The Shadow Saint

by Gareth Hanrahan

  “As you are all aware, there has been a material change in our mutual circumstances. For decades, since the early days of the Godswar, the valley of Grena has impeded overland traffic between our two nations. The mad goddess of that region attacked anyone who tried to pass through the valley. The railways, built at great expense, fell empty. Now, the railway is open once more–a renewed connection between us. The first of many.”

  Olthic’s finding his rhythm now as he talks–the last line rolls across the room like thunder.

  “That may be a premature assessment, ambassador,” snaps Kelkin, peevishly. “We’ve not forgotten other people who had connections to Haith.” He’s referring to a scandal of a few years previously, when a ring of Haithi spies was discovered in the alchemists’ guild. Fear and mistrust of Haith runs deep in Guerdon, and Eladora guesses Kelkin’s theatrics are aimed at a domestic audience. Insulting the Haithi ambassador plays well with the groundlings in the election, but that comes at a cost in the long term–the dead of Haith remember grudges and slights as keenly as the living. There isn’t an audience in the room, and no journalists, but she’s sure every moment of the meeting will show up in the city’s newspapers in the evening edition.

  Olthic ignores Kelkin’s interruption. He leans across the table, speaking directly to the assembled leaders in urgent tones. He talks about the bonds of trade and culture that tie Guerdon and Haith together, but Eladora’s unimpressed with that part of the speech. She can’t help mentally footnoting it, correcting it. Odd, she thinks, that someone from a land thronged with immortals should be so ignorant of history–though she’s heard enough old men talk nonsense about the great deeds of their past, telling burnished myths instead of accurate histories. Nostalgia and regret poison memory, and why should the dead be immune to such failings?

  Olthic’s better when he talks about Haith’s undead-bolstered strength, about battling in the Godswar. His prowess as a warrior is well known. But he doesn’t mention Haith’s long retreat, and that’s what matters here. Haith’s overmatched in the Godswar, and all Olthic’s victories in battle don’t change that.

  “When I first came to Guerdon, I expected a cynical city, a city that honoured no traditions or gods, where nothing counted except coin. In my time here, I have come to see Guerdon as an honest city, ruled by practical people. The trading cities are falling, one by one. Severast and Mattaur are gone. Will you lock yourself up behind walls, like Khebesh, and hope the war ends before the hungry gods turn their eyes to you? Will you fight alone if the mad gods send their hosts against you? The alternative I offer, that the Crown offers, promises protection, a steady market for your goods, and undying friendship.”

  Olthic sits back down.

  Kelkin’s the first to speak. “I like to think we have a few morals left to us, here in Guerdon. Free trade and freedom of faith being two of them. Your proposal would turn us into a protectorate of Haith at best. You’d take eighty per cent of our trade, you say? And would we be free to sell the rest to, say, Ishmere?”

  “There are other buyers for your weapons. Allies of the Crown will take all you wish to sell, I assure you. As for freedom of faith, you have already shaved that reed exceedingly thin. Worship freely in Guerdon, but not too fervently–that’s the rule, isn’t it? Honour whatever god you wish, but pray they don’t answer your prayers?” Olthic shrugs “If you find virtue in clasping vipers to your bosom, I suppose it’s better if you pull their teeth first. Haith has no objection to your policies, and we promise no interference in your domestic affairs.”

  “And our foreign ones?” asks Kelkin. “We would be tying our fate to that of Haith. And, well, Haith’s losing. Most of your overseas colonies have already fallen, and you’re trying to consolidate what’s left. We’re not a scrap to be swept up, or a bauble to decorate the magic crockery collection you call a government.”

  Eladora can see the result coming long before the committee members make their little speeches and cast their votes. It’s as clear to her as if she was reading tomorrow’s newspapers, or a textbook written a hundred years hence. Kelkin and the IndLibs will reject the proposal; Kelkin gets to show how he’s standing up to Old Haith, how he’s the only one to decide the city’s course. The alchemist-backed Hawkers will be split, taking whatever positions will maximise the prospects of future arms sales. And the Church will vote in support–partly because of Olthic’s words about foreign cults, partly to draw a clear contrast with Kelkin. The course of events is obvious to her, was obvious from the start of Olthic’s speech.

  She’s unsurprised, bored even, when the votes come in exactly as she predicted.

  Olthic, though–the great general is taken by surprise. He contains himself long enough to give the assembled politicians a curt nod, then strides out.

  Olthic almost contains his fury until they reach the carriage. He draws his sword, to the alarm of the guards by the side door of parliament and smashes it against a stone wall, over and over. Terevant’s sickened by the sight–he’s rarely seen Olthic lose, and never with such bitterness.

  “That was a disaster!” Olthic roars. “Kelkin was against me from the start!”

  Daerinth tries to soothe him. “That’s only to be expected, but we have assurances that he’ll lose, and—”

  “Assurances! From Lyssada! And where was she? Where… Is… The… Sword?” Punctuating each word with another sword blow against the wall, until the blade snaps.

  He rounds on Terevant, shoving him against a wall. “You were supposed to bring me the Erevesic sword before that meeting! I should have walked in there augmented by all the strength and wit of our ancestors! I needed every edge to convince them, and I had nothing!” He raises his fist.

  Terevant tries to push back, but he can’t even budge Olthic. His own guilt is stronger than the iron bar of Olthic’s arm, anyway. Terevant tells himself that he couldn’t have known that the resurrected Vanth would escape, couldn’t have known it’d block the return of the sword, but he doesn’t believe it. “Is this how the Erevesic is supposed to behave?”

  Olthic releases his brother. Picks up the remains of his sword, then flings them down again and climbs into the carriage. Terevant follows; Daerinth totters in, too, and closes the shutters.

  “You went in there with a half-baked plan and then gave them a reason to tear it apart,” snaps Terevant. “You know they don’t trust us. Why didn’t you wait until after the election?”

  “There isn’t time.” Olthic clasps his hands, restraining himself. Then, in another sudden spasm of anger, he pulls a ring from his finger and hurls it to the floor of the carriage. His wedding ring. Olthic glares out of the window at the passing lights of Guerdon. Greenish lights flare in the smokestacks of the alchemists’ factories beyond Cathedral Hill. Terevant can tell that his brother’s fury is settling. Undiminished, but sinking deep into his bones. Like rainwater from a sudden storm, seeping into the earth to emerge later as an irresistible river.

  Daerinth lays a withered hand on Olthic’s arm. “Calm yourself. This is a setback, not a defeat. It’s said that Ishmere’s moving north. The closer they draw to the city, the more alluring our offer becomes. Fear shall be our ally. Soon, they’ll be scrambling to embrace our aid. But for that to work, my lord, you need to show calm in the face of danger.”

  “Gods, give me actual bloody danger instead of this posturing. Give me something I can hit.”

  Daerinth shakes his head. “This can all be salvaged.”

  “Salvaged. Salvaged, he says. Like I’m some mudlark, grubbing for coppers in the sewers.”

  The jolting of the carriage sends the ring rolling against Terevant’s foot. He bends over and picks it up. “What can I do to help?”

  Olthic doesn’t answer, so Daerinth steps in. “The ambassador will be occupied with matters of state for some time, and I must assist him. There are various administrative duties in the embassy that can be moved to your desk.”

  Sit there and do nothing, in other words.
He rolls Olthic’s overlarge wedding ring around his palm. There’s an inscription inside the band–“Should heaven fall and earth crack asunder, still I will find thee”.

  He looks up, finds Olthic staring at him.

  “Do you want this back?” Terevant says, holding out the wedding ring.

  Olthic frowns. He takes the ring, jams it back on his finger. “Trying to ensure there are no heirs ahead of you, Ter?”

  “You and she seem to be doing that all by yourselves.”

  “You sound like Father,” says Olthic. “He thought I should marry some dull girl from the Westfolds who’d give him a litter of grandchildren. After you left, there was a parade of them through the house. All good Haithi women, impeccable lineages.

  He sighs.

  “But none of them were Lys.”

  “Lady Lyssada,” says Daerinth, quietly, “is Bureau. Do not forget that.”

  Olthic fidgets with his wedding ring, turning the band over and over. Digging the metal into his flesh. “We’ll see her,” he says darkly, “at the Festival.”

  Daerinth leans close to Terevant, to whisper in his ear above the rattling of the carriage’s wheels over the Bryn Avane cobblestones.

  “The Bureau has proven untrustworthy, of late. I still have friends in the Crown’s palace. They whisper that the Bureau is not as loyal to the Crown as it should be.”

  Terevant rolls his eyes. Daerinth’s clearly fixated on the Bureau. Some paranoid delusion, maybe, that the Bureau sabotaged his career, and that they exiled him to Guerdon all these years. Terevant had similar thoughts, sometimes, in the dark of night. “Maybe the Bureau believes the war is lost already. Why, I’ve even heard tell that some there secretly worship foreign gods, to curry favour with our enemies. Conspiring against the Crown from within.”

  It’s nonsense, Terevant tells himself. The Bureau uses underhanded schemes, but only in the service of Haith. Bureau and Houses, all working together to preserve the eternal Empire and the eternal Crown.

  That’s how it’s supposed to work.

  So where is Lys? Where’s the sword?

  CHAPTER 24

  Patience, thinks the spy, and as Alic he looks over his shoulder at Emlin. The boy’s scrubbed up and in new clothes for once, courtesy of money from the Industrial Liberals. Determination on his small face–here to do a man’s job, not play–but he keeps glancing over at the row of shops.

  “Let’s stop here.” This shore of the New City, within view of old Guerdon and its harbour, is one of the more respectable parts. You can walk down the alleyways here and have a good chance of losing only your purse, not your life. The promenade’s been colonised by entertainers and amusements. They stop outside a stall selling sugared jellyfish, just down from a new temple to the Dancer.

  From here, they can see right across the bay. See right across to the artificial mountain of battlements and cannons and aetheric vanes that composes Queen’s Point.

  Alic takes a paper-wrapped bundle from his satchel and tears it open. Inside are hundreds of leaflets. Emlin takes one and stifles a laugh, looking at the stipple-print portrait of Alic’s face under the logo of the Industrial Liberal party.

  The Industrial Liberal candidate for the fourth district of the New City grins. “When opportunity arises, one has to seize it.” He runs through his counter-arguments if Annah objects: that being a candidate lets him move around the New City and talk to anyone he wishes at any hour of night or day, making it excellent cover for spying. That this brings him closer to Eladora, and Eladora is close to Kelkin, and that he’s only a few steps away from the highest offices and most closely guarded secrets of the city.

  Alic hands his son a sheaf of flyers. “Go and talk to people. Tell them that a vote for me is a vote for Kelkin, and a vote for Kelkin is a vote for Guerdon’s future.”

  Emlin takes the flyers. He’s hesitant at first, shyness born of his time in the temple and his natural aversion to strangers. But he’s a saint of the Fate Spider, and the blessings of that god are manifold. The spy watches the boy as he slips into a new role, a new identity–the loyal son, a determined believer in his father. His demeanour changes; he intuits the desires and secrets of those he speaks to, insinuating himself into their confidences. Using rumours and gossip, using snatches of conversation he overheard from his rooftop explorations in the Wash. Alic watches proudly as Emlin spins a web of connections across the promenade.

  Alic joins his son, stopping passers-by with the same zeal as a proselytiser from one of the temples. Have you heard the preachings of Effro Kelkin? Give your soul to whatever god you want, but give your vote to the Industrial Liberals.

  Across the glittering bay, frigates and destroyers and patrol boats sail in and out of the naval base, and Alic notes their comings and goings on the back of one of his election flyers.

  The sun’s setting beyond Queen’s Point, turning the sky above the promontory to fire and filling the bay with liquid gold. Alic and Emlin have made their way all along the western perimeter of the New City and back again; he can’t count how many voters he’s talked to, how many hands he’s shaken. Emlin sits on a bench, clutching a glass of some syrupy drink from the alchemists.

  Two more people approach Alic. He turns, readying himself to go into his now-polished patter, then he recognises them.

  “Alic!” says Eladora, her face beaming with a rare smile. Beside her, Silkpurse grins. “I heard wonderful things were happening down here.”

  “I’ve made a start, at any rate.” He hands one of his leaflets to Eladora. “Could I get a word with the man himself, I wonder? Five minutes with Kelkin could help a lot.”

  “I’ll arrange it if I can,” says Eladora. “It’ll have to be after the Festival of Flowers. Are you attending the fair?”

  Alic shakes his head. “I’ve asked around. The only people going to the Festival from here are Guerdon born and bred, and their attitudes are pretty much set. Most of the newcomers aren’t going–they see it as a Keeper festival more than anything else. So, I should stay here and keep canvassing.”

  Emlin sidles up beside them. “Oh,” he pouts, “everyone says it’ll be fun.”

  He introduces the boy to Eladora and Silkpurse. “My son,” he says, “Emlin. I brought him out of fire and the Godswar to knock on doors for me.” Alic laughs.

  Eladora nods awkwardly at the boy

  “Getting late,” mutters Silkpurse. “Want me to walk you back to Jaleh’s?” She sniffs the air near Emlin, freezes, and then a smile spreads across her snaggle-toothed muzzle. He can guess what she’s thinking–why would Alic choose to live in a gentling-house, a halfway house for saints and god-touched? Clearly, Emlin is the missing piece–he knew his son has unwanted divinity that he needed to shed. His choice of Jaleh’s reinforces Silkpurse’s rosy image of him; now he’s also a good father, quietly delivering his child from the clutches of the mad gods.

  The spy lets a matching smile spread across Alic’s face. “No–we’ve got more ground to cover here. Enjoy the Festival.” He bows in farewell.

  Eladora is about to depart when a thought strikes. “Ah, if Emlin wants to attend the Festival, I could bring him along with the IndLib staff? It would involve a few hours of work, and a lot of standing around listening to pompous speeches, but he could slip away for while.”

  The smile freezes on Alic’s face. It makes sense for Alic, doting father, to trust the woman who’s his friend and political sponsor to chaperone his son for a few days. Eladora clearly intends it to be a kind offer, a note of appreciation for Alic’s efforts on behalf of the IndLibs. But all that’s a lie. Alic doesn’t exist, and the boy isn’t his son–he’s the saint of a monstrous deity whose armies are closing on Guerdon.

  And that’s why he must go. A few days away from Jaleh’s should maintain the boy’s fragile sainthood long enough for the work to be done.

  “That’s very kind of you, Miss Duttin. With all he saw back home, it’d be good for him to walk in the sun and be around morta
l folk.”

  “I’ll call by Jaleh’s house in the morning. There’s a special train booked by the party, and I’ll make sure he has a seat.”

  When he tells Emlin, the spy permits Alic to take a moment of joy in the boy’s happiness.

  They get back to find that Jaleh’s moved them to another room in her house, a small attic room barely large enough for the two cot beds to fit. A small window sheds moonlight on the two beds, and on the battered copy of the Testament of the Keepers that Jaleh left lying on Emlin’s bed.

  As Emlin sleeps, the spy searches the little room, making sure no one can overhear them here. He probes knots in the floorboards for spy holes, presses his ear to all the walls to see if he can hear breathing in the adjoining rooms, gathers dust in his hand and lets it sift through his fingers into the shaft of moonlight–sometimes, the presence of scrying-spells will distort the air around them, making the dust dance in patterns of runes and spirals.

  Nothing.

  The spy settles himself onto his own bed, fully clothed. Idly, he picks up the Testament and leafs through it. It’s a child’s version, telling the stories of the Kept Gods with big illustrations and simple words. The Mother of Mercies, Mother of Flowers, protector of children. The Holy Beggar, the stranger who is a friend. Saint Storm, the perfect knight. Holy Smith, who labours with mind and hand. A child’s book for a child’s finger-painting of a religion. These gods of Guerdon are clumsy, slow, simple things compared to the gods of Ishmere.

  The Godswar will be a massacre, if Saint Storm and Mother of Mercies are pitted against High Umur and Lion Queen. Sheep against lions.

  The spy remembers the faithful in Severast crowding into the temple of Fate Spider. They cast lots for sacrifice, blindfolding themselves so the identity of the killer would remain a holy secret. They drank the venom of the temple spiders, dying in hideous contortions. The priests walked the web of fate, searching for a path out of darkness. With each step, the priests diminished as they spread themselves over a hundred possible futures, a thousand.