A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  That’s going to cost at least a wheel’s worth of gold to set right.

  He sighed heavily, gathering his strength. He would rest here awhile. However zealous these bastards were, no one was crazy enough to follow a city rat like him down this hole. It was only a couple of turns until nightfall. He’d wait here until dark and then sneak out. Or maybe it would be safer to stick to the sewers. There was no way of knowing if they’d leave some–

  Splash!

  Injured muscles stretched taut in shock.

  Crap…

  Who were these people?

  He went perfectly still, listening intently. Above the turgid gurgle and drip of the not-quite-water and the hammering of his own heart, he could hear little. Moving quietly, he patted at his knife sheath. Remembering he’d tossed it, he moved on to his second and then his third knife and came up empty. He must have lost them in the fall. He squeezed his eyes tight shut.

  Misbegotten get of a dockside whore…

  Shuffling deeper into the niche, he strained his ears. Was that the sound of a foot being dragged through knee deep sludge? The rasp of leather armor? He tried to concentrate. It really was dark down here. Maybe, if he just sat quietly, the hunter would pass right–

  The hand that closed around his throat made him jump in alarm, adding to the upward motion as he was wrenched erect. Instinctively, he clutched at the brawny forearm that hoisted him off the ground and slammed him hard into the moldy brick. His head snapped back, the impact leaving him dazed. With only his toes dangling in the water, he was vaguely aware of a rough hand patting him down.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t armed, his captor slammed him into the wall again one handed.

  “Where is it?”

  Not a city accent, said the part of him not seeing stars. Not a desert accent at all. And not one he recognized either.

  The part of him that was very seriously and very immediately concerned with his own wellbeing concentrated on his right hand.

  Come on… come on…

  “I said,” intense eyes threatened from above an oft broken nose, “where is it?”

  Strong fingers flexed around his neck, making him gape soundlessly. The pounding in his head intensified. He bent all his attention upon his one finger, resisting the urge to actually look at it.

  Come on! Come on!

  “Look, boy,” his captor said in an insufferably reasonable tone. “We don’t want to hurt you.” He read the lie in the man’s eyes. “But you are going to tell us what we want to know, one way…”

  A brawny hand drifted down to the splinter sticking from his side.

  “Or another…”

  The stub of wood was twisted viciously.

  His heels drummed at the slick wall, splashing water, and his arms strained against the thick forearm but he didn’t scream. He hissed through his teeth, glaring at his captor.

  Come on, dammit! Come on!

  “Yeah, you’ve got guts, kid. But that ain’t gonna save you. However long this takes…” pressure on the splinter, driving it deeper, “…is up to you.”

  He gritted his teeth, groaning against the pain.

  Come ON! I’m dying here!

  A shrill whistle sounded from the top of the shaft, echoing down the dank sewer. Head turning that way, his captor’s lips pursed to return the signal.

  He felt a tingling in his right palm as the lazy magic stirred awake, taking shape.

  YES!

  The knife punched through the man’s jugular and up under his jaw. He jerked it roughly to the side, slicing through windpipe and forestalling any whistle.

  The dead man grabbed at his ruined neck with both hands.

  Jiminy slid down the wall, splashing into the waste and trying to suppress his coughing. The corpse splashed down next to him.

  From out of the expectant silence at the top of the manhole the whistle sounded again.

  Did they know their pal was down here? Would they come down after him if he didn’t respond? Or would they move on by some prearranged pattern? He quickly took stock. He certainly wasn’t running anywhere. Not with this log through his side, not with his injured ankle. And the condition he was in, he’d be worse than helpless in a fight. If they came down here, the best he could do was–

  Splash!

  –hide.

  Gripping tightly the knife in his hand, he lay back in the filth. Reaching out, he drew the body of his would-be killer over top of him. He would just have to trust in the darkness to hide him. Taking a deep breath, trying not to think about what he was doing, he ducked his head beneath the surface and lay still.

  The soupy muck pressed down on him, drowning all sound beneath its own chaotic churn. His heart pounding in his ears, he waited tensely, imagining he could detect the wading of feet through the press and ebb of the swirl around him. He tightened his grip on the knife he held. Something, the tip of a boot perhaps, brushed his knee and it took all of his self control not to flinch violently. Even so, he couldn’t stop his eyes from snapping open. Through the stinging film of obstructing filth, he looked up into the broken nose of the man he’d killed, suspended and lifeless above him. Two fingers withdrew from the man’s throat where they’d been feeling for a pulse, disappearing back into the impenetrable murk above the water. A moment later, whatever lay against his knee withdrew. He thought he could feel his unseen hunter moving on. He screwed his eyes tight against the burn, holding his breath as long as he could, hoping that it would be long enough.

  His head ached with the pressure. As the burn in his lungs slowly climbed towards an undeniable need, the body of his attacker lost its buoyancy, settling down on top of him. Unable to stand it any longer, he carefully raised his face above the surface and breathed. It was an exercise in self control to draw breath into his parched lungs slowly and stealthily instead of sucking in a huge echoing gulp or air. The filth of the sewer and the blood of his victim lay on his lips. He longed to spit. Gingerly he raised his head, peering over the dead man’s shoulder to squint up and down the passage, seeing nothing. He tried to listen carefully, hampered by the gunk caking his ears, but heard only the dank and dripping sounds of the sewer. He’d have to chance it.

  Pushing his erstwhile captor off him was more difficult this time, the body was settling and his own strength was gone now the adrenaline was ebbing. He bit his lip to keep from crying out at the pain in his side and then wished he hadn’t at the taste. Wriggling painfully out from under the corpse, he shuffled his shoulders up the wall, managing at least to sit up before he had to rest, gasping.

  Exhausted to the point where he thought he might go to sleep right there, sitting hip deep in shit with a dead man for company, he hung his head, breathing heavily. He would have to move soon, in case his hunter doubled back or came to collect his dead comrade.

  His hand was still seized in a death grip around the hilt of the dagger his pursuer hadn’t found, holding tight in case it went away. He raised it up to eye level. Even in the gloom, covered in crap, the bright silver had a sheen to it, lighting the whirling geometric patterns on the broad blade, white against bright. It was beautiful.

  “Took your fucking time,” he told it, having to concentrate to get each individual finger to relax. He let the curved dagger fall from his grasp, watching as it disintegrated into a gentle swirl of silver motes. Like pollen on the breeze, the metallic mist snaked up and around his finger, swirling and condensing until... The thin silver band encircling his ring finger glinted at him. He’d have to go to work on it again with wood varnish and grime to hide its expensive sheen. He’d worry about that later.

  He let his head fall back against the moist brick.

  Where is it? his pursuer had demanded.

  Where was what? Shivering sands but he was tired. He was a thief, dammit! He’d stolen so many things he wouldn’t recognize most of them if he saw them again. Coin, jewels, jewelry, statuettes, figurines, idols, amulets, talismans even the odd rug or tapestry – and those were only some of the
things he’d stolen of his own volition, thinking to fence them. That wasn’t even counting all the commissions he’d accepted over years. Some of those he never even found out what it was he’d stolen for a patron. There was no telling which item in his long resume of conquests his pursuers sought. They might even have him confused with someone else…

  Yeah, right.

  Sorry, shit-covered and starting to shiver, he came to a decision.

  Time to leave this city.

  * * *

  “Ismus!” Mattanuy smiled at the surprised junior priest like they were old friends. Ismus’ steps slowed at the unexpected hail from the senior priest.

  “Inquisitor,” he greeted politely, not knowing Mattanuy by name. He’d just come off his shift in the infirmary and was looking forward to some dinner, his books and his bed.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” the inquisitor laughed easily, “Torvan Mattanuy. I’m an acquaintance of Father Koroske,” he explained, dropping the name of a senior healer he had a passing familiarity with. “I recognized you from his description. He speaks very highly of you.”

  “Oh?” Ismus brightened somewhat, having been under the impression that Father Koroske had a particular dislike of him.

  “Indeed,” Mattanuy nodded. “In fact, if you’re half the healer he says you are… won’t you be able to spare me this trip I’m making to the infirmary? It’s the smell in there, you know,” he confided. “It gets to me.”

  “You get used to it,” Ismus shrugged with one shoulder, flattered despite himself. “What can I do for you, inquisitor?”

  “I’ve had this persistent little tickle in my throat for the past couple of days that no amount of clearing can cure. I’m sure it’s just overuse, mind you, but I’ve got an important meeting with the High Inquisitor and his staff tomorrow and I can’t afford to be voiceless in their illustrious company…” he let his predicament unfold silently for Ismus’ consideration.

  Ismus smiled knowingly.

  “Little bit of a stuffy nose as well?”

  “A bit,” Mattanuy feigned nasally.

  “Feels like your ears are plugged with wool?”

  “However did you know?”

  “I suffer from the exact same affliction!”

  “You don’t say?” As if I didn’t already know… you twit.

  Ismus nodded sagely, rummaging in his green healer’s satchel. “It’s the time of year, you see. Flowers, trees, shrubs… the same vapors that attract bees are like honey to this affliction… and since we can’t but breathe the vapors in…” he shrugged, finally managing to fish a small phial of amber liquid from his satchel. He held it up for Mattanuy’s inspection. “Coincidentally, honey is also used to soothe the ailment. With some general herbs and remedies and a pinch of brandy to stave off any infection.” He handed the small phial to the grateful inquisitor. “Gargle a little bit of this in the morning and again as needed throughout the day.” Ismus sounded more sure of himself as he expended this medical advice. “But if you start coughing or become feverish, come back and see me.”

  “Young man, you are my saviour,” Mattanuy gratefully accepted the offending phial. “I can tell you will go far. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if one day you were not a Temple ambassador to a far-off kingdom… like our Keeper Justin.”

  Ismus smiled shyly. “Now you truly flatter me, Inquisitor. The keeper and I are cut from different cloths.”

  “Nonsense!” Mattanuy waved the comment away sternly. “Didn’t I hear you studied Focus Development with the keeper?”

  “True,” Ismus confessed. “But I fear my talent is only a lick above latent. Even the keeper can’t work his usual miracles with that!”

  “Miracles? You jest!”

  “Actually, no.” Ismus confided in a whisper. “He once got Father Chesspi to laugh out loud!”

  “No!” a scandalized Mattanuy masterfully invited.

  “Yes!” Ismus enthused, warming to his subject. “And did you know it was he who bartered the trade oversight agreement between the Neril and the Chapter of Beasts?”

  “I remember when that agreement was but a fond dream!”

  “Indeed! And of course none can hold a candle to his empathic talents. Why, he even managed to cure his young ward of a rare form of the falling sickness! A feat thought impossible even by our modern healers!”

  “Absolutely astounding,” Mattanuy breathed as he deftly draped an arm over young Ismus’ shoulders, steering him away from the dormitories. “The falling sickness you say? I must hear more…”

  * * *

  The Grand Palace was aptly named. Marco stood on a landing halfway up one of the broad flights of stairs that flanked the ballroom.

  A ballroom, he corrected.

  There was more than one. The Grand Palace was huge beyond belief, rivaling the Imperial palace in splendor if not necessarily in size. But, of course, he’d never actually been inside the Imperial palace, so he really had no basis for comparison. And the Holy Seat, with its Lily Tower, dwarfed them both anyway, despite the combined and continued efforts of some of the most talented engineers and architects the empire could produce.

  Still, looking down on the dance floor, pearlescent white to offset the elegant obsidian pattern – the feeling was akin to the wonderment he’d experienced the first time he’d viewed the Primus Sanctori. He wondered worriedly if that thought wasn’t blasphemous. How could you compare the great likenesses of the primes, which had each taken a master sculptor the better part of his life to carve, with something people didn’t even notice they were stepping on?

  Shaking his head, he let his gaze roam. At the head of the room, a raised dais took up that entire side of the hall, bearing a series of thrones. The middle one, the largest and most elaborate by far, would be the king’s.

  The king. He didn’t know what he’d expected. In the holy texts, rulers were always wise, white haired old men or fierce, fiery, warriors. King Cardigus the First was neither.

  He’d spoken in welcome at the grand dinner that had been held in honor of the Imperial delegation’s arrival. An imposing man past middle age, with streaks of iron in his cropped hair and beard but possessed still of powerful shoulders and presence. The heavy crown had rested easily on his brow and his sonorous baritone had carried to the corners of the hall. He’d spoken eloquently and from the heart, hampered only slightly by political necessity and impressing Marco by delivering the last lines of his welcome in accented though thoroughly functional Heli. Unless someone wrote the king’s speeches for him – which was not entirely impossible – the monarch had control of a pristine mind.

  He had the distinct impression he wasn’t supposed to have been present at that dinner. None of the other aids and servants had been. But there had been a place laid for him. Probably Keeper Justin had been introducing him as his ward again. The word did not translate well from Heli into Common and even worse into Renali. Wary of giving offense, the organizers had compromised by putting him at a low table among the lesser nobility. He’d been nervous so far from the keeper’s comforting presence but the priest had been seated at the head table, making easy conversation with some of the most important people in the Kingdom. In contrast, he had spent a very uncomfortable evening wedged between two strangers.

  The man on his left, dressed all in black and hiding a weak chin beneath an even weaker beard, had motioned a servant over to enquire as to who it was he was sitting beside. The two had turned to regard Marco, who’d treated them both to a blank stare. The servant had whispered the answer in the lord’s ear and the man had thereafter studiously ignored him. The old lady to his right, while infinitely more pleasant, had been so hard of hearing he could easily have carried on his part of the conversation in Heli without her noticing. All in all, not an auspicious start. And the cutlery had been confusing, despite the keeper’s coaching. He felt more at home with a quill in his hand.

  His role as the keeper’s scribe was turning out to be more taxing than he’d thought. And no
t just because of the unaccustomed bells of work. For starters, nothing in the Temple was ever done in haste. Here, he nearly sprained his wrist twice a day jotting down the back-and-forth politicking going on around the conference table. For another… it was intimidating. He was easily the youngest person in the room by a decade. Spending the better part of your day amid that much prestige and knowledge was daunting.

  At least he didn’t have to say anything. The ambassador was in the habit of asking rhetorical questions of his personal aides, of which he always had at least three in attendance. The chapter master was accompanied by one of his guards, armed with a quill instead of a sword, and the man took notes only when the chapter master indicated with a lazy wave. Despite the fact that he must have other important things to do, the king was almost always in attendance. He rarely said anything, preferring to let his army of politicians and auditors, with specialized skills and knowledge, do the actual bargaining. His presence alone sometimes kept frayed tempers from flaring. Marco remembered the first day of the diplomatic meetings with embarrassment.

  Up close, the king had been even more impressive, despite having switched the great golden crown for a simple circlet. He’d sat at the head of the polished, hardwood table, two armored bodyguards inconspicuous at his back. The Empire representatives had faced a line of senior clerks and diplomats across the wide wooden expanse of the table.

  “Gentlemen,” the king had said in his deep, rich voice, “I’m pleased to meet with you in this much more private setting. Let me assure you again of my personal welcome. A meeting such as this would have been impossible in my great-grandsire’s time. But peace was my sire’s dream. I regret he did not live to see his long years of patience rewarded. I deem myself fortunate to be king during this pivotal time in our two nations’ history. Let us all endeavor in what follows to provide fodder for the historians rather than the warmongers.”