by karlov, matt
It was not quite the same as his urn. It had handles, for one thing: slender stalks that curved out from the base before bending back in just where the neck began to widen. It was taller, too, or not as wide, and its surface carried writing only, not images. But the likeness was unmistakable. There was the same bulbous base, the same flared mouth, the same flat cap sealing the contents within. The writing, alas, was indistinct — the drawing too small for the copy-artist to accurately reproduce such details — but it spiralled around the same portion of the rounded body and seemed similar in length to the inscription that had so far defied his attempts at translation.
At the foot of the facing page was a reference to the drawing. The Kharjik word that stood for the urn was unfamiliar, but something about it triggered a faint recognition. Arandras paused, puzzling over the term but unable to pin it down. Then he turned the page, and the riddle was solved.
A half-page illustration showed a man lying on the ground, pierced with arrows. At his side knelt another, holding the urn to the wounded man’s mouth. But the man was not drinking. He was exhaling — surrendering his dying breath to the urn, and with it all that he was, to be preserved against the passage of time. And there in the text was the word Arandras had heard the echo of, an old Yanisinian term: zaki, the passing of the spirit. Death.
That’s it. Arandras stared at the page, the image filling his vision. It’s an ossuary, but not for the man’s physical remains. An ossuary for the soul.
The text below the second illustration was brief, describing the supposed capture of the spirit as a Yanisinian custom that had no parallel among the Valdori. That at least made sense. Preserving the dead was the stuff of Jervian savages, or the fire-cultists who burned their corpses and retained the ashes. The Valdori had buried their dead, sung songs about them, even built monuments to them, but that was all. Nowhere had Arandras ever heard of the Valdori capturing souls of the dead and putting them on a shelf.
Yet the urn was clearly of Valdori make. Only they had ever fashioned such pieces that were impervious to the passage of time. Why would they make something with no function in their own culture? A thought struck him, and he shivered. Unless they made it work. Was it possible? Could they have found a way to draw out a spirit and imprison it in a small pewter vessel — perhaps the very vessel he now held in his hand?
Was there, even now, a person trapped inside?
Reason returned with a rush. No. It can’t be. Such sorcery, if possible at all, would surely rank among the most complex and laborious of all the Empire’s works. Any such binding would require an immense physical anchor in which to ground it, far greater than the hand-high urn. For all their power, even the Valdori were not immune to the laws of sorcery. There was no way the urn could hold such a binding.
Arandras closed his hand over the small pewter vessel. It was smooth and cool to the touch, just as it had always been. He grasped it tightly, squeezing hard against the unyielding metal. Don’t be a fool. There is no spirit within.
But if that was so, what was it for? The thing had clearly been designed to mimic the form of a Yanisinian receptacle, which at least explained why there was no way to open it. The inscription, too, made sense now: not a good luck charm, but a benediction for the deceased. The engraved images presumably showed scenes from the life of whoever supposedly rested within. All the details made sense. But what is it really? And why does someone want it so much they’re prepared to kill for it?
His hand was still resting on the urn when the door slammed open. Startled, Arandras scrambled to his feet, hiding the urn behind his back and bracing himself for an attack. But the newcomer merely stood there, a self-satisfied grin on his face, and a breath later Arandras recognised the smirking features of Onsoth.
“You,” Arandras said in disgust. He crouched to pick up some papers that had fallen to the floor and slipped the urn into his bag. “What do you want?”
“Well, well,” Onsoth said, his grin widening even further. “What have we here? Could it be Lord Swine himself, studying in the Library he treats with such contempt? Why, yes, I believe it is!”
“What do you want?” Arandras repeated, his voice flat. “Or is it your usual practice to harass people for no reason? No, wait, forget I asked. Stupid question.”
“Harass?” Onsoth folded his arms, still smiling. “What an offensive thing to say. I’m here on behalf of the city of Spyridon. You should show the proper respect.”
Arandras grit his teeth. “What. Do. You. Want?”
“I’m surprised to find you here, you know. Here in the public reading area of the Library. Open to all the citizens of Spyridon.” Onsoth paused, and an unpleasant suspicion began to form in Arandras’s thoughts. “But do you know what I’ve discovered? It’s not just the Library you’re too proud for. It’s the whole damn city! Even citizenship of Spyridon is not good enough for Arandras, Lord of the Swine!”
It was futile to argue. Never mind that in practice, the Library opened its doors to all comers save children and criminals only — nonetheless, its mandate extended only to the citizenry. Anything more was a mere courtesy, one that might be revoked whenever, or from whomever, the city wished.
Onsoth must have seen the resignation on his face. “That’s right, Lord Swine. Pack up your things. The Library is closed to you.”
Arandras collected his papers in silence. Then he gathered the Library’s books, stacking them neatly on the small desk. He reached for the musty Oronayan volume last, placing it atop the pile, and Onsoth wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Hells, what is that smell?” he said, fanning the air with his hand. “Get out already. Take your shit back home to your sty.”
It took all of Arandras’s self-control not to punch Onsoth in the face as he left.
•
By evening, the street outside Rhothe’s Bar was slick with moisture, the result of a brief afternoon storm that had done nothing to relieve the oppressive humidity. Inside, the usual hubbub of conversation was muted as patrons slouched listlessly around tables, most barely moving except to raise mugs to their lips or to gesture the serving staff for more. The high windows along the far wall stood wide open, admitting flashes of lamplight, the clop of passing horses and, occasionally, the faintest breath of air.
Arandras found Druce and Jensine ensconced in a booth directly below one of the yawning windows. Jensine smiled in greeting, but Druce offered only a curt nod, his fingers drumming against the table and his eyes roving the room. His drink sat on the table, untouched.
“What’s with him?” Arandras said, then grimaced at the edge in his voice. Onsoth was a bastard, but taking it out on Druce wouldn’t help.
Jensine shrugged. “He won’t say. Not until everyone’s here.” Druce continued his survey of the room, showing no sign of hearing their conversation. “He’s been like this all day.”
Arandras took a deep pull from his cider, watching as Druce shifted restlessly in his seat, eyes flicking here and there, all the while avoiding Arandras’s gaze. Must be the only one in the city who isn’t noticing the heat, he thought sourly, cupping the cool mug between his palms. What trouble have you got yourself into now?
“Have you learnt anything more about the urn?” Jensine said, and Druce’s attention shifted to a point just above Arandras’s shoulder. “You must have translated the message by now.”
“Partly, I think,” Arandras said. “Seems like a blessing of some kind, but I still don’t know what it means. I’m working on it.”
Druce snorted and shifted his gaze back to somewhere in the middle of the room.
Arandras leaned forward. “Something you’d like to say, Druce?”
“What’s going on here, then?” Mara plonked a brimming mug on the table and sank into the vacant seat with a sigh. “Hells, what a pathetic excuse for a storm. I’ve sneezed better storms than that.” Silence greeted her pronouncement, and she glanced around the table in bemusement. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Not at all,” Druce said, his voice tight. “We were just waiting for you.”
“Well, here I am,” Mara said, gesturing expansively. “Proceed!”
Druce sat forward, looking directly at Arandras for the first time since his arrival. “Tell us, please, Arandras,” he said. “How are your enquiries progressing? I speak, of course, of the small trinket Mara recovered last week.”
Arandras’s eyes narrowed. Put away the theatrics, boy. If you want to ask something, ask it. “They continue,” he said.
“I see. And tell us, if you would, have you received any offers to purchase it?”
“I told you the other night, it’s not that simple. I need to find out more —”
“Let me make it simple, then,” Druce said. The earlier jitters were gone; he seemed assured now, even cocky. “Just tell us the best offer you’ve had so far.”
Arandras frowned. “I spoke to Sten, on Goldsmiths Lane —”
“No, Arandras,” Druce said. “I’m talking about the Quill. How much did they offer you?” Arandras moistened his lips, and the gesture seemed to set something off in the other man. “Tell us!” Druce shouted, slamming his hand on the table.
“What is this, Arandras?” Jensine asked, her tone cautious. “What’s he talking about?”
“I spoke to a Quill sorcerer,” Arandras said, each word clipped. “He offered to purchase the urn. A specific sum was not mentioned.” He sat back, arms folded, daring Druce to say otherwise.
Druce considered him a long moment. “Maybe that’s true,” he said at last. “If so, I have some good news for you. For all of us.” He glanced around the table. “The Quill want the urn, badly. They’re willing to give us three gold hands for it.”
Three hands. Fifteen lurundi, each bar a finger of gold. Gasps sounded around the table, and Druce grinned.
“Are you sure the offer’s good?” Mara said. “You know what the Quill are like.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Druce said, the conviction in his tone unmistakable. “I heard a couple of them talking about it. They didn’t even know I was there.” He took a mouthful of ale. “They weren’t joking.”
“This is wonderful!” Jensine looked as if someone had offered to fetch the moon and place it in her lap. “What are you all going to do? I think… I’ll buy a horse. A Halonese cross, if I can find one around here —”
The words seemed to come from someone else. “I’m not selling it.”
Jensine gaped, brought up short in mid-reverie. “But… why? Three gold hands!” She blinked. “Do you think you can get even more?”
“No,” Arandras said. “I’m not selling it. At all.”
“I knew it!” Druce burst out. “Gods, but I knew something was up. What do you mean, you’re not selling it?”
Arandras closed his eyes. The air in the room seemed completely still. “I can’t.”
“That’s not for you to decide, is it? There are four of us with a say, and —”
“Let him speak, Druce,” Mara said. She turned to Arandras. “Why?”
“I can’t sell it. Not right now. I need it.” The words ran out, and he shook his head.
Mara’s voice was like steel. “Why?”
“Ahhh. All right.” Arandras covered his head with his hands and tried to gather his thoughts. “Fine. I — um. Well, I used to be married. Really.” He looked from face to face, trying to impress upon them the weight of his words. “Tereisa… she was killed. Murdered. And that urn is going to lead me to the man who did it.”
“The hells it will,” Druce said. “Do you truly expect us to believe —”
“Don’t.” Arandras glared across the table. “I really don’t care what you believe. I know.”
Something in his words seemed to reach them. They stared, or looked away: Jensine speechless, Druce uncertain, Mara impossible to read.
Eventually Druce broke the silence. “I see you believe that,” he said, his tone subdued. “But this changes nothing. The urn belongs to all of us. I say we sell it. Jensine?”
Jensine hesitated. “Sell,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Arandras, truly I am. But we have to sell it. You see that, don’t you?”
“Mara?”
Mara stared at the table, her hand clenched around her mug. When she spoke, her voice was thick. “No sell.”
“What?” Druce stared at her, shocked. “What do you mean, no?”
Mara snapped around. “Nobody asked you to explain your vote. I don’t have to explain mine.” She turned back to the others. “Two votes to sell, two against. We do nothing.”
“No, this is bullshit!” Druce was on his feet in an instant, fury contorting his features. “This is not what happens! We find things, we sell them. That’s all! We do not just decide to hang on to the biggest find we’ve ever had!”
“You called for the vote,” Arandras muttered.
“Shut up!” Druce leaned over the table, his finger practically touching Arandras’s face. “One fourth of that thing is mine. You want to keep it? Buy my share. Four gold bars, minus change. Same again for Jensine, while you’re at it.”
“Don’t be absurd. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Absurd, is it? You’re keeping exactly that kind of money from us! You arrogant bastard.”
“Listen, Druce, if you need silver, I can tide you over until —”
“I don’t want an advance, and I don’t need your charity!” Druce dug into his coinpurse and flung a handful of coppers at Arandras, striking him in the face and chest. “There’s your loan back. I don’t owe you anything.” He paused, breathing hard, and shook his head. “I thought you were different. Did you know that? I thought, here’s a man who’s straight. Here’s a man who respects you enough to tell it true. But you don’t respect anyone, do you, Arandras? Not even your friends. Not even yourself. Well, fuck you.”
He stalked away, jouncing the table as he departed. Arandras rubbed his stinging cheek and forehead, copper coins clinking as they fell to his lap.
“So, what, that’s it?” Jensine said, and Arandras looked up. “Druce is right, Arandras. This isn’t what we do. You can’t just change the rules like that.”
“We voted,” Arandras said.
“And when have we ever had to vote about anything before? No, this is wrong.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Just give me time.”
“No. This is over.” Jensine pushed herself to her feet. “You owe me, Arandras, and you owe Druce, and that’s going to eat at you until you make it right. But even then…” She shrugged. “How could I trust you again?”
Arandras bowed his head as Jensine followed Druce out of the bar. He felt wrung out, as if he had been running for his life. I have no choice. Can’t you see? But such thoughts were useless now. This is over, Jensine had said, and she was right. It had been over the moment Mara found the urn.
“Well done,” Mara said, and it took him a long moment to recognise the sarcasm. She considered him, head tilted as though trying to discern his thoughts. He looked away, reluctant to meet her eyes.
“Are you going to leave as well?” he asked, and found he did not know what answer he was hoping to hear.
Slowly, Mara shook her head. “My lover died, too,” she said, so softly that he almost couldn’t hear.
Still he could not meet her eyes. “Who killed him?”
She shrugged. “Me, in the end. But he was dead long before.” Her hand found his arm. “I know what it is to have questions that need answers. I’ll help you, if you want it.”
“Thank you,” Arandras said. He swallowed, searching for more words but finding none. “Thank you.”
They sat there for a time, neither moving. Arandras’s tears were few, and soon ran into his beard, and he did not think Mara saw them.
•
Two days of prowling the compound yielded Eilwen frustratingly little information about Kieffe. Once, she spotted him through the high bathhouse window as he crossed the compound, but by the time
she emerged he was gone. Another time she passed him on the staircase and doubled back, trailing him to a featureless door on the first floor. She was not bold enough to follow him in, and when she came back that night and tried the door, she found it locked.
At breakfast on the second morning she sought out Pel, asking him about Kieffe’s past assignments, and what had brought him to Anstice. But Pel merely shook his head in disappointment and suggested that if she wished to become better acquainted with Kieffe then she might, perhaps, consider a conversation with the man himself. Then, blinking ponderously as if in surprised realisation, Pel leaned in and offered to arrange an introduction, forcing Eilwen to backtrack hastily and change the subject.
But if Kieffe was difficult to locate, Master Havilah was impossible. Eilwen saw no sign of him at all, nor any indication of activity in his suite, leading her to suspect that he had left the compound entirely. Where he had gone, and when he would be back, she did not know.
Ufeus could tell her nothing about either Havilah’s whereabouts or Kieffe’s assignments, past or present. Nor did he know anything about the room on the first floor. “My interests begin at the compound gate,” he told her stiffly. “The details of Guild administration are not my concern. Perhaps you should try Ged.”
Perhaps I should. With nothing else to go on, and with Havilah absent, the locked room seemed her only lead. Ged, the house steward, could at least tell her which master the room was allotted to. If it turned out to be Laris, it would at least be confirmation of sorts that Kieffe was indeed a trader. And if not…
Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe Kieffe is something else entirely. She recalled Caralange’s glare when she walked in on him and Laris in Havilah’s office. A sorcerer, perhaps.
The steward’s chambers occupied three adjoining suites on the second floor, the intermediate walls of which had been partially removed to form one long, twisting room. Eilwen halted by the vacant assistant’s desk, looking about for someone to speak to. Crates and boxes filled the winding space, some clinging to the walls in irregular stacks, others clustered together in rough islands on the floor. Most were closed, but a few bared their contents to her gaze: plates and utensils, lamp oil and wicks, pens and ink. A faint hum rose from the far end of the room, and Eilwen stood on tiptoes, craning her neck to see past the piled goods.