by karlov, matt
Clade. You and are I are going to meet soon.
I think I will have a lot to say.
Chapter 16
The sun is fierce upon our brows, and we grow weary.
The earth is hard beneath our hands, and we grow dismayed.
The load is heavy on our backs, and we grow bitter.
Holy Weeper, grant us the comfort of your tears.
— Liturgy of the Seventh Hour
Tri-God Book of Prayer
Pantheon of Anstice
Eilwen awoke to a throbbing pain in her knee. She groaned, retching as her mouth registered a wad of mushy cloth jammed between her jaws. Edged timber dug into her shoulders, prompting a further unpleasant discovery: she was bound hand and foot, her wrists behind her back and her ankles to the legs of a hard wooden chair.
Shit.
She sat facing a closed door, near enough to touch if her arms had been free. A narrow gap beneath it provided the room’s only light. The close walls seemed to terminate in a low ceiling, though the shadows made it difficult to be sure. Sixth floor, maybe. She blinked into the gloom, trying to pick where the walls ended and the ceiling began. At least they haven’t taken me off the compound.
Her knee burned. She twisted in the chair, straining against her bonds, wanting nothing more for the moment than simply to straighten her leg. But the ropes held her ankles like iron, and at last she gave up, sagging into the seat with a muffled whimper.
Caralange. The memory of those empty, hooded eyes filled her with dread. Caralange is behind it all. He had Kieffe killed to keep us from finding out, and now he’s got me. Even though she’d suspected him, it still seemed incredible. The man had been a Guild sorcerer for decades. He and Vorace had been friends since childhood.
Yet here she was.
He’d want to ask her questions. Find out how much she knew. Eilwen shivered in the gloom. She’d heard stories of people who’d been interrogated by sorcerers. The weak ones, the ones who broke early, they sometimes came out of it more or less intact if the sorcerer was feeling generous. The strong ones broke too, eventually; but afterwards, they were different. No longer themselves. Sometimes, no longer able to walk, or speak, or eat. Occasionally, scarcely men or women at all.
She began to tremble. Gods, please, not that. Please spare me that. She twisted again, frantic now, jerking against her bonds with as much force as she could muster. A shriek rose from somewhere within, burning past her throat; but the gag swallowed its fury, and all that emerged was a long, strangled squeak.
The sound was so unexpected that it startled her into silence. A giggle escaped her, then another; and suddenly she was laughing uncontrollably into the gag. Ah, gods, I’m hysterical. A fresh outburst took her and her shoulders shook, tears running down her face. Oh, gods have mercy. Havilah would be proud.
Havilah.
The image of the Spymaster stopped her mad rush of thoughts like an icy blast. Eilwen remembered burying her face in his shoulder, there in the dark with Kieffe’s body bundled against the wall. He said he wanted someone uncompromising. Instead, he ended up with someone who falls to pieces every time she hits a bump. She gritted her teeth, clamping down on the coarse, mushy fabric. Not this time. Not this time, damn it.
Eilwen closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it in her lungs. Get a hold of yourself. Caralange was going to be checking on her. She needed to be ready for him.
She exhaled slowly, relaxing her shoulders, then the muscles in her stomach. Better. Her attention shifted to her arms, her legs, her throbbing knee. Slowly, deliberately, she tensed the muscles of her bad leg, grimacing at the pain, then relaxed them as best she could. Good enough. At least when Caralange arrived, he wouldn’t find her cowering like a terrified puppy.
And then, if she somehow managed to get out of here…
The old hunger stirred in her gut, soft and sibilant, like an old lover, like a winter’s dawn. Fondly, tenderly, it reached out to her as though inviting her back, as though it had turned her away rather than the other way around. She froze, a hare in torchlight, torn between competing desires: to pull back from its seductive call, or to step forward and embrace it.
It reached closer and began to twine itself around her. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned into its touch, savouring the delicious, unclean, sickly sweet taste. Yes. Emboldened, it pulled her tighter, a beast returning to its lair, and she groaned, head bowed, as she yielded to its claim.
Caralange was a traitor to the Guild. He deserved to die.
And it was up to her to kill him.
•
The click of a key and the squeak of hinges woke Eilwen from her doze. She blinked up, squinting at the light as the door swung open. The room beyond was narrow but well appointed, with an oppressively low ceiling. I was right. Sixth floor. Caralange’s own suite, probably.
As though summoned by the thought, Caralange appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the lamplight. No sun. What hour is it? He pulled another chair into view and placed it on the threshold, then sat, stretching his legs. She glared mutely at his shadowed face.
When he spoke, his raspy voice was calm. “If I remove the gag, will you scream?”
Glowering, she shook her head.
Caralange reached out, and though Eilwen was sure his hand stretched no closer than her knee, she felt something brush her ear. “You can spit it out now,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d aim to one side.”
Eilwen hesitated. I’d appreciate seeing you wipe it from your face, you bastard. But any such satisfaction was bound to be short-lived. Besides, it wasn’t his discomfort she was interested in. It was hard to be uncomfortable once you were dead.
She turned her head slightly and spat. The wadded cloth landed with a soft splat beside his boot.
“Who do you work for, girl?”
She flinched, rankled by his tone. Don’t react. Don’t show him anything. Forcing a shrug, she responded with what she hoped was a convincing note of confusion. “If you know who I am, you must know I work for Spymaster Havilah.”
“Don’t give me that. Who do you really work for?”
Eilwen shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Caralange snorted. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, his anger and loathing suddenly plain. “People tell me you’re a smart girl. Now would be a good time to show it.”
She stared back in silent defiance.
“Herev’s blood!” The sorcerer surged to his feet, striding past her and wrenching her arm painfully around even as the other remained bound. “You bolted out of the Quill shop like your arse was on fire and went straight for Kieffe’s body. What are you looking for?” Flecks of spittle struck the side of her face, and she flinched. “Tell me what you’re looking for!”
The pain in her shoulder was like fire. “I’m looking for the killer!” she gasped, and cursed herself for her weakness.
“Horseshit!” He twisted her arm even further, and she shrieked. “Why?”
“Gods attend, it’s the truth! I needed a sorcerer…”
“Why not ask me?”
She shot him a vicious glare through her tears. “Why do you think, you traitorous shit?”
“Traitor, is it?” He dropped her wrist, and Eilwen gasped in relief. “This from the woman found with a dead man after bullying the steward for the room’s key. The woman whose so-called investigation has snails running rings around it. I don’t know what line you’re feeding Havilah, but I’m not so blind.”
“I told you, I — wait. You think I’m a traitor?”
Caralange settled back with a dark grin and folded his arms. “This should be good.”
Caralange is loyal? Eilwen stared. The man’s posture of outraged allegiance defied her disbelief. Ah, hells. She looked away, groping for words. I’m trying to find the real traitor. Yeah, that’ll work. Or wait, I know: I used to be a traitor, but I’m not any more! The sorcerer’s grin began to fade, and she gave an abrupt
laugh. That’s right, Caralange, you’ve caught your traitor. Only four years late.
The sorcerer scowled. “Careful, girl. You’re not —”
“I’m working for Havilah,” Eilwen said as calmly as she could manage. “We know there’s a traitor among the masters, and we’re trying to find out who.” She found his eyes and held them, willing him to listen. “Ask Havilah if you don’t believe me.”
He fell silent, his face empty of expression. She returned his gaze, determined not to look away first.
“You suspect Laris, then?” Caralange rasped.
“Damn it, Caralange, I suspect everyone! All except Havilah and Master Vorace.”
“Does that include me?”
“Of course it does!”
“And now?”
Yes, Caralange, of course I trust you now. The sorcerer was hardly going to accept that, even if it were true. “Let’s just say I’m beginning to entertain the possibility that you might be loyal.”
“Bold words from a woman tied to a chair.”
She inclined her head.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think —”
“Did you examine the body? Or did you let Orom do it?”
Caralange frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Kieffe had a spot of blood, just below the nose. Havilah said that’s a mark of several Tahisi poisons, but the Quill told me it can also be evidence of sorcery.” She lifted her chin. “So did you examine the body, or did Orom?”
There was a long pause. “I can’t,” Caralange said at last. “I’m not a fleshbinder.”
“But Orom is, right? So Orom could have murdered Kieffe, and then claimed he was killed by poison. Yes?”
Caralange gave her an appraising look. “Hmm.” He stood, pushing his chair back out of sight into the room beyond. “You do realise you’ve got a hand free?”
Eilwen felt her face grow hot. A fine spy I make. Fumbling with the knot, she pulled her other hand free, then turned her attention to her ankles. By the time she limped gingerly out of the narrow room, Caralange was pouring watered wine into tin cups. She accepted one gratefully, slumping into an armchair and massaging her knee.
“So,” Caralange said. He seated himself carefully, eyes flicking to her face. “What do you suggest?”
She took a long pull of wine. No point wondering if it’s poisoned. Dosing her wine wouldn’t give the sorcerer anything he hadn’t already had when she was tied up. “Orom,” she said. “What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s one of my sorcerers,” Caralange said. “He’s a good man.”
“I’m sure he is. That’s why you let me go when I mentioned him, is it?”
He ignored her and took a mouthful of wine.
“You’re not sure about him, are you? Something’s caught your eye, but you’re not sure if it means anything. What is it?”
Caralange set down the cup, studied its contents. “He goes missing,” he said. “Disappears for long stretches. Been happening for a couple of months.”
“Where does he go?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “You tell me.”
“The room I found Kieffe in. Did he ever —”
Caralange gestured impatiently. “I’m not talking about here.”
“Then… what? You’re saying he leaves the compound?”
“Herev’s bones, you don’t know anything, do you?”
“Please.” Eilwen leaned forward. “These departures. Are they regular? Frequent?”
“Every few days, lately. He leaves in the mid-afternoon. Doesn’t come back until after dark.”
“When was the last one?”
“Yesterday.”
A meeting with someone outside. Havilah had said something about an old woman meeting half of Anstice. A sorcerer. Gods, what are we in the middle of?
Caralange drained his cup, set it down hard.
She took a breath. “What direction does he go?”
“West as far as the thoroughfare. That’s all I know.” He eyed her speculatively. “You’re thinking of shadowing him? I can have one of the others fix you up a little, but I doubt they’ll be able to do much for that leg.”
“I know. And thank you. I —”
A sudden hammering sounded at the door, followed by a muffled voice. “Caralange? Are you in there? Open up, please.”
Glaring at the door, Caralange pushed himself to his feet. Eilwen frowned as he passed. That voice sounded familiar.
The hammering continued. “Caralange? Open the door, please.”
“Enough,” Caralange growled, yanking the door open. “What do you —” The words were cut off by a hiss.
Eilwen rose to see Brielle shouldering inside, a dagger at Caralange’s throat. What in the hells…?
“Where is she, you dog?” Brielle kicked the door closed behind her. “What have you done with Eilwen… oh.”
Eilwen gaped at her, her throat suddenly tight. You came for me.
A sudden motion from Caralange sent the dagger clattering to the floor. He drove his forearm against Brielle’s neck, shoving her against the wall. Eilwen gave a strangled cry.
“The next blade you hold against me will find its home in your guts.” Caralange’s brows lowered. “Understood?”
Brielle nodded, her eyes wide. “Yes,” she said hoarsely.
Caralange grunted and stepped back. Brielle sagged back against the wall, gasping for breath. Eilwen stood rooted to the spot, wiping her cheeks.
Brielle. Gods. You came.
•
Clade slipped into the curved timber pew to the sound of chickens squawking outside. A thin whine cut through the noise in a tone of complaint: a man’s voice, Kefiran, indistinct. A baritone answered in the same tongue, its tone calm, cool. At the sound of his voice, the chickens fell silent; then, as though suddenly becoming aware of its impending doom, one of the animals loosed a panicked screech.
Too late now, fowl, Clade thought. Your master has stumbled, and you are the means by which he may recover himself. It was the way of the world. Lesser things were sacrificed for greater things. Beasts for men. And men for gods.
The tabernacle was empty; the next service still an hour away. Clade slid along the pew until he could see the entrance without the ark obstructing his view. The temple was no longer proof against Azador’s presence — if indeed it ever had been — but he’d decided to have this conversation here all the same. The god might be capable of staying, but presumably it still needed a reason to do so. With luck, it wouldn’t even bother them.
This is foolishness. His shoulder bag lay on the pew beside him, the folded copy of Niele’s treatise concealed within. I should be preparing to see Bannard, not wasting time with this. Yet here he was, endangering his entire project — and for what?
She deserved to know. She’d trusted him, and he’d given her over to that thing. The god. Whatever it was.
Foolishness.
He’d arranged to meet Bannard an hour from now on the jetty near the powder works, the same place he used for his irregular rendezvous with Yevin. In his note, Clade had promised the handsome sum of twenty-five luri for useful information about the urn, and twice that for the urn itself — enough to buy a small house. He’d taken his seal to the Coridon Bank earlier that day and withdrawn the gold from the Oculus account. They’d packed it with lambswool to mask the telltale clink, and he’d taken it back to his suite and hidden it in the desk drawer with the false bottom. Then he’d put the empty bag by the desk, to remind him to —
Damn it.
He’d meant to take it with him, but in his preoccupation with Sera, he’d forgotten. The gold was still in his desk.
That’s all right. Irritation stirred within, but it was faint and fleeting, already gone by the time the walls snapped into place around it. I’ll fetch the gold before I head off. It’s fine.
A figure appeared at the entrance, halting just inside and glancing uncertainly about the temple. Dark curls peeked out from beneath the hood of her cl
oak. He waved her over.
“A travelling cloak?” he said, amused, as Sera slid in beside him. “Really?”
She blushed. “I just thought… you said not to tell anyone…”
“It’s fine.” Donning a heavy cloak in summertime was hardly the way to avoid attention; but Azador was absent, so no harm done. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Of course I made it,” she said, her tone half playful impatience and half something else. “You’re the Overseer.”
No, no, that’s not how I want this to go. “So I am,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But not only that, I hope. I speak to you now not as Overseer, nor even as an Oculus sorcerer, but as a friend.” And as the man who recruited you to the Oculus, and set you on the path that led you here.
“Yes, of course.” Sera sat half-facing him, brow furrowed in concern. “What is it?”
“It’s about Azador.”
She blinked, earnestness turning to confusion. “What about Azador?”
“I’d like you to read something.” Clade drew out the folded treatise. He hesitated. “It will be difficult to take in. Please try to…” Please what? Set aside everything I and everyone else have ever told you? He shook his head. “Please do what you can to… consider the text on its merits.”
She studied him for a long moment; then, wordless, she accepted the pages and bent to read.
The section he had marked out began a few pages into the treatise. The opening passage — in which Niele set forth her grievances with the Oculus leadership of the day, culminating in a bitter, stinging rebuke against the Council’s high-handed disregard for any interests but its own — was no less valid today than it had been in Niele’s time, but to begin there would alienate Sera and achieve nothing. The true evil, the one that mattered, was Azador itself; and it was there that Niele soon turned her attention. Clade had returned to her words time and again since first discovering them, poring over them, searing them into his mind. He no longer needed to read them to remember.
