by karlov, matt
“Hello?” she called. “Is someone there?”
The humming stopped. “Back here. Try not to bump anything.”
Eilwen stepped around the first of the piles, making her way past boxes of sealing wax and scent bottles to the rear of the room where a small office was partitioned off from the rest by a light wooden screen. Ged sat at one end of a narrow table, a collection of papers before him, eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose. Eilwen cleared her throat and the steward waved her in without looking up.
“Eilwen,” he said, running his finger down a column of numbers and pausing to scratch a note beside one of them. “How fares the clock? Running smoothly, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you.” Eilwen glanced around, looking for somewhere to sit, but every available surface was covered with papers. “I’d almost think it sorcery if it weren’t for the clicking. Remarkable craftsmanship.”
“Good, good.” Ged’s finger reached the bottom of one column, moved to the top of the next. “And what can I do for you today?”
“Just answer a question, I hope,” Eilwen said. “There’s a room on the first floor. Could you tell me who has use of it?”
“Ah. I think so. A moment, if you please…”
The moment stretched to a minute, then two. Eilwen folded her arms, her gaze falling on a wide, shallow cabinet on the wall behind the steward’s head, its doors fastened with a pair of heavy locks. The key cupboard. Even as the thought formed in her mind, she pushed it away. Havilah’s instructions had been plain. Better to lose him than tip him off. Letting herself into Kieffe’s room was out of the question.
But what if it wasn’t his room? Perhaps it was a meeting chamber, or a storeroom, or —
Ged pushed back his chair with a screech and turned to a set of calfskin-bound folios at the end of the table. He selected one and laid it open, revealing a plan of the building.
“First floor, yes?”
“That’s right. North side, facing the garden. Third door from the eastern corner.”
“Hmm.” He turned the page, scanning the rows of slanting text. “Here, this is it,” he said, tapping an entry with a lined forefinger. “This room is designated for the use of Spymaster Havilah.”
“What?” Eilwen leaned over to read the words for herself. “Are you sure that’s the right room? First floor, I said.”
“You did, yes,” Ged said tartly. “This is the room, and it is allocated to the Spymaster’s department.”
“His department,” Eilwen repeated, trying to think. What in the hells was going on? Gods, please let Havilah not be playing both sides. The key cabinet hung from the opposite wall, silent and inviting. If he’s not, going in there would be madness. But if he is…
The steward closed up the folio and returned it to its place. “Is there anything else?”
Eilwen smiled at his back. “Do you happen to have a spare key for that room? There’s an… anomaly I need to resolve.”
“Master Havilah will have a key. No doubt he can tell you what lies within.”
“No doubt,” Eilwen said as Ged turned back, peering at her over the rims of his eyeglasses. “Unfortunately, Master Havilah is away at present. Guild business, you understand.” Ged offered no reaction, and Eilwen plunged ahead. “But I am his appointed deputy, which makes me the department’s ranking officer in his absence, at least where matters in Anstice are concerned. And since we are, in fact, in Anstice…”
He frowned. Come on, Eilwen thought, willing her smile not to slip. Just give me the key.
“Spymaster Havilah is away, you say.” The steward rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you should wait until he returns.”
“This can’t wait, I’m afraid,” Eilwen said, careful not to plead. Any hint of desperation would only undermine her authority.
“And where is Master Havilah?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Eilwen said. “I’m sorry.”
“Can’t wait, can’t tell.” Ged eyed her speculatively. “You are like him, aren’t you? I did not see it before, why he chose you. Now, I see.”
Eilwen smiled and said nothing.
Ged inclined his head, an amused glint in his eye, and turned to the key cabinet.
•
Eilwen left the steward’s chambers with the key in her hand and questions filling her mind. If the room belonged to Havilah, why had he never mentioned it? Was Kieffe one of Havilah’s agents outside of Anstice? But if so, what was he doing in the city? Or maybe he had nothing to do with Havilah. Maybe someone else had simply used Havilah’s name to procure the room. But who would do such a thing, and why would they bother?
Had Ufeus been holding out on her? Had Havilah?
She found herself on the first floor, having descended the stairs without thought, her steps leading her around the corner to the northern corridor. Beech panelling lined the walls on both sides, the light tones broken only by doorways, lamp sconces, and some small plaster statues of the Coridon era. Eilwen slowed as she neared the third door. No-one else was in sight. The door was unmarked, giving no hint of whether it led to a private suite or a chamber with some other function. She slowed further, straining her ears for any sound of activity within.
Someone rounded the far corner and began striding toward her. Eilwen accelerated at once, the key clenched tight in her sweaty palm, heart thudding against her ribs. A flash of something pale caught her eye — ashen hair? — and she glanced up; but no, it was just Laris in another of her high-collared jackets, this one somewhere between the colours of cream and pearl. The Trademaster offered her a warm smile as she approached.
“Eilwen. I was hoping to see you again.”
“Trad — Laris,” Eilwen said, hoping her face didn’t look as flushed as it felt. “You’re well, I hope.”
“Very well, thank you,” Laris said. “And how is Havilah treating you?”
Good question. “Fine,” Eilwen said. She cast about for something more to say, but nothing came to mind.
Laris’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Eilwen took a deep breath. “Everything’s fine.”
“Ah. Good.” A maid emerged into the corridor a few doors down, and Laris drew Eilwen aside to let her pass. “My door is always open to you, Eilwen,” the Trademaster resumed, her voice low. “I hope you know that.”
Eilwen blinked. “Uh, thank you. That’s very kind.”
“I mean it,” Laris said, her hand lingering on Eilwen’s arm. “Havilah’s very good at what he does, but he has a fondness for tossing people out of the nest to see who’ll learn to fly on the way down.” She shrugged wryly. “It’s his way, I suppose. But if you need help finding your wings, come talk to me.”
“Thank you,” Eilwen said again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good.” Laris straightened. “I’m sure you’ll do us proud,” she said with a parting smile.
Eilwen sagged against the wall, rubbing her temples as the Trademaster’s footsteps receded behind her. Gods. Of all the times to run into a master. She turned around just in time to see Laris stride past the locked door and disappear around the corner, leaving the corridor empty once more.
Perhaps she should just leave it be. Wait for Havilah to get back. But what if that wasn’t what he wanted? Maybe Laris was right. Maybe Havilah was nudging her out of the nest and sitting back to see what happened.
Or maybe he’s behind the whole thing.
The thought stretched in her mind like a great cat, all languid grace and sheathed claws. Something was going on. What if that something was him? Maybe that was why she’d been chosen for this position over one of his own. Maybe Havilah was counting on her inexperience to blind her to the truth of his own involvement.
The hells with that. Eilwen pushed herself upright, wincing at the pain in her fist: the key, still clenched in her sweaty hand, its hard edges digging into her palm like an arrowhead.
The corridor was still empty, and the sound of her steps reverberated off the
stone floor and panelled walls. She halted before the door and knocked twice on its polished timber grain, leaning close to listen for movement. Nothing stirred within. Nobody there? Or do you just want me to go away? It didn’t matter. She was done playing games.
Lips pursed, Eilwen slid the key easily into the lock and gave it a smooth twist. The lock responded with a satisfying snick, and she pushed the door open.
Darkness greeted her, black and impenetrable. She reached for the lamp beside the door, then reconsidered and hurried to the end of the corridor, plucking the corner lamp from its bracket. Wrapping her fingers around the leather-bound handle, Eilwen lifted the lamp high and stepped through the unlocked door.
The floor and walls were bare stone, bereft of carpets or panelling or other ornamentation. The wall on Eilwen’s left was close enough to touch, but the rest of the room extended away to the right beyond the lamp’s reach. Rough boards covered the windows facing the inner garden, edges filled so as to block the slightest glimmer of light from without. A faint scent of varnished timber hung in the air, but the room seemed entirely empty of furniture, and indeed of anything else. Eilwen glanced about the room, cursing as realisation sank in. They knew we were coming. They knew, and got everything out before we could get here.
She swung her lamp to the right, peering into the shadows of the far wall. There was something, there in the corner. Something long and narrow, bundled against the wall. It looked almost like…
The lamplight fell on a hand, pale and unmoving. Gods preserve. Trembling, she edged closer. There was the arm, and there the head. Ashen hair spilled over the floor beneath an upthrust chin and nose. “Hello?” she said; but the word was barely a whisper, and the figure did not respond.
Dread closed around Eilwen’s heart. She crept closer, allowing the light to fall on the figure’s face. Kieffe. Empty eyes gazed sightlessly past her ear, one half-lidded as though frozen mid-wink. Small spots of blood marked the skin just below the man’s nostrils. The play of lamplight over his mouth revealed worn, lightly stained teeth. His limbs lay flat along the floor, the toes of his boots propped against the wall in ghastly nonchalance. Aside from the blood beneath his nose, his body showed no obvious sign of violence.
Gods, she thought, staring stupidly at the corpse before her. They killed him. Her arm sagged, drawn earthward by the leaden weight of the lamp. She set it down and lowered herself onto the floor beside it, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her calves. They knew we were onto them, and they killed him for it.
A breath of air brushed her face, and she froze. The lamp flickered, casting wild shadows about the room. Footsteps whispered behind her; then came a rustle of fabric as someone crouched alongside.
Slowly, she turned her head.
“Eilwen?” The voice was soft, and deep, and richly accented. “Are you all right?”
“Havilah.” The Spymaster’s face hovered before her, concern in his eyes. She stared, then flung her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder. “Havilah. Thank the gods.”
She held him a long moment, longer than she would have dared in daylight. But it was dark, and there was a dead man in the room, and she was no longer alone.
Chapter 8
Wisdom? Why do you ask me of wisdom? Wisdom is pragmatism, nothing more: the ruthless winnowing of the lesser in service of the greater.
— Daro of Talsoor
Dialogues with my Teachers
Clade closed the door to his suite and turned the key once, twice. The curtains behind the desk were already drawn, shutting out the bright mid-morning sun and muffling the noise of the street below. It was not merely a question of privacy today: the morning’s task required his undivided attention. Distraction could prove disastrous.
Since the night of his meeting with Yevin, the god had left him alone; in fact, it had apparently lost interest in Anstice altogether. Clade had observed no sign of it with any of his sorcerers, not even Sera. The timing of its visitation still bothered him, though he could think of nothing that might have tipped the god off. No-one but Garrett knew he had been out, and even if Azador had chanced to overhear him mentioning the fact, the boy knew nothing of his purpose. Garrett could not have given him away even if he wanted to.
Perhaps he was simply being paranoid. The god came and went as it willed. Some appearances were inevitably more inconvenient than others.
A perfumed oil lamp burned steadily on his desk, adding its soft yellow light to the glimmers of daylight around the curtains’ edge. Clade perched on a cushioned armchair, intent on the low table before him and the objects on its surface: two simple earthenware mugs, almost identical but for the thickness of their handles. Ink runes snaked around the surface of one, the lines dividing and joining to form a single, unified structure.
Sera had obtained the mugs and performed the binding at his request. Though she shared Clade’s primary proficiency — the binding of wood — the girl had rudimentary talent across a range of other elements, including clay. She’d screwed up her nose when he’d given her the assignment, giving her such an air of a mischievous child that he’d been hard-pressed not to grin outright. “A mug? Yuck! Do you know how nasty sorcery feels when you have to ground it in clay? All slithery and bony and quiet, like a snake.” But she’d done as he asked, leaving the ensorcelled mug and its unmarked twin outside his door some time during the night for him to discover as he rose for breakfast.
The runes covering the thin-handled mug were only a representation, not the binding itself. Sorcery did not depend on runes any more than music depended on a score, or a building upon an architect’s diagram. Drawing the desired structure on the target object was a beginner’s technique, useful for planning the order of the binding, but feasible only for spells of sufficient simplicity. Even the keenest penmanship could not hope to match the intricacy of a master sorcerer’s binding.
Clade placed his hand over the mouth of the mug. A whisper of cool air wafted against his palm. This particular binding reduced the temperature inside a vessel, enough to preserve the chill of an already cool drink for perhaps a day, if kept in the shade. Though too weak to serve any serious purpose, a chiller was the kind of spell beloved by dandies for its peculiar blend of the understated and the ostentatious: it marked the bearer as wealthy enough to afford so frivolous a binding, yet modest enough to allow such proof of wealth to go unnoticed by anyone outside the owner’s immediate vicinity. Closing his hand over the edge, Clade slid his fingers inside. The feeling was like dipping his hand into a still pool of pleasantly cool water. He withdrew his hand and the sensation vanished as though pulling off a glove.
Today was his first opportunity to put his guesses to the test. The accounts Yevin had given him were more comprehensive than he’d dared hope, but the descriptions of the bindings themselves still contained frustrating gaps. Clade had spent the past few evenings studying them, extrapolating as best he could, and considering how to apply his suppositions to the spell he needed to construct. The design he had come up with was suitably balanced, and seemed consistent with all he’d learnt; yet some aspects of the binding continued to elude him.
All sorcery was built on a physical anchor. Permanent bindings were grounded in the substance of the object being bound, like the clay of the mug before him. Transient effects, those involving fire, mist, and the like, required a physical source close at hand: a flame, or a wisp of vapour. But the spell he was about to attempt did not address any physical object. It was directed at sorcery itself: the binding Sera had constructed last night. What, then, could act as an anchor for such a spell? What physical ground could exist for something that had no physical nature?
A few years ago he would have called such sorcery impossible. But then, a few years ago he would have thought golems nothing more than legend.
Clade settled himself on the chair, centring himself: feet flat on the floor, back straight, forearms resting on his legs. He had removed the table’s usual collection of g
lassware, leaving it bare of everything save the two mugs. With an efficiency born of long practice, he cleared his mind, reducing his focus to the two objects before him: the one solid, plain and unmarked, the other wrapped around with runes and infused with sorcery. He took a deep breath and held it a moment; then, exhaling, he began to construct the spell.
For Clade, building sorcery was like crafting an elaborate mechanism, the work as delicate and precise as that of any clockmaker, but on a scope of which such an artisan might only dream. Every binding was different. The form of the object addressed by a spell dictated the spell’s shape, at once imposing constraints on what might be achieved and offering opportunities to build on its inherent properties. In a way, a well-crafted binding was like a bespoke suit, made to measure for one man. Though another might wear the same clothes with more or less difficulty, there would always be some small difference between the two men that called for a subtle alteration. And the closer one came to representing the object’s true shape, the more effective the binding would be.
Carefully, he laid out the first lines of sorcery, beginning with the ensorcelled mug. According to the accounts supplied by Yevin, the spell was to be constructed as if the targeted binding was its ground; and so, despite the apparent impossibility of the notion, Clade started there, feeling out the shape of the existing sorcery and moulding a foundation to its contours. Then he began to compose the spell itself, building on the base, taking care at each step to preserve the balance of the growing edifice. Some of the spell’s components were familiar, common pieces of sorcery used in a wide variety of bindings. Others were entirely new to him, or of his own devising, and these he fashioned slowly, rehearsing each addition before he applied it. Gradually, one piece at a time, the structure grew, extending from one mug and reaching toward the other like an invisible, handless arm.