by karlov, matt
— Eneas the Fabulist
One Hundred Truths and Ninety-Nine Lies
The endless stream of people, carts, beasts and goods was at last beginning to wane. Arandras sat by the side of the thoroughfare, a cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth, and thanked the Weeper for the night. Despite his efforts, the bitter grit of the road had penetrated his screen, working its way into his eyes, nose, and mouth. At some point he had ceased to taste it; yet its texture remained, a rough, abrasive patina on his tongue and throat like crushed emery.
Across the way and to the right rose a featureless stone building, five stories high, protected by a drab stone wall and a timbered gate. Two ornamental cannon barrels faced each other atop the wall: an unusual design, and all the stranger on an otherwise unmarked and unremarkable edifice. Yet for all its plainness, the building was clearly in use, with a slow but steady trickle of people moving in and out throughout the day. Arandras had watched avidly at first, studying each person in turn; but as the day wore on and the flow of arrivals and departures continued, his enthusiasm and attention had begun to fade.
Any one of them might have been Clade. None of them might have been.
The city garrison had moved him on twice. The second time, late in the afternoon, he’d been warned not to return or risk a fine for obstructing a public roadway. He’d come back anyway. The building was a puzzle, an unsolved text, though not the kind that required translation. More like decryption. Solve the puzzle, reveal the text, and he’d be one step closer to finding Clade.
A mounted courier trotted by, the Three Rivers insignia on her saddlebag plainly visible in the combined light of the street lamps and the three-quarter moon. The horse kicked up its hooves as it passed, throwing another spray of fine dirt over Arandras’s face and arms. He bit back a curse, wiping sweat and grime from his brow with an equally grimy hand.
Sorcerer of the Oculus. That was what the registrar’s papers had said. Clade, a sorcerer of the Oculus, whatever that meant. Was the Oculus an artefact? An order? Some old Valdori god? Arandras couldn’t recall ever hearing the name before. Narvi might know, or Senisha. Not that he was likely to see either of them again any time soon. Isaias, perhaps. With the Weeper’s blessing, he might actually give me a straight answer for once.
He coughed, grimacing at the dry rasp in his throat. Maybe I should just go in. The thought had come at least a dozen times over the course of the day and refused to die, despite its obvious folly. There was no guarantee that Clade was inside, and in any case Arandras had no way of identifying him. Whereas Clade almost certainly saw me in Chogon, and would likely remember my face if he saw it again. No, he had come too far to throw caution to the wind now. He just needed more information…
The door beside the main gate opened again and a man stepped hesitantly out, glancing up and down the moonlit street before closing the door behind him. Something about him caught Arandras’s attention, and he peered across, craning his neck to keep the man in sight as a heavy cart lumbered past. The man wore a high-collared coat that obscured his features, but his gait and posture seemed familiar.
Weeper’s tears. It’s Bannard.
Shoulders hunched, Bannard pulled his coat around him and set off south. Arandras scrambled to his feet, twisting his face free of the cloth, and hastened after him.
“Bannard!” The hunched figure seemed to pause at Arandras’s call, then pressed on, his stride lengthening. “Wait, damn it. Bannard!”
Cursing, Arandras dodged around a portly merchant and broke into a run. Bannard stepped sideways, slipping into a narrow alley and out of sight. Arandras sprinted to its mouth, then halted, peering into the dark passage for any sign of movement. Broken crates partially blocked the lane, and the smell of rotten vegetables hung in the air. From somewhere behind the stack came a soft scraping noise, the sound of boot leather on stone, and Arandras smiled. Got you.
He rounded the crates to find Bannard huddled on the ground. The man looked up, then instantly flinched away. Arandras eyed him uncertainly, unable to read the man’s expression in the dim light.
“I thought it was you,” Arandras said. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”
Bannard drew a shaky breath. “What do you want, Arandras?”
What in the hells? “I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“If you say so.”
“Of course I say so. Why would I want to hurt you?” Arandras crouched in front of him. “I just want to talk.”
The man would not meet his eyes. “What about?”
“About the building you just came out of.” Arandras paused, but Bannard made no response. “Why were you… oh, Weeper’s tears.” You weren’t there on Quill business, were you? You were there for some other reason.
Because you’re working for someone else.
Bannard buried his face in his hands and gave a long, shuddering sigh.
“Hey,” Arandras said. “Look at me. Look.” Slowly, Bannard raised his eyes. “I’m not Quill. You hear me? I don’t care what’s going on here. I really don’t.”
The scholar’s hollow laugh echoed off the alley walls. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”
“Knew what?” Arandras shrugged. “So you’re not really a Quill. You’re…” Something cold took hold of his spine. You’re one of Clade’s.
But Bannard was shaking his head. “No, I am a Quill! I am! I just…”
“You just what?” Arandras leaned closer. “Why were you in that building?”
Bannard offered a helpless shrug. “To give information…”
“What information?”
“About the Quill. And about the urn.” Bannard’s expression shifted to something almost pleading. “And, uh, about you…”
“Me? Who wants to know about me?”
“A man. A sorcerer. Does it matter?”
“What’s his name?” Arandras asked softly.
“Clade.” Bannard paused. “Why? Do you know him?”
Do I know him? The absurdity of the question left Arandras gasping. “Intimately. Not at all. I learnt his name yesterday. What did you tell him?”
Bannard blinked uncertainly. “I, uh…”
“What did you tell him, man? Is it the urn? Does he still want the urn?”
“Yes! Yes, he wants the urn.” Bannard turned away, breathing heavily. “I told him about it. Told him what we’ve discovered.” His voice fell, making Arandras strain to hear. “He asked me where it was now, and I… well, I told him.”
“You gave him my name.”
Bannard nodded.
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. He just asked another question.”
Arandras sat back on his heels. Clade, asking about me. The thought made the world seem upside-down. “Tell me, Bannard. You and Clade. How close would you say you are?”
Bannard shuddered, and in that moment Arandras saw all that he needed to see. “Close? Gods.” The Quill closed his eyes, and a tear slid down his cheek. “I wish I’d never met the bastard.”
“Then you wouldn’t be disappointed if he were to, shall we say, meet an unfortunate end?”
“What, you want to kill him?” Bannard spread his hands. “Be my guest. Only I hope you’ve got a better plan than just sticking a knife in him.”
Arandras frowned. “Meaning what?”
“How many people have you killed, Arandras? Lots? Because he has. And he’s a sorcerer.” Bannard shook his head. “If you can kill him before he knows you’re there, great. But if you hesitate, give him a breath before he dies…” He trailed off, cheeks glistening.
“I see.” Arandras shifted uneasily, oddly chilled by Bannard’s words. “What would you suggest?”
The hollow laugh sounded again. “An army would be good.”
An army. The words burrowed deep into Arandras’s mind. An army, you say.
Well, now, that might just be an option.
He leaned forward and offered the Quill his
hand. Bannard squinted at it, then up at Arandras, blinking through his hair. A muffled sob escaped the other man; then, abruptly, he reached out and clasped Arandras’s hand in his own.
“There, now,” Arandras said, settling himself on the dirty stone of the alley. “There, now.”
Bannard’s sobs subsided. He withdrew his hand, wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“Now,” Arandras said. “Tell me what Clade looks like.”
•
It was morning, and the schoolhouse was bustling with Quill. Arandras strolled down a wide, curving corridor, glancing from face to face, looking for someone he recognised — or, more to the point, someone who recognised him.
A hand fell on his shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
Ah, at last.
Arandras turned. The speaker, a tall, weathered man with fair hair, studied Arandras with the lazy attention of a seasoned hunter, confident he had the measure of his prey. Arandras remembered him from the briefing but couldn’t recall his name.
“I’ll see you out,” the man said, nodding back the way Arandras had come. “This way.”
“I’m here to see Damasus,” Arandras said, resisting the man’s not-so-subtle nudge at his shoulder. “Could you tell me where he is?”
The man shook his head. “The schoolhouse is closed to visitors, Arandras. Fas’s orders.” His gaze flicked over Arandras’s form, his eyes crinkling in friendly amusement. “Let’s do this the easy way, shall we?”
I’d love to, but you’re not giving me much to work with. The man’s name bubbled up from the depths of Arandras’s mind. “Ienn, isn’t it?” he said, and the man gave a languid nod. “I appreciate that this is a sensitive time, but I really do need to talk to Damasus. And I wonder if the rules might be relaxed for someone who could supply you with,” Arandras lowered his voice, “a certain… map.”
Ienn’s attention sharpened, and Arandras smiled. So you haven’t found one yet.
“What sort of map might that be?” Ienn said.
Still smiling, Arandras gave a regretful shrug. “The sort I should talk to Damasus about.”
Ienn inclined his head, conceding the point. “Reth,” he called, fixing on someone behind Arandras’s back. “Could you find Fas and ask him to join us in the upper courtyard, please?” There was a sigh and a muttered assent, followed by the sound of footsteps receding down the corridor. Ienn turned, gesturing at a nearby staircase. “Shall we?”
The courtyard was the one Narvi had led them to the day they arrived in Anstice. Ienn settled into a seat by the mouth of the staircase, his legs stretched before him and his eyes half-lidded, leaving Arandras free to wander the rooftop space as he pleased. He ambled to the rail and looked out over the sloping lawn, the sun warm at his back, his shadow stretching almost to where a gardener crouched below, tending to one of the staked saplings.
An army would be good. At that moment, there with Bannard in the alley, the solution had seemed irresistible. Get back in with the Quill, lure Clade to follow them to the golems’ hiding place, then use the ancient Valdori constructs to at last take his revenge. There was just one problem: convincing the Quill to take him back. Two problems, in fact. Even if I do get back on the team, they’d never in a thousand years let me take control of the golems. At least baiting Clade posed no difficulty. Bannard had already agreed to leave signs for Clade showing the path taken by the Quill, and Arandras had convinced Bannard to stick to the arrangement in exchange for Arandras keeping the scholar’s secret.
All the same, there ought to have been a simpler way. Except, try as he might, he couldn’t think of one.
Oh, no doubt he could have found someone to put an arrow in the man, or drop a rock on his head, or some such. But that was no good. I need to look him in the eye. I need him to know who’s killing him, and why. That meant finding a way to render Clade powerless without actually depriving him of his senses. From Bannard’s account, the man clearly had a capacity for destructive woodbinding, and likely other sorcery too. And that left Arandras with only two options: another sorcerer to counter the man’s abilities, or else anamnil to nullify them. But sorcerer mercenaries were rare, and prohibitively expensive. Anamnil was cheaper, but not cheap enough to make a difference — and in any case, the moment Clade sensed its presence he’d immediately be on his guard. I might as well hire a herald to announce my presence.
No, the only reliable way to subdue a man like Clade was with overwhelming force, leaving Arandras no alternative but to seize control of the golems. But only until Tereisa is avenged. The Quill could have them afterwards, for all he cared. Weeper knew Arandras didn’t want them. Once he’d dealt with Clade, his use for them would be at an end.
“Ah, Arandras.” Fas strode across the courtyard, the sunlight bouncing off his bare pate. “Back for your gold after all, I see.”
“Actually, no.” Surely Ienn’s friend had mentioned the reason for his visit. “I’m here to discuss maps.”
“Maps,” Fas repeated, his face inscrutable.
“That’s right. You need one. I have one.”
“Is that so?” Fas folded his arms, tapped his fingers against his elbow. “I don’t see any parchments under your arm. No scrollcase at your feet. What, then? Have you just recalled a secret cache of maps that unaccountably slipped your mind until this morning?”
“No,” Arandras said with forced patience. “But I know someone who —”
“Ah, you know someone. And who might that be? No, let me guess. Someone whose name you can’t possibly reveal in advance. Am I right?”
“No, again.” For the Weeper’s sake, just shut up and listen. “The man I refer to is Isaias.”
Fas gave a dismissive snort. “We already tried him. And Peni, and Qulah, and every other dealer and fence in the city. Forget it.”
“You were misled,” Arandras said. “Isaias has the map you seek. It’s in his shop right now.”
“And how do you know this, exactly?”
“I know because I put a deposit on it the day before last.”
Something shifted in Fas’s expression. “Is that so?” He chuckled. “I was right to begin with, then. You are back for your gold, and more besides.”
“We’ll need gold to complete the purchase, certainly,” Arandras said. “But that’s not what I want.”
Fas tapped his foot against the paving stones. “What, then? Spit it out.”
The words piled up in Arandras’s throat, resisting his efforts to force them through. He swallowed. “I want to get back on the team.”
“You what?”
“Back on the team,” Arandras said, firmer this time. “I go with the retrieval party. I’m there when the golems are found.”
“No,” Fas said. “I can’t allow —”
“And not just me,” Arandras continued. “Mara, too.” If she’ll come. But he’d caught the look in her eye when he first mentioned the golems. She wouldn’t miss this.
Fas scowled. “You, perhaps, I could make a case for. A former Quill assisting us in the field. That might be accepted back in Chogon. But that woman is an entirely different matter.”
“Nonetheless,” Arandras said. “If you want the map, she comes too.”
“And is that all? Any other conditions on your assistance?”
“One more.” Arandras considered the other man. Ah, hells. It’s worth a shot. “I want a golem.”
“You what?”
“Just the one will do.” It would be enough to justify an interest in controlling the damn things, and if he couldn’t figure out a way to get to the rest, even a lone golem might be enough for a half-decent shot at Clade.
Fas shook his head, a disbelieving laugh playing at the corner of his lips. “That’s absurd. What in the hells would you do with it? Make it your golem manservant?”
“Why not?”
Fas turned away, still shaking his head.
Don’t walk away, damn it! Voice tight with frustration, Arand
ras called out to Fas’s retreating back. “Look, do you want to find the damned things or don’t you?”
Fas halted at a side railing, running his hand over his domed head. “You’re sure Isaias will give us the map?”
“He’ll give it to me,” Arandras said. “I’ll go alone, or maybe with Mara —”
“No.” Fas turned, the angle of the light casting his face into odd relief. “You want to spend my money, then I’m going too. Hells, let’s all go. You, me, Mara, Narvi, Ienn…”
No, you fool. “Isaias’s deal is with me. He’s not going to like having all those others there.”
“Nonetheless,” Fas said. “If you want the money, we come too.”
Oh, very clever. “Fine,” Arandras snapped. “You come. We get the map. Mara and I join the party, and I get my golem.”
Fas studied Arandras for a long moment. At last, he gave a grudging nod. “Get us the map, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
•
Eilwen sat in the garden outside Havilah’s suite and yawned. She’d slept poorly the previous night, and the night before that. With darkness came memories of the narrow closet in Caralange’s quarters, the gag cutting into her mouth, the hard chair beneath her. But it wasn’t her brush with hysteria that haunted her dreams. It was the moment after, the moment she’d tried so hard to prevent ever since burying that accursed egg.
I am not a killer. Not any more. But the words rang hollow, and she knew them for a lie.
In that moment, she would have killed Caralange.
It was the rightness of it that tore her awake in the middle of the night. As though murder was something that could be justified. No, more than that: as though, in the right circumstances, it could be demanded, and she be nothing more than its hand.
She had welcomed the beast back into her heart, and it was as though it had never left.
But I haven’t killed anyone. Not yet. And I won’t.
She sat in the shade of the building’s east wall, heels scuffing the dirt beneath the low bench. The high, piping call of an unseen bird sounded from the tangled branches above her head, its plaintive chirps hanging unanswered in the mid-morning air. Despite the hour, Havilah’s curtains were still drawn. Eilwen glanced along the row of doors and windows. Laris’s suite shared this side of the garden with Havilah’s, though the Trademaster’s door was at the far end, almost in the corner. If Caralange was loyal, as it now seemed he was, the traitor had to be Laris.
