The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  “So what are we expected to do?” Moary said. “Trust you again, even after Lucius? Even after you told us the Ravine Butcher could only be awakened by your voice, and yet here he stands?”

  “Do nothing,” Shader said, sensing his chance.

  “What?” Aristodeus said.

  It seemed an obvious ploy. The dwarves were afraid to act, and yet here they were preventing anyone from leaving.

  “Stand aside,” Shader said. “Keep out of our way. Is it not action to prevent our going?”

  The white-robes turned to each other, clearly confounded.

  “We only need to enter the mines,” Shader said, “so that we can travel to the roots of Gandaw’s mountain. All action will be ours, not yours.”

  Aristodeus was grinning from ear to ear. He gave Shader a knowing wink.

  Grago took a stranglehold on his beard and shook his head. “Clever. Very clever. But, is it not the case that willful non-action is itself still an action, albeit a negative one? No, my brother councilors, we cannot let them go, for in doing so, we may still be found culpable.”

  “That’s illogical, incoherent, and idiotic, Grago,” Aristodeus said, “and you know it.”

  “You’re wasting your breath, laddie,” Nameless said.

  “I agree with Councilor Grago,” the fat dwarf said. “But it’s more than a case of—what was it you said, Grago?—‘willful non-action’. If we allow these people to enter the mines, we are, in effect, opening the mines to them. We need no more complicated argument. We are prohibited, by our own laws, from granting outsiders admittance, are we not?”

  “Balderdash!” Aristodeus fumed.

  Thumil shrugged. “An excellent point, Councilor Bley, which leaves us with only one solution.”

  Expectant eyes were upon him, and Thumil seemed to grow in stature, as if he were a professor lecturing a class of awed undergraduates. The funny thing was, they seemed to swallow it.

  “If we prevent them from leaving, we are guilty of the act of preventing.”

  Begrudging nods of agreement.

  “If we admit them to the mines, we are guilty of the act of admittance.”

  More vigorous nodding this time.

  “So, what are you going to do if we ignore you and enter the mines anyway?” Shadrak said, a wicked smirk on his face.

  “Then you would be forcing us to act in preservation of the law,” Thumil said. “And if we are forced, we cannot be held culpable. Marshal Vayn.”

  “Councilor?” A hardened old red-cloak stepped forward and saluted.

  “Take a legion and see no one enters the scarolite mines.”

  Shader shook his head as the marshal barked a few commands and a ripple of troop movement ran across the walkways. “And I thought you were—”

  Thumil held up a finger. “You are free to go, so long as you steer clear of the mines.”

  “Are you an imbecile, Thumil?” Aristodeus said. “Don’t you care about the Unweaving?”

  “Shog him,” Shadrak said. “Let’s go it alone, if these scuts are too stupid to do anything.”

  “How?” Shader said. “You saw those things around Gandaw’s mountain. How are we going to get inside?”

  Shadrak shut his eyes, as if thinking. When he opened them, he shrugged. “Shogged if I know. Raise an army?”

  “Twat,” Rhiannon said.

  Aristodeus growled something.

  “Could always try New Jerusalem,” Nameless said. “The senate’s got a fair few legions.”

  “Actually,” Aristodeus said, instantly brightening, “that’s not such a bad idea. Do you have influence with the senate?”

  Nameless shook his helmed head. “Never even been there, but you hear things. My pa used to say there were always folk from New Jerusalem showing up at the mines, wanting to buy scarolite on the sly.”

  “And did they?” Grago asked.

  “Not for me to say. Point is, they have an army that would dwarf ours, excuse the pun. Sounds like the best bet we’ve got, if you ask me.”

  Shader turned to Aristodeus. “It’s quicker if you go ahead. Magic yourself there, or whatever you do.”

  Aristodeus shook his head. “Can’t do that. I need to prepare for other contingencies, and besides, the senate and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  “What contingencies?” Rhiannon said. “Way I see it, we’re running out of options.”

  “There are always options, my dear,” Aristodeus said. “And believe me, this business goes deeper—much deeper—than our current threat from Mr. Gandaw. We must stay one step ahead of the enemy at all times.”

  “You’re sure about the mines?” Shader said to Thumil.

  “I’m sorry, Shader. We are dwarves. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Shader sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, but he nodded all the same. “All right,” he said, “how far to New Jerusalem?”

  “Couple of days, at a guess,” Nameless said.

  Thumil grunted in agreement.

  “Two days?” Shader said. “We’ll need food. Water.”

  He might as well have appealed to the rock walls of the ravine for all the acknowledgment he got from the dwarves.

  Aristodeus rolled his eyes as if this were just one more problem he had to sort out, but before he could say anything, Shadrak whipped out his pistol, spun it on his finger, and re-holstered it.

  “Leave it to me. Bagged us that turkey, didn’t I?”

  It wasn’t encouraging. Besides that, and the goat, they hadn’t exactly seen much else out there to eat.

  Nameless must have sensed his uncertainty, and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll flush out some squirrels for you, laddie, and the little fellow can shoot them. Boil them up over a campfire, and you’ll not tell them from chicken. Well, you will, but you can always pretend.”

  Shader caught Rhiannon’s eye. “Best get a move on, then.”

  She held his gaze for a long while before she spoke. “I’m not coming.”

  “What?”

  “Not if he’s going with you.” She glared at Shadrak. “Not after what he did to that poor sod in the cell. He’s a shogging psycho, Deacon, and don’t forget what he did to you in the templum.”

  “We all go,” Shader said. “There’s too much at stake.” He’d seen enough of what Shadrak could do to know that things might very well hinge on him. It was the assassin who’d got them out after he and Rhiannon had messed up. You didn’t have to approve of Shadrak to know how useful he could be in a tight scrape.

  “Him or me,” Rhiannon said. “Your choice.”

  Fire rose to Shader’s cheeks, and his temples began to throb. What was it about Rhiannon? Why did she have to be so bloody difficult?

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Aristodeus said.

  “You?” Rhiannon said.

  “If our nameless friend here is traveling to New Jerusalem, he’s going to have to be fed. I could use some help gathering my apparatus and taking them on ahead to the city.”

  “I am not—”

  Aristodeus waved away her response before she gave it birth. “And there are matters I would discuss with you—these contingencies I mentioned before. Would you at least allow me the chance?”

  Rhiannon’s eyes narrowed to slits. She snaked a look at Shader, all venom, as if he’d done something she’d never forgive. As if he were Gaston Rayn, or worse.

  “Fine,” she said. “Anything’s got to be better than this.”

  Aristodeus held out his arm, and she took it. “When you get to New Jerusalem,” he said to Nameless, “go to the Academy. Ask for Master Arecagen.”

  “Arecagen?”

  Aristodeus grimaced, as if he could no longer take the frustration of making himself understood. “Just ask for him. I’ll meet you there and make sure you don’t starve. Mark my words,” he said loud enough for the councilors to hear. “The day is coming when you will thank me for preserving this kinsman of yours. He’s special, this one, and if I ca
n only set him on the right track, he could yet prove our greatest weapon.”

  “Never been called a weapon before,” Nameless said. “Except maybe once, but she was a feral lassie from the wharfs. All hips and melons. You know the sort I mean?”

  Before anyone could respond, green light swirled about Aristodeus and Rhiannon, and they vanished. One minute they were there, the next they were gone.

  As quickly as that, Shader had lost her again, only this time he wasn’t quite so sure how he felt. Jealous, maybe, but if he were, it was barely noticeable. Angry, resentful, disappointed? An overwhelming confusion of emotions fought for his attention, leaving him blank and bewildered. Truth be told, he was probably relieved, he thought, but that wasn’t right, wasn’t what Nous expected. But there lay the second problem. He was suddenly aware he didn’t care all that much for what Nous wanted anymore.

  All along the walkway they’d approached from, the red-cloaks were falling back.

  Thumil gestured toward the top of the ravine. “Go. Now. Before they come up with another objection.”

  Shader offered his hand and then remembered something Thumil had said back in the cell. “Those books you mentioned, the scriptures.”

  Thumil slapped himself on the forehead. “I’m sorry, with all that’s happened it completely slipped my mind.” He cast a look behind at the stony faces of the councilors. Some of them were muttering among themselves, and there was a palpable tension seeping into the soldiers. “You should leave. Maybe when all this is over, maybe there’ll be a few changes here, and if there are, you would be most welcome. I’m literally dying to have someone to discuss my reading with. Religion isn’t something we dwarves like to talk about, not since Maldark.”

  Cordana pressed up close to Thumil and took his hand. “You said you’d ask, remember?”

  “Ah, yes, my dear, of course.” He coughed and gave Shader a sheepish look. “My wife does not share my spiritual views…”

  Cordana wrinkled her nose at him but then softened it with a smile.

  “But she does… I mean, she…” He suddenly looked flustered, waving his hand around as if trying to pluck the words from the air.

  Cordana touched her belly and sighed. “We are trying for a baby, but the doctors say I’m barren. Either that, or Thumil’s too old.”

  Thumil nudged her with his elbow. “Most likely it’s my illness.” He indicated the bald patches on his scalp and beard.

  “Anyway,” Cordana continued, “we were hoping you’d give us your blessing, what with you being a holy man and all.”

  The idea cut Shader like a blade. Him, holy? After all he’d done, all he’d failed to do? He didn’t even know if you could call him Nousian anymore, not after the things he’d discovered about the Liber. All his training, all his prayer, and he was as uncertain of his faith as… as… He caught sight of Nameless watching him through the slit of the great helm. He chewed his lip and nodded. “Of course. But Nous… I mean—”

  Thumil patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve seen enough of the way you carry yourself, and enough of that book of yours to know we’re praying to the same god. Just because the words have been twisted, doesn’t mean your prayers aren’t heard. Have faith, son. Surrender yourself to this Nous of yours, and let him carry you through the trials that lie before you.”

  Shader didn’t know about that. Didn’t know if he could, but he made a mental note to pray on it. He took the Liber from his pocket and thumbed through it until he found the appropriate passage.

  “Benedicta tu, Nous, qui conlocat sterilem in domo matrem filiorum laetantem…” The words never seemed to leave his skull; his voice sounded muffled and dead to him, but he could see from Thumil and Cordana’s faces they were listening with rapt attention, clutching each other’s hands tightly.

  When he finished, he closed the Liber, feeling numb. The couple smiled their thanks and embraced each other. At least it appeared to have done them some good, but as far as Shader could tell, it was all smoke and mirrors. His faith wasn’t just wavering. Right then, it was dead and buried. But he had nowhere else to go. It was all he’d ever known, all his mother had taught him. Strangely, Aristodeus had always encouraged it, too. The philosopher had always had such strong ties with Aeterna, even to the Ipsissimus himself, and yet, judging by comments he made, the faith was nothing more to him than an child’s plaything, or a means to an end.

  “Nameless, laddie?” Nameless was saying to Shadrak. “I think I like it. You have a way with oxymorons.”

  “Eh?” Shadrak said. “What’s that, a stupid cow? Think she just left with ol’ baldy.”

  Shader chuckled. It was a chink in the dark clouds smothering his spirit, but at least it was something. A pang of guilt sent his hand to his forehead. What was he doing? It was pure reflex after years of habitual practice, but ridiculous as it seemed, worrying about the displeasure of a deity he barely believed in, he still made the sign. This time, when he laughed, there was real mirth in it, as if something within had been set free. What it was, though, Shader couldn’t yet say.

  “You should do it more often, laddie,” Nameless said.

  “Do what?”

  “Laugh, laddie. Laugh. It’s good for the soul. Come on now, time waits for no one.”

  Nameless trudged on down the walkway without a look back at the city that had been his home.

  The black cloud closed up around Shader, and he doubted he could have laughed again if he’d wanted to. Even the memory of laughter seemed impossibly distant as he watched the dwarf’s massive shoulders bunched up about the great helm, the powerful gait, the axe clutched in both hands. It was like a bas-relief from those ancient templa in Aeterna, the ones that depicted tortured souls condemned to rove the Abyss for all eternity.

  “I reckon he’s all right, that one,” Shadrak said, following Shader’s gaze.

  Shader certainly hoped so. He turned back to Thumil and his wife, but they were deep in conversation. The faces of the councilors behind them were inscrutable. If they were going to miss the Nameless Dwarf, they certainly didn’t show it. More than likely, they were relieved to see him go. They could hardly be blamed for that after what Thumil said had happened. Maybe they were still considering what they could and couldn’t do. And then it occurred to Shader, as he and Shadrak set off after the black-helmed pariah waiting for them at the foot of the climb: They were scared. Scared of what they’d unwittingly unleashed on the outside world, and suddenly he could no longer see the good humor effortlessly flowing from Nameless. Instead, all he felt was a great foreboding, a trepidation at some horror that was yet to come.

  GOING PLACES

  The clangor of a kitchen at full tilt, the odor of hard labor, the aroma of cooking! It was enough to bring tears to Albert’s eyes. Yes, the sous-chef was more suited to bricklaying, the washer-upper needed a rough mama to scrub behind his ears, and the waiter was… well, the waiter was the greasiest toe-rag of the lot.

  Right on cue, Buck shouldered his way through the swinging doors, plates and bowls stacked high in his hands, held steady by his chin.

  “All pucker out there,” he said, depositing the crockery on the side. “Ol’ Rollypolly’s slurping it up like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “Rollingfield,” Albert said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Senator Rollingfield. So, he likes my terrine?”

  “Your terrine?” Buck said. “Chef Dougan’s, you mean.”

  Albert didn’t know how to break it to him, but what they’d served the senator was as far removed from Dougan’s rancid concoction as a lace hanky from a snot rag.

  “After taking my tisane, Chef went for a little lie down, and during the hiatus, I took it upon myself to—”

  “Farryl!” a booming voice sounded from the restaurant. “Farryl Dougan, you steaming offal of a man.” The doors swung open, and in flounced the senator, capacious toga speckled with tomato sauce. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve excelled yourself.”

  His gela
tinous jowls wobbled as he turned his piggy eyes on Albert. When he tilted his head so he could peer down his nose, it was hard to focus on anything but the crusted cavities of his hairy nostrils. Funny that, seeing as the manner of the man got right up Albert’s nose. He couldn’t help but think that the haughty chin tilt exposed a throat eminently suitable for his cheese-cutter, if ever he found it again.

  “Where’s that arse Dougan?” Rollingfield asked.

  “Having a lie down, Senator,” Buck said with a nauseatingly obsequious bow.

  “Tell him he deserves it,” the senator said. “Sterling meal, what. Can’t believe it’s the same chef.”

  Albert coughed delicately into his fist. “I’m afraid it was more than a lie down, Senator. Chef Dougan was taken unexpectedly ill.”

  Buck took on the semblance of a startled hare. “But you said—”

  Albert threw an arm around his head, pulled him into a fierce hug. “I wanted to tell you, Buck, truly I did, but I knew how devastated you would be.”

  Rollingfield’s shoulders slumped, and all the pomposity went out of him. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Alas, no, Senator. He has gone ahead of us on the road to eternity. So sad. So very sad.”

  Buck tried to say something, but Albert squeezed him tighter.

  “Dead?” Rollingfield looked genuinely shocked.

  “Which is why I had to complete the meal with my own humble hands. My tribute to an unsurpassable god of the kitchen. I trust it was tolerable.”

  Rollingfield looked at him closely out of one eye. It was a calculating look, shrewd. The look of a man who’d played the game of politics for a very long time and could read you like a menu. When his other eye opened, there was a glint of recognition in it.

  “More than tolerable, uh…”

  “Albert, Senator.”

  “Albert. It’s a rare talent you have there.”

  Something told Albert the senator wasn’t just talking about the terrine.

  “Join me at my table, Albert. We should talk. Just you, mind. And waiter,” he said to Buck, “another carafe of red.”

  Albert watched the senator’s cumbrous buttocks roll beneath his toga as he lolloped back through to the restaurant.