The Fair Elaine: A Kethem Novel

by Dave Dickie

  “May I ask why you need to see the Tamil?” asked the priest. If I’d been a Holder, he wouldn’t have bothered.

  I said, “The recent acquisition from the temple by Grafton Hold. There are a few accounting discrepancies I’ve been asked to check on.” Given the five million, fifty thousand rimii total bill, that was a fairly plausible story, not that I thought the priest in front of me would know anything about it. But Durderson would.

  The priest closed his eyes, and after a moment, his face relaxed. I was guessing telepathic communication. Nitheia mojo included a lot of communication spells. He opened his eyes, smiled at me, and said, “The Tamil is finishing something up, but if you have a seat, I will have someone guide you there in a few minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, one of the fresh faced acolytes, a young redheaded women with dimples when she smiled, tapped me on the shoulder. “Citizen Driktend? This way, please.” I followed her past the desks into one of two main hallways off the room, one on the right and one on the left of the back wall. We took the one on the right. The hallways were wide and long, thirty feet high, with tile floors that made footsteps echo. Other young acolytes with plain white robes were guiding people down the corridor and into one of the regularly spaced doors facing into the temple. I knew the layout; those would lead to smaller corridors with reading rooms on the left and right sides. A door at the end of the smaller corridor would open into the archives where the books and scrolls were held. We passed all those. At the far end of the long corridor a wide staircase lead up to the second level.

  This was the working level where the priests prayed and held services, but also had document repair and restoration facilities and offices. Temples do not run on prayer alone. The young woman led me past the prayer rooms and facilities and finally stopped at a door with two other young priests, both men, standing attentively at the door. “A guest for the Tamil,” she said, and they stood aside. She turned to me and said, “Tamil Durderson is inside.” One of the young men opened the door and ushered me in.

  Durderson was not what I expected. First, she was a woman, although there was no particular reason I should have expected a man. Second, she was very petite, maybe five feet tall, with white hair and faded blue eyes, sitting behind a desk in a chair that was so big it dwarfed her. She wore the Nitheia robes with six stripes, all different colors, and had a multicolored shawl over her shoulders as well. She looked like a grandmother. But when she looked at me, I saw a sharpness in her gaze, someone who measures everything and everyone they look at. She waved me into a seat on the other side of desk. She said, “Citizen Driktend, I understand you’re here about the anti-divination spell or artifact?”

  I nodded, thoughts kicking into high gear. I’d surmised that the Nitheia anti scrying spell Leppol had talked about in our first meeting, the one that prevented sorcerous inquires about the vial they had brought back, might have been the smaller amount of cash. It appeared the larger amount was for the same general purpose, but an artifact, not a spell. That would be something the temple had crafted in a ceremony. It varied temple by temple, but on certain dates significant to the god in question, a mass of priests would create objects of power that reflected some aspect of their deity. Some could be created by a small number of priests, like the Elementalist fire and cold runes. More powerful ones took larger numbers of priests. Something that required a five million rimii tithe… that had to have taken every Nitheia priest in Bythe, and then some. Whatever this artifact was, it had to be a hundred times more powerful than the spell on the vial. A thousand. It didn’t seem like it could be more effective… at least, there had been no indication that Leppol thought the spell on the vial might have been compromised. So it had to be bigger, hide more. Like a ranged spell or an area spell.

  While my thoughts were cranking away, Durderson’s eyes had narrowed. I’d paused for too long. Time to take a stab at it. “The artifact did not cover the area promised,” I said. “The Lord Holder believes he is due some compensation in return.”

  One of her eyes squinted. She said, “And the Lord Holder felt it necessary to send a lackey to tell me that? Not even a Copper Ring? Hogwash. You are fishing for information. Why?” I went to hold out my hand in a conciliatory gesture. It wouldn’t move. I tried to stand. Zip. As it turned out, I could still sweat. She leaned back in her chair. “Paralysis spell,” she said waving her hand, which seemed to work perfectly well. “Not a temple spell, purchased defenses. Common for high priests and priestesses. It’s a dangerous world. Now, I want you to explain what you are doing here. If you forged that note from the Lord Holder, you know the sentence will be death. If you didn’t… then why are you asking me questions that you could have gotten directly from him?”

  It turned out I could still talk. Something a bit more honest seemed called for. I said, “It is not forged. I am conducting an investigation for the Lord Holder. He felt it would be best if we did not have too much direct contact, not because I am doing anything illegal, but because he wanted me to come to my own conclusions.” That wasn’t strictly true but it was pretty close. “I’m trying not to reveal the nature of our relationship, so I use other excuses when I’m asking questions. The Lord Holder would like it kept quiet as well.”

  She still looked a little piqued. “Master Driktend, I understand the games Holders play, and I understand that people such as yourself get swept up in them. But I would strongly advise you not to walk into a temple and lie to the head priest or priestess on holy ground. The gods have ways of making you sorry you did. Now stop wasting my time. What do you want to know about the artifact? It’s range? Is that what you’re after?”

  I nodded, but my hands and legs still wouldn’t move. “Yes. And Tamil Durderson, if you’d remove the paralysis spell, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  She grumped “When I’m ready. I’m still irritated. To answer your question, the device affects everything within a radius of two miles. Once it is activated, it stays on, but its range will decrease by some amount each day, roughly one one hundredth of the distance. Eventually it will be useless.”

  That made me stop squirming. That meant the spell would cover twelve square miles. What the hell could this secret mission to the Ohulhug be trying to hide? An entire city? It made no sense. “Could I ask exactly how this artifact works?” I said. I was really fishing now, had no idea what the right questions to ask were.

  The old woman shrugged. She said, “It is, for all practical purposes, a sorcerous white noise generator. It doesn’t do much against more brute strength or point to point spells, like flame bolts or even teleports, but anything that is attempting to detect or manipulate the environment around it will fail.”

  Interesting. “So, not just scrying?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Detection spells, illusions, anything that needs long standing reflection of the surroundings will not work.” Could that be what Leppol had been after with this spell? Maybe he was trying to knock out a large area of illusion spells? But it didn’t seem any more useful than anti-scrying was. I needed to think about it for a while.

  "Ok, thanks. Can I ask one other question that may seem a little off topic?”

  She grimaced and replied “I am a busy woman, Master Driktend.” But I felt the paralysis spell let up.

  I let out a breath. “Tamil Durderson, many people have died because of this. Holders and commoners. I’m just trying to find out why.”

  She sighed. “Fine. One more question.”

  It was a stretch, but I figured if anyone had the time, interest and energy to pursue theological conundrums it had to be the priests of the God of Knowledge. Time to fish in different waters. “What can you tell me about Sambhal and his dual Demon-God nature?”

  She sat back, clearly surprised. “That is not a simple question,” she said.

  “I didn’t say it would be.”

  With a frown, she said, “Well, I will give you the basics, starting with theology 101. There’s chaos, and there’
s order. Chaos is energy, like a fire. Without control, it consumes everything it touches. The Gods represent order. They impose rules and structure, constrain the chaos in a way that doesn’t eliminate it, because it is needed, but makes it less destructive, hides it under a weave of law.”

  I nodded. “Sure, I’ve heard this from enchanters. Mana is leakage from chaos, because it’s not perfectly bound by the gods.”

  She nodded. “But intelligence is its own miniature version of the rules and laws that govern the realm. A god’s followers influence its nature. The gods are not as immutable as they seem.”

  Interesting. "So the religious orders we have today…”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. “They have put their own stamp, their own mythology, on their god. And their god slowly changes to suit. Did you really think there was a giant bull tethered to clouds by a golden rope to create the weather?” I hadn’t really believed that, but I didn’t really believe that Ipdohr shaped sentient beings out of clay because she wanted someone to write poetry for her either.

  Durderson said, “Sambhal was a demon, summoned by an unintentional combination of very powerful spells being cast by both sides during the fall of the Lanotalis empire. Demons are creatures of chaos. They feed off of it, need it to survive. But on this plane, chaos can’t be accessed directly. He needed another way. Mana was too thin for his blood, could not sustain him. But he realized that he could reach the substrata, could access chaos directly, if he became one of the ones that controlled it. If he became a god. So Sambhal used what power he had to build a cadre of followers, followers that worshiped him. I’m not sure he realized what that meant, but it was the only way for him to survive in a world without access to raw chaos.”

  "And what did it mean?”

  She shrugged. “It means he accomplished his goal, but gods are not individuals. They are patterns, a weave of order over chaos. So he became immortal… as an ideal, as a set of commandments for his followers, as a path through which they could access the underlying power of chaos without being consumed by it. Not as an individual, a corporeal entity. It’s what his followers expected, and if he wanted the mantle of godhood, accepting their influence over his nature was the price to pay.”

  “Too bad for him,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she answered. “I think you’d have to ask a god to know for sure.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next day I went after the artificers who’d been paid around the time of the Fair Elaine mission. I was sure one of the two charges was for the mana pool Ralin had used to cast compulsion on the crew, but asked Daesal to check up on it to be sure. The other charge was still a mystery. All I had was a name, Morran Stall.

  Artificers were notorious for limiting access to a select few they trusted. Still, they needed to hang a shingle out if they wanted business, and I knew people who made it their business to know who was who in the convoluted world of Kethem arcana. I left word with a few people after I left the Nitheia temple and had an address before lunch the next day. He was in a building on the curving road called Stattler’s Way that meandered along the southern border of the city. I telemaged over to a point nearby and hoofed it from there.

  Morran’s place looked a lot like Yimmy’s except it wasn’t as tall, perhaps eight feet high. I suppose the similarities made sense since the two were in the same business. Morran, however, wasn’t sitting outside. In fact, the building looked empty. I walked up to the front door and knocked. There was a noise inside, then nothing. I knocked again. Silence. I knocked harder. A small peephole opened and I saw a blue eye staring out of it.

  “Whacha want?” said someone from behind the door.

  “Gur Driktend to see Morran Stall,” I said pleasantly.

  “Not here,” said the voice.

  “When will he return?” I asked.

  “Not coming back,” said the voice and the little peephole shut. It would appear Morran was not a gregarious sort, but I can be persistent when I want answers. I knocked again. There was no answer. I pounded the door with my fist. It made a loud thump. The door suddenly shimmered like it was standing in the middle of the desert, heat waves washing over it. I took a step back, picked up a pebble, and threw it at the door. It careened off like a shot from a sling, trailing smoke as it flew.

  I decided I wasn’t going to knock again.

  I retreated a safe distance and considered my options. Finally, I walked away, then circled back from the other side of the road. This time I waited down the street and watched. The door shimmered for a while, then solidified and became a normal door again. A couple of hours later, getting towards sunset, someone in a warm jacket, boots, and a hat showed up and knocked on the door. An older man exited the building. I assumed it was Morran. He was followed by two younger men that stood behind him subserviently. Morran talked with the man in the jacket for a few minutes, then walked off with the younger men in tow. The man with the hat started walking the perimeter. When he turned the corner, I walked rapidly down the street and was rushing up to the door when he came around the other side of the building. I did my best to look distraught. “Did I miss Morran?” I asked.

  The man shook his head affirmatively. “Yep, just left.”

  “Damn,” I said. “I needed to pull some of the details off the Grafton Hold contract. I’m going to be in serious trouble.”

  He shrugged. “Sorry, buddy. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow will be too late. Look, can you let me in for five minutes? I know exactly where the contract is, I just need to look at it really fast.” His hand dropped instinctually to one of his coat pockets and I could see a lump there, but his eyes were saying no. “I’ll make it worth your while,” I added.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, no. I let you in there, I’m the one in trouble.”

  I walked up and put my hand on his shoulder. “Please. I need this.”

  He brushed my hand off. “No. It would be my job if I let you in there. Come back tomorrow.” I gave him a despairing look but his eyes remained hard. I let my shoulders slump and turned and walked away.

  Once I was out of sight I doubled back and waited for the sun to set. The man continued to walk the perimeter slowly. When he turned the corner around the back I sprinted for the door. I had the black obsidian square that I’d pickpocketed from him when I put my hand on his shoulder to distract him. When I held it up to the door, I heard a click. The door opened easily, and I walked in and shut it. There was dim light from a glow disk illuminating the room. I was in the office area, which is what I wanted. I moved very quietly to a set of cabinets with dozens of thin drawers. If the guard heard something and wanted to enter, he’d find he had lost his magicked key to the set of enhancements Morran had put on the door. I wanted to avoid that. It took a few minutes to go through the drawers, but Morran was fairly meticulous with his records, and it was easy enough to find a pile of papers in one with the title “Grafton Hold special project,” on them.

  I took them out and started reading them. There was the standard boilerplate, then the details about the item Morran had been tasked with making. The contract was for production of a vial about the size of a small drum. Interesting. The fluid was the thing that Leppol had gotten from the Ohulhug. The vial had been sent as an empty container. I read on.

  There were several paragraphs about the vial’s special properties, which seemed to be a magical shield on the inside that prevented any contact between the substance inside and the walls of the vial. One paragraph was explicit that the shield needed to prevent air from passing through, creating a perfect vacuum around the substance. I frowned. I wasn’t an alchemist, but I’d picked up a little here and there. I knew there were substances that were volatile, that reacted to air, that reacted to metal, even to glass. But something so active that it reacted to anything, that was new.

  I’d just heard of something like that, but it took a few seconds to click. The Tamil at the Nitheia temple, talking about chaos, how it
consumed everything it touched. But raw, primordial chaos… it was theoretically inaccessible, locked away by order and structure imposed by the gods. And if you could harness it, what good would it do you? I had no idea, had never heard of anyone capable of something like that. I needed more information. The Nitheia temple was the obvious place to get it, and I would have to start there. But there was another source of information on all things mana related that I had access to as well, and might give me a better perspective on the thing.

  Satisfied I had as much information as I was going to get, I put everything back where I found it, edged up to a window, and waited until the guard passed the door. I waited for a count of ten, then slipped out the door and dropped the key on the ground where the man would find it on his next pass.

  He might not believe it had slipped out of his pocket, but he would check the interior of the building and find nothing. I was betting on a reticence on his part to tell Morran that someone might have broken into the building by lifting his key. Even if he did fess up, there wasn’t anything to find.