undying legion 01 - unbound man

by karlov, matt

  “Dallin Nourt. And he was only an acquaintance,” Eilwen said. “I’m told a perfumer’s boy found him near the river.”

  “Oh, yes. The Kharjik lad. They brought the dying man here, if you can believe it. Not that it made any difference. By the time they arrived, he was already dead.” She scratched her ear. “Dallin, did you call him? I never did catch his name.”

  “I heard he was coughing up blood,” Eilwen said. “Could you tell me how he died?”

  The sorcerer chuckled. “A knife in the guts, dearie. It’ll do you every time. Well, most times, anyway.”

  “Oh,” Eilwen said. A knife. How very… mundane. “Right. I see.”

  “Not the answer you were expecting, then?”

  “I suppose not,” Eilwen said. What had she been expecting, anyway? “I guess I thought… that is to say, I wondered if there might have been an element of…”

  “Of what? Sorcery?” The woman regarded Eilwen with amusement. “Not this one, my dear. Though there’s no telling who held the blade.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The sorcerer sighed. “I’m sorry, dearie. I shouldn’t make light. If you want to know what happened to your friend, best ask the garrison. Half of them couldn’t find their arse with both hands, but the boys in charge occasionally show some wit.”

  “I wish I could,” Eilwen said. A visit to the Quill shop was at least marginally within the bounds Havilah had placed on her. Poking around the garrison house was out of the question, at least for now. “It’s not that simple,” she concluded lamely.

  “It never is,” the woman said. “Well. I’m sorry for your loss.” She considered Eilwen a moment, then leaned in, lowering her voice. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but next time you’re wondering about sorcerers killing people, don’t worry yourself over knives and the like. Look to the nose.”

  Eilwen looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “If a fleshbinder wanted to kill someone, gods forbid, they’d do it nice and quiet. No marks, no evidence. Just a spot of blood in the nose. Nothing more.”

  Eilwen’s heart began to pound. “I thought blood on the nose meant poison. Bluespine, that sort of thing.”

  The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that, dearie. Blood in the nose could mean a hundred different things, I suppose. But sorcery’s one of them.”

  “Can you tell the difference? Between someone who’s been poisoned and someone who’s been killed by sorcery?”

  “Me? Gods, no.” The woman laughed. “I’m not even a fleshbinder. I just rebind sparkers and chillers and the like. There are some who can, though. If not here, then at the schoolhouse.”

  “Thank you.” Eilwen leapt to her feet. “Really, thank you. I’ll be back.”

  •

  She hurried through the streets as fast as her leg would allow, pushing past other pedestrians, ignoring their shouted complaints. Fine rain had begun falling again, but Eilwen didn’t care. All that mattered was getting back to the compound and finding Kieffe’s body.

  It’s Caralange. It has to be. No wonder he was so reluctant to examine the body. She rounded the corner to Traders’ Row, skidding on a stone as the thoughts tumbled through her head. Did he really get one of his people to do the examination, or did he do it himself? The gate to the Woodtraders compound stood open and Eilwen darted through, dodging an unhitched cart just inside and narrowly missing a youth with an armful of cloth-wrapped bales. At the entrance to the main building she slowed, picking her way up the rain-slick steps and into the entrance hall.

  The stairs to the cellar were located in the corners of the building, away from the main staircase. Eilwen strode down the corridor, her breath shortening as her lungs began to catch up with her exertions. Water dripped from her face and slid down the back of her neck. She paused at the top of the cellar stairs, hastily shedding her coat and blotting her forehead with her sleeve. It would have to do. Her hair probably looked like a drowned dog’s, but so did everyone’s today.

  Bundling her coat under her arm, Eilwen descended the stairs, her wild energy fading. Her bad leg trembled as she set her weight on it, and she grimaced at a shooting twinge in her knee. She’d be paying for that dash through the city for the next couple of days. But that wasn’t important now. What mattered was finding Kieffe’s body.

  And when I do, then what? How am I planning to get it to the Quill? She cursed, pausing at the base of the stairs. Even if she’d been strong enough to haul a corpse out of the building and onto a cart, it would be impossible for her to move it without half the Guild knowing about it. Brilliant, Eilwen. Just brilliant. Havilah would be proud.

  Perhaps once she’d located the body, she could think of a way to get a Quill sorcerer in. Or perhaps she could tell Havilah, and the two of them could come up with something.

  I should take this to him. Turn around, walk up those stairs, and tell Havilah what the Quill told me. She’d let herself get carried away, just like she always seemed to do, but this time she’d caught herself in time. She’d done nothing to attract attention but run through the rain, and surely not even the most paranoid conspirator could interpret that as a threat.

  With a sigh, Eilwen lifted her foot to the first step. A fresh bolt of pain lanced through her knee, and she gasped, rocking back onto her good leg. All right. Maybe I’ll just wait a moment before trying the stairs. She turned, leaning heavily against the wall. The corridor opened to the cellar just past a corner up ahead. Lamplight spilt from the unseen room, painting the near wall a dirty yellow. Well, she thought, relinquishing the wall and balancing unsteadily on her sore leg. Since I’m down here anyway…

  The cellar was a single, wide hall as long as the building above. Bare stone columns marked the central aisle that connected the stairs at either end. Eilwen limped down the colonnade, past sacks of meal, pots of pickled vegetables, barrels packed with salted meat, rows of wineskins, and the hundred and one other supplies and provisions that kept the Guild functioning. Old iron lamps hugged the pillars’ unadorned cornices, filling the cool air with the smell of cheap fish oil.

  A recess at the midway point of the hall marked the opening to a further alcove. Its rusted iron-grille door stood open, sagging slightly on its heavy hinges. Eilwen paused at the threshold, glancing inside for any sign of life. Four great boxes of fired clay stood in a row across the back wall, each one large enough to hold a horse: the Guild’s chill-chests.

  “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone here?”

  The clatter of a crate lid on stone answered, followed by a peevish curse. A long-limbed man emerged from the side of the alcove, rubbing his elbow with a gloved hand. “Huh. What do you want?”

  “Hi,” Eilwen said, reaching for the man’s name but coming up empty. Damn it. “Um. How are you?”

  “Dry,” the man said, peering at her over an ugly bristle-brush moustache. “What are you here for? If you’re after wool stuffing for your bed, I’ll tell you now, it’ll be next week at the earliest. Make do until then, or go out and buy your own.”

  “Thanks, but no,” Eilwen said. She pointed her chin at the boxes against the wall. “What’s our chill-chest capacity like? We’re going to need some space soon.”

  “Oh?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  Eilwen spread her hands. “They don’t tell me that,” she said. “They just tell me to come see you.”

  The man gave a sour snort. “Right,” he said. “Well, you can tell them to cross their legs and hold on. Two of those chests have the usual crap in them, and the third is full to bursting with some sort of Pekratan berry. Seems the archon’s dear maiden aunt is about to pay us a ridiculous amount of money for them as soon as she can convince her nephew to release the funds.” He pursed his lips. “The fourth is completely shot. You can put whatever you like in it, but it won’t do you a lick of good until Phemia gets off her arse and ponies up for the Quill to come fill it with cold juice, or whatever the hells they do.”

  “I s
ee,” Eilwen said. So where’s Kieffe, then? She considered the chests and raised what she hoped was a conspiratorial eyebrow. “I heard there was a body in one of them.”

  “Yep. Had it stuffed in there for more than a week.” The man spat. “You want to know why that chest is out of action, there’s your answer.”

  “So the body’s not there any more?”

  “Not since yesterday. That sorcerer came down with a couple of lads and took it away.”

  Shit. “You mean Caralange?”

  “Nah. One of his crows.”

  “Oh.” Eilwen racked her memory. “Orom?”

  The man shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Do you know where he took it?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. Out of my chest is fine by me. What’s it to you, anyway?”

  Only the life of the Guildmaster. Eilwen shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

  The man gave a porcine grunt. “If they’d just burned the damn corpse when they found it, you’d have space for your… whatever-they-ares. Tell them that. And tell them to hold on.” He mimed a squat, crossing his eyes and puffing out his cheeks.

  “Yeah,” Eilwen said. “Thanks. I’ll tell them.”

  She turned and commenced the slow, limping walk back to the stairs, heaviness pooling in her gut. The body was gone, taken by one of Caralange’s sorcerers to who knew where, and with it the evidence that would show the involvement of sorcery in Kieffe’s death. Assuming it was even sorcery that killed him. Gods, for all I know I’m down here chasing geese.

  There was nothing more she could do, at least not on her own. All right. Up the stairs, then find Havilah.

  Gods grant it’s not already too late.

  She reached the end of the hall. With a long breath, she turned to the stairs — and stopped short. Caralange stood on the staircase above her, his straggly hair turned radiant by the light behind him. His craggy face was closed, his lips turned down at the corners and his eyes half-hooded.

  “Oh,” Eilwen stepped aside. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you pass.”

  “No, you won’t,” Caralange rasped.

  Swifter than she could draw breath, Caralange drew out a cloth bag and yanked it over her head. She screamed, beating against him with her fists; but as she gasped for air, something astringent filled her lungs, and her arms fell limp. She moaned and tried to shove the sorcerer aside. Then she was falling, her limbs pinned by something heavy, and the stone beneath her feet was gone, sucked down with her into an endless black abyss.

  •

  Arandras snatched the urn from under the assembled noses and brandished it angrily at Senisha. “Weeper’s breath, how dare you? Do you know what this thing is worth?”

  “Probably twice as much as a moment ago,” Gord said, grinning behind a be-ringed hand.

  “And what if it had smashed all over the floor?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” Senisha shrugged. “Valdori metalwork. It’s lasted two millennia without so much as a scratch. A bump or two isn’t going to hurt it.”

  Arandras glared at her. “Tempered Valdori metalwork. There are plenty of older pieces that aren’t. Some of them about as well preserved as this.”

  Senisha opened her mouth, then closed it again, her expression suddenly sheepish. “Oh.”

  Arandras turned the urn over in his hands, examining its surface for any sign of damage. But it seemed Senisha had guessed correctly, thank the Weeper. The metal was unscathed.

  “All right,” Narvi said. “Did anyone see where the lid went? Maybe something came out when Senisha… opened it.”

  “Over here.” Halli held a small piece of pewter aloft. “I don’t see anything else.”

  She returned to the table, offering Arandras the lid. It was a solid wedge of metal, shaped like a cone with the point removed. A thread-like ridge circled the piece about its midpoint, counterpart to a groove set within the urn’s flared mouth. Frowning, Arandras fitted the lid to the urn and gave it an experimental twist.

  “Careful,” Senisha said. “You don’t want to seal it again.”

  “That’s all right. I can always ask you to drop an anvil on it next time.”

  Senisha reddened and turned away. Arandras ignored her, twisting the lid first one way and then the other. It fit perfectly, screwing in and out with a smoothness any clockmaker would have envied.

  “What do we do now?” Bannard said.

  Narvi shrugged. “Tell Fas, I suppose.”

  “Tell him what? That the urn was empty after all and we don’t have a damn thing left to lead us to the golems?”

  The sound of rain tapping on the windows filled the room. Reluctantly, Arandras set the urn back on the table and returned to his seat. “There’s more to this than the urn,” he said. “Someone killed three of your people, remember?”

  Narvi shot him a glance from beneath lowered brows. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “So, what are we doing about it?” Arandras looked around the table. “Does anyone have the slightest idea who might have murdered those three Quill?”

  “You say,” Halli muttered.

  Arandras turned. “Excuse me?”

  “You tell us they were killed,” Halli said. “But by your own account, you didn’t see it. How do we know what really happened out there?”

  “What in the hells is that supposed to mean?” Arandras stared at Halli, his face growing hot. “I’m a liar, is that it? Or a dupe? Or are you actually accusing me of having something to do with their deaths?”

  “I’m saying that all we have is a third-hand report that’s even lighter on details than it is on credibility. There’s nothing to follow up! Do we have bodies? Do we have any idea where this supposed confrontation took place? The only thing you can tell us for sure is that it was night!”

  “Enough, Halli.” The voice was Narvi’s: calm, measured, and annoyingly reasonable. He turned to Arandras. “The place where they were killed. Could Mara find it again?”

  Arandras glared. You asked that on the way up from Spyridon. You already know the answer, damn you. But Narvi held his eyes, his gaze somehow at once mild and implacable.

  “No,” Arandras said at last.

  Narvi nodded. “Then what do you suggest?”

  Arandras moistened his lips. “The journal page,” he said. “The one we both got a copy of, almost exactly the same. You said yours came from Anstice. Where?”

  Narvi shrugged. “A walk-in at the shop, wasn’t it?” He glanced at Gord, who nodded in affirmation.

  “Right,” Arandras said. “So you must have some record of who sold it to you, yes? Or someone there who might still remember the purchase?”

  “Well.” Narvi frowned. “Probably not.”

  “What do you mean, probably not?”

  Gord grimaced. “We get hundreds of walk-ins every month. People trying to sell us scraps of half-faded scribble, or their great-uncle’s collection of love letters from his Kharjik mistress, or the Gatherer knows what all else.” He waved his hand. “We weed out the obvious rubbish and only pay a few duri for the rest, but it’s still more than we can stay on top of. Often we don’t get around to looking at something until months after the shop sends it on.”

  Arandras tried not to roll his eyes, but failed. That would explain why the seller made a second copy, I suppose. Probably figured the first one had got lost somewhere in the bowels of the Quill. Sent the new one down to Spyridon, where the Quill don’t have a shop and need to rely more on the local dealers. Except I got it instead.

  But that only made sense if the seller had wanted the Quill to send out a retrieval party. Perhaps they didn’t have any sorcerers who could retrieve the urn directly? But they did have people to kill the sorcerers —

  “What’s this?” Bannard said, pulling Arandras from his thoughts. He squinted at the underside of the lid, his finger tracing a shape against its surface. “There are markings here. Like the letters on the urn, but different.” He held it out t
o Arandras. “Here, see if you can read it.”

  Arandras took the lid with a grudging sigh and turned it over.

  The characters were little more than thin scratches, albeit marked out with the same precision as those on the body of the urn. There were two rows, one above the other, with half a dozen symbols in each. Arandras cast a disinterested eye over the markings, then rolled the lid onto the table. “Not letters,” he said. “Numerals.”

  “What? Let me see.” Bannard grabbed the lid. “Hah, so they are! Two, nine, five… let me write this down…”

  Arandras tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. Here we go again. Another damn riddle to consume the Quill’s attention. Endless conversations about what it could possibly mean…

  “What do you suppose it means?” Senisha said.

  “I know exactly what it means.” Bannard’s face split in a grin. “See how the numbers are arranged? Six numerals in each, with a space between the second and third, and another between the fourth and fifth. They’re in pairs. A triplet of pairs on each line. See?”

  Oh, great.

  “Valdori coordinate notation,” Halli said.

  “Exactly!” Bannard’s expression was rapturous. “This is where the golems are! It has to be!”

  The Quill looked from one to another, expressions of disbelief turning to delight. Arandras grit his teeth as Narvi clapped him on the shoulder, gazing at the urn so as to avoid catching anyone’s eye. And just like that, any chance we had of looking into what really matters is gone.

  Narvi stood. “Looks like we’ve got something to report to Fas after all.”

  Laughter filled the room. Arandras exhaled heavily, resting his chin on his hands as the others began discussing maps and speculating on the location in tones as bright as the weather was gloomy. Even Halli was smiling.

  A hollow trepidation opened within him.

  Weeper’s tears. There’ll be no stopping them now.

  •

  By late afternoon, every flat surface in the workroom was covered with maps. The largest, a beautifully illuminated chart of the entire region from the Pelasean mountains to the eastern coast, hung in a great glass-fronted frame on one wall. A fresh collection of books surrounded Senisha, including several scrolls with dark wooden rollers which, judging by the amount of dust on the chipped handles, hadn’t been disturbed for years. Bannard and the others flipped through volumes and pored over maps, hunting for the key that would unlock the coordinates and lead them to their prize.