The Invisible Hand

by Chris Northern

  "City justice," her tone was scathing.

  No, I thought. I wasn't going to rise to the bait. Enough for one day. I raised the beer, met Balaran's even gaze, and drank it down. She took the hint, dumped the other beer in front of me as she got to her feet and left.

  "Nice girl," Balaran commented idly, his gaze drifting up and down her body as she walked away.

  "In what way, specifically?" I took a mouthful of beer.

  He grinned. "Figuratively," he said.

  Nice try, Balaran.

  The beer went down easy.

  #

  Some food and another couple of beers and it was time to find the latrines. They were in a large building against the wall, the end result leeching under the walls and down to the lake to feed the fish. There are worse systems. There may even have been a pipe acting as a sewer. I didn't recall any stink as I walked beside the lake and I'm sure I would have noticed. Buckets of water and sponges on sticks and a fussy old man keeping everything clean and working hard at it. The latrines hadn't been built with this many people in mind. There were queues. I gave him a coin, not having any bits on me, and didn't resent the paying of it even slightly.

  "You need help here, old man. Hire some lads."

  He eyed me through the one without a cataract in it, his chin wobbly due to lack of teeth. "Young'ns don't know nuthin of't, soor."

  He was dressed in near rags, but clean. Of hair, like teeth, he'd none left, but his arms were bare and covered in tattoos and very old scars.

  Gods, I thought. He'd been a warrior once. What a way to end up. How in the name of all the mythical hells had he managed it?

  "We'll need to make the place bigger," I told him. "Get some help."

  He chewed on the thought disdainfully and didn't answer before turning away with further wrinkling of his face that I took to be a scowl of negation. People were waiting. I was in the way. And, let's face it, latrines just aren't the place to hang around and have a chat, especially with a senile old git who cleaned them for a living. Then a thought struck me and I opened my mouth. "Old man!"

  "Soor?" He turned from where he'd started cleaning my sponge.

  "Who bought the sponges?"

  "Who bought 'em? I bought 'em. They're mine!" He was suddenly quivering with rage. "Mine, do ya hear me?"

  The stick he was waving was moderately clean by then, so it could have been worse.

  "Git outa 'ere! I got a spear in the corner and I knows howta use it an all..."

  I got. It wasn't the spear that concerned me; it was the other sponges, the not quite so clean ones. And the fact that I'd asked such a pointless question. It had just struck me that they looked new and the sea was maybe eight hundred miles away and the cost... someone was making money and it seemed odd that it would be a toothless old man who cleaned latrines for a living. And a native of Darklake by his accent; doubtless deemed harmless by Meran and his centurions when the place was taken. But then there was that spear in the corner that he knew how to use. Odd. Or maybe I was drunker than I thought I was. Still, I'd eaten. How drunk could I be?

  I dismissed the matter from my mind, not as easily as I'd have liked. I had other things to deal with. Things I had been putting off. Anista had mentioned a priest and I decided it was time to find him and deal with him.

  But perhaps a change of clothes first.

  #

  It was only when I found myself standing alone in my chambers that I realised I didn't have any clothes apart from what I stood up in. I swore fiercely as I stood by the bed and cast around the room hopelessly. Suddenly dizzied, I sat down on the bed and ran one hand over my face and head. I felt the stone set in my forehead and wondered what had happened to its twin; had it fallen into the grave with Tahal? That brought thoughts of the Grave itself and the watch I was supposed to set on it. I had mentioned it to Meran last night but had he taken care of it? He hadn't arranged more clothes for me, had he? And there was stubble on my chin and head both. Two bald spots came under my hand and I gingerly probed the skin there. There was no bone underneath and I felt an absurd temptation to poke my own brain to make it work. Thankfully that was impossible. The holes in my skull were too small for that. There would be scars but my hair would cover them when it finished growing out. Flakes of loose skin fell in front of my eyes, the last mementos of being burned, apart from the sore skin of my inner thighs and butt. My wrist still ached and would be weeks in the mending. And my ankle gave continual sharp pains as I limped about the place. I felt tired, dizzy, and my head pounded. I must look as much of a mess as I felt, I realised, but I hadn't given it any thought before. I still wasn't functioning properly, not yet recovered from a traumatic concussion. There were so many things to do and suddenly I found the whole thing overwhelming. I couldn't do it alone. I needed Meran back in his old role, to pick up after me and provide for my needs before I knew what they were and take care of the details. But someone had to run the military and who else was there? And he was free now and my client, and it was my half of the contract between us to advance his career as best I could. Assuming I could advance my own, which I suddenly doubted. I needed to get the economy started, invest my own money well, weld the disparate people here into one and maintain peace and administer all of it. Find and eliminate Duprane, check on the Grave, make sure Dannat wasn't a threat, use the hostages that Duprane had held for the Necromancers to some advantage including their own, build houses and a road, get trade moving, deal with the rest of the Necromancers' people who still lived in abject poverty in the territories I'd claimed, and get control of Hederan, where there might still be one or two Necromancers, for all I knew. I needed to write a report to coordinate with my uncle, who held an army somewhere to the south of here. And I needed a bath. And a tunic that wasn't speckled with little droplets of my own shit would be nice.

  I tipped my head back and blew out a breath. One thing at a time, I reminded myself. Just do one thing at a time and each thing as well as you can. It will all get done. The sooner I could palm off the responsibility onto other people the better; if everyone took a little bit and just dealt with that there wouldn't be any problem.

  I glanced around the room from where I still sat on the bed. There were chests and maybe they still contained the clothes of my predecessor. But I couldn't wear them. It just wouldn't look good. It would have to be someone else's, then. I stood up and stripped off the tunic I was wearing, tossed it into a corner and walked out of the room. I ran one hand down each bare arm. The burns had mostly healed, the skin almost scar free; small motes of dead skin danced away and hung in the sunlight, little more than dust. I pulled off one or two thin strips of skin, like the residue of sunburn, then rubbed my arms briskly to get rid of the rest. The next bath I took would take care of the last of it and I'd not be reminded of the fire every damn time I looked at myself.

  When I stepped out into the hall there were four solders waiting; the two who guarded my door and the two who had been trailing me all day.

  "Get me a tunic," I said.

  They looked at me, concealing their surprise. One of them acknowledged the order and turned away, heading for one wall. He was about my size and I guessed his intent. I followed him, and one of the other soldiers fell in beside me. Most of the spots along the walls were occupied by sleeping men on a variety of pallets and thin mattresses. The hall was quiet apart from their snores. The soldier I followed stopped at an empty pallet and dug into his pack, pulling out a clean tunic and passing it to me. I pulled it on without a word; good quality cloth, parade wear that was one step up from the two day wear tunics he would be carrying or wearing. Plain and simple but serviceable. It was identical to the one I had been wearing, so that made two of my men whose clothes I had borrowed. Well, I'd buy them all replacements, better quality. Make a joke of it before they did.

  "I am told there is a priest," I said. "Where is he?"

  The soldier gestured to the door. "This way, Commander."

  I noted his face was pro
fessionally devoid of expression. Not even a hint of a smile for the patron who couldn't afford a tunic.

  Just as well.

  #

  There were children playing in the gardens; they ranged in ages from toddlers to young adults and grouped together by age and sex. They were under the eye of several women who gossiped in groups, seated on the edge of a well or on benches.

  The soldier led me out of the hall and through the courtyard in the opposite direction to the granaries and the gate into the town itself. A few steps led up to an arched gate in the wall. We passed through the gardens, ignoring the attention we drew. Flowering bushes, herbs and vegetables grew here and the scents mingled in the air, all shielded from the breeze. The earth must have been moved here at some expense in time and labour, but judging by the few gnarled trees that might be apple or pear, that had been an age ago. There was also a line of hives against one wall. The children were making too much noise for me to hear the bees in their hives but a few in the air told me of their habitation. We followed the line of the hall toward two buildings; one was an open workshop. Just enough light filtered inside for me to make out a small furnace and what I recognised as the tools of a glass-blower. It was the other one which was guarded. The guard was talking to the same lad I had seen earlier in the day with a sword in his hand. He saw us coming and shooed the boy away. I noticed the youngster look at us, thoughtful and appraising, then walk away with more dignity than I'd normally expect for someone of that age. Not that I know much about children, but I know a head with a brain in it when I see one. This morning he'd charmed one of my men into handing over his sword and letting the lad play with it while leaving himself unarmed. And now I'd seen him chatting to another of my men, as friendly as nephew to uncle. In just a few days he'd turned himself from the son of a conquered people into an indulged favourite of the soldiers. There was no way he loved them and they knew it from experience, so to worm his way into their affections took talent. I'd need to find out who he was and what he was planning. Then I decided I was being paranoid and focussed instead on the priest I had to deal with next. The soldier was rigidly at attention when I slowed to open the door. I barely glanced at him.

  "Don't get too involved, legionary. There are dangers."

  He didn't hesitate in answering. "Yes, Commander." He knew what I meant.

  I stepped through the doorway and into a room that opened my eyes wide and made a window into my heart. I slowly closed the door behind me. The room was full of books. Hundreds of books and scrolls in scroll buckets and on shelves; open on tables, piled on the floor. A treasure I had so not expected to find here, that for a moment I was lost for words and lost to the world. I wanted to pick up a work at random and start reading and not stop until I was done with anything that I had not seen before. Who knew what knowledge was here?

  I stepped further into the room, drifting on a sea of curiosity. I barely noticed the open door opposite, through which I could see another guard; the chamber in which he stood, bathed in sunlight, was so obviously a temple that my attention was then slowly drawn to it and my thoughts returned to the priest.

  "You are welcome to borrow anything you wish to."

  The voice made me start and turn. It belonged to a small man seated at a table in the shadows, his attention focused on a book that rested before him. His face was barely illuminated by a faint radiance that came from the book itself and my attention flickered from one to the other as I moved to better see him. The book was ruined by time and exposure, likewise the face of the old man whose attention was focused on it. Soiled grey robes hung off an emaciated frame; only broad shoulders and a deep chest spoke of a youth that had long since passed him by. Hair that was more grey than black hung lank about his face and shoulders. I moved forward, threading my way through the obstructing store of writings.

  "You are the priest of Hesta?"

  He tipped his head back slightly to look up at me. His eyes were gone; in their place rested two glass spheres that magnified and concentrated the crimson flesh of the sockets in which they were set. I dropped my gaze to the book before him, startled again to see that its colour and texture had improved; the time-darkened and brittle pages at which the book was opened become more pale, the writing dark and clear. The faint glow about the book shifted and flowed, focusing here and there and even as I watched, repairing damaged areas of the page. I looked up from the book, back into his disturbing eyes, dark red with black centres. They reminded me of the glass eyes of the stuffed animal heads in Orlek's private chambers.

  "I am Caliran, High Priest of Hesta," he smiled with thin, purpled lips. His teeth were perfect; small and even, like a child's. "And you are Sumto Cerulian, presumably here to send me into exile. Will you send me with or without my library?"

  "If I send you into exile it will be without the library."

  "You covet it; but much is yet to be restored and will be lost without my efforts."

  "What is that?" I gestured to the book before him.

  "A practical application of mathematics to engineering problems, stress points, transference of load, base to height ratios and so forth. Very dry, but here it says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; a principle that might be applied in other fields, don't you think?"

  I did; immediately. He was applying it now. "I meant the .... glow."

  "This?" He glanced down, seemingly surprised that I would ask. "Nothing of any importance. Merely a spirit of the temple, a servant of Hesta, the God who is the guardian of knowledge. A worshipper's remnant, a shadow dedicated to the restoration of damaged papers and faded inks; functionally far superior to chemical methods, not to mention being altogether less effort."

  "On your part."

  "Who else's part should I take? Surely you are not concerned with the tool I use? It is but an echo of life, not life itself, only a residue; the same as a corpse without spirit. To care for it is mere sentimentality. Or do you mistake the corpse for the being it was?"

  "I'm told you strip away the consciousness, shape the spirit as a tool, paring away what is not needed..."

  "Would you pick up a tree and try and use it as a bow-stave? The tool you desire is hidden in the wood, and must be cut out of it and worked to the shape required to fulfil your desire. As to consciousness; well, you would not want a hunting dog to have an ethical argument with you about the validity of the hunt, now would you? Nor to argue about the intent of the words you write with the pen you have fashioned for the purpose." His smile was disparaging. "Besides, the spirit consented to be bent to the task; in death as in life, this one was and is a servant of Hesta."

  I was done with that subject. I had the measure of him. Dubaku would have hated him and what he did. I remembered Jerek, a spirit bent to the will of the Necromancer Kukran Epthel. But this spirit was a willing sacrifice, not a victim. I put it aside for later consideration, thinking to acquire more information before I decided finally what I thought of it. "What are you doing here?"

  He spread his arms wide, indicating the library around us. "Performing my mission, rescuing and restoring libraries so that their knowledge is not lost. Every merchant that passes here knows that there is a market for the written word. Sometimes I would quest out myself to seek lost libraries and bring them here for restoration. But usually Orlek purchased them for me."

  "And what did you do for him in return?"

  "I taught. I am a full priest of Hesta, with great knowledge and learning at my fingertips. His sons and daughters learned all I could teach. Also, I have sixty-three spirits of the temple at my command. Where applicable, they were called to aid him."

  Sons and daughters. Anista had mentioned only one son; hers? Probably. There were bastards, then, that Orlek had favoured with learning. I filed the fact away for future consideration and got back to the point.

  "Against his enemies. To the furtherance of the desires of his allies."

  "No longer. Orlek is dead."

  "So are his all
ies."

  His face became intently avaricious. "Duprane had a library, I believe. And the Necromancers? Do you know? Was it saved?"

  So, he had no love of them, at least. "Is that all you care about?"

  "It is. Knowledge is everything. Hesta teaches that knowledge is what saves us from being mere beasts. An ignorant man is no better than a dog. When the world was created he was there to teach and encourage learning. Other gods gave us fire and tools, but Hesta gave us the knowledge of symbols with which we could express complex ideas and set us the task of understanding the mechanics of the universe. When I die, he will bring me into his mind and learn all that I have learned. Perhaps, if I have developed new insights and understandings, he will permit me to remain a part of him, immortal and godlike. Or, perhaps I will be assigned a task and stripped bare of personality the better to achieve it. I hope and strive for the more glorious outcome, but must accept the other if I fail."

  "How do you know that Hesta even exists? Or if he exists, he is not merely an ancient spirit grown powerful?"

  He laughed, but gently. "I had heard that you citymen were atheists but not believed it. How, I asked myself, could a rational man not believe in the gods? But I will tell you why I believe. I believe because I have communed once with Hesta and felt his regard for me, his approval at my achievements, his pride that I had become worthy to serve him, and I saw into his heart as he looked into mine. I know that on the moment of my death he will come for me and I will feel his regard once more. I pray that I am worthy of it, and serve him to that end in my quest for new knowledge with which to please him."