by Various
Instead, the hooded figure moved. It had been standing so quietly that Alex had nearly forgotten it was there, huddled so deep in its robe that no part of it was visible. When it slipped in front of the Black Priest, it was as startling as though a statue had sprung to life. One arm came up, revealing a gray-gloved hand, fingers splayed.
Something sprang into existence between them, a wall of fizzing, dancing sparks, accompanied by a tortured whine like a knife scraping across glass. The shadow spear splashed and spattered against the barrier. Alex lowered her hand in astonishment.
“My friend here,” the priest said, calmly gesturing at the silent, hooded figure, “represents the greatest heights of nobility to which the human soul can aspire. The Ignahta Sempria, the Penitent Damned. They carry demons, as you do, but they have willingly accepted the burden and thus condemned themselves to damnation in order to work for the salvation of others. Truly, we are blessed to be in the presence of such selfless glory.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex said. “I don’t carry any demon.”
“A common misconception,” the priest said. “But where else could your power originate, if not from one of these monstrosities? If you come with me, we will remedy your theological education, and in time you will come to understand your plight. Who knows? In time you, too, may aspire to turn your life to higher ends.”
Alex couldn’t take her eyes off the gray-clad form of the ignahta. Under that hood there was someone like her, someone who shared this power that she’d never understood. If only we could talk—
But with the priest looking on, that seemed unlikely. Alex eyed the door back to the archives, judging the distance. She put on a thoughtful expression, as though she were considering the priest’s offer.
“I think—” she began.
She brought her left hand up, but that was only misdirection. Her other hand fired another concentrated rope of shadow, this time in a curving, whip-like path that bypassed the hooded ignahta and curled around to aim for the priest. Without waiting to see the result, Alex ran for the door to the archives.
The glass-cutter scream of magic assaulted her ears, but this time it was accompanied by a deeper rumble. She caught the ignahta’s movement out of the corner of her eye, a slicing gesture at waist height, and some instinct made Alex throw herself flat. An instant later she felt a tug at her clothing as the air above her twisted in a rippling wave with a sound like splintering timbers. The wall behind her exploded outward in a wave of fragments and brick-dust, and the wind whipped in through the hole. Alex rolled onto her back and tasted fresh air, mixed with the scent of pulverized masonry.
“You see that it’s fruitless to resist,” the priest said, not unkindly. “Come along. You won’t be harmed.”
Not goddamned likely. From her perspective on the floor, Alex saw the ignahta step forward. She pushed herself into a roll, fragments of bricks embedding themselves painfully in her shoulder, and at the same time lashed out blindly with her own power. The wall of sparks sprang into being, deflecting her shadowy assault, but it bought Alex a second or two, and that was enough to make it to the impromptu window and launch herself out.
The next building was twenty-five feet away. The time it took one of her shadow-lines to reach it, normally so fast the eye couldn’t track it, felt like an eternity when she herself was falling towards the unforgiving flagstones five stories below. She felt the shadow-line bite into the brick wall, and willed it tight and springy enough to jerk her rudely into a long swing instead of a plummet, heedless of the strain on her arm and shoulder. She just had time to fire another line to keep herself from smacking headlong into the wall, but not enough to get the perfect angle; she rolled sideway, dangling, and thumped painfully against a window fitting.
At the blasted wall of the archive, now several stories up, the gray-robed ignahta appeared amid the roiling dust. One gloved hand came up, then slashed diagonally toward her, and Alex watched open-mouthed as a blade-like distortion in space rippled across the gap between buildings. It slammed into the wall above her, blowing a long line of bricks into powder and cutting cleanly through the shadow-line that was holding her up.
I didn’t even know they could be cut, Alex thought inanely as she started falling again. Someone was screaming, inside the building, but she didn’t have time to think about that either. She slammed a hand against the wall and willed shadow filaments to take a firm grip, bringing her body to a brutally fast halt. Something went pop inside her wrist when it took her weight, accompanied by a screaming pain. Alex fought through the silver needles grinding against one another under her skin and held on to her will, letting the shadow-line lengthen and lower her toward the ground.
Another wave of magic slammed into the building above her. Chunks of brick started to fall away, accompanied by more screams. A piece of wall the size of a cart tumbled past, bouncing and spraying fragments, and missed Alex’s head by inches. The rippling blade lashed out a third time, and she felt her line snap. She clawed desperately at the wall, but before she could get a hold something punched her hard from behind, knocking the wind out of her.
The ground. She was on the ground, watching the building come apart and tumble toward her in huge, skull-crushing pieces. Alex scrambled to her feet, whimpering when she accidentally tried to brace herself on her shattered wrist, and ran for it. Around her, the street was full of the roused population of Newtown, who were doing the same thing. None of them had any idea what was happening, of course, but they were smart enough to know that they wanted no part of it. Alex slipped gratefully into the crowd, and went to work putting as many buildings as she could between herself and the grim form of the ignahta.
Her hand was agony, her legs and back ached, and she hadn’t gotten what she came for. But she was alive, and her legs had gone rubbery with relief. She felt giddy.
I won’t even mind letting the Old Man say “I told you so.”
• • •
It took all the composure Alex could muster to walk casually along the riverfront street, rather than sprint directly to her destination. It was practically deserted, with only the occasional pedestrian hurrying about some private errand. Alex guessed that the sound of the building falling to pieces a few blocks away had sent the usual night-time pimps and purveyors scurrying back to their holes.
A good thief always had an escape route ready—that was another lesson the Old Man had taught her, and she’d never been more glad to have listened. You never knew when a job was going to go bad, although admittedly they rarely went as spectacularly bad as this one had. Nevertheless, Alex had kept her head, walking a random pattern through the grid of Newtown’s streets before heading for the spot where the Old Man would be waiting. He’d procured a boat the day before, a simple flat-bottomed skiff, more than adequate to float them downstream past the water batteries and away from this hellish city.
And the next time he says it’s a bad idea to go somewhere, I’m going to take him seriously, Alex vowed, as she scanned the rows of tied-up watercraft. She found what she was looking for halfway down a lonely pier. The Old Man, huddled in his wool coat with the collar up, sat in the shadow of a larger boat tied up just beside theirs.
Alex paused, a pistol-shot away, and waved with her good hand. She squinted as her mentor waved back, an odd gesture with thumb and little finger folded in. That signaled that he was in the clear, and no Concordat thug was lurking in the shadows with a pistol trained on him. Alex couldn’t help quickening her steps a little as she crossed the exposed space of the pier and vaulted into the little boat, but no shouts followed her. As best she could tell, she’d gotten away clean, but her imagination equipped every rooftop with watchers and riflemen. She wanted to be away from this city, this country, as quickly as she could.
“Go,” she snapped at the Old Man, to forestall any questioning. “Let’s get out on the river.”
He nodded, silently, and reached for the long pole at the back of the skiff.
Alex untied the rope, and kept her eyes on the pier as they pushed off. The dark water of the Vor sucked and slapped at the hull.
A trio of men had turned the corner from a side street, heading for the pier. Alex crouched as low as she could in the boat and watched as they began to inspect the remaining craft. Her breath rasped in my throat.
Not as clean as I thought. She smiled tightly. The Last Duke’s boys are good, I have to admit. But not quite good enough.
“It was a trap,” she said quietly, when they were a hundred yards from shore. “You were right. We never should have come here. They had"—she swallowed hard—“someone like me, someone working for the Black Priests. I barely made it out, and I think I broke something in my hand.”
They were far enough from shore now that they should be invisible, a dark boat against dark water. There were enough lights burning on either shore that they wouldn’t need to light a lantern until they were well downriver. Alex sat up, wincing every time she shifted her injured arm, and turned to face the Old Man—
—who was gone. He’d thrown off the heavy cloak, revealing a much younger man in dark leather. She caught the gleam of steel in his hand as he reached forward, with an almost casual gesture, and planted long, needle-like stiletto in the meat of her shoulder.
She felt the blade sink through skin and muscle with an odd detachment, but no pain, not yet. Automatically, she called on her power, raising her hands to send dark spears of shadow through what could only be another of Orlanko’s minions. But her limbs didn’t respond—her injured hand only fluttered weakly, and the arm he’d stabbed lay as dead as if it had been severed. Alex felt something cold spreading through her body from the wound, her muscles tightening painfully as whatever substance had coated the blade coursed through her veins. Her heart began hammering double-time, though she didn’t know if it was from the poison or sheer terror.
“My name is Andreas,” the young man said. “I’m afraid Metzing will not be joining us, he had an urgent appointment to keep at the bottom of the river. But he did me the favor of explaining all about you before he… ah… left, including your little repertoire of hand signals. Some of them are quite elegant. I may have to borrow the idea. ”
Alex fell back against the edge of the boat. She couldn’t speak—the poison had clamped her jaw shut, and muscles in her neck stood out like cords. It was getting hard to breathe.
“You’re not going to die, if that’s what you’re worried. Our friends from Elysium were very particular about that. They were kind enough to provide us with this little potion, which I must say works quite marvelously. I know of quite a few ways to render a person unconscious, but none that operate this quickly without any risk of… damage.”
Alex struggled to open her mouth. She wanted to curse him, or maybe spit in his face. It didn’t matter, as she couldn’t summon up the strength for either.
“Don’t glare at me like that,” Andreas said. “You must have realized the risks when you decided to steal from us. And you should be thankful the Priests of the Black have expressed an interest. Anyone else who crossed His Grace would die for certain, at considerable length.” He looked thoughtful. “Mind you, one hears stories about what goes on at Elysium. You may wish you’d been a bit less lucky, eventually…”
But no one was listening. Alex’s head lolled back, and she slipped into an inky sea of darkness, as though the waves of her own power had washed over her.
• • •
The Duke’s finger tapped slowly on the careful loops and curls of Andreas’ handwritten report. He frowned as he read, and looked up.
“What have you done about the building?” he said.
Andreas inclined his head. “Construction failure. There was an attempt at refurbishment several months ago, which obviously has gone disastrously wrong. Everyone knows those old Newtown buildings are falling to pieces.”
“Move against the builder,” Orlanko ordered. “Negligence on that scale cannot be seen to go unpunished.”
“I have taken the liberty of doing so already,” Andreas said. “As it happens, the gentleman in question owns a considerable quantity of Crown debt, issued in lieu of payment on a previous project. Now that he is under arrest and his property forfeit, the question of repayment will of course not arise.”
Orlanko didn’t smile often, but at this the corner of his mouth at least twitched upward.
“Ah, Andreas. You are a master of killing two birds with one stone.”
“I do my best, Your Grace.”
“And the thief?”
“On her way north by now, with Father Volstock.”
“Excellent. That will go a long way towards keeping the Pontifex happy.” Orlanko leaned back in his chair. “Well done, Andreas. You may go.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The assassin slipped out. Orlanko pushed his report aside, revealing another file, and turned to the room’s other occupant. The ignahta was still swathed in gray from head to foot, but Orlanko had insisted the monk-like hood be pushed back. The Last Duke did not want his allies keeping secrets from him.
“You’ve done well,” he said.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You’re certain that your identity has not been compromised?”
The ignahta nodded. “Certain.”
That was the best thing about these Penitent Damned, Orlanko had decided. A conventional agent would always require some tools to get the job done. No matter how carefully hidden—the pistol at the back of the waistband, the dagger strapped to the thigh, the bottle of poison disguised as perfume—there was always a chance of discovery, especially if the opposition was alert. Whereas the Black Priest’s supernatural killers could be anyone, anywhere, and no one would ever be the wiser.
“Very good.” He leaned back, finger tapping idly on the file. The tag, carefully attached by some meticulous clerk, read Vhalnich. “Very good. Now. I have another assignment for you…”
THE THOUSAND NAMES
(excerpt)
by Django Wexler
First published as The Thousand Names (2013), by Ace/Roc
• • • •
Chapter One
Winter
FOUR SOLDIERS sat atop the ancient sandstone walls of a fortress on the sun-blasted Khandarai coast.
That they were soldiers was apparent only by the muskets that leaned against the parapet, as they had long ago discarded anything resembling a uniform. They wore trousers that, on close inspection, might once have been a deep royal blue, but the relentless sun had faded them to a pale lavender. Their jackets, piled in a heap near the ladder, were of a variety of cuts, colors, and origins, and had been repaired so often they were more patch than original fabric.
They lounged, with that unique, lazy insolence that only soldiers of long experience can affect, and watched the shore to the south, where something in the nature of a spectacle was unfolding. The bay was full of ships, broad-beamed, clumsy-looking transports with furled sails, wallowing visibly even in the mild sea. Out beyond them was a pair of frigates, narrow and sharklike by comparison, their muddy red Borelgai pennants snapping in the wind as though to taunt the Vordanai on the shore.
If it was a taunt, it was lost on the men on the walls, whose attention was elsewhere. The deep-drafted transports didn’t dare approach the shore too closely, so the water between them and the rocky beach was aswarm with small craft, a motley collection of ship’s boats and local fishing vessels. Every one was packed to the rails with soldiers in blue. They ran into the shallows far enough to let their passengers swing over the side into the surf, then turned about to make another relay. The men in blue splashed the last few yards to dry land and collapsed, lying about in clumps beside neatly stacked boxes of provisions and equipment.
“Those poor, stupid bastards,” said the first soldier, whose name was Buck. He was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man, with sandy hair and a tuft on his chin that made him look like a brigand. “Best part of a
month in one of those things, eatin’ hard biscuit and pukin’ it up again, and when you finally get there they tell you you’ve got to turn around and go home.”
“You think?” said the second soldier, who was called Will. He was considerably smaller than Buck, and his unweathered skin marked him as a relative newcomer to Khandar. “I’m not looking forward to another ride myself.”
“I fucking well am,” said the third soldier, who was called—for no reason readily apparent—Peg. He was a wiry man, whose face was almost lost in a vast and wild expanse of beard and mustache. His mouth worked continually at a wad of sweetgrass, pausing occasionally to spit over the wall. “I’d spend a year on a fucking ship if it would get me shot of this fucking place.”
“Who says we’re going home?” Will said. “Maybe this new colonel’s come to stay.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Peg said. “Even colonels can count noses, and it doesn’t take much counting to see that hanging around here means ending up over a bonfire with a sharp stake up the arse.”
“Besides,” Buck said, “the prince is going to make him head right back to Vordan. He can’t wait to get to spending all that gold he stole.”
“I suppose,” said Will. He watched the men unloading and scratched the side of his nose. “What’re you going to do when you get back?”
“Sausages,” said Buck promptly. “A whole damn sack full of sausages. An’ eggs, and a beefsteak. The hell with these grayskins and their sheep. If I never see another sheep it’ll be too soon.”
“There’s always goat,” Peg said.
“You can’t eat goat,” Buck said. “It ain’t natural. If God had wanted us to eat goat he wouldn’t’ve made it taste like shit.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about you, Peg? What’re you gonna do?”
“Dunno.” Peg shrugged, spat, and scratched his beard. “Go home and fuck m’ wife, I expect.”
“You’re married?” Will said, surprised.
