by karlov, matt
But Sten’s interest had stirred Arandras’s own curiosity. How long was it since he’d come across a Valdori dialect he didn’t recognise? Not since he left the Quill, at least. And then there was Mara’s account of the urn’s discovery. Someone else was interested in the urn besides the Quill, and if they had the resources to go up against a Quill field team, they’d have plenty to offer when it came to a straight sale.
Maybe, just maybe, this was the find they were all hoping for. Gold enough to step out of the endless, tiresome game once and for all; to leave it all behind and not look back. The only change gold could truly bring: a way out.
Besides, after his visit to the Library, he was going to have to visit Narvi anyway. He might as well ask him about the urn while he was there.
“One and five,” he said, putting the urn away. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’s a temporary offer,” Sten said. “Might not be available when you come back.”
“I’ll take that chance.” Arandras turned to leave, then turned back. “That journal page,” he said. “How many copies of it did you sell?”
“What?” Sten’s features assembled into something like wounded indignation. “You think I’d make extra copies and sell them without telling you?”
“Of course you would. Did you?”
“Hah. You’re right, I would. I didn’t, though.” He smirked. “Don’t know anyone else foolish enough to throw silver away on something like that.”
“Delighted to hear it,” Arandras said. If throwing away silver brought him artefacts he could sell for gold, he’d do it every time. “Where did you get it?”
The shopkeeper spread his hands. “I really couldn’t say. Are you sure you don’t want to sell that urn? One and five, last offer.”
Arandras said nothing.
“Look, it wasn’t stolen, if that’s what you’re worried about. You know I respect all my customers’ little peccadilloes, even yours.” Sten’s gaze flicked to Arandras’s bag. “Are you married? Think what you could get your wife with one and five in gold. Or your lady friend. Whatever.”
Arandras shook his head and turned away. As he headed for the door, Sten called after him.
“How about an idol? Appease the Gatherer, avert his eye. Protect your family!”
Arandras spun. He reached the counter in an instant and grabbed Sten by the front of his shirt. “Never mention my family again,” he hissed. “Ever. Understand?”
“What did I say? What did — yes, yes, I understand!”
The madness passed as quickly as it had come. Arandras stared at Sten, shocked at his own reaction. “Sorry,” he muttered, letting go of the other man’s shirt. “Sorry.” Grasping his bag tight to stop his hand from shaking, he wheeled around and strode from the shop.
The guards and shopfronts of Goldsmiths Lane awaited him, the sunlight glinting on steel as oppressive as ever. Compel and resist, compel and resist. Over and over.
And how different am I to any of them?
He quickened his pace until he was almost running, not caring if the guards stared after him. Every scrape of sword in scabbard and creak of leather armour felt like an accusation, the sounds pursuing him as he half-jogged around the corner and down the slight incline. Steel, endless rows of steel; and even when an ox-drawn wagon lumbered past, the beast bellowing its displeasure at some imagined slight, somehow he could still hear their whispered indictment.
Weeper’s tears, I hate this street.
•
The Quill schoolhouse in Spyridon was as small as any Arandras had seen. Squashed between an ageing tenement on one side and a weaving house on the other, the narrow building was only three floors high. A square, weather-worn banner hung from a top floor window, the ochre feather immediately recognisable even if the black field seemed more like muddy grey. Directly beneath it stood the main doors, four steps up from the street and as narrow as the rest of the building.
The notion of Narvi being in Spyridon had settled somewhat in Arandras’s mind, but the thought of a Quill becoming a member of the Library still sat strangely. After Tereisa’s death, Arandras had moved to Spyridon specifically because the Quill were so few here, a consequence of the city’s — which was to say, the Library’s — hostility toward the sorcerers. Now, it seemed, that hostility was greatly reduced. Of course it would be Narvi. Arandras scratched his beard as he considered the pinched doorway. Always the peacemaker.
Inside, a single corridor ran the length of the building, a cramped staircase at each end. A sign hanging from the ceiling directed visitors toward a partially open door, behind which Arandras found a small waiting room containing half a dozen chairs and a second, closed door on the opposite side. An undersized handbell stood on a low corner table, and when Arandras rang it, it gave a high peal that lingered in the air like the clang of a wind chime.
The inner door opened, admitting a young man with oil-slicked hair and a practised smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Narvi Parhenu.”
“You have an appointment, of course?”
“No. I’m an old…” Friend, Arandras had been going to say, but for some reason the word wouldn’t come. “Colleague,” he said at last. “Tell him Arandras Kanthesi is here.”
The young man assumed an expression of regret. “I’m sorry, but Narvi is very —”
“Please. Tell him Arandras is here.” The man seemed about to object again, but Arandras spoke first. “Tell him. If he wants me to make an appointment, I will.”
“Very well,” the man said eventually. “A moment.”
Arandras leaned back against the wall. In truth, he had no idea how Narvi would react to his presence. We were friends, once. That was a true thing. But it was no longer something Arandras felt — it was just something he knew, like the dates of the Calamities, or the similarities between late Yanisinian and early Valdori metalwork. A fact of history. Just another thing that once was.
The door swung open. Arandras looked up, expecting to see the young man again — but it was Narvi who stood before him, brushing messy brown hair out of his eyes and grinning like a Halonan fortune-carving. “Arandras? Dreamer’s daughters, it really is you.” He laughed, grasping Arandras by the shoulders. “Gods, it’s good to see you.”
“And you,” Arandras said, surprised by the warmth of Narvi’s greeting. He cast about for something to say, his gaze falling on the Quill feather pinned to Narvi’s shirt. The ornament’s point was edged in gold. “Is that…?”
“Ha, yes, I made Elector. Just like you always said I would.”
Did I? Arandras didn’t remember. “So, what, you’re running the schoolhouse now?”
“Me? Dreamer, no. Half the time I’m not even in Spyridon.” Narvi shook his head. “Come, we can’t talk here. Follow me.”
Narvi led him through the building to a small withdrawing room. Three large chairs faced each other around a patterned carpet of taupe and forest green, with an unlit fireplace in one wall. “Can I offer you some apple wine?” Narvi asked, fetching glasses out of a cabinet. “We’ve got more than we can possibly drink, don’t ask why, and it’s really very good. Have some, please.”
Arandras accepted a glass and sat, stretching his legs. “So, what did you do to get sent to Spyridon?” he said. “Must have been something dire.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad,” Narvi said. “I looked for you when I got here, you know — must be close to a year ago, now. Knocked on the door of every single shop in the Arcade, but you weren’t in any of them. Figured you must have moved on.”
“Not yet,” Arandras said. “But you were looking in the wrong end of town. I’m down by the low market.”
“Of course you are.” Narvi studied him over the rim of his glass. “I should have guessed, I suppose.”
Arandras sipped the wine. It was smooth, and sweeter than he expected, though the apple flavour was only apparent in the aftertaste. “So if you’re not running the place, what are
you doing?”
“This and that. Building bridges with the Library, for one. Soon we’ll be taking students and finally be a schoolhouse in more than just name.” Narvi shrugged. “I coordinate things, some here, some in Anstice. Mostly I just solve problems so other people can do the real work.”
“No sorcery?”
“Not much. And honestly, I can’t say I miss it. All those hours in your own head trying to figure out why the damn construct keeps collapsing.” He gave a rueful smile. “Probably sounds mad to you. Sitting and thinking — who wouldn’t want to do that, right?”
Arandras shrugged. Only a handful of people could reach into the world around them and touch sorcery. Aside from a brief time during childhood, he’d never wished it for himself. “And Katriel?”
“In Anstice, and taller every day.” Narvi grinned. “You’d scarcely recognise her. She’s as high as my elbow now.”
“You’ve done well. I’m glad,” Arandras said, and found that it was true. “Listen, Narvi. I need to ask a favour. It’s… well, it’s about Tereisa.”
The sorcerer’s grin faded. “What about her?”
Arandras took a breath. “I think the man who killed her is still alive.”
“What? No, they found him.” Narvi made a face. “Dead in the river, wasn’t he?”
“I thought so,” Arandras said. “Until a few days ago. Just listen, please.” He began a brief account of the past several days, telling Narvi about the letter, the missing scribe, and the books he’d borrowed from the Library. Narvi listened without comment, raising his eyebrows when Arandras named the books. “And so I need to know what’s in those books. They’re the only lead I have, at least until Yevin gets back.”
Narvi shook his head. “Sounds thin, Arandras,” he said. “Honestly. There must be hundreds of people with similar writing to your man.”
“This wasn’t similar,” Arandras said. “It was the same.”
Narvi gave him a long look. “All right,” he said at last. He set down his wine and pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
The door swung closed, and Arandras drained his glass. It was strange to be back in a schoolhouse again, even one such as this, drinking wine with Narvi like in the old days. How many times had they sat together on a cool Chogon evening, sometimes with Tereisa, sometimes with others, discussing the day’s work, or the quality of the season’s cherries, or whatever else took their fancy? Even now, it seemed, some part of him still thought of it as home. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. He’d been happy, after all. No, more than that. I was content.
Because I still believed.
The door swung open, and Narvi entered with two slender volumes. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at them yet,” he said, passing them to Arandras. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”
“Not really.” Arandras opened the first volume and began leafing through the hand-copied pages. The book bore the title Forms of Sorcery, and appeared to be an exposition on the sorcery employed by the Valdori before their fall, veering from military to religious to artistic applications and back again. Much of the content appeared to be highly speculative, if not outright fabrication. “Why did you borrow them?”
“I’ve got a team out in the field,” Narvi said. “We got word of an old Valdori religious site — some obscure sect or order local to this region, as far as we can tell. I’m trying to find out more.”
Arandras froze. “A field team,” he said casually, keeping his gaze on the book in front of him. “What are they hoping to find?”
“It’s — well, I can’t really say. I’m sorry. You know the rules.” The regret in Narvi’s tone was plain. “Maybe I can tell you more when they get back. Should be any day now.”
Or, perhaps, not at all. Arandras’s hand went to his bag, coming to rest on the small bump made by the urn. Was it your team that Mara saw killed? He shivered. And if you borrowed those books to investigate the urn, did Yevin borrow them for the same reason?
“Arandras? I said, perhaps I can say more once they’re back. If you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” Arandras said. “Yes. I’d appreciate that.” He took a breath. “Can you tell me why you chose those two books, specifically?”
“Simple, really. I asked the librarian for books about minor Valdori sects and sorcery, and these were the ones he suggested.” Narvi shrugged. “For all its other resources, the Library’s got barely anything worth looking at on sorcery. And the handful of decent books they do have never make it back to the shelves before someone else borrows them again. Any schoolhouse library on Kal Arna has a better collection — well, except us. Chogon’s sent us a few books to get us started, but we still have to go to Anstice for any serious research.”
Arandras nodded, only half listening as Narvi chattered on about the shortcomings of the Spyridon schoolhouse. If the Library’s books about sorcery were truly so few, Yevin may well have borrowed these two for reasons entirely unrelated to the urn. Except Arandras didn’t believe it. Tereisa had been kidnapped for ransom: a Valdori dagger Arandras had access to at the time. Her abductor had only killed her when Arandras, trusting the Quill to rescue her, had refused to hand it over. And now someone’s looking for this urn, and they’ve already killed some Quill to get it, and with Yevin’s help they’re going to… what? His train of thought ran out, and Arandras breathed a sigh of frustration. He was right, he was sure of it. But he needed more.
He closed the book and stood. “I should go,” he said, handing the books back to Narvi. “I’ve already taken more of your time than I intended.”
“It’s no hardship.” Narvi smiled, his gaze turning inward. “I still miss it, sometimes. You and me and Tereisa and the others, back there in Chogon. Before it all became…” He trailed off. “You know. Complicated.”
Before we knew better, Arandras thought. Some of us, anyway.
“Tell me what you learn,” Narvi said. “About the letter, I mean. If there’s anything any of us here can do to help, just say the word.”
There was no chance of Arandras doing any such thing. He’d gone to the Quill for help in Chogon, and their actions had shown him exactly where their interests lay. I believe you care, Narvi. But you don’t speak for the Quill.
In every way that matters, the Quill speaks for you.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
•
The god owned him.
Clade had given himself over to it, almost twenty years ago. At the time, of course, he’d had no idea what was happening, and when he finally discovered what he’d done the day he joined the Oculus, it was far too late. The god came and went as it pleased, watching through his eyes, listening through his ears. Sometimes it stayed only minutes before flitting away again. Sometimes it stayed for hours. Most days he wanted nothing more than for it to just leave him alone.
Today he stood in the open gallery atop the Oculus building, hands resting on the rough stone balustrade as he gazed out over the city and awaited the god’s arrival.
A narrow stone tower marked the position of the city chambers to the northwest. Behind it rose the spires of the Tri-God pantheon in a cascade of blue and scarlet, gold and emerald green, the myriad coloured tiles bright in the afternoon sun. The high roofs of the merchant guilds across the river stood apart to the north, almost in line with the wide thoroughfare that ran past the Oculus building’s door and, if one followed it far enough, all the way to Spyridon on the southern coast. Smoke and chanted prayer rose from the grounds behind the Kefiran dome across the road, the former drifting away on a breeze almost too faint to feel, the latter rising and falling in volume as though the singer alternated between addressing the penitent who brought the sacrifice, and raising his face to the heavens.
Sighing, Clade returned his attention to the road. The riverboat carrying the new sorcerers up the Tienette from Borronor’s Crossing had been sighted approaching the city a few h
ours ago. Two of the sorcerers would stay in Anstice; the others would proceed to Damara, or Rondossa, or even as far west as Shandrel. The occasion of their arrival offered a rare opportunity for Clade to test the limits of his perception.
During his time at Zeanes, Clade had witnessed half a dozen binding ceremonies, and as his awareness of the god’s presence grew, he began to notice its fascination with new blood. Whether the god was motivated by a desire to learn more about its new members, a determination to confirm their competence and loyalty, or a simple lust for novelty, Clade did not know; but whatever the cause, the result was the same. For a while, the god would move almost exclusively between the new additions, leaving Clade free of its presence for weeks. He had taken advantage of its distraction this time to pursue several sensitive undertakings; most significantly, his attempted retrieval of the urn. Now, as the window of its absence swung closed, he stood in the gallery and watched the road, awaiting its approach.
He saw the party before he felt it: seven or eight people on foot and a horse-drawn cart loaded with baggage, still several blocks away. He slowed his breathing, stilling his thoughts and allowing himself to rest a moment in the inner silence. Then he pushed his awareness outward, reaching down to the thoroughfare below and probing gently for the alien presence.
The group drew closer. His eyes tracked their advance, the visual report ignored by all but a small corner of his mind as he groped forward. Emptiness greeted him, flat and featureless. The horse raised its head in a whinny, the sound registered by his ears and brushed aside. They were two blocks away. One block. Is it there? The thought drifted across his awareness, leaving ripples in his concentration. He let it go, stilling his mind again and nudging his perception outward, and out some more, reaching as far as his inner senses could stretch.