by karlov, matt
“Ah, I thought it was you!” came a familiar voice from just behind him, and Arandras started to turn, a smile already forming on his face; but this voice was harsh, grating, and unpleasantly triumphant. Not Narvi. More like…
“Onsoth.”
The official give a satisfied smirk. “Lord Swine. Well, well. How did you get so far from your sty?”
Ignoring him, Arandras turned back to the girl. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“What’s this?” Onsoth picked up the page. “Checking up on who’s borrowing what?” He shook his head, tutting disapprovingly. “Dear me. Feeling envious of our betters, are we?” He dropped the page and strode to the middle of the room. “Excuse me, please,” he called out, and a hush descended on the room. “Staff, please take note.” He pointed at Arandras. “This man is not a Library scribe. He does not have the privileges of a Library scribe. Please treat him as you would any other illiterate, low market scum.” He smiled. “That’s all.”
The weight of the room’s eyes settled on Arandras. He stood, face burning beneath his beard, and started toward the door.
Onsoth stepped into his path. “Nothing to say, Lord Swine?” he said softly, his lips curled in a smug smile.
Arandras met his gaze. “Not to you.” And still less to your masters, who will pat you on the head and tell you what a good cur you are. “Step aside.”
With a mocking flourish, Onsoth complied. “Stay in your hole next time,” he murmured as Arandras passed. “We don’t want your stench infesting the books.”
Too late for that, Arandras thought as he reached the door at last and emerged into the plaza. Against the reek of the Library, no other scent stood a chance.
•
The benefits of being Havilah’s not-quite-adjunct were soon apparent. The house steward invited Eilwen to move out of her single room and into a two-room suite.
The steward offered her a choice between a first floor suite overlooking the river and one on the ground floor by the building’s interior garden. Eilwen inspected both and chose the latter, drawn by the low-branching eucalypt just outside. The suite was already furnished — desk and shelves in the front room, bed in the back — but it took the better part of the day for her to move her possessions, and each trip up and down the stairs sapped the strength from her leg a little more. Her small library was first to come down, the books freed from their crate at the foot of her old bed and placed carefully on the shelves meant for her work. Next came her travel bags, followed by armfuls of clothing, then other assorted items. By sunset, even her good leg was beginning to ache; and when at last she came in with the final sack of sundries, she dumped it in a corner and collapsed onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to lie still.
I’m aware of your hobby. It’s going to have to stop. Havilah’s words echoed in her ears, low and rolling and sad. I can do that, she’d said in response; but in truth, she wasn’t sure. In the days following a kill, while she was still sick with horror and disgust, it was easy to renounce her bloodlust and swear to make an end of it. But sooner or later the horror would pass and her conviction would fade with it, turning first to desire, then to mere hope. And then, predictable as Rondossan clockwork, memories of the Orenda would stir once more, filling her with thoughts of justice unserved and a deep, unrelenting hunger, until eventually even hope would desert her and she would yield to the beast within once more.
What reason, then, to expect success now? What had changed that wouldn’t change back? No matter how strong her intentions, sooner or later they would wane, and the whole wearisome cycle would begin anew.
But if she truly meant to stop, there was something she could do. I can cut out the eye that shows me who deserves to die. I can destroy the black amber egg.
Her mind shrank back even as it found the thought. The polished black spheroid was all she had of Tammas and the Orenda, all that was left to remind her of the two crates she’d brought on board, of the dozens of people she’d delivered up to be killed.
And why do you wish to be reminded? a traitor voice whispered in her mind. She tried half-heartedly to silence it, but it spoke on. What good has the memory done you? The egg is a chain around your ankle, dragging you down again and again. Be rid of it. Free yourself.
Eilwen pushed the words away. She was a trader. Persuasion was a tool she employed, not one to which she submitted. And the egg, too, was a tool, nothing more. If there was corruption to be found, it lay not with the egg but deep in her own heart, where nothing could touch it. It didn’t matter what she did. Sooner or later, the desire to kill would rise again, egg or no egg.
That’s what you fear, isn’t it? the traitor voice whispered. More than anything else. You fear that the urge to kill will come, but you will no longer possess the means to choose.
The thought shook her. Was it true? Was this why she held it so tightly — because even the prospect of killing again was better than the chance she might need to kill but be unable to do so? The darkness yawned, an abyss within her, and she lay trembling on the bed, her heart pounding in her ears.
When she rose, she felt as if she were sleepwalking, as though her body were acting of its own volition. She dug the smooth, black mass out of her pack and unwrapped it. It winked in her palm, bewitching for its darkness, like a jewel of the night.
She stared at it for a long moment. Then, standing swiftly, she drew her arm back and hurled it against the stone floor.
It struck with a crack, bouncing away into the shadows at the foot of the bed. Eilwen scrambled after it, retrieving it from the corner of the room and holding it to the light; but the egg was undamaged, its glossy black unmarked by the impact. A mad panic seized her and she threw the egg again, and again, and when it remained whole she took a rock from the garden outside and struck the egg with it, over and over, trying to crush it, pulverise it, grind it to powder. But nothing she did so much as scuffed the surface; and at last she cast herself onto the bed, weeping, the hateful egg wrapped in her fist.
After a time, another thought came to her. She opened the sacks that she had brought down but not yet unpacked, scattering their contents across the floor until she found what she was seeking: an old iron trowel, its blade notched but still strong.
Outside, kneeling before the eucalypt in the light of the half-moon, she began to dig, angling around the larger roots and hacking through the smaller ones until she had a hole almost as deep as her arm was long. Then she took the egg and placed it at the bottom, reaching all the way in to be sure, releasing it only when her fingers brushed earth. Head bowed, she pressed it into the dirt with her fingertips, wishing she were a Quill earthbinder so she could send it down, deep down, out of reach and beyond recall.
Eventually she withdrew her arm and began shoving the dirt back in, stomping it down, packing it hard. Then the wild energy left her and she stumbled back inside, undressed, and fell into bed. She lay there as the night crawled by; exhausted but unable to sleep, waiting for the grey light of dawn.
•
A loud knock woke Eilwen from her slumber. She sat up, blinking in the light — golden light, not grey. Dawn had come and gone.
She rose, cursing, and reached for her clothes. Dirt stained her sleeves and the entire lower half of her trousers. She flung them on regardless, brushing them off as best she could until a second knock sounded, harsh and insistent, and she gave up.
“A moment!” she called, hastily belting her trousers. She strode into the outer room, hissing at the sensation of cold stone beneath her bare feet, and threw closed the door to her bedchamber. A third knock came. She tied back her hair, paused a moment to catch her breath, and opened the door.
An unfamiliar man stood waiting, a large box slung awkwardly under one arm and a tight expression on his face. He squinted down his long nose at her, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You are Eilwen Nasareen?” He proffered the box before she could respond. “These are for you.”
He brushed past her, scowling, and dropped the box on the desk with a thud. “These are agent reports for the past month,” he said without turning, as if addressing the box. “Older reports are also available, should you wish to see them.”
Eilwen folded her arms, frowning at the man’s back. His collar and trouser hems were frayed and showed signs of clumsy repair, and his hair was beginning to thin. “And you are?”
“Ufeus.” He turned, staring at a point somewhere beside her ear. “I perform low-level coordination of our agents in Anstice. Master Havilah informs me that I now report to you.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ufeus. I’m Eilwen.” She caught herself, smiled. “As you already know, of course.”
A flicker of one eyelid was her only response.
Oh, gods, another Pel. She pressed on before her smile could slip away. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Low-level coordination?’”
“I maintain regular contact with each agent,” Ufeus said stiffly. “I relay instructions from Master Havilah. I provide agents whatever resources they require. I receive each agent’s reports and channel the information back to Master Havilah. I keep an archive of past reports, which I use to cross-check information as required. In short, I implement the decisions of Master Havilah.”
“Or, now, you implement my decisions.”
Bitterness flitted across his face, there and gone again in the space of a heartbeat. “Indeed.”
“Well. Thank you, Ufeus. I’m sure I’ll want to talk with you again once I’ve taken in all of that.” She gestured at the box. “Is there anything that you feel requires my immediate attention?”
Ufeus hesitated, his gaze shifting sideways to meet her own for the first time. His eyes were hard and narrow — reassessing her, perhaps, or maybe suspicious that she was somehow mocking him. “There is an… oddity,” he said at last. “A complaint from Brielle.” He spoke the name with an odd emphasis, one that suggested some kind of disfavour. “She seems to think that one of our other agents is encroaching on her territory, dealing with some of her contacts directly.”
Sounds like a low-level coordination problem, Eilwen almost said, but stopped her tongue in time. Ufeus’s expression was bland, but the tightness about his eyes betrayed his interest. You know what it sounds like, don’t you? And if I tell you I don’t care, it will be my fault later on when I complain about being kept in the dark. It was a common enough negotiating tactic, one she’d learnt to recognise years ago. For the first time in the conversation, she began to feel confident.
“All right,” she said. “I want to talk to her. Brielle, was it? Arrange for her to come and see me, please. I’d like you to be there, too. Tomorrow would be ideal.”
Ufeus inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “As you say.”
“Thank you.” She gestured toward the door. “I’m going to go find some breakfast. Care to join me?”
“I ate several bells ago,” he said, and Eilwen winced. Of course he had. He and everyone else. She realised she didn’t even know what hour it was. “But if you require my presence —”
“No, no,” she said hurriedly. “You go on. We’ll talk later.”
Her stomach growled as Ufeus departed and she looked out into the garden, trying to judge the time. Perhaps she could have a clock bought for her office? It couldn’t hurt to ask. Havilah had a painting, after all.
Her eye caught on the bare patch of ground beneath the eucalypt and she turned away, regretting the impulse that had moved her to bury the egg. She should have tried other options first: fire, perhaps, or steel. But it was done, and there was no way she was going to dig it up now. Or ever.
Perhaps burying it was not so bad, though. Sooner or later the grass would return, and beneath it the tree’s roots would thicken, wrapping around the hated object until nothing short of sorcery could pry it loose again. The egg would be lost almost as finally as if it had been destroyed.
All she had to do was wait.
Chapter 4
Dawn is the Dreamer’s time, before the sorrow of the day begins.
Noon is the Weeper’s time, and none escape its bitter toil.
Dusk is the Gatherer’s time, when dreams and tears meet their end.
— Liturgy of the Bells
Tri-God Book of Prayer
Pantheon of Anstice
Few things, Arandras thought, promised so much yet changed so little as gold.
He picked his way down the narrow, winding street, enduring the hostile glares and bored glances of the hired swords who stood watch over the close-pressed shops. Goldsmiths Lane, the road was called, and though few of the establishments that now lined the street devoted themselves solely to goldsmithery, most still had some connection to the craft that had given the road its name. Type foundries, moneylenders, and jewellers now shared the quarter, along with others who found proximity to such wealth useful.
Arandras found the street depressing. The plated doors, the barred windows, the guards watching his every step — all offered mute testimony to both the allure of gold and its ultimate impotence. It is steel that rules the world, not gold. Gold served only to amplify whatever it found, be it fear or charity, lust or hope. Of itself, gold changed nothing.
He rounded a bend, glancing at the faces of the guardsmen as he passed. The Menefiri with the runaway daughter had failed to appear at Arandras’s shop last night; it was possible that he might encounter the man here, though an open street would be an inopportune place for the conversation Arandras intended to have. The letters Arandras had written remained intact, concealed in a locked drawer beneath his desk. During the wait of the previous evening, he’d entertained notions of tearing them up in the guardsman’s face, but now, under the warm midday sun, such theatrical defiance seemed childish. It would be enough to simply return his coin. Anything more would only be an indulgence.
Gold to buy words, and words to invoke steel, if the recipients responded favourably. Even this small transaction demonstrated the limits of wealth. But then, in the end, even steel had its limits. Steel might rearrange the players, but the game was always the same, whether played in an alley for bread, or here for coin, or even between cities and kings. A single, tedious, never-ending game: compel and resist, compel and resist, over and over again.
Arandras hated it.
His mood sour, Arandras drew up at his destination: an antiquities shop, its window and door reinforced like its neighbours, but lacking a guard. The heavy door stood half-open, wedged in place by a wad of leather. The shop within was empty save for Sten, the proprietor, who sat behind the counter with a magnifying lens in his eye, peering into the ear of a seated clay idol of what appeared to be an infant boy. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with a dusty, eclectic collection of objects that had little in common apart from their apparent age.
“Like it?” Sten said as Arandras reached the counter, rotating the idol and fixing his gaze on the clay figure’s vacant eyes. “It’s supposed to be the Gatherer, if you can believe that, although whose idea it was to depict the god of death as a child is beyond me.” He snorted. “Unless it was meant as some sort of substitute. Something for the Gatherer to take instead of their actual child. Like a god’s not going to know the difference.”
Arandras glanced over the round clay figure. The styling of the hands and feet suggested an early Kharjik origin, as did the infant’s complete lack of hair. “Maybe it’s an offering,” he said. “A token of respect, perhaps, or a plea for mercy.”
“Hah, right. ‘Oh Gatherer, I made you this fat clay kid so please don’t kill any of us.’ Good one.” Sten rotated the idol again, then stopped and looked up at Arandras. “Actually, that’s not bad. I might use that. A token of respect, yes. Purchase it to placate the god’s wrath. Should be just th
e thing for a superstitious merchant’s wife.”
Arandras rolled his eyes. “Weeper spare me.”
“Not his department,” Sten said with a grin. “What brings you here, then? That priest’s page lead you anywhere interesting?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Arandras pulled the urn from his bag and placed it on the counter. “How much would you say it’s worth?”
Frowning, Sten picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “More children,” he muttered, following the progression of images around the urn. “Must be the day for it.” He ran a finger over the engraved surface. “What does the writing say?”
“I don’t know. It’s not in any of the major dialects.”
“What’s inside?”
“I don’t know that, either. It might not open at all.”
“Hmm.” Sten squinted at the urn’s mouth, poking at the cap. “And I suppose you don’t know how it was sealed, either.”
Arandras said nothing, and Sten didn’t seem to expect a response. He put the urn down and removed the lens from his eye.
“I’ll give you one lurundi and two luri for it,” he said, polishing the lens. “It’s pretty enough, but hardly distinctive. Best I could hope for is that it catches someone’s eye and sells itself.”
“One and two in gold,” Arandras said noncommittally, concealing his surprise. The sum was significantly higher than his own rough estimate of the item’s value. Sten would be lucky to avoid a loss if he tried selling it as a purely ornamental piece, let alone make a profit. He frowned.
“One and five, then,” Sten said. “Just because I’m curious.”
“Indeed.” Arandras picked up the urn and hefted it, unsure. One and five was far more than he’d expected, and the prospect of a quick sale held no small appeal. But if Sten was willing to pay that much, what might the Quill offer? They’d sent a party to retrieve it, after all — though as Arandras well knew, every expedition was a gamble. Perhaps this was the piece the Quill were after, perhaps it wasn’t, and perhaps they hadn’t even been looking for anything specific. And perhaps Sten is gambling too, and this is the best offer I’m going to get.
