by karlov, matt
The spur narrowed slightly as he went, tapering at last to a blunt point. Clade reached out and nudged the unmarked mug toward the thick branch, edging it across the smooth table until the gap between binding and mug was no greater than a finger’s breadth. The final connection was relatively straightforward, consisting of a lighter, simpler version of the spell’s foundation. He formed the last piece, tied it to the bare mug — and it was done, an invisible span of sorcery shaped in a gentle arc between two earthenware vessels.
Clade lifted his head. The binding was complete, but not yet active. The prepared sorcery still required his concentration to hold it in place and prevent it from disintegrating. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, hanging in his eyebrow for a moment before dropping onto his cheek. The urge to set the binding off and so relieve its burden pulled at his will, tempting him as it always did. But the idea was foolishness, and doubly so for an experimental binding. Before the spell could be triggered, he must first examine it for flaws.
Some sorcerers claimed to be able to visualise their work, seeing it as a kind of web or lattice; others described it as sound, melodies and harmonies and chords. For Clade, sorcery was tactile, something he could reach out and touch with his mind. Taking care to maintain his concentration, he pressed his awareness against the span, checking for weakness or imbalance, verifying that each element was correct and in place. Twice he found a slipped line and stopped to repair it: one caused by an error joining one element to the next, the other a simple oversight. He felt his way along the branch, testing each point, and at last sat back, satisfied. The structure was sound.
Sound in construction, at least. Clade returned his attention to the foundation of the spell. Now we put the design to the test.
One gap remained in the construct’s base, left there deliberately to prevent the binding from activating prematurely, like a mound of earth separating a river from a newly-dug dam. Stretching out his mind’s hand, Clade formed the final piece of the spell and slotted it into place.
A thick, woody, splitting sound tore the air, almost obscuring the dull clack that sounded at the same time. Something flew past Clade’s face, nipping his flesh as it went by. He pressed his hand to his cheek without thinking, rubbing it to remove the sting. His fingers came back smeared with blood.
Shit. What just happened?
The rune-marked mug rolled gently back and forth on the table, a bite-sized chunk torn from its side. A few earthenware crumbs lay nearby, but not nearly enough to account for the entire gap. Confused, Clade glanced about the room. Tiny fragments of clay dotted his shirt and chair and lay scattered across the floor behind him. The side of the mug had not just crumbled: it had burst apart, hurling its pieces outward.
Frowning, he brushed himself off and picked up the broken mug. The chill was gone. The spell had done that much at least, though it would have been incredible for the binding to survive that kind of damage. He closed his hand over the other mug — then stopped short as a thin waft of cool air brushed his palm.
A thrill ran through his body, and he snatched his hand away as though scalded. It worked. The binding moved. He turned inward, moving instinctively to drop walls around his astonishment, but the cage snapped shut on nothing. I’m startled, that’s all. Still taking it in. Dear gods, it worked.
A dark slash across the table caught his eye. He pushed the mug out of the way. The crack was deep, running the entire length of the table along its grain. A dent marked the place where the mug had stood, as though the timber surface had been slammed by some superhuman fist. Clade slid his finger lightly along the shallow depression. Two power discharges, then: one at the source, and one at the target. And the binding had still been a success. What would have happened if I’d got it wrong? But he had not quite got it right, either. Evidently the binding was still unbalanced. He needed to work out why, find a way to balance it properly, make it safe for himself to undergo —
An urgent knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, followed immediately by Garrett’s thin voice.
“Clade? It’s Garrett. Can I come in?”
Frustration bloomed, and was caught. “A moment.” He grabbed the mugs, dropped them on the floor behind one of the armchairs. He’d hoped to complete his experiment undisturbed — Garrett rarely bothered him before noon, and everyone else knew not to disturb him when the door was closed. Why would the boy want to see him now? Perhaps he’s found the urn. Hope leapt at the thought and he hurriedly walled it off. Today might be a very good day.
With a hurried sweep of his arm he brushed the clay fragments off the table; then he stood, unlocked the door and swung it open.
Garrett strolled in, a smug smile playing about his mouth as though he were trying and failing to suppress it. He sat in a cushioned chair with a satisfied sigh and spread his arms out along the back.
Clade pulled the door closed. “Good news?”
The younger man laughed. “You could say that. But I’m sure you know already.”
“Know what?”
“About my promotion to Overseer, of course. When you leave for Zeanes with Councillor Estelle.”
Your what?
“I want to thank you, Clade,” Garrett said. “For supporting me before the Council. I won’t forget it.”
Clade stared in disbelief. My replacement? You? The absurdity of the thought smashed past his carefully cultivated discipline. He felt an incredulous laugh welling up within, floating irresistibly to his lips.
No. He clenched his jaw, pushed back against the mad impulse; and abruptly it was gone, his iron control snapping back into place. Nobody had gone anywhere yet. He took a deep breath, holding it for half a dozen heartbeats before letting it go.
“No need,” he said at last. “The Council makes its own judgements.”
“Nonetheless.”
Continued protest was pointless. Clade nodded, accepting the thanks. “What did the Councillor tell you about the role?”
“Only a little,” Garrett said, relaxing back into the chair. “Apparently there’s a new initiative in the works, something to do with Neysa. With so few Oculus stationed there, we’ll be coordinating things from Anstice. What is it, do you know?”
Clade knew nothing about any plans involving Neysa. “Nothing I can share right now, I’m afraid.”
“She says she’ll fill me in over the next few days. Says she wants to talk about my time here, how we can do things better…”
Talk about my time here. Garrett spoke on, but Clade heard no more. He grasped the arm of the chair, abruptly aware of the precipice yawning before him. If Garrett were to tell Estelle of the tasks Clade had given him, tasks Garrett believed to have come from the Council…
“I think a small celebration is in order. In honour of the occasion.” Clade rose. “Let me pour some drinks.”
The glassware was on his desk where he had put it earlier that morning: a decanter of whisky, three quarters full, and a set of tumblers. He reached past the tray to the large stack of papers at the desk’s edge, closing his hand over the horse-head bookend that weighed down the pile. The cool marble curved against his hand as if shaped to fit, as if created for just this moment. He picked it up, measured its heft.
It would do.
“What happened to your table?” Garrett sat forward, bent over the table’s surface, his back to Clade. Slowly, Clade began to retrace his steps. “It’s almost split through. What did this? Strange that the dent is so shallow. It must have been —”
Clade swung. The bookend hit Garrett’s skull with a crack and burst free of his grasp. Garrett collapsed onto the table like a sack of meat. Clade strode around, grasping Garrett by the shoulders as the table folded beneath him and shoving him back into the chair. Garrett moaned, eyelids fluttering, his hand twitching spasmodically beside him.
The bookend was gone, lost somewhere beneath the table. Clade cursed, casting about for an alternative. He grabbed a cushion from the other chair, pressed it over Garrett’s
face. Garrett moaned again, the sound muffled now, and began to beat feebly against Clade’s arms with a fist, his unclenched hand jerking back and forth. Clade pushed the cushion down harder, and harder still, pinning the man’s head in place with his weight.
Abruptly, Garrett went limp, like a puppet with its strings cut, one hand flopping into his lap as the other fell still.
Clade lifted the cushion. Garrett’s glassy eyes stared back at him. Hurriedly, Clade returned the cushion to its chair and turned back to the body, preparing to drag it into the other room. But as he lifted the dead man’s arm, the god arrived, slamming into him like a tornado and driving him to his knees, and any hope of concealment was gone.
He stood unsteadily, stumbling across the room to the door, and began shouting for a physician.
•
It was midday, and the sky was black.
Arandras began the climb as the first fat globules of rain began to fall. The scrawled note had been short and to the point. Yevin is back. The writing was Narvi’s, all canted uprights and wide, looping tails, but the messenger was a woman Arandras had never seen before. She’d placed it on Arandras’s desk with an expression of mild distaste, her Quill brooch glinting in the lamplight, and disappeared as silently as she’d arrived.
It was a generous gesture, far more than Arandras had expected. Thank you, Narvi, he thought as he snuffed the lamps, hastily shutting up shop and setting out for the Arcade.
Lightning flashed away to the north, followed by a long roll of thunder. Arandras quickened his pace, pressing through the traffic as the slow patter of rain began to increase. The top of King’s Hill and the shelter of the Arcade were still out of sight — from here, all he could see was the winding, climbing road, and the close-packed buildings on either side jostling for position. A charged scent filled his nostrils, and Arandras breathed deep as he hurried on his way. The storm was only moments away.
Rain arrived in a wave, dropping over the street like a falling curtain, its loud, angry hiss instantly drowning all other sounds. Arandras pressed on, water coursing over his head and neck and body, filling his shoes and overflowing into the small river that now poured down the slope. A dark shape loomed before him and he dodged aside, almost losing his feet as the horse splashed past, its flank brushing his arm. He peered after it, wondering who would be mad enough to ride a horse down so steep a street in the middle of a storm; but it was already out of sight, vanished into the deluge.
Drenched, Arandras rounded a corner and pushed his waterlogged body onward. The rain enclosed him on all sides, shutting out the rest of the city. Only the slope of the road kept him pointed in the right direction. Flashes of lightning drew ever closer, the accompanying thunder growing sharper, and the rain, if anything, becoming even heavier. Water rushed past his shins, cold and numbing. He trudged higher, squinting through the rain for the glimmer of lamps that marked the staircase to the Arcade.
He found it almost by accident, stumbling onto the covered porch before he realised where he was. The lamps were dark, despite being set well back beneath the roof. Apparently no-one had thought to light them. He paused to catch his breath, ineffectually mopping his face with a sodden sleeve. Even here, several feet back from the street, he could still feel the spray kicked up by the teeming rain. Turning, he squelched his way to the top of the stairs and entered the Arcade.
Lightning stabbed down with a crack that sounded like the sky being torn apart. Then, as though pouring through the rent, the hail began. Arandras found a space at the balustrade, squeezing between a middle-aged woman and a fat youth in Library grey, and stared out at the shifting, shadowy whiteness. It clattered over roofs and streets like an attack from some skybound army, a hundred thousand pellets of ice dashing themselves against the city. Spyridon, city of learning, Arandras thought, awed by the sight. The gods are at war with you now.
At length, the hail began to thin, revealing a strange, half-bleached scene below. Dark chimneys rose from muted rooftops like tree trunks on a desolate field, white streets snaking between them like frozen streams. The shapeless sound of rushing water swallowed all other noise, and for a moment it seemed to Arandras that he was alone, the sole witness to a frozen monument. Then the fat youth pushed away from the rail with a sniff, jostling Arandras as he went, and the sensation was broken. He sighed, taking a final look at the scene below before turning away and resuming his course.
His sodden clothes clung to his body, pulling against him as he walked; his shoes chafed the sides of his heels. Perhaps I should go home, come back later in something dry. But if the rain-bound ascent had been difficult, a descent with hail underfoot would be nothing short of dangerous. In any case, he was here now. Wet or not, it didn’t change what needed doing.
He followed the curved road around the brow of the hill, past the street vendors and students and assorted citizenry of Spyridon, until he reached the shop of Yevin, the Library scribe. The door stood ajar, yellow lamplight spilling out onto the stones of the Arcade. Arandras halted outside, peering through the gap — but the opening was barely half a hand wide, revealing only a section of wall and the rounded edge of a high table. All seemed quiet within.
Cautiously, Arandras pushed the door open and stepped inside. The shop was small, almost as small as his own. A circular table filled the front of the room, half a dozen high stools placed around it, its surface bare save for a box of ink bottles. Yevin’s desk stood further back, an expansive timber affair scattered with papers and other items, a bracket at each end holding a glass-shielded lamp. But of Yevin himself there was no sign. The room was empty.
Arandras eased the door closed, clicking the latch into place and shutting out the bustle outside. The tall flames of the lamps burned bright and steady. He rounded the table, reluctant to break the silence, each soft step leaving a small puddle on the stone floor. Slowly, he approached the desk, eyes fixed on a half-written page in its centre. Perhaps it would tell him something of what Yevin was up to, or why he had found it necessary to leave the city. He was almost close enough to read it —
The door banged open and Arandras whirled around. A man stood in the doorway, a half-eaten pastry in his hand. He was older than Arandras had expected — perhaps fifty, judging by the lines in his face and the grey spreading through his hair. He looked quizzically at Arandras, the expression made faintly comical by the up-and-down motions of his jaw. The silence stretched as the man chewed until Arandras felt obligated to speak.
“Um,” he said. “The door was open.”
A raised eyebrow was the only response. Arandras rubbed his beard, conscious of the expanding puddle at his feet.
“You are Yevin, yes?”
The man swallowed at last. “Yes. I’d welcome you to my shop, but at this point that seems redundant.” He moved briskly past Arandras and sat behind the desk. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re a difficult man to get hold of,” Arandras said, as Yevin put the remainder of the pastry in his mouth. “I’m told you’ve been away in Anstice.”
Yevin nodded. “Back yesterday,” he said, the words emerging more or less intact around his mouthful.
“Good journey?”
“Just business.” Yevin sucked his fingers clean and looked narrowly at Arandras. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Your —”
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me now, then.”
“Your business in Anstice,” Arandras said, refusing to be turned. “Who was it with?”
Yevin sat back, eyeing Arandras speculatively. “Well, my anonymous friend, that’s not your concern, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“And why is that, exactly?”
The cold of his wet clothes was beginning to seep into his skin. Arandras suppressed a shiver. “I know about the urn,” he said, and was rewarded with a twitch of Yevin’s eyelid. “I know about the letters, and I know about the Library books. All I’m asking for is the name of your cor
respondent.”
“Sounds to me like you’re doing pretty well all by yourself.” Yevin turned his attention to the half-written page on his desk. “See yourself out, won’t you?”
Arandras snatched up the paper and scanned its lines — but it was only a child’s grammar, setting out the five classes of letter and the rules governing how they could be combined. He set it back down, feeling foolish.
“Careful with that,” Yevin said. “My niece is going to want to crumple it herself.” He put his pen in its holder and folded his arms. “You’re sure you don’t want to check it for secret messages?”
Arandras stared back, his face flushed. He needed something: a word, a lead, anything to keep him on the trail, free from the meddlesome Quill. No more deals with devils. Not this time. He sighed, forced a chuckle, and pulled up a stool.
“Let’s start over,” Arandras said. “You’re a shopkeeper. You have costs and expenses, same as everyone.” He spread his hands. “I wish to purchase some information.”
Yevin shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. Not even for customers who have names.”
“I can pay well.”
“No. You can’t.” Yevin’s tone was final. “Just leave.”
I could simply take what I need. The thought came unbidden, but Arandras allowed it to linger as he looked Yevin over. The man looked about as strong as any fifty-year-old scribe. If it came to it…
Yevin saw his regard and seemed to guess its meaning. For a moment he said nothing, merely returned Arandras’s gaze. Then his brows rose. “Are you a sorcerer as well?”
The question took Arandras by surprise. As well as — oh. “Your correspondent is a sorcerer,” he said. “Of course he is.” A thought struck him. “Is he Quill?”
An annoyed expression flitted across Yevin’s face, there and gone again so quickly that Arandras wasn’t sure he’d actually seen it. Then a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have the slightest idea, do you?” He laughed, a mocking, grating sound. “Who put you up to this? A friend? A girl? Please tell me you’re not here embarrassing yourself because of a girl.”
