“You have to keep this tight,” I said. “I know I can’t expect you not to use it, but it can’t make the rounds. Understood?”
“Completely.”
“All right,” I said. And I told him. I talked about being sent to dust Fedim, the conversation above the sewer grate, the attempts on my life. I talked about the missing relic, the scraps of paper, Iron Degan and the Gray Prince and Ten Ways. I went over everything that impacted either Ioclaudia’s book, Ten Ways, the fighting between Nicco and Kells-even my dream encounter with the Gray Prince. The only things I left out were my Long Nosing, my Oath to Degan, and my relationship to Christiana.
When I was done, Jelem remained silent for a long time, slowly swirling the last of the wine in his glass and staring at the light that gilded its rim. When he did speak, his voice was soft, as if coming from a great distance.
“The dream,” he said. “The dream… disturbs me.”
“You and me both,” I said.
Jelem shook his head. “I’m not talking about the woman’s warning, although I think you should heed her to be safe.”
“Then what?”
Jelem looked up from his wine. “Dream manipulation is… Well, it’s not done. At least, not that I’ve ever heard of. Not in the empire.”
“But they do it somewhere else?”
“There are stories, told in the oldest wajiq tals in Djan-what you might call magicians’ academies, though you have nothing to equal them here-of ancient masters who could step from one reality to another like we pass from room to room in a house. These studies were banned ages ago. The despots felt this power too closely mimicked the traveling of our gods, that it was a kind of blasphemy. It’s said the first step to such travels was to be able to enter the land of another’s dreams.”
“Are you saying there’s a Djanese yazani after this book, too?”
“No,” said Jelem. “I’m saying that, if your dream was manipulated as you say, the person responsible has access to a form of magic banned in my homeland for generations. Whether your imperial glimmer can do such things, I don’t know.”
“But why all the dancing around?” I said. “Why not just use glimmer to find the damn thing in the first place?”
“Two reasons,” said Jelem. “First, it’s very hard to use magic to locate things. Unless you are intimately familiar with what you are looking for, the chances of finding something with a spell are minimal at best. You would do only slightly worse if you flipped a coin at every crossroads you encountered in the city. And secondly, if you suspected other potent magicians, as well as the emperor himself, were interested in the same thing as you, would you want to advertise your involvement in the first place?”
“You forget,” I said, “I seem to have been doing exactly that all along.”
“Ah, but you’re a fool,” said Jelem. “The people looking for this book know better. They’ve understood the stakes from the beginning, while you’re just beginning to realize the risks now.”
“So tell me why this book’s so damn special,” I said.
Jelem set his glass aside and opened the book. The bindings creaked in soft protest. “As I told you,” he said, beginning to turn the stiff pages with disturbing disregard to their condition, “I can’t be completely sure of the contents. It’s in a strange script. I haven’t had much of a chance to examine it. And, frankly, what passes for magical theory in your empire still puzzles me sometimes. Djanese magic is much less eccentric.”
“Quit making excuses,” I said, “and get to the point.”
Jelem paused long enough to favor me with a dark look, then continued leafing through the book. “This is a personal journal. Part of it focuses on court politics, and part of it deals with glimmer. It’s hard to say what’s what. Ioclaudia skipped from topic to topic like an excited child-like so many Imperials, she obviously had no formal training in rhetoric-but when she does mention magic, it certainly seems to be of the Imperial variety.
“What’s more, Ioclaudia Neph appears to have been one of the emperor’s personal magical advisers-part of his inner circle. When he needed something, or someone, glimmered, she was one of the people he called. Information, punishment, defense, manipulation… She did it all for him.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s one serious Paragon.”
“When you cast for, and on, the emperor, you’d best be. But that’s not the most interesting part.”
“No?”
“No.” Jelem was still turning pages, scanning over them as he went. When he reached the page he wanted, he brought the book to me.
“Here,” he said. He handed it over and pointed to a portion of the page. “Read this section, here.”
The book was in better shape than I had expected. I’d dealt with religious and historical texts that were more rot than book, and most of them weren’t a third of the age of this one. Yes, there was water damage, both old and new, and some of the ink had faded, and the binding was loose, but the book was still in one recognizable, usable piece. Aside from the traces of Barren’s mud still lingering in a few spots, I would have thought it had been residing in a library until now.
I tipped the book toward the light coming from the lantern. Jelem was right; Ioclaudia’s hand had been atrocious. The ideograms looked to be a stylized form of cephta, but they had been put down in a careless manner. I could barely recognize it as writing.
“Let’s see,” I said. “I find I’m still having some problems with the third portion of the… incantation. Could it be a centering issue? Perhaps, but I suspect it is more the nature of the spell itself. Hystia’s Theorem states that…”
I looked up at Jelem. “ ‘Hystia’s Theorem’?” I said.
“Patience,” said Jelem. “Keep reading.”
I repositioned the book in my lap. “Hystia’s Theorem states that while magic can be focused through the… fala n’arim?”
“It’s a Djanese term. Keep reading.”
“It cannot be used to effect the same. This is known. It is a Truth, handed down by the Angels, immutable as time.
“And yet, we have found flaws in the Theorem. While the fala n’arim is the ideal lens, it might serve as a template as well. As a lens may be polished or faceted, so may it be altered to change its focal length. Is this the case for the fala n’arim as well? An imperfect analogy, I admit, but if it is so, then we can do much more than we thought. So much more than we were told we could…”
I looked up. “All right,” I said. “She’s on the verge of something big, at least to her. Things aren’t what they seemed. Great. What does it mean?”
Jelem took the book and returned to his seat. He stared down at the passage I had just read. “Fala n’arim is an old term in Djanese sorcery. There’s no direct translation into Imperial, either, for the language or magical theory.” He ran a finger absently along the edge of the book, then drew it hastily away.
“Fala n’arim,” he said, “refers to the core of the caster, the very essence of the self. The great yazani of Djan have always written of shielding the fala n’arim, of keeping it pure and untainted. To bring power into it is to corrupt it, and therefore the man as well. It is one of our oldest precepts of magic.
“But Ioclaudia writes of using it as the focus for her magic, of taking power into it and shaping it within. More, she even hints at using the fala n’arim to draw power from the Nether itself.” Jelem paused and rubbed at his lower lip. “I suppose I can see it in theory,” he said. “And it could give you access to immense power, but still, to-”
“Jelem,” I said, “is the fala n’arim a soul?”
“For lack of a better term, yes.” Jelem looked up at me. “Ioclaudia is talking about using her very being to tap directly into the power of the Nether. No gathering up the seepage like most Mouths, no constrained external taps-just Ioclaudia and the Nether.”
“So that’s what Imperial magic is-casting magic through your soul?”
“That’s what Ioclaudia seem
s to be saying, at least as I understand it so far. There’s still a great deal more to read.”
I stared at the book in his lap. I wasn’t much on theology, but you can’t help but pick up some when you trade in stolen items. What little I knew was waving warning flags like crazy.
“She’s talking blasphemy,” I said. “Big blasphemy.” Even the Angels had hesitated before they had divided Stephen Dorminikos’s soul into three parts and set up the cycle of Imperial Reincarnation. No one messed with souls. It was the third Declaration in the Book of Return, just after, Honor the Angels in all things and The Angels are the true successors of the Dead Gods.
And then there was the whole topic of Imperial magic on top of it.
“That thing’s a fucking death sentence twice over,” I said.
“And a possible key to great power as well,” said Jelem.
“No wonder those Sashes were after it.” I ran my hand along my thigh, feeling a dull twinge where the sword had cut and gouged me. “We got lucky. This could have been far worse if they’d gotten away and told the emperor who had that book.”
“Things still may be,” said Degan.
I started and looked over to see Degan standing in the doorway, a canvas bag under his arm. Big men weren’t supposed to move that softly.
His eyes had deep smudges underneath them. His clothes, while different from those he had been wearing in the Barren, still looked rumpled and hard worn. There was a dirty bandage on his left hand.
“The third Sash?” I said.
“Off into the night.”
I closed my eyes. “Damn.” Make that a death sentence thrice over.
Chapter Nineteen
“How’d she get away?” I said.
Degan, still in the doorway, shrugged. “It was either keep track of Larrios and the book, or kill her. Given how badly you said you wanted the book, I settled for shoving her into the basement and running Larrios down.”
“That little bastard ran?”
“Like the wind,” said Degan. “Well, the wind if it had a bad eye, a bad leg, and a couple of broken ribs. He ended up dropping the book rather than let me catch him.”
“Where was I in all of this?” I had a vision of myself lying unconscious in the rain, a White Sash climbing out of the basement toward me, and I didn’t care for it much.
Degan eyed me a moment. “You weigh more than I’d expect. Did you know that?”
“Oh,” I said.
Degan nodded, then hefted the sack. “By the way, your clothes were ruined. I got these for you, instead.” He tossed the canvas bag onto the bed. I opened it.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said as I pulled out a scarlet doublet, the fabric pinked and richly embroidered with silver thread. A pair of matching knee pants followed, along with a set of cream-colored stockings. At the bottom, I found a linen shirt, complete with lace collar and cuffs.
“The Baroness Sephada sends her wishes for a speedy recovery,” said Degan, a distinct twinkle in his eyes.
Christiana. Of course. I could see her cackling with glee as she went through Nestor’s old things, looking for the least likely outfit to send my way.
Christiana… I looked up at Degan. The twinkle was still in his eyes.
“You couldn’t have gotten me my own clothes?” I said instead of asking him about my sister.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Degan wiggled his fingers in the air. “I know what it would take to get into your place, and I like having all my extremities and organs.”
I sighed and looked down at the clothing in my lap. Then I held up the doublet and smiled. “Too big!” I said. “We’ll have to find something else.”
“Nonsense,” said Jelem. He came over and gathered up the pile. “Ahnya can have these altered and ready for you in no time.”
“You’re a cruel man,” I said sourly.
Jelem leaned in close. “I’ve been sleeping in a chair for two days because of you. This is only the beginning.”
It was three hours past dawn when I left Jelem’s via the front door, my features hidden beneath a great cloak. Jelem and Degan had left five minutes earlier, Jelem disguised as best we could manage to look like me from a distance. No one had melted from the shadows to follow them. I chose to take that as a sign that we weren’t being watched, rather than as a comment on our meager efforts at misdirection.
I tugged yet again at the refitted doublet I was wearing. Jelem’s wife had folded, cut, pinned, and stitched with amazing skill, but the clothes still felt like someone else’s. As Degan had pointed out, though, no one would be expecting me to walk around dressed like this, so I was better off in them than in my own togs right now.
At least my boots had survived; otherwise, I would be scuffing about in too-big slippers, their toes stuffed with rags.
I had Ioclaudia’s book with me, hidden beneath the doublet and my cloak. By all rights, I should have been taking it straight to Kells-after all, he was the one who’d tasked me with finding it in the first place, and I did work for the man. But the fight with the White Sashes, not to mention the Gray Prince’s dream, was still too fresh in my head to ignore. Until I better understood how Ioclaudia’s journal fit into the war in Ten Ways, I wasn’t going to give it to anyone. This wasn’t something I could just set on the table in front of Kells, boss or no, friend or no. I respected the man, but that didn’t mean I trusted him with a book on imperial glimmer-not when he was fighting for his organization’s survival.
I kept my head down and my eyes to myself as I maneuvered through the morning crowds. The crush of Lighters slowed me down, but it also helped me blend in with the mob more easily.
I reached the edge of Fifth Angel Square and paused to buy a steaming cup of butter tea. I let my eyes roam over the crowd, looking for faces or forms that seemed a bit too busy being disinterested in me. The tea was good, full of butter and salt and mint. Warming. It would sit well with the five ahrami and small breakfast I had had earlier. I finished it quickly and moved back into the crowd.
I circled the base of Elirokos’s statue three times, stopping to price carpets, haggle over a small bracelet, argue with a blind soothsayer, and admire a talented dancing girl with an unorthodox interpretation of the a’Sakar.
No one-there were no Tails, no Squinters, no Six-Foot-Gangs in sight. If anyone was following me, they were too good for me to see, let alone lose.
I went over to Mendross’s stall.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” he said as he rushed by, a basket of lemons in his hand. He was just about to give the basket to a well-dressed woman when he stopped in midstride, turned, and stared at me. His eyes were still moving up and down my outfit when the woman behind him cleared her throat.
“My fruit?” she said pointedly.
“Eh?” said Mendross. Then he blinked and nodded. “Oh! Yes, my lady, of course.” He spun around and handed her the basket, took her coin, and bowed his apologies, all the while still watching me out of the corner of his eye.
After she had moved away, Mendross turned and made an expansive gesture in my direction. “My lord!” he cried, loud enough to be heard three stalls over. “How good to see you! You must be here for those mangos you asked about last week, yes? Good news-they’re in, just as I promised! I have them around back. Please, come see for yourself and tell me they are not the most succulent fruits you have ever tasted!”
I smiled and nodded and tried to play the part. Mendross bowed and scraped and ushered me toward the bright curtain that separated his inventory space from the front of his stall.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he whispered as he pushed the curtain aside.
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
Mendross’s second son was lying stretched out across three sacks in the back, asleep, a wax inventory tablet on the floor by his arm.
“Spyro!” Mendross snapped. Spyro snapped upright and began scrambling for the tablet. “Forget that and mind the stall,” said Me
ndross. “And remember to push the plums-they’re going soft.”
The boy nodded and ducked out, barely sparing me a glance in his haste.
Mendross took one of the redder mangos, produced a small knife, and deftly carved out a long, wide wedge for each of us. He was right-they were delicious.
“So,” said Mendross as he wiped a dribble of thick juice from his chin, “do I get to hear the story behind the outfit?”
“No.”
“That embarrassing, hmm?”
“That unimportant,” I said. “I need to know what you’ve heard lately.”
Mendross settled himself on a small stool. “A lot. How much do you want?”
As tempting as it was to say, “All of it,” I knew I didn’t have that kind of time. I had been out of the game for more than two days-I needed the big picture first; the details could be sorted out later.
“Stick to Ten Ways,” I said. “Plus anything you’ve gathered on Nicco. Or Kells.” I paused to consider. “Or a scribe named Baldezar, for that matter.”
“Haven’t heard anything about any scribe, but where’ve you been that you need me to fill you in on the rest? It’s all over the street.”
“Just tell me,” I said.
Mendross carved off another slice of mango. “Get comfortable, then,” he said, and launched into his report.
It was ugly. Kin wars are always bloody, violent affairs, replete with ambushes in the street and bodies in the alleys, but this had gone well past that. Where past wars had usually been confined to byways and the dark of the night, Nicco’s men were openly attacking Kells’s in streets, markets, and squares, day or night, no matter whether the places were empty or full. No effort was being made to hide things from the empire, let alone give them a chance to turn a blind eye. Even worse, Rambles had supposedly told his people that any Red Sashes trying to interfere with the war were fair game. If Rags started going down to Kin gangs, it wouldn’t be a question of if the empire stepped in, but, rather, when and how hard.
Among Thieves totk-1 Page 24
