by karlov, matt
“As you say.”
He resumed his descent with the god’s foul redolence hanging around him like a cloud. To the temple first, then. A few moments should be all that’s required.
The eventide service was already in progress when Clade arrived, passing swiftly through the thickly scented antechamber and into the domed Kefiran tabernacle. He slid quietly into a rear pew, seating himself alongside a hatchet-faced Mellespene woman who coughed at his approach, then scowled at him as though her hacking was his fault. Don’t worry, woman, he thought. You’ll have the pew to yourself again soon enough. But, as the melodious prayers wound their way toward completion, the god’s unwelcome presence persisted. A low, uneasy thrum stirred in Clade’s belly. What is this? Azador never endured more than a few moments in a temple. Always it left, vanishing like mist on the breeze. Yet here, today, it lingered, its fetor overpowering even the unpleasant odour of burnt flesh wafting in from the altars out the back.
The song drew to a close. The singers filed up the aisles, silent and graceful. The woman beside Clade stood with an impatient harrumph; he shifted his legs and she squeezed past, glowering back at him as she left. Other worshippers filtered out in ones and twos, and soon the tabernacle was empty save for Clade and the god.
How? How can it still be here? But then, he had never really understood why it left. Had it never been anything more than idle preference? He shivered, suddenly cold despite the close air of the tabernacle. All those times I thought I was driving it away, yet it could have chosen to stay whenever it wished. Gods.
There was no point in staying any longer. Terrel was probably waiting for him right now, and Clade could not afford to pass up the meeting, not even for Azador. If the god’s unwelcome presence could not be disposed of, it would simply have to be borne.
At any other time the evening air would have been refreshingly cool, but tonight such considerations paled to insignificance beneath the oppressive weight of the god. Clade pushed north toward the Tienette, leaving the thoroughfare when he reached the docks and following the river toward East Bridge. The streets here were narrower than elsewhere in the city, enclosed on both sides by tall, timber buildings. Shouts, catcalls and raucous laughter spilled forth from brightly lit interiors. Others stood in relative silence, their shuttered windows blocking all but a faint outline of lamplight and the occasional squeal or moan. Clade found himself hunching his shoulders as he strode from one building to the next, arms folded tightly against his chest, squinting up at the signs hanging above or beside each door.
When he came to the Red Rodent, he almost kept walking. The shape on the sign resembled nothing so much as a vague pink blob. A second look revealed the long, improbably knotted tail at one end, and a third the almost invisible drooped whiskers at the other. With a mixture of relief and disdain, Clade pushed open the door and stepped inside.
A wall of stale, beery air greeted him. Men sat drinking around rough-hewn tables, their conversations boisterous and harsh. Clumped sawdust covered the floor and the stairs leading to an upper gallery that ran the length of the room. Half a dozen women leaned against the railing, each clad in some variation of low-cut blouse and flimsy skirt. One caught Clade’s eye and offered him a slow, gap-toothed smile. He shuddered and looked away.
His gaze fell on a compact man who sat alone at a small corner table, watching him in the appraising manner of one used to assessing others by their appearance. The man’s eyebrows rose fractionally in response to Clade’s look. Clade returned the gesture with a nod and made his way to the table.
“You’re Clade,” he said as Clade pulled out a chair. His words were clipped, efficient. “Where’s Garrett?”
Clade seated himself with a voiceless sigh. “Garrett’s dead.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The mercenary’s face shifted slightly, into what Clade imagined might serve him as a frown. Clade said nothing, content to wait the other man out. He knew this type. If Terrel wanted answers, he would ask. But he probably wouldn’t bother.
“Garrett worked for you.”
“That’s correct.”
The almost-frown cleared. “All right,” Terrel said, and sat fractionally back in his chair. An invitation for Clade to say whatever he had come here to say.
Clade folded his hands. Somewhere behind his eyes he sensed a sharpening of the god’s attention. “I need you to tell me what happened when you tried to retrieve the urn.”
“I told Garrett.”
“I know. Tell me.”
Another subtle change of expression, one that Clade couldn’t read. Annoyance, maybe. “We saw the Quill team unearth an object,” Terrel said shortly. “We killed the Quill and searched them. The object wasn’t present.”
“I see.” Clade kept his tone mild. “And how long did you wait before killing the Quill?” What had Garrett told him? Days?
Terrel’s eyelids flickered. “We attacked at the earliest opportunity.”
Clade nodded. Days. “You delayed. Why?”
“The Quill had a firebinder. Burned off a mess of scrub before they started digging. We needed surprise to ensure victory.”
A barmaid set a tall mug before Terrel and looked inquiringly at Clade. Clade shook his head, waving her away.
“You attacked, then,” he said when she was out of earshot. “You killed the Quill. I assume you searched the area.”
“As much as we could. We had wounded.”
“And later?”
“We returned at Garrett’s request.” A fleeting pause, gone almost before it began. “We didn’t find the urn, but we did find certain other… tokens.”
A leering man clomped up the wooden steps toward the prostitutes, accompanied by the guffaws of his drinking companions. Clade leaned forward. “What other tokens?”
“We think someone else may have been present.”
“What?”
Terrel shifted slightly. “There’s no —”
“Are you telling me you missed someone?”
“No. There were three Quill, no more.”
“Then what?”
Another pause, longer this time. Hesitation. “There may have been a third party. One person.” A twitch of the shoulders indicated a shrug. “We’re guessing, Clade. It was more than a week after the fact. The signs were cold. We might have it completely wrong.”
The god hung about him like a shroud, heavy and still, listening. Clade ignored it. “But you don’t think so.”
Terrel took a long pull from his mug. “I told you we had wounded,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Two dead, plus Ven. Damned firebinder put Ven’s eyes out, burned up half his face. Poor bastard just kept wailing. We took him to an inn, got him patched up, bedded him down for the night. Next morning, he was dead.”
“Wouldn’t be the first person to lose his sight and decide life’s not worth living.”
“That’s not it.” Terrel’s lips curled in what might have been the beginning of a smile, but there was no humour in his eyes. “Ven was still tucked up in bed. With a blanket wrapped around his head.”
“Smothered.”
“Just so.”
“And you didn’t think this was worth mentioning to Garrett?”
Another flicker of the eyelids. “Not at the time.”
“For the gods’ sake. Someone killed one of your men in an inn, and you said nothing?”
Terrel made no response.
“Who did it?”
A fresh wave of laughter arose as the man in the gallery made his selection: a short, boyish woman with close-cropped hair. Smirking, she ran her hand down his arm, grasping his hand and leading him into a dimly-lit corridor behind the staircase.
“I don’t know,” Terrel said. “We thought he was sleeping. By the time we found him, the inn was half empty.” He took another draught, eyes focused on nothing.
“But?”
Terrel licked the foam off his lips. “Stableboy said one guest left earlier than
the others. Before dawn. A woman, riding to Anstice.”
Clade waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “That’s it? Did you get a name?”
“She didn’t leave one.”
“Damn it!” Clade slammed his hand against the table, hard enough to make Terrel’s mug jump. Some part of him instinctively reached inward, began raising walls against his rage. Impatient, furious, he swatted the impulse away. “So there might have been someone else there when you killed the Quill, is that right? And they might have got hold of the urn. And they might have found their way to the same inn you did. And they might be the same person as this unnamed woman, who might have delayed her journey just long enough to kill your man for no particular reason before galloping away to Anstice. Is that about right?”
Terrel’s shoulders twitched.
“Sounds like you’re saying the urn I’m paying you to find might be right here in Anstice. Is that what you’re saying, Terrel?”
“More or less,” Terrel said.
“Because if that’s what you’re saying, the next thing I expect to hear out of your mouth is what you’re doing to find it.”
Terrel stared at Clade for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Clade held his gaze, unblinking, allowing Azador to stare back and take in the man’s features. This is the one, Clade thought, even though he knew the god couldn’t hear his words. This is the man responsible. If I fail to find the golems, this is the one who let me down.
Eventually, Terrel nodded. “We’ll look,” he said.
“I want every antiquities dealer in the city questioned. Every shop examined. I want —”
Terrel raised a hand. “Clade. Half my team is dead. Understand? Another man in my position might just cut his losses and move on, your money be damned.”
Clade considered him. “Not you, though.”
“No. Not me.” A new expression crossed Terrel’s face, little more than a slight shift about the eyes. Entreaty? Concern? “You must understand that my resources are limited right now. I need time to regroup. Find more men.” He pulled a small pouch from his belt and set it on the table. The contents clacked and the pouch sagged open, revealing a smooth, black object the shape of an egg. “Garrett said these were to be returned. There are three in there. One for each dead man.” He pushed the pouch across the table.
Clade stared at the open pouch, incredulous. Gods, Garrett. You gave them locuses? What part of “discreet” did you not understand? But then, Clade himself had told Garrett that the operation was known to the Council — and, by implication, the god. Azador might have visited them at any time. I might already be undone. Weakly, he pushed the pouch back. “Keep them,” he said. “Give them to your new recruits.”
“No. We’re done, Clade. I’ll do what I can to find your urn, but that’s the end of it. I don’t care if you offer me enough gold to buy the archon’s palace. I’m not taking another of your jobs.”
“I see,” Clade said. Oh, yes, I see. However much or little Azador already knew, it was here, now. There was nothing for it but to carry on. “Then let me make myself clear. You were hired to bring me the urn. Our arrangement ends when that occurs, and not before.”
Terrel drained his mug. “I don’t think —”
“I do.” Clade picked up the pouch. “It’s really very simple. I engaged you to do a job, and you’re going to do it.” He stood, leaning over the table until he could feel the other man’s breath on his face. “So go get me that fucking urn.”
•
By the time Arandras returned to his room to collect his belongings, Mara had already come and gone. Her own door, several down from his, stood open, the room empty save for the standard pallet and chest. No note was present, either there or slipped beneath his own door, nor had he expected one. Mara had friends of her own in Anstice who put her up when she travelled here, and for whom she repaid the favour when they visited Spyridon. Even if they’d invited him to stay along with Mara, Arandras would have refused. I don’t know why she didn’t go there right from the start.
Or perhaps she had. Her room looked barely used. He thought back, trying to recall seeing her enter or leave. They’d returned to the schoolhouse together from the river the previous evening and eaten their meals out on the lawn, but Arandras had left first and come back to his room alone. Did I ever see her at breakfast? Not that I can remember. He chuckled. It would be just like Mara to put the Quill to the trouble of preparing her a room and then never actually use it.
Arandras left the schoolhouse with his bags slung across his shoulders and the urn in its pouch by his side. It felt good to be out from under the Quill’s eye, at least for the night. In truth, he’d felt lighter all day. The pretence is gone, that’s what it is. Arandras had done everything he could to work alongside them, waiting all the while for the ugly, grasping hand to reveal itself. Now it had.
He struck a path north toward the river but away from the old city, skirting the old wall as it curved westward in the direction of Bastion Bridge. Craftsmen’s shops and artists’ studios lined the streets in this part of the city, most dark now, though a few were still lit from within. Small, open courtyards fronted many of the workshops, offering a place where sculptors and painters might demonstrate their craft during the daylight hours, some still carrying a faint odour of wet paint. Shadowed signs above other doors proclaimed the presence of etchers, limners, cutters of stained glass, and more besides. The doleful tones of a Sarean horn floated down from an upper window, its stop-start progression marking the player as a beginner.
He could still walk away. The Quill needed him, but the reverse was not necessarily true. Am I really any closer to finding Tereisa’s killer than I was before I got here? Well, he’d managed to puzzle out the inscription. That was something. And if he was honest, the book from the Quill’s library was what had made the difference. But for that, he’d probably still have been staring at the pictures and trying to figure out what all the children were supposed to mean.
And then there were the golems. His golems, insofar as the urn belonged to him and the golems were somehow connected to the urn — or at least, his and Mara’s and the others’. He shivered. Weeper grant I never see the damned things. Let the Quill run madly about the countryside trying to find them. Arandras wanted no part of it —
The touch was light, the merest brush of a feather at his side. Arandras whirled, his hand closing over a child’s thin wrist, catching the arm as it attempted to pull away. The boy hissed, twisting and clawing at him like an imp; then he abruptly reversed direction, lowering his head and pulling Arandras’s hand to his mouth.
Arandras jerked away, narrowly avoiding the snap of teeth, his hand striking a glancing blow across the boy’s nose. The boy staggered back, and Arandras snatched at the boy’s scrawny throat, grasping it on his second attempt. The child’s struggles subsided, and he glared at Arandras with the sullen air of one whose efforts to pursue his livelihood had been unfairly impeded.
A pair of women passed by on the other side of the street, their eyes fixed on the paving stones in front of them.
Arandras returned the boy’s glare. The child was thin as a reed, and maybe eight summers old. “I’m not your mark, kid,” he said.
The boy turned his head and spat.
Arandras tightened his grip. “I mean it. The place I live is lousy with your type. They know better than to try me.”
“You’re not from here,” the boy said, making it sound like an accusation.
“That’s right,” Arandras said. “You don’t know me. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
The boy made a half-hearted effort to wriggle free, but Arandras’s grip was firm. At last the boy shrugged.
Good enough.
A thought struck Arandras, and his grip tightened further. “Who sent you, boy? What are you after?”
The boy hacked a cough, shaking his head and pointing at his throat. Arandras cursed and released his grasp a fraction.
“My ma
,” the boy said, his eyes lifting to meet Arandras’s in a calculating gaze. “Five of us, there are, all hungry, and my ma’s sister, and —”
“Bah.” A common street thief, that’s all. Arandras shook his head. Of course that was all. If the Quill wanted to take the urn by force, they’d hardly employ a half-starved pickpocket.
Without warning, the boy locked his hands over Arandras’s outstretched arm and lifted his feet off the ground, bringing his full weight to bear on Arandras’s wrist. Arandras gasped, dragged lower by the sudden load; then the boy’s feet were on the ground once more. Twisting like a cat, he tore free of Arandras’s weakened grip and darted away, disappearing into a nearby alley.
Damn it. “Hey! Kid!”
A scuffing sound came from the mouth of the alley. “What?”
Arandras felt for his coinpurse and the urn, and checked the buckles on his bags. All was as it should be. “Where’s a good place to stay around here?”
There was a pause. “Black Bear Inn. North a couple of blocks. You can’t miss it.” There was another scuffing noise, then the sound of scampering footsteps running away down the alley.
Which was as good a recommendation of somewhere to avoid as any he was likely to get. Right. Anywhere but the Black Bear.
He resumed his course, taking care to walk with one hand on the pouch at his side. What had he been thinking about? That’s right, the Quill. Yes, they definitely needed him more than he needed them. All the same, he didn’t have much in the way of other leads. He could, perhaps, make a list of sorcerers in the city and go and knock on their doors. But what would that achieve? He didn’t even know what the man he was searching for looked like.
Weeper’s breath, I don’t even have a name.
No, staying with the Quill was his best bet, at least for now. The more he could discover about the urn, the better his chances of guessing at his quarry’s plan. And now that the Quill anthill had been well and truly kicked, the likelihood of them drawing the attention of any other interested parties had increased dramatically. If someone came nosing around after the urn, he could still be there to see who they were.
