obtaining Library membership. And that seems to be something you just don’t have.”

  Arandras bit back a retort. The boy in question was scarcely six years old. Calling him an apprentice was beyond absurd. Weeper forbid that the Library should just leave me alone.

  Onsoth seemed to feel that silence was not a thing that should be allowed to linger. He leaned forward, lowering his vo
ice to what he probably imagined to be a confidential tone. “There’s no need to concern yourself with this. You know that, yes? All you need to do is become a member. Nothing you do here has to change.” He glanced over the cramped shop, the unpaved street outside. “Hells, membership would likely improve your clientele no end. Up your takings. Let you find some place to work other than…” A gesture encompassing it all. “Why wouldn’t you want that?”

  Why not, indeed? The Library put up no barriers to membership, or none that would exclude even a moderately competent scribe. And it was certainly true that most of Spyridon would not even consider using a scribe who lacked the Library’s imprimatur. Only here near the low market, where enough people were sufficiently desperate or impoverished to overlook that detail, could an unregistered scribe hope to make a living — and even here, those who used Arandras’s services were looked down upon by those who could afford better. Even the illiterate poor had their pride, and Spyridon was a city of learning. The city of the Library.

  No, there was no reason at all why a man in Arandras’s position would not want to be a member of the Library. Assuming, of course, that being a member of anything — belonging to anything — was in any way acceptable or tolerable.

  “I’m sorry,” Arandras said, as pleasantly as he could manage. “I’m sure the Library is a very fine establishment, with many very fine members. But I have no interest in joining their ranks.”

  The words took a moment to sink in. Onsoth blinked at Arandras, bemused; then the scowl returned and a flush spread across his face. “They said you were a stubborn one,” he said. “Like a mule, yes? One who doesn’t know what’s good for him? Well. If you will not see reason then this city has no place for you. You will abide by the rules laid down by the Library, or we will scour you from this place like the filth you are.”

  And there it was. The implicit made plain. The threat, unveiled for all to see.

  Gatherer take you.

  “You are engaged in illegal apprenticeship,” Onsoth said. “Illegal apprenticeship! Your penalty will be determined by the all guilds’ arbiter in ten days —”

  “I contest the charge.”

  “Do you?” Onsoth was already red; now he began to purple. “Do you, now? Are you really —”

  “Yes, I am.” Arandras scowled, no longer bothering to hide his contempt. “The boy’s not even as tall as this desk. The charge is ridiculous, and you know it. You want to take it to the arbiter, you go right ahead. Go and see him now, why don’t you, and leave me in peace.”

  Onsoth glared at Arandras in fury, fists clenching and unclenching, jaw working, speech deserting him at last.

  Arandras pointed to the door.

  The official gave a sudden, vicious smile. “Look at you. King of your own scrapheap. Ten years from now, twenty, here you’ll be, just the same, lording it over the world from your pathetic little sty.”

  Arandras kept his face immobile, but Onsoth seemed to sense he’d hit a nerve. He leaned over the desk, his voice soft and spiteful. “And what will you think to yourself then, hmm? When you look back at a life spent pissing in the dust, scratching out words for the other swine? What will you think when you realise you’ve spent your whole damn life down here in the shit?”

  Arandras was on his feet before he knew it, his face a hair’s breadth away from the other man’s. “Get the hells out of my shop.”

  Onsoth straightened, satisfied, and gave a mocking bow. “As you say, your majesty.” He paused at the door, offering Arandras a final smirk, then disappeared into the dusty street.

  Breathing heavily, Arandras lowered himself into his chair, hands flat on the desk before him. What do you know about it, you bastard? There was no shame in the work he did here. Besides, this wasn’t forever. Someday his side-business with Mara and the others would pay off. They’d find a relic worth enough to see them all set up for good, and that would be that.

  Perhaps, if the Weeper was kind, someday soon.

  •

  It was not until a second courier stopped by a few hours later that Arandras remembered the bundle of letters left by Grae. The new messenger was a man from the East Mellespen Syndicate, and his delivery consisted of a single letter. Only one of Arandras’s regular clients carried on a correspondence with anyone that far to the northeast, and indeed, the letter was addressed to Leff, the ditch-digger, in the spidery writing of the scribe hired by his sister. Arandras laid it aside.

  Most weeks saw the arrival of three or four deliveries, each of which might consist of anything from one letter to more than a dozen. Sometimes there would be nothing from one carrier for weeks, and then a fat parcel would drop on his desk with letters that had been written a season ago. But that was the price you paid for hiring merchant companies — or, more specifically, their extensive networks of couriers and messengers — to carry your correspondence. The fees were low enough, if you picked the right network for the right destination, but the messengers were company men first and public couriers second, and the interests of their masters ultimately ran in only one direction.

  Merchant companies, the Quill, even the Library: at bottom, they were all the same. Whatever purpose they claimed to espouse, in truth they all shared the same goal. They existed that they might continue to exist. They grew that they might continue to grow. All their efforts were bent toward one end: their own wellbeing.

  It was, Arandras had come to see, the common sickness that afflicted all such shared endeavours, no matter where or how or why they came into being. Take the Quill, established centuries ago as refuge from the destructive, sorcery-charged bickering of the time. Beyond all reason, their efforts had borne fruit. Sorcerers and scholars had flocked to their cause. Slowly, the terror of sorcery among the ungifted had eased to distrust, then uncertainty, then enthusiasm. And somewhere in among it all, the first shoe had dropped.

  We do well, the Quill had said. By our efforts, peace is restored. By our ingenuity, the benefits of sorcery are shared among all. The greater we are, the more we can achieve. Thus, self-interest is no vice for us, for that which serves us, serves all.

  So saying, they’d begun to equate their own interests with their purpose for being — after all, how better to serve others but to grow in power and influence? And the second shoe had begun to teeter. Until, one day, there was no longer any distinction between their ends and their own advancement. And nobody saw anything amiss, for loyalty and commitment were prized above all — not commitment to the founders’ vision, nor even to any definable achievement, but loyalty to the Quill itself.

  It was a kind of institutional madness, as tenacious as a Kefiran road preacher, predictable as Rondossan clockwork. None were immune: not traders, not scholars, not sorcerers, not priests. Sooner or later, every association succumbed.

  But not me. Onsoth could go hang. The Library was the same as all the rest, and Arandras was damned if he was going to give a single copper duri to another establishment’s dreams of self-aggrandisement.

  He picked idly through the large bundle of letters. Two were for a nearby boot-maker from the man’s sister in the river city of Anstice, the second dated a week after the first; one was for a local herbalist from her colleague in Poet’s Corner, a town midway between Anstice and Spyridon; one for the headsman’s widow from her lad, who’d been taken on as a shepherd boy on a farm just this side of the Tienette… and several dozen more, most of which had no connection to Arandras. Grae had left him someone else’s letters as well as his own.

  Curious, Arandras flipped through the misplaced correspondence. Most were addressed to someone called Yevin, up at the Arcade — a Library scribe, like as not. Here was a message addressed in large, awkward letters, written either by a child or by someone who rarely held a pen. Here was something formal from the Three Rivers company itself — perhaps Yevin’s invoice. Here was an elegant, flowing script, the handwriting of someone who —

  Arandras froze. That writing. As though of its own volition, his han
d reached for the catch under the desk, slid open the hidden drawer. His questing fingers found the note as he had left it that morning, and the previous day, and the days and years before that; the scrap of paper folded in on itself like a dead spider. He withdrew it carefully and placed it beside the wrapped letter, smoothing out its creases with slow, practised motions.

  Weeper’s tears.

  Side by side, there could be no mistaking it. Despite the differences in language and letterforms, the penmanship was the same: precise shapes, unusually heavy downstrokes, graceful loops. The thickness of the pen, the colour of the ink; even the finely-textured, uncommonly light-toned paper was the same.

  He sucked in a lungful of air, the breath shuddering in his chest. They told me you were dead. Found floating in the river with your throat slit. His hand trembled on the desk, brushing the old ransom note askew, defying his efforts to still it.

  He turned the letter over, but the seal showed no crest or identifying mark, just an abstract, maze-like pattern. Still no name. Inside would be different, though. The letter itself would surely be signed. All he had to do was open it, and —

  “Arandras? Did I happen to — oh, thank the gods, there they are.” Grae crossed the floor to Arandras’s desk, gazing at Yevin’s letters with the rapture of a man who had just found his coinpurse. Instinctively, Arandras shifted his hand to conceal the unfolded note. “Thank the gods,” Grae repeated as he gathered up the bundle. His gaze fell on the sealed letter before Arandras, and he reached out an expectant hand.

  Slowly, feeling as though he were watching from over his own shoulder, Arandras held the letter out. “I thought I recognised the seal on this one,” he said. “Can you tell me who sent it?”

  Grae took it and glanced it over. “No, sorry. Could have been someone in Anstice, but I can’t be sure. Most of these are from Anstice.” The letter disappeared into his bag. “These are all for Yevin. Yevin Bauk, one of the scribes up at the Arcade? You could ask him.”