Of Shadow and Sea (The Elder Empire: Shadow Book 1)

by Will Wight

  Shera stood behind Maxwell, her knife in her hand, thinking of Mari.

  She cocked her head, aware of something she had never thought of before. Maxwell engineered the deaths of dozens, perhaps hundreds of people. He deserved his fate. And as for his ‘useful function’...

  “I have no use for you,” she said.

  He was starting to turn around when she drew her knife across his calves. He fell to his knees, screaming, and she plunged her knife into his back. Five times, to be safe.

  The other children soon arrived, drawn by the sound of the gunshot. From the doorway, they each saw Maxwell, facedown in a pool of his own blood, as well as Mari’s body slumped against a cage.

  Some of them cried. Others screamed, and still others remained silent. A few looked as though they’d finally been released from prison.

  But when they saw Shera, sitting on top of a cage with a bloody knife, none of them entered the room.

  ~~~

  Kerian stood in the hallway of Maxwell’s safe house, watching her fellow Consultants work. Or rather, watching the results of their work.

  It was rare, even for her, to catch a Consultant in action.

  A twelve-year-old boy raised a shaking pistol with both hands, pointing the barrel at Kerian—the only target in sight. She didn’t bother moving.

  A black shape passed across the boy and he was gone, pistol and all. A nine-year-old girl, who happened to be turning the corner at that exact moment, gasped and dropped a bundle of clothing. Before she could run off, a pair of black-clad arms reached down from the ceiling and pulled her up through the trap door.

  Idly, Kerian fiddled with the leather satchel that hung from her shoulder. She had prepared for any number of contingencies, and thus far none of them had materialized. She couldn’t help the boredom. Gardener missions were many things, but they were rarely boring; even if you had to lie perfectly still under a flowing river for six hours, breathing through a reed, assassinations had a thrill all their own.

  She was the only Gardener on this mission, for which she was glad. Certain instincts could be hard to suppress, and they wanted these children back alive. The clients had specified as much, for understandable reasons.

  The clients were the parents of these missing children. And they had finally offered such an obscene sum of money that the Consultant’s Guild could not turn them away.

  As glad as she was that she didn’t have to rein in a team of Gardeners, she could never get used to working with Shepherds and Masons. The Masons weren’t suited for real stealth work: they relied on their disguises to see them through, and they couldn’t see that disguises served them nothing. A Mason hustled into view now, dressed as an old lady in an apron, chasing a girl down the hallway.

  It doesn’t matter if you look harmless. If you’re a stranger, these children will run. It seemed, sometimes, that Masons left common sense on the island with their Consultant blacks.

  Shepherds were a little better; at least they wore black. They were so skittish. Kerian had personally witnessed a Shepherd running from an eight-year-old boy with an undersized saber. Shepherds had been trained for so many years to minimize risk that they didn’t recognize a harmless target when they saw one.

  These children, on the other hand, had been raised like Gardeners. Or as close as Maxwell could come to it, having never seen the Garden himself.

  Kerian strolled down the hall, searching through her satchel with one hand as she walked. An extra pair of knives...useless. Climbing gear...unnecessary. An invested hammer in case we have to break through a wall...well, that one might come in handy.

  She still hoped someone would attack her. A mission didn’t feel right without the risk of danger.

  When she heard the pistol-shot ring out through the safe house, Kerian’s spirits soared. Here, at last, something was happening.

  She made her way downstairs, catching snatches of the reports from Shepherds who had—of course—already checked out the noise and returned.

  “...Maxwell dead.”

  “...shot one of the girls. Don’t know...”

  “...looked like he was trying to escape.”

  A crowd of children clustered around the door to the room full of cages. They were facing the same way, so it was easy for Kerian to slip around them unnoticed and into the room herself.

  The scene inside looked like the aftermath of a sloppy Gardener’s botched mission.

  Cages had been hauled away from one wall, revealing a metal grate that was halfway peeled away from the brick. The tunnel beyond it was Maxwell’s “secret” escape route, an underground road dating back to the Kings’ War. Five Consultants waited in hiding at the other end, prepared to take Maxwell when he emerged.

  But he hadn’t made it that far. Maxwell lay facedown as though drowning in blood, five or six stab wounds in the back of his shirt. His killer had been shorter—they’d slashed him across the legs to bring him down so they could reach. One of his children, then, had turned on their master.

  Perhaps this girl over here, the curly-haired one with the bullet in her chest. Tears had worn tracks down her cheeks and she still had a blue ribbon in her hair.

  Not her, then. She’d died surprised and unarmed.

  Kerian glanced around the room before she spotted the killer: a girl, probably less than ten years old, with her black hair spilling out of a cheap cap. She was curled up on a cage, a bloody knife still gripped in her hand.

  Asleep.

  The Gardener snapped her fingers twice and two Shepherds appeared, black-clad and black-masked, bowing their heads and awaiting her order.

  “Finish collecting the rest of the children,” she ordered. “Then bring them to the chapter house for the clients.”

  She nodded to the sleeping killer. “I’ll bring this one myself.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Intent’ is what we call the power of focused will that all humans possess. If you use an object, you invest that object with your Intent. This, in turn, makes your tool more effective.

  We have recognized these effects since ancient times, but only now are we learning to turn these principles to our own ends.

  I believe the military applications are obvious.

  -From an ancient research journal in the Magister’s Guild

  (Excerpt stored in the Consultant’s Guild archives)

  Fifteen years later, Shera was having trouble staying awake.

  She sat in a padded chair behind a broad desk, forehead pressed against the paperwork she was supposed to be organizing. The room around her was well-appointed and comfortable; a chapter house of the Consultants had to be at least as inviting as this one. Paintings hung on the wall, plants on the windowsill, and the clients’ chairs in front of the desk were even more comfortable than Shera’s own.

  If only they had a client.

  This was the northern chapter house, one of three in the Imperial Capital. Even in a city the size of the Capital, not many people could afford the services of the Consultants, and they were usually rich enough to arrange a meeting beforehand. These days, the chapter house’s flow of clients had effectively dried up.

  Which meant paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork.

  The Shepherds’ observations and Masons’ reports would usually go straight to the Miners back in their catacombs, but some of the information was time-sensitive. It was up to the staff of the chapter house to sort through the piles of miscellaneous facts and decide exactly what they needed to keep and what needed to be sent back home.

  The quicklamps on the wall glowed a steady orange—the alchemical fluid shone with the color of torchlight, or the blaze of sunset. It created an intimate, comfortable atmosphere for clients.

  A little too comfortable for Shera. Her head rested on the paper, and her eyes slowly drifted shut. Maybe this time she’d be able to catch a few minutes of sleep before…

  Her partner jabbed her in the ribs with what felt like a knife. Shera jerked awake, one of the sheets of pa
per sticking to her forehead and coming up with her.

  Ayana’s voice was a rough whisper, like paper over stone. “Control yourself. You should be able to lie motionless for a day and a night without losing focus.”

  Shera’s partner was at least twenty years older than Shera herself, and she looked like an unquiet spirit from a five-bit horror novel. Her pale hair hung in strings like a torn burial shroud, her skin as pale as if it had never seen the sun. And that wasn’t the worst of it.

  She poked Shera’s side again, with her six-inch iron fingernails. They were all-natural, gifts from parents who had not been entirely human.

  And a plague on Shera’s nap time.

  Shera peeled the paper away from her forehead, slapping it back down on the stack in front of her. “Can we have this conversation after I wake up? It’s too early for this.”

  Ayana looked pointedly at the gilded clock ticking away at the corner of the desk. “It’s noon.”

  “Then we should at least wait until six.”

  Her partner jabbed her again, in the leg this time, but Shera didn’t flinch away. That would only invite further punishment. Ayana sighed, drumming her metal nails on the surface of the desk.

  “I beg you, take this more seriously. Yala will only relent if we prove ourselves indispensable. We have to be patient.”

  Shera propped her head in her hands. “Yala would execute me this second if she wasn’t so afraid of the Regents. You’ve got a chance, though. Tell her you’re sick of me, you’ll listen to her commands from now on, and then kill somebody she doesn’t like. She’ll come around.”

  Ayana remained silent, still drumming her nails on the wood. Shera started to worry.

  “…please don’t actually do that.”

  “I didn’t say I would.”

  “You looked like you were considering it, though.”

  “I consider many things.”

  Was she serious, or was she saying this to make Shera sweat? “Don’t leave me alone here. I shudder to think who they’d send to replace you.”

  Ayana clenched her fist, which looked like she’d gripped a handful of knives. “Neither of us should be here. In a time like this, she’s wasting not one, but two Gardeners? Inexcusable. I don’t know why Kerian lets her live.”

  Kerian lets her live because Kerian doesn’t see murder as the solution to every problem. It was an unexpected attitude in an assassin, but Shera had learned to accept it.

  “Well, don’t go too far,” Shera said. “I don’t mind being wasted. I’ve gotten more sleep in the last year than in the rest of my life combined.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “My problem is that I can’t enjoy it. There’s always something to do, and that’s bad enough, but it’s not even enjoyable. It’s like raking leaves for a living.”

  Ayana scraped her iron fingernails together in a horrible cacophony that made Shera wince. “What I’m gathering from this discussion is that you’d like to live the rest of your life on a paid vacation.”

  Shera considered for a moment. “I’ve never heard it out loud before, but yes, that sums—”

  The ring of a bell cut her off as an old man pushed open the door.

  Shera’s hands worked without conscious input, gathering up all the papers and shoving them under the desk. Ayana did the same, and in the blink of an eye the evidence of their morning’s work was hidden from the client’s view. Ayana kept her hands in her lap, smiling pleasantly. The expression made her look like a grinning skull.

  Quickly swiping off the smudge of ink she was sure the papers had left on her forehead, Shera adopted the same expression.

  “Welcome to the Consultant’s Guild,” Shera said pleasantly. By mutual agreement, they had decided that Shera was supposed to talk for both of them. Ayana’s voice could be…off-putting. “How may we help you today?”

  Their visitor was an older gentleman, perhaps in his early seventies, who had clearly seen better fortunes. His bowler hat was faded, his brown suit patched. He leaned on a chipped cane as he limped in—not as a pretense, but a prop to cope with a genuine injury.

  He hobbled in with the mournful aspect of a man attending his own execution.

  Straightening his back as much as he could, the man spoke. “My name is Ulrich Fletcher. Please, I need your help.”

  His voice trembled with desperation, as though he were asking for nothing less than his own personal salvation. That was unusual. Usually, the people who could afford Guild services were several thousand goldmarks distant from the poorhouse. For them, ‘desperation’ was just a word.

  “Of course, Mister Fletcher,” Shera said with a smile. “Please, have a seat.” Beside her, Ayana covertly rifled through a drawer full of files marked ‘F.’

  With great effort, Fletcher levered himself into one of the padded chairs in front of the desk. “Ahem. Well, where to begin? I was once a man of great means and influence, you see. Eleven years ago, my business was destroyed by…”

  He droned on, describing his personal history in unnecessary detail. Shera felt her smile slipping. She never had been suited for the false cheer that working in a chapter house required, but Ayana’s smile sent small children running, and her voice could make a Champion shiver with fear. Next to her, Shera seemed as welcoming as a grandmother.

  “…though I was compensated for this loss by the Emperor himself, may his soul fly free, it was still too late for my original fortunes. What was I to do? I could barely see a light in that deep darkness, and I’m afraid to say…”

  Not only was Shera’s smile gone, but her eyelids had begun to slide shut. She wondered if the old man would stop talking when she started snoring, or if he would keep going.

  Ayana slipped her a file, careful to keep her sharp iron fingernails hidden from Fletcher.

  On the outside of the file, in Ayana’s wide handwriting, were the words ‘Ulrich Fletcher.’

  Not even pretending to pay attention to Fletcher’s story any longer, Shera studied the file. They kept information on any potential clients they were likely to encounter in each chapter house, which included essentially any citizen in the Capital with enough cash to hire them. These files had to be pruned, trimmed, and modified on a daily basis, which led to her waves of paperwork.

  ‘Former warden of Candle Bay Imperial Prison,’ the file said. ‘Recent owner of an alchemical workshop at 1328 Regent Way. Kanatalia investigated him for the manufacture of illicit substances, but the investigation ended on uncertain terms.’

  The old man wiped a tear from his eye, his story not slowed in the slightest, and Shera scanned the file for any other relevant information. Her eyes locked onto ‘Estimated total worth: five hundred silvermarks. The workshop is valued separately at approximately six thousand silvermarks.’

  Five hundred silvermarks? Shera had never settled on a contract for less than that. Ulrich Fletcher was becoming less interesting by the second.

  “…so I invested everything in my workshop. If I can’t get it back, I won’t be able to feed my family.”

  Shera trawled through her mind for the bits of information that had trickled through. “So you say a gang of criminals has taken over your workshop? That seems like a job for the police. Or perhaps the Imperial Guard, since you have Alchemist’s Guild contracts.”

  Fletcher’s breathing grew a little rougher, and he looked anywhere except in Shera’s eyes. “Ah, you see, that’s the point. I’ve had some rough dealings in the past…anyway, you can’t trust Capital police. What separates them from the street gangs? Uniforms and pistols, that’s what I’ve always said. And I could never bother the Imperial Guard with this, their time is far too valuable—”

  Shera cut him off before he could launch into another story. “I get it, Mister Fletcher. What are you making in there? Anthem? Drake dust? Undersong?”

  Fletcher shifted in his chair as though he sat on a bed of hot coals, and Ayana elbowed her in the ribs. This wasn’t the time to let him squirm.

/>   “If you’re cooking up something illegal, Fletcher, you can tell us. We don’t care.”

  “It’s very difficult to turn a profit with the classic solutions and formulas, you see, and even flashy potions have a surprisingly low profit margin…”

  He trailed off, but Shera took it as an admission of guilt. “You’re manufacturing recreational alchemy, and you need us to clear out the workshop before everything gets stolen. Great. We can certainly be of service to you, Mister Fletcher, but first there is the issue of remerration.”

  “Remuneration,” Ayana whispered.

  “Payment,” Shera said.

  Fletcher pulled a stuffed envelope out of his coat. When Shera took it, he let his fingers linger until the very last instant, as though he were a Soulbound and the paper contained his Vessel.

  Shera pulled the gray banknotes out and flipped through them, counting in seconds.

  Five hundred silvermarks. According to his file, that was the value of everything he owned outside of the workshop. He must be truly desperate.

  “That’s everything I could beg, borrow, or steal,” he said weakly. “Without the workshop, I’ll be living on the streets in a week. Please, I’ve given you all I have.”

  Shera handed the envelope to Ayana and gave the man a friendlier smile. “That was a good decision.”

  As long as the payment exceeded a certain minimum amount, it was up to the chapter house staff whether they accepted small-scale, limited-term contracts or not.

  And in this case, Shera had nothing better to do.

  Fletcher slumped in his chair, visibly deflating. “Thank you. What information do you need from me? I have blueprints, floor plans, inventories…”

  He started to pull further papers out from his coat, but Shera stopped him with a raised hand. “That won’t be necessary. We have all the information we need.”

  One of their Masons was employed in his workshop, so their file on Fletcher already contained everything he was likely to provide.