by karlov, matt
“What did I just say about getting your hopes up?”
Jensine leaned forward. “I could take a closer look at it. See if there’s any sign of sorcery —”
“No,” Arandras snapped, and Jensine blinked in surprise. “No,” he said again, struggling to remove the edge from his voice. “Thank you. I’ve got it covered.”
An uneasy quiet descended around the table. Arandras bent his head to the game pieces before him, completing his opening set and beginning to position the pieces on the board.
“What about that puzzle box, then?” Druce said, turning to Mara.
Mara shrugged. “Nothing local. Seems there might be some interest in Anstice, if I can get there in the next week or two.”
Druce slumped into the seat with a frustrated sigh. “Damn it.”
The game proceeded in awkward silence. Druce lost his sorcerers early, one in a reckless foray against what turned out to be Jensine’s golem, the other to a clever trap set by Mara, and failed to recover from the setback. A raid by Mara’s dragon exposed his spire and eliminated him from the game. Jensine played more cautiously, but was undone when she left her defences exposed to Arandras’s sappers. They destroyed most of her fortresses before she could drive them off, after which it was only a matter of time before the rest of his army finished the job, her spire eventually falling to his captain.
“Might as well not bother,” Jensine grumbled as Arandras cleared the board of her remaining pieces, leaving only her surviving fortress in place. “It’s always these two in the end.”
“Always?” Druce sounded offended. “You’re forgetting my famous —”
“Yeah, I know. Always, except the time Arandras ate some bad shellfish, and even then, Mara still beat you.” She drained her mug and stood. “I’m done here. Coming?”
Druce looked mournfully at his own empty cup. “Not much point staying, is there?”
“Hold up.” Arandras dug into his pouch and slapped some coppers down in front of Druce, who blinked at the assortment of coins and lengths. “Don’t drink it all,” Arandras said. “Just sit tight until I sell the damn thing. All right?”
Druce’s expression darkened. “Hey, I’m not going to take charity from you —”
“It’s an advance on your portion of the proceeds. I’ll be sure to deduct it from the total.”
Druce considered. “Well,” he said, and began gathering up the coppers. “In that case.”
Once they were gone, Mara leaned back from the game, brows raised. “So. What’s up?”
“What’s up what?”
“Don’t give me that.” Mara folded her arms. “What aren’t you telling us? Did you translate something after all? Hells, if you’re just trying to protect Druce from his own superstitions, I’m with you all the way. But whatever it is, I want to know.”
Arandras dropped his gaze, suddenly afraid that Mara might see his thoughts in his face. “It’s nothing important,” he said, frowning at the board as if contemplating his position. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“You said that the other day, too,” Mara said. “Is it the Library again?”
He shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Maybe I can help —”
“You can’t.” Arandras forced himself to meet her eyes. “Trust me. You can’t.”
Mara said nothing for a long moment. He endured her regard, refusing to look away. Abruptly, she gave a crisp nod. “All right, Arandras. I trust you. Let me know when you’re ready to trust me.”
He winced, unable to prevent it, and he thought he spotted a fleeting look of satisfaction on her face as she turned her attention back to the game board. Damn it, Mara, it’s not like that. You don’t want any part of this. But the thoughts rang hollow in his mind, and he didn’t give them voice.
They completed the game in silence, Arandras unable to think of anything more to say, Mara apparently unwilling to give him another opening. Arandras was vaguely aware that his play was loose, but Mara seemed unusually slow to take advantage. Gradually, however, she began to get the upper hand, reducing his army and destroying his fortresses by slow attrition, finally capturing his spire with a lowly scout.
She wished him a curt goodnight, leaving him to pack away the game alone. He sat there for a while, staring at the board and the jumble of pieces lying across the table — the aftermath of the evening’s mock battle. It’s not you I can’t trust with this, Mara. It’s the whole damn world. After all, it wasn’t like he’d never tried. He’d trusted the Quill, once, with Tereisa’s life in the balance. And here he was.
Eventually he stirred, clearing away the discarded pieces, leaving the board clean and unmarked: fresh ground for someone else to contest tomorrow.
•
The morning dawned grey and overcast, the sky a vast, flat ceiling of pale marble. The air hung heavy with the kind of moisture only a storm could lift. Arandras threw the door and window of his shop wide open, hungry for whatever faint breath of wind might happen to stir along the street.
The events of the previous evening weighed on his thoughts as he busied himself with the numerous small tasks of opening the shop. I trust you, Mara had said to him, and though the words had been barbed, they hadn’t rung false. But she’d spoken in ignorance, unaware of the need that now drove him. Would she have said it if she’d known? He doubted it.
But then, he didn’t need her trust. He just needed a reason to keep the urn a while longer.
He unlocked the lid of his desk and retrieved the sample correspondence for display beneath the window, then glanced up to see Wil trotting in, tablet and stylus in hand, climbing onto the corner table and seating himself there without a word. The boy caught Arandras’s gaze and immediately lowered his eyes, biting his lip and beginning to sketch letters with his stylus.
“Not today, Wil,” Arandras said, laying the samples in their place and putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Run along —”
A cough at the door interrupted him. A large man with skin almost as dark as Mara’s stood there, his rough-spun shirt already stained with sweat despite the early hour. “A foul morning,” he said in halting, heavily-accented Yaran. “In Menefir, air is air and liquid is liquid. None of this… uh…” He waved his hand.
“Humidity,” Arandras said, then repeated the word in Kharjik.
“Yes. Humidity.” The guardsman scratched his armpit. “So. My messages.”
Arandras moistened his lips. “About that,” he said, sitting behind his desk and folding his hands, his knee brushing the outer drawer where the letters still lay. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you after all.”
Confused, the guardsman cocked his ear. “What say?”
“I said, I can’t help you retrieve your daughter,” Arandras said, struggling not to raise his voice. The man wasn’t hard of hearing, just Kharjik. “In the Free Cities, a young woman may do as she likes. A young man, too. I can’t help you round her up like cattle.”
“Cattle?” The guardsman scowled. “No. Is girl! Daughter!”
“Yes, I know that,” Arandras said. “Daughter, but not girl. Woman. Old enough to decide for herself.”
“No! Girl!” The man slammed a thick fist on Arandras’s desk, and in the corner of the shop Wil flinched. “Twelve summers. Twelve!”
Arandras blinked. Twelve? “Are you sure —”
“Twelve!” The guardsman gestured angrily. “I give money. You give messages!”
“Yes, of course. A moment, please.” Dear Weeper. Only twelve. He fetched the letters from their drawer, placed them on the desk. “Almost done,” he said, holding up the final, unfinished letter. “A moment.”
Arandras hastily completed the final letter, sprinkling it with sand to absorb the excess ink. The guardsman accepted the stack of letters with an air of injured dignity. “I will find,” he said, the papers rustling as he closed his fist around them. “I will.”
“Weeper’s blessing,” Arandras said as the man left, and sagged int
o his chair.
Wil shifted on the table, eyes wide, his tablet and stylus forgotten in his lap. “Did something happen to that man’s girl?”
“She got lost,” Arandras said. “But he’s off to find her now, so don’t worry about it.” Weeper grant she’s still alive. “And you need to run along. Come back another day.”
Wil pouted, but Arandras was in no mood to humour him. Grudgingly, the boy climbed down from the table, feet dragging as he trailed out the door.
Gods. Where was I? The guardsman’s visit had utterly disrupted the course of his thoughts. The urn, that was it. The sooner he worked out what it signified, the sooner he could find a reason to keep it a while longer.
A fresh shadow fell just inside the door, and Arandras gave a silent groan. For the Weeper’s sake, what now?
“Hello, Arandras.” Narvi stood at the threshold, picking uncomfortably at his low collar, his sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His cheer of the other day was gone, replaced with an uncharacteristic guardedness. He gave Arandras a long, searching gaze. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Arandras said, indicating the vacant chair. “Please.” The moment stretched, and Arandras cleared his throat. “Guess I’m not so hard to find after all.”
Narvi’s faint smile did nothing to lift his countenance. “Apparently not.”
“I’d offer you wine if I had any.”
The sorcerer nodded. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “I need to ask you something, Arandras,” he said. “I hope you won’t take it amiss.”
Arandras frowned. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know any reason why my field team is still not back?”
Arandras went still. “I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “Can you tell me what they were looking for?”
Narvi blinked. “‘Were,’” he repeated softly, and Arandras gave a silent curse. “They’re looking for an urn,” he said, and gestured with his hands. “About so big, we think.” He paused, examining Arandras closely. “Only Sten tells me someone brought one in the other day just like it.”
Arandras looked away. “Your team is dead,” he said, his voice low. “They were attacked by some other group, I don’t know who. My associate was there. She saw it happen. I’m sorry.”
Narvi’s face crumpled. “You’re sure they’re dead?”
“The last she saw, one was still alive but in bad shape. No match for the survivors of the other group.”
“Gods. Poor Rawlen. He didn’t want —” Narvi broke off, brushing at his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Say what? I thought they were from Anstice. I didn’t even know you had anyone operating out of Spyridon until the other day.”
“What difference does it make where they’re from? They’re Quill, same as us!”
“Same as you, you mean,” Arandras said, and Narvi bridled. “As you well know! You wouldn’t even tell me what they were after.”
“That’s just the stupid rules! It doesn’t mean anything!”
But it did, of course. Arandras bit his tongue, remembering the last and only time he’d tried explaining it to Narvi, the day he left the Quill for good. “I didn’t kill them, Narvi,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they were yours.”
Narvi took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Forget it.” He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. “Tell me what happened. Please.”
Arandras recounted Mara’s story, leaving out her dramatic flourishes and relating only the bare facts. Shorn of its frills, the tale lasted only a few minutes. Narvi gave a half-grunt when Arandras told of the Quill throwing the urn into the night and looked up.
“That’s just like Derrek,” he said, smiling through watery eyes. “Never did know when to quit.”
Just like Derrek. The comment touched something unexpected within Arandras, and he fell silent. Narvi knew them, he realised, and the thought was at once a revelation and the most obvious banality. Of course he’d known them. They were Quill. But he’d done more than simply make their acquaintance. He knew who they were. Swallowing, Arandras dropped his gaze. Suddenly, even looking at the other man’s face seemed intrusive. “I’m sorry, Narvi,” he said. “Truly.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Narvi blotted his eyes with his sleeve. “But here we are.” He shook himself, his stout form wobbling like an overweight cat’s. “And we can still salvage something out of all this. Tell me you’ll sell us the urn.”
Ah, Narvi, not that. Regretfully, Arandras shook his head.
“I can triple Sten’s offer,” Narvi said. “I can go even higher. At least think about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Arandras said. “I can’t.”
Narvi sighed. “Because of Tereisa.”
“Yes.”
“Well. I had to ask.” Narvi’s mouth twisted in a sour smile, but there was no reproach in it, only regret. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Arandras said, shamed by the unexpected display of compassion. Ah, Narvi. You always were the peacemaker, weren’t you?
Narvi shifted in his seat. “This journal page you mentioned,” he said. “Where’d you get it?”
“From Sten, as it happens. Why?”
“We got a similar page.” Narvi drew out a piece of paper and set it on the desk. “Not from Sten — ours came from Anstice.” He leaned forward. “May I see yours?”
Arandras found it in a drawer. He unfolded it and set it before Narvi, who scanned it for only a moment before nodding.
“It’s a match.” Narvi looked like he had just taken a bite from something bitter. “You have the exact same page that we do.”
Not quite exact. There were a few words different here and there, a few letters out of place. But still. “Someone’s playing us.”
Narvi gave him a sharp glance. “You want to find the person who set this up?” he said. “So do I. So does the Quill. We can work together on this. Help each other.”
Arandras pulled back, his lips pressed together.
“No, listen,” Narvi said, suddenly eager. “Come with me to Anstice. We’ve got people there. Resources. Add your expertise in languages, and…” He gestured expansively. “The urn is yours. You know the Quill will respect that. Together, we can solve this. Don’t you want to know what that thing is?”
Arandras shook his head. “The hells with solving puzzles. I want to find the man who wrote that letter.”
“What if they’re the same thing?”
Then I’ll solve it on my own. Arandras exhaled sharply. Inviting the Quill to join his search was a fool’s move. Sooner or later, their interests would clash with his, and when that happened, theirs would almost certainly prevail.
He shook his head again. “Thank you, but no.”
“I see,” Narvi said. “Well.” He pushed himself reluctantly to his feet. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m heading back to Anstice next week anyway. The offer is good until then.”
Arandras nodded and said nothing.
“All right.” Narvi headed for the doorway, then paused on the threshold and turned back. “Arandras,” he said. “Do something for me, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Get yourself out of here. This shop. This life.” Narvi’s gesture took in the shop, the street, the city. “Accept our help or not, whatever you like. Just don’t sit here writing dusty letters for dusty people the rest of your life.”
Arandras bristled. “There’s no shame in this,” he said. “Which is more than I can say for some. These people have as much right to a scribe as anyone else.”
“I never said otherwise. Only that this… well, it isn’t you.” Narvi stepped out into the street, his hand raised in farewell. “Be well, Arandras.”
Arandras watched him leave with a frown. The drawer in which the guardsman’s letters had rested was still open, the pouch containing the intended refund tucked into the corner. On the side of his desk sat a bundle of message
s awaiting a courier’s pickup: the headsman’s widow’s reply to her boy, congratulating him on his new position of sole responsibility for the farmer’s second flock; a request from the herbalist for several items not readily found in the vicinity of Spyridon; and more that Arandras could not at this moment recall.
Other people’s words, all of it.
Maybe Narvi had a point.
What if solving the urn and finding the man are the same thing? Narvi had said it, but Arandras had been thinking the same thing ever since his visit to the schoolhouse. It fits the pattern. First Tereisa, now Narvi’s team. First the dagger, now…
He opened the lid of his desk, retrieving the urn from its hidden drawer, and setting it on the desk.
What are you?
Chapter 6
Power is the necessary companion to wisdom, and wisdom the necessary companion to power. Lacking both, a man may live a long and contented life; but he who possesses one without the other is doomed to frustration and failure. Impotent wisdom destroys a man as surely as mighty folly.
— Giarvanno do Salin I
Meditations on Power
To Clade’s relief, Estelle was largely absent in the days following her arrival. She would leave early in the morning, sometimes even before breakfast was served, heading north along the thoroughfare toward the Tienette and the heart of Anstice. In the evening she would return from the same direction, join them for dinner, then retire to her room where, as far as Clade knew, she would remain until the next day. She made no demands of him, issued no requests, and the subject of his impending elevation to the Council was allowed to rest where they had left it the first evening.
The third night after Estelle’s arrival found Clade wading cautiously through the darkness of the barren forecourt. The air was mild and still, the waning moon’s pale light deepening the shadows that lay across the courtyard. Clade probed the space ahead with his foot, nudging aside something that felt like broken pottery. The heavy gate was locked for the night, but a small door beside it provided entry and egress at all hours to those permitted the privilege of carrying a key. Junior sorcerers and servants wanting passage at night could either explain their need to their betters or wait until morning.
