by karlov, matt
Images flashed through Arandras’s mind: Tereisa’s wondering, delighted laugh the day he’d pledged to marry her; Tereisa naked in the moonlight, brow arched, her finger beckoning him closer; Tereisa’s body huddled on the steps of their house, the breeze tugging at her blood-streaked hair in ghastly counterpoint to her stillness. Embarrassing myself? How dare you? Rage filled him, and he found himself leaning over the desk, fists planted either side of the half-written page, breathing hard. “Never say that again,” he growled. “Do not ever say that again.”
Yevin stood, leaning closer so that their noses almost touched. When he spoke, the words were barely more than a whisper. “Get the hells out of my shop.”
The words burrowed into Arandras’s ears, penetrating his madness. A memory arose in sympathetic echo: Onsoth leering down, his eyes filled with spite; Arandras standing in response, opening his mouth to reply; then those same words, spoken with the same soft fury.
He stared at Yevin, and he stared at Onsoth; he stood on both sides of the desk at once, staring across it at himself. Perhaps this was what Onsoth felt, why he was always so angry. Perhaps he’d lost someone once, same as Arandras, and now had nothing left save his memories and his rage, no course of action that might ease the ache or answer even one of the questions on which his life now stood.
But I do.
The sensation of solid timber pressing against his knuckles brought him back to the present. He straightened slowly, measuring Yevin with his gaze. The creases about the man’s eyes and mouth ran deep. His shoulders had a slight stoop to them. His arms were thin. He would be no match for Arandras. More than likely, Arandras would not even have to lay a hand on him. The mere threat would probably be enough.
Yevin stared back, his face expressionless. But as Arandras watched, he slowly sat back down; and just before he dropped his gaze, Arandras thought he saw a flicker of fear.
The sight cut him open, laid bare the snarl around his heart. Before him sat Yevin, cowed if not yet cowering; behind him in the city, Narvi and the Quill pursued their own advancement; and somewhere out in the world, Tereisa’s killer went about his business, unaware and unconcerned. And here he was, breaking a man’s will as though by doing so he could somehow right a wrong.
Yevin’s hands began to twitch, the confidence slowly draining from his face. But the snarl within, once exposed, could not be covered over again.
This is wrong. No matter what hangs on it. It’s wrong.
It was better to make a deal with devils than become one himself.
With a grimace, and a shiver that had nothing to do with his damp clothes, Arandras turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.
Part 2:
The Comfort of your Tears
Chapter 9
I found him alone in the upper room, perched on his threadbare mat; yet his bearing was that of one seated upon a throne. “The soldiers approach,” he said.
“They are even now at the door,” I returned. “Master, why will you not act? Even rats defend themselves at need.”
His smile was like the morning sun gentled by wisps of cloud. “If I have done wrong, no defence will serve me. If I have acted well, none is required. All else is the province of knaves and fools.”
Alas, his words fell on my ears like seed upon stone. Even now, I can scarce approach their edge. Then, I was only a boy.
— Jeresani the Lesser
The Passing of Herev Gis
(account disputed by the Gislean Provin)
The Woodtraders’ building had originally been constructed with five floors. The sixth had been added only a few decades ago, during the time of Guildmaster Vorace’s uncle. The architect had done his job well. To the rival companies on either side, and to the rest of the city across the river, the new floor atop the building appeared indistinguishable from those beneath it. Inside, however, the compromises that had been made to present an unblemished facade were plain. Narrow corridors and low ceilings made everything feel cramped. Where on other floors the main hallway formed a square of four perfectly straight lengths, here it twisted and turned like a vine grown wild. Most uncomfortable for Eilwen was the stairway. The architect had apparently been unable to find the space needed for a true staircase, and had chosen instead to reduce the number of steps but increase their height to almost twice that of those on the lower levels. Eilwen took the steps gingerly, her leg already beginning to twinge despite the early hour.
“Remember, say as little as possible,” Havilah murmured as they reached the top of the stairs. “Answer whatever questions are put to you simply and without speculation. And watch them. This is as delicate for whoever killed Kieffe as it is for us.”
The masters’ meeting room looked south, past the Tienette to a vista of towers and rooftops and, away to the left, the fields and pastures beyond the city’s edge. The quarter-height windows ran the length of the wall, enough to light the room without need for lamps, but too little to overcome the sense of confinement brought on by the low ceiling. Most of the masters were already seated around a polished jarrah table ornamented with gold filigree. A second, more sparsely populated ring of chairs surrounded the first: the adjunct’s row, one place for each master’s assistant.
“Havilah. About time.” Vorace leaned forward, resting thick forearms on the red timber table. He turned his shaggy head to Eilwen. “This is the one who found him?”
“This is Eilwen, yes.”
“Guildmaster,” Eilwen said, steeling herself to meet his regard. Vorace’s scrutiny was known throughout the Guild: aggressive, almost physical, buffeting in its intensity as though the spark animating his soul was too fierce to be contained by even his bearlike frame. Yet as Eilwen stood braced beneath his gaze, she found her attention caught by the droop of his eyelid, the deep lines of his cheeks, and the snowy tufts of his brows. He’s getting old. How have I not noticed that before?
As if aware of her thought, Vorace gave a throaty chuckle and turned to Havilah. “Sit, sit,” he said, jerking his thumb at the vacant space between Caralange and Laris. Eilwen followed Havilah’s lead, seating herself in the adjunct’s row behind him. The place behind Caralange stood empty, but on the other side Pel leaned across, offering a ponderous nod in greeting. Further around from Laris sat Soll, the treasurer, and old Phemia, the seneschal. Other than Caralange, only Phemia was alone.
“A man is dead,” Vorace said. “Tell me what we know.”
“The victim’s name was Kieffe.” Havilah leaned forward, and Eilwen could picture his expression as he glanced around the table, hands laced in front of him. “It seems he had already been dead for several hours by the time Eilwen found him.”
Eilwen kept her expression carefully neutral as the others glanced at her. Havilah had told her he was going to do this. Indulge their curiosity early, then move the discussion along. With luck, any inconvenient interest in her reasons for investigating Kieffe would be swallowed up in the general eagerness to find the killer.
“And what can you tell us about him?” Vorace said, his gaze flicking back from Havilah to Eilwen.
“Me? Nothing, really,” Eilwen said. “I didn’t know him at all.”
“But you must have. You let yourself into his room.”
“I didn’t know it was his room.” The denial came without thought, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to get out. She took a breath and forced herself to slow down. “The steward’s rolls had that room assigned to Master Havilah. I was trying to find out why.”
“By letting yourself in.”
Eilwen forced herself to hold the Guildmaster’s fierce regard. “I knocked, but there was no answer.”
“Strange that Ged would make such an error,” Soll said, his words soft and precise. “How do you suppose that came to pass?”
“I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.” Though if they did, the man might recall her comment about wanting the key to investigate an anomaly. “Perhaps it was just a mistake.”
“If I may,” Havilah said. “The issue at hand is Kieffe. Eilwen is here to tell you what she saw, not to be interrogated.”
“Yes, yes, fine.” Vorace waved a hand. “Go on.”
“The room was empty,” Eilwen said. “I mean completely empty. Swept clean. Someone had boarded up the windows. I didn’t even realise he was there at first.” She trailed off. That first moment of recognition had shocked her into stupor. The shame of being found like that by Havilah still burned. It’s not like I’ve never seen a corpse before. Gods, it’s not like I haven’t made a few of my own. But she never lingered after a kill, never sat with the body as it began its slow decay. She couldn’t. Not after the Orenda. “I’m sorry. It’s just… still a little raw.”
“The body was unmarked, save for a few spots of blood just about the nose.” Havilah said.
Vorace grunted. “What would cause that?”
“I can think of several poisons,” Havilah said. “Witch trumpets, for instance, or bluespine. Tana’s curse.”
Anxious lines creased Soll’s high forehead. “Tahisi poisons.”
“Mostly, yes.”
Vorace turned to Caralange. “Can we find out?”
The sorcerer cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Quill —”
“No,” Vorace said. “No outsiders. Not yet.”
“I’m no fleshbinder,” Caralange said, his raspy voice making the words sound more like a threat than an admission.
“One of your cadre, then.”
Caralange scowled. “Vorace, even the Quill struggle to pluck poison from a corpse, and that’s when it’s fresh. You might as well have the Gatherer’s priests ask his ghost what killed him, for all the good it will do.”
Matching the sorcerer’s scowl, Vorace leaned forward to argue the point. Eilwen turned away, sweeping the room with her gaze, examining each master in turn. Laris sat with her head bowed and hands folded in her lap, apparently uninterested in the debate. Behind her sat Pel in unconscious mimicry, eyes closed, chin resting on his chest. Soll conferred with his adjunct in low tones, his face hidden from Eilwen’s view. Old Phemia looked uncertainly from Caralange to Vorace and back again, plainly out of her depth. Vorace’s adjunct had a stylus in his hand and a wax tablet on his lap, and was watching the discussion with the avid attention of a magpie hunting for insects. All she could see of Havilah was his back.
Which is it? Which of you killed Kieffe? Surely the person responsible was in the room right now. It was inconceivable that anyone below the rank of master could pull together something like this: to suborn at least one Guild contact, maybe several, and then have a man killed to destroy the trail. Maybe it’s not just one of you. Maybe it’s two, or even more —
“Fine,” Caralange said abruptly, jerking Eilwen’s attention back to the conversation. “I’ll have Orom look at the body, for all the good it’ll do.”
“Good.” Vorace turned, settling his battering-ram gaze on Laris. “Tell us about Kieffe.”
Laris exhaled softly. “He was a trader. He’d been away from Anstice for several years, most recently in Neysa.” She gave a tight smile. “He deserved better.”
“Any enemies? Here, or in Neysa?”
“I don’t think so.” The Trademaster spread her hands. “Kieffe looked after dozens of accounts. No doubt he made people unhappy on occasion, but no more than Eilwen here in her time. It’s part of doing business.”
“So is this, perhaps.” Soll gestured across the table. “We have Master Havilah, after all.”
“We do not kill people, Treasurer,” Havilah said levelly.
“Of course,” Soll said, with a smile that might have been either mocking or apologetic. “But others might not be so scrupulous.”
“This is foolishness!” Phemia broke in. Eilwen looked up in surprise as the old seneschal turned her anguished gaze around the table. “How can this have anything to do with Neysa? This man was killed right here. In our own home!”
Vorace laid a hand on her arm. “Phemia —”
Phemia shook it off. “Don’t ‘Phemia’ me!” She wrung her wrinkled hands. “This was done by one of our own people. A Woodtrader. Three have mercy, we’ve a killer in our midst!”
The pain in the old woman’s words was impossible to miss. Phemia had been seneschal for as long as Eilwen had been a Woodtrader, managing the innumerable mundane details involved in keeping the Guild running. Even now, as the years slowly wore her away, she continued to serve, continued to worry on behalf of the Guild.
And now, someone at that same table was betraying her, and everyone else like her.
For the first time, the wrongness of it struck Eilwen full force, like a blow to the gut; and a spark of anger flared inside. Vorace was speaking now, trying to calm Phemia’s fears, but Eilwen scarcely heard a word. The rage grew, hot and primal, filling her up like wine in a skin. Her body felt light, insubstantial, supported not by the chair but by the air all around her. Whichever of you has done this, I swear I’m going to find you, and when I do, I’ll —
No!
With an effort of will Eilwen pulled back, gasping for air. Not that. Those days were over. She was not a killer, not any more. She closed her eyes, slowing her breathing and unclenching her fingers from the edge of the seat. Not again. Not ever again.
“Eilwen? Are you unwell?”
Blinking, she raised her head. The entire room was staring at her. Pel sat to her right, his brow furrowed in ponderous confusion; before her, Havilah’s face was smooth save for a single questioning eyebrow. Eilwen gazed at the sea of faces, unsure what to do; and as she did, the anger stirred anew, inviting her back into its arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pushing herself unsteadily to her feet. “I need to step outside.”
It was seven paces to the door. She covered them in silence, propelled by the pressure of a dozen eyes at her back. Only when she closed the door behind her did the conversation resume, in tones too low to overhear. She sagged against the wall and closed her eyes.
Even now, one of the masters in that room was betraying the Guild. Yes, and betraying her, too. Because she was no longer the killer, no longer the traitor. She was not, would not be that person any more.
She was the Guild’s, and the Guild was hers.
•
With nowhere in particular to go, Eilwen found herself making her way down the stairs and out into the building’s inner garden. Several moderate-sized trees spread twisted branches over the bright flowerbeds and patchy grass: myrtles for the most part, likely selected for their tolerance of shade, which allowed them to flourish despite the high, enclosing walls. The eucalypt outside her own rooms stood at the far end of the garden, its leaves barely shifting in the sheltered air, but Eilwen ignored it, seating herself on a low, weather-worn bench and straightening her leg with a sigh.
Usually, apart from some initial discomfort on rising, her leg only pained her later in the day; but today her climb to the sixth floor had set it off early. My token of the Orenda, she thought, wincing as she rubbed the gnarled flesh around her knee. My traitor’s mark. No matter how far I run, this will remain.
Whatever else it was, she could not call it unjust.
“Went well, huh?” Brielle stood before her, a lazy grin on her face.
“Oh, absolutely,” Eilwen said. “Still going well right now, I imagine.”
“Ha.” Brielle sat. “Do they know who did it?”
“No.” Eilwen glanced down the row of doors and windows facing onto the garden. Havilah’s suite was dark. Still going well. Oh, yes. “But we’re going to figure it out.”
“Are we? How?”
The words hung in the still air. “I don’t know,” Eilwen said carefully. Brielle gave a sharp sigh, and Eilwen narrowed her eyes. “Are you all right?”
The last of the grin slipped away, leaving a furious glare in its wake. “No, damn it, I’m not all right,” Brielle hissed. “It’s not supposed to go like this. Enemies out there, yes. Of course. But n
ot in here.”
“I know.” They were Woodtraders. United in common interest. Without that, what was left?
“They should have locked down the compound the moment you found that body. Nobody in or out. Drop everything until they find the murdering bastard.”
There were a dozen reasons why such a course could never have worked. Eilwen settled for the most obvious. “They who? The Guild doesn’t have the people for that sort of thing. All they have is us.” And no idea which of us can be trusted.
“I’ve seen this before, you know,” Brielle said. “In other houses. Other companies. Hells, I learnt it from my ma before I could talk. This is how it starts.” She bared her teeth. “Distrust is death, Eilwen. There’s a reason that’s a saying.”
“We’ll find the killer,” Eilwen said. “We will.”
Brielle stood. “We’d better.”
She strode away, leaving Eilwen alone with her thoughts. Distrust is death. It was true enough, as far as it went. But trust was no less dangerous, in its way. And in any case, death was cunning. It came in innumerable guises, each unique, and sometimes even removing the mask wasn’t enough.
Unwelcome memories of the Orenda stirred within her. She had trusted, then: trusted deeply and wilfully enough to silence the doubting whisper in her heart, until at last Tammas had confessed his divided loyalties to her face, admitting that he worked not only for the Guild but also for a clandestine band of sorcerers whose name he wasn’t even supposed to know, but who called themselves Oculus. And then he had died, and the Orenda had died; but she, gods be cursed, had survived, a traitor to the Guild and to Tammas alike. A traitor to all, yet reviled by none.