“What’s that?” he asks.
“In Khebesh,” answers Ramegos slowly, “it is the custom to record every act of sorcery. Every action, every spell or miracle, deforms reality. We write them down so that one day we can restore reality to what it should be.” She finds the page she was looking for, and turns the book around so he can see.
There’s a whole section of the book that’s a wild scrawl, entries bursting out of the neat lines to cascade down, twist back on themselves, sigils burned into the paper. She flips back one page, then another and another. A litany of madness. One page is just a blotch of ink; another is stained with tears.
“I don’t understand,” says Terevant.
“That’s when I passed through the Godswar,” says Ramegos. “I know you’ve seen it, too. So you understand, I hope, how blessed we are here in Guerdon. How we must do everything we can to keep it that way.”
Ramegos struggles to her feet, groaning. “Someone will be with you soon.”
She walks out, leaving him alone with the dead.
CHAPTER 19
Today, the spy knows, will be a day of many faces.
His first face is the one he wakes with. X84, watching Emlin sleep. Three nights in a row, the boy was called by Annah and Tander, to whisper miraculous messages to distant gods. A litany of weapons sales and cargo shipments, whispered to heaven. The toll on the boy’s health is obvious. It’s not merely the effort of communing with the deity–it’s essential for a covert saint like this one to disengage cleanly. There can be no collateral miracles, no physical manifestations, no secondary blessings. Nothing that could be detected and traced by the city watch. He must reach out for Fate Spider and hide from his attention at the same time. Cut away the portions of his soul that are wholly claimed by the god, while still being devoted to him.
It’s a balancing act that’s driven stronger men mad.
X84 makes the considered decision to leave the asset to rest, because he’ll be needed tonight. But it’s Alic who tugs the blanket over Emlin, who goes downstairs and fetches breakfast, then leaves it by the boy’s side for when he wakes.
Over breakfast in Jaleh’s, he is Alic. He’s given away that he can read and write well, and now half the god-touched crowd round his table in the big common room every morning. Some want him to write letters to the city watch, pleading for the release of relatives from the internment camp on Hark Island; others want him to deal with the city’s bureaucracy, and he’s become very familiar with the rules for guild membership, council fees–and the electoral rolls. There are letters home to Mattaur or Lyrix or Ulbishe (and, as he reads those, Alic lets the spy in him surface a little more, skimming them for sweetmeats of useful information). Letters to other addresses here in Guerdon, written by the god-touched whose stigmata are too visible to allow them to walk the streets beyond the Wash and New City.
It’s become part of his morning routine, of late, to spend a little time with Haberas and his mer-wife Oona. Haberas has found work down in Dredger’s yards; it’s mostly Stone Men who do the dangerous labour down there, but some tasks call for nimble fingers. Haberas and Alic sit by the water’s edge and talk of the old days in Severast, while Oona listens from the shallows. She has no lungs left, only gills, so she cannot speak. The spy idly wonders if the Kraken-god was being cruel when he transformed Oona, or if she was just caught in the wake of some greater miracle.
When the factory whistle echoes across the harbour, Haberas shuffles down to the docks, and Oona vanishes into the deeps to hunt.
It’s Sanhada Baradhin–recalled from oblivion–who shows up at Dredger’s offices down by the docks. Dredger greets his old friend warmly; sticky wine is poured into glasses; they gossip about war and doom and profit margins. Sanhada’s evasive when Dredger asks him what he’s been up to. Again, Dredger offers Sanhada work; again, it’s the spy who refuses. He makes sure, though, that he’s seen walking out with Dredger. The armour makes Dredger easy to spot. Everyone in the Wash knows him, and everyone will mark who he’s talking to. They’ll remember Sanhada’s swagger, and his thick accent, and his hat, and not the face beneath.
Setting off at a fast walk, the spy casts off Sanhada Baradhin and becomes X84 again, the Agent of Ishmere. Anonymous, unremarkable. He takes precautions now, a twisting path through the alleys and wynds of the Wash. Passing through one temple and another, so the divine incense of many gods clings to his cloak. He ducks into a subway station, leaves again without getting on a train. At Phaeton Street he draws an X in chalk by a lavatory stall, and then it’s Alic who returns to Jaleh’s house.
To wait. To write, furtively, notes jotted down as he works in the attic room, patching holes in the roof.
Emlin skulks around the attic, avoiding the spy. Flinching at random moments, like he’s hiding from thunder only he can hear. Staring at spider webs, and cracks in the glass. The boy’s going hallow–slipping out of the mortal world, seeing too much of the divine. Alic watches with concern. X84 frets about the loss of a vital tool.
“Fate Spider’s getting closer,” whispers the boy, “but He won’t talk to me.”
“Patience,” says Alic as he writes. “Our god must hide.”
“Is He hiding from me?”
“From our enemies.”
“Tander said I’m not trying hard enough.” The boy’s hand strays to his face, rubbing his grimy forehead. Probing, as though he can poke holes in his skull and let the god in.
“Tander’s an idiot.”
“But he’s loyal.”
The spy stops writing. He looks up at the boy, who’s perched atop a bunk.
“What do you mean?” He’s loyal. By omission, someone else isn’t.
Emlin doesn’t answer. He just hunches over, scratching at the bristly dark hairs that have started growing at the base of his neck.
Definitely going hallow, thinks the spy.
“Jaleh’s holding an evening service in a while,” says Emlin suddenly. Emlin’s skipped most of the gentling rites; if the boy wants to attend one, then he, too, can tell that’s something wrong. The bland, placid worship of the Keepers is a balm to the soul, compared to the fierce, frantic skittering of Fate Spider.
“I’m meeting Tander. Go if you want to.”
“If you’re meeting Tander,” replies the boy, “then Annah will need me tonight.” Shivering as he speaks, despite the summer heat.
You don’t put more weight on a thread than it can bear.
“Here,” says Alic, handing the boy a few coins, “run down to Lambs Square. Get out of this house for a while.”
Emlin stares at him for a long moment, then snatches the coins.
“Be back before dark,” cautions Alic as the boy runs off.
Twilight, and the lamps light up across the city. Flickering gas flames or torches or just darkness in the Wash, eerie alchemical lamps with their sickly, steady radiance in richer districts. Miraculous light in the New City, welling up from the stones. The sound of doleful singing emanates from the little chapel attached to Jaleh’s house. Evening prayers to the Kept Gods, hymns that never soar.
Outside, the spy sees Tander, standing under a lamppost. Shimmying up to light a cigarette from the gas flame.
In the course of leaving Jaleh’s house, the spy becomes X84 again. Alic’s smile falls from his face; Alic’s height and strength from his shoulders. He walks past Tander, ignoring him for the benefit of anyone watching. He makes his way to the IndLib workers’ club, open late tonight. He brushes past knots of men and women, overhears snatches of conversation about rumoured plots by the alchemists, tales of the Godswar abroad. The spy exchanges pleasantries with a few as he passes by, but goes alone to a corner table.
Tander shows up a few minutes later, sits down opposite him. Just two working men, nothing to see here.
“I like this.” Tander holds up his pint, admires it in the light. “Watch won’t dare follow us in here, not so close to an election. And the beer’s better, too, even if you have t
o pay for it. At the Hawkers’ places, you can get the alchemists’ slop for free.”
“You always have to pay for quality,” says X84. Under the table, the deal is done; Tander passes across a bag of coin, and X84 hands over a tightly wrapped scroll of paper. To the spy’s professional horror, Tander unrolls the pages and looks over them right then and there. He coos and laughs as he reads the documents–the spy’s handwritten notes on Guerdon’s naval readiness, on proposed alliances and trade deals, on new alchemical weapons. All copied and reworded from Eladora’s letters.
“Where did you get this?” marvels Tander.
“Asking questions in dockside bars,” lies X84. “Is it good stuff?” he asks. “Worth the money?”
X84 cares about the money. The spy doesn’t.
The spy watches Tander read, praying the man sees it, sees the vital secret wrapped up in those pages.
He doesn’t see it. He flips past the pages about Guerdon’s navy without stopping.
It all depends on Annah now, thinks the spy. He takes a drink of his beer and smiles, choking down his frustration.
Patience, the spy tells himself. Live your cover. Hide.
“This might need to go out tonight. Bring the boy up to us later.” Tander gulps his beer, stuffs the papers into his shirt. “Little bastard is losing his knack, though. You brought us a shit saint, mate. Can’t commune properly at all. Probably not your fault.” He grins, showing too many clenched teeth. “But, I mean, you’re the one who thought a fucking gentling-house would be a good place to hide. And now it’s me who she’s got crawling around on my hands and knees in the cellar, looking for fucking spiders to feed to him. Offerings, too. Sacrifices.” Tander pats the hidden bundle of papers, his excitement turned to sudden nausea. “We’ll need another sacrifice tonight, to make sure this gets through. And it’ll be more than a fucking stray cat. I should make you fetch it.”
The spy takes a long sip of his own drink, avoiding eye contact.
“We’ll be in touch,” says Tander after a minute. He rises, drains his cup and stumbles off into the crowd.
The spy lingers, finishing his drink in a way that won’t draw attention–anyone who knows him here knows him as Alic, and Alec doesn’t have money. So, Alic wouldn’t leave a drink unfinished, nor would he guzzle it like Tander just did. Alic is a slow, thoughtful, helpful fellow. Alic’s a good sort. He relaxes into the Alic identity, drawing it around him like a comfortable overcoat. Alic doesn’t have to worry.
So, Alic sits there, drinking his beer and listening to the songs. They’re old songs, forty years old, from the heyday of the Reformist movement. Songs about the corruption of the Keeper’s church, about how the gods don’t answer prayers no more, but how the alchemists will change honest sweat into gold. He overhears snatches of gossip about the election; they’re all for Kelkin, the big beast of Guerdon. Kelkin, all gristle and sharp elbows. A survivor, winning yet another election by sheer tenacity.
The spy listens, too, and watches the crowd. Who might be useful? That woman there, her clothes bleached in spots, and faint marks on her face suggesting she wears a mask–does she work in the alchemists’ factories? That merry trio at the bar–sailors, he’d wager, but are they navy deckhands or the crew of some merchant? Those two in the corner, whispering to one another–what might they be up to? He smiles at the thought that they’re spies, too, and it’s not impossible–Guerdon’s crawling with spies and informants. Are they conspiring, too, sending secret messages back to the dusty lords of Haith, the poisoners of Ulbishe, or the dragons of Lyrix?
A tall man stalks over to the table and sits down in the chair vacated by Tander. He’s got another beer in his hand for Alic.
“Absalom Spyke,” he says. It takes a moment for the spy to realise it’s an introduction.
“Alic.”
“Aye. Duttin was singing your praises. Says you’re a man worth keeping an eye on.”
“Is she all right? She got hurt when we were up canvassing in the New City.”
Spyke rolls his eyes. “Maybe it’ll knock some sense into her. I don’t know what Kelkin was thinking, sending a soft girl like that up there.”
Alic shrugs. “It was a rough patch. We all nearly got our brains knocked out, sense and all. They were heavily armed.”
“So Silkpurse told me. She also thinks you’re worth talking to, and she’s good at sniffing out worthies.”
“High praise indeed.”
“Maybe,” says Spyke, leaning back.
“Tell me about yourself, Alic.”
The spy lets Alic talk. This identity is his own creation–not stolen, like Sanhada Baradin’s name and history, or imposed on him like X84. He allows Alic to speak freely, to talk about how he wants to help, about how Guerdon welcomed him when he fled the Godswar. Spyke nods slowly, brings over a few other people who fled Mattaur. They share stories, and Alic’s tales might be made up on the spot but there’s enough truth in them to pass muster. More people crowd around them; tables get dragged over. Spyke buys a round of drinks for everyone, and there’s cheering.
“All of ye,” says Spyke, “can vote. Mr Kelkin’s reforms saw to that. As long as you live in the city and can prove it–and that ain’t hard, just need someone in good standing to vouch for you, and I’ll do that. And when you vote, you’ll vote for Mr Kelkin’s man in this borough–whoever that is.” His dark eyes stare at the spy as he says that.
“I have to go,” says the spy abruptly, pushing back his chair.
Spyke grabs him by the arm. “We’ll be in touch, all right?”
Alic leaves Emlin sleeping. The boy disobeyed his instructions, came back well after sundown, missing both the spy’s curfew and Jaleh’s evening prayers. Emlin thinks he crept into the house unseen through the cellar door, but Alic watched him from their window, and said nothing. The boy deserves a little taste of freedom.
The spy sneaks out of the house via the same route, makes his way through the dark streets of the Wash. Heads west, west and up, crossing the old canal they call Knightsgrave, and bribing the watchman to get through the gate into Newtown. It’s only a short walk from there to the safe house.
Tander meets him at the door, and scowls. “Where’s the boy?”
Alic steps over the threshold, and Tander suddenly grabs him, twisting his arm in an interestingly painful way, frog-marching him into the kitchen. Slamming him down into a chair, and suddenly there’s a gun in his face.
“Where’s the fucking saint?” demands Tander. The man’s good at violence, if nothing else, notes the spy.
“In bed.” Alic cranes his neck to look past blustering Tander, to Annah who sits by the fire, smoking, the stolen papers on her lap. “Emlin needs to rest. You’re working him too hard.”
“That’s not your judgement to make,” says Annah. “Emlin belongs to the Sacred Realm. We all belong to the Sacred Realm, and if it pleases the gods to destroy any of us, we shall go to our death without hesitation.” Tander shoves the barrel of the gun into the spy’s nose for emphasis, and Annah makes a disgusted noise. “Oh, put the bloody gun down, Tander.”
He obeys instantly, like a whipped dog. Stomps off to the hallway, but he’s still listening. Stations himself by the door, gun in hand, as if he’s expecting trouble. Emlin’s not the only one under stress.
“I’ve read through these papers,” says Annah. “There’s something I want to discuss.”
“What is it?” asks the spy. He knows the answer, but X84 doesn’t, Sanhada Baradhin doesn’t, Alic doesn’t.
“This new warship they mention may be significant,” says Annah.
“How? What’s one new ship going to matter?”
Annah pauses. “Last year, just before the Crisis, the alchemists made a new weapon. A new warhead. They sent a gunboat up the coast to Grena and test-fired it.”
The spy knows this. He’s known it since before he climbed the stair of fire to Captain Isigi’s holy office. Known it since before the fall of Severast. He knew
it the instant the goddess was destroyed, irretrievably unmade by the divine hatred of the bomb. But he’s a good liar, and when Annah describes the god bomb to him he injects just the right amount of surprise and dawning realisation into his reaction. A weapon that can kill gods, my word. But that would mean–gasp!
Everything, from his first careful approach in Mattaur to his new identities as Sanhada, as X84, as Alic, has been towards this moment. He holds his breath as Annah reinitiates him into the secret of secrets.
“We’re not sure how many of the weapons survived the Crisis. The alchemists had at least one more working model, but they didn’t get a chance to launch it before the gutter miracle. There may be more warheads. We’ve been looking for them, but,” she puffs on the cigarette, “so has everyone else, and we don’t have the resources of Haith.”
“You think they’ve got one of those bombs on the new ship?” asks the spy.
“That’s how I’d do it,” Tander calls from the hallway. “A new ship, fast, heavily warded, but lightly armed? She’s a god hunter.”
“Maybe.” Annah’s unconvinced. “Certainly reads that way.” She pokes the dying fire in the kitchen grate into life, puts a kettle of water on to boil. Points to a shelf, at mugs and a coffee jar. The spy takes them down. She stares out of the window, into the darkness of the night. The lights of Queen’s Point fortress burning beyond the Newtown terraces. “It could be a bluff. For all we know, the weapons were all destroyed during the Crisis, along with the alchemists’ foundries. I could see Effro Kelkin doing something that brazen–threatening every god in the world, when he’s got nothing.”
She hands him a coffee. The heat of the cup makes the scar on his palm hurt.
“Who would be fool enough,” the spy asks, smiling, “to lie to the gods?”
CHAPTER 20
The blank page is like a wall of white stone; the words Terevant tries to write feel inadequate to the task. A dozen false starts. Report to the Bureau concerning the death of Third Secretary Vanth, he writes, then crumples that page up and takes another blank sheet from Vanth’s desk.
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