by karlov, matt
And he wouldn’t even have had that if Garrett hadn’t slipped up.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Ignorance bought deniability, and deniability had seemed essential. But with deniability had come dependence; and now, with Garrett out of the picture and Estelle demanding progress, ignorance was a hindrance he could not afford.
And never mind Estelle. This Terrel might have the urn right now and be waiting for Garrett to come and collect it. One way or another, Clade had to find him.
He pushed himself to his feet. The tall bookcase ran almost the entire length of the wall. A long-legged spider hung from the corner of one of the shelves, its web extending over half the shelf’s width and encompassing a tin cup, a pair of dice, and a sealed inkwell. Thick sheafs of paper jammed the neighbouring shelf, shoved in among mismatched, yellowing tomes. He pulled the documents free with thumb and forefinger, shaking them off at arm’s length. A pair of dead moths fluttered to the ground.
A mercenary named Terrel shouldn’t be that hard to find. How many can there be? Not that Clade had much idea how to go about finding out. That was what Garrett had been for. Damn you, Garrett. Even in death you find ways to hinder me.
The man’s body remained in the cool Oculus cellar, sealed in a eucalypt casket not three paces from where it should have been: Clade’s stillbox, a man-sized, sorcery-charged box, its true function a carefully guarded secret, kept for precisely this contingency. It was his hidden die, to be rolled only when no option remained but to remove someone from his path. If Clade had only kept his wits, Garrett might be lying there right now with nobody the wiser. Instead, the stink of his corpse had begun to seep through the wooden casket, its stench filling the thick cellar air; though to Clade, the whole building already seemed full of the scent.
Perhaps the funeral would lay it to rest, or at least provide a fresh distraction. Estelle had described Garrett’s death to the others as a self-inflicted wound caused by a binding gone wrong, and announced that the Oculus would hold a formal Tri-God service for him — a surprising decision, and not just because of the cost. The sight of several dozen Oculus sorcerers and retainers following a body through the streets could not help but draw the city’s attention. It seemed, however, that their time for maintaining a low profile had come to an end.
“Clade,” Sera said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.” The Oculus aside, only one real resource remained to Clade: his Quill insider, unknown to anyone but him. Not that this was exactly the Quill’s speciality either. The Quill can afford to keep their own muscle. They probably have even less idea about dealing with mercenaries than me.
“Is it true you and Councillor Estelle have found some golems?”
He looked up, startled. A swell of hunger billowed out from the god.
“It is true! I knew it!” Sera gave a delighted laugh. “When do I get to see one?”
“How do you know about the golems?”
“I overheard Kalie talking to the Councillor. Oh, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t mean to. I just came around a corner and there they were.”
“I see,” Clade said. Kalie had been with the Anstice outpost for years, far longer than Clade himself. Her talents as a waterbinder were modest, but she had a calm disposition and methodical approach that stood out among her sometimes fractious peers. Clade had chosen her to pick up some of the organisational load left by Garrett, and Estelle, it seemed, had decided to bring her in all the way. The thought left Clade feeling vaguely nettled, as if a confidence had been violated.
“So?” Sera blinked across the table like an expectant puppy. “What are they like?”
Something in her expression caught his eye, something innocent and trusting and vulnerable. A sudden desire caught him to cast secrecy aside and reveal all, tell her everything about the Oculus and the god, the urge as fresh and unexpected as a spring storm. He raised hurried walls, caught hold of the unwelcome feeling and tucked it aside. Yet some part of it remained, something he couldn’t quite name: not love, thank the gods, but something not entirely unlike it.
I invited you in, and you trusted me. You trusted us all. And we turned you into another like us: a vessel for the god, its eyes and ears and hands. A thing for it to use.
And you don’t even know it.
He couldn’t tell her. Not with his plans at such a delicate juncture. A life had room for only one absolute. Nothing could be allowed to threaten that.
She looked at him, hopeful. Waiting.
Ah, hells. Maybe he couldn’t tell her anything that mattered; but he could, perhaps, find a way to answer her question.
“I can’t tell you about those ones,” he said. “Not yet. And you should forget whatever you heard. You’ll be told what you need to know when you need it.”
Sera nodded, chastened. “As you say, Clade.”
“Good.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude…” She broke off and looked up. “Wait. What do you mean, those ones?” Her eyes widened. “Are you saying we have others?”
Clade hesitated. Technically, the story he was about to tell was no secret. His report had been submitted to the archives in Zeanes, just like any other. Any member of the Oculus could find it if they knew where to look. There was no reason the god would object to him telling Sera, so long as he was careful.
“I saw one,” he said. “Once. A long time ago.”
“A golem?”
He nodded. “A golem.”
He’d been on assignment near Scarpton, tracking down an informant who’d gone quiet. The man, a junior officer in the Scarpton militia, had provided a steady stream of intelligence since being purchased by the Oculus some three years before. He’d sent a message describing plans to look into a strange find in the mountains to the city’s south — and then he had disappeared. Someone had to investigate.
Clade had followed the man’s trail through the wooded foothills of the Kemenese to a clearing, bordered on two sides by a high sandstone cliff, its wall streaked horizontally with long, colourful striations. When first he saw the ruined face and torso staring down from a ledge, he ignored it, taking it to be a relic of some primitive and likely extinct tribe. Far more interesting was the patch of earth at the edge of the clearing, poorly disguised by a few branches: a makeshift grave, made by someone who plainly had no idea how to go about hiding it.
It was pure chance that the two Jervians arrived just as Clade was emptying his bladder into a small copse away from the clearing. They came burdened with timber and hammers, and as Clade crouched behind a dense bush they proceeded to construct a crude ladder. With the combination of distance and noise, it was hard to make out more than a few words of their conversation, but one of those words was enough to capture his undivided attention. Golem.
“It took them the whole afternoon to figure out a way to move it,” Clade said. “In the end they sank rings into the cliff. I can only imagine it was some kind of stonebinding. They fed some ropes through and managed to get the thing down.”
“What was it made of?”
“I don’t know. It had a strange mottled look, one I’ve never seen anywhere else. It made a strange noise when it bumped the cliff — thin, I suppose you’d say, sort of like when you scrape something ceramic, or something halfway between clay and stone. And it looked like it had been through a war. Its arms and legs were mangled clumps. The side of its head was a shattered mess.”
“Gods,” Sera said, her voice little more than a whisper.
“And it was big, too. I didn’t realise how big until they got it down. The torso and head stood as high as a man’s breast. Its ear was the size of a fist.”
“Did it… you know, do anything? Move?”
“Not that I saw.” Beneath Clade’s rapt attention, the head and torso had remained entirely still. Yet Clade had thought he sensed… something. A presence. Not at all like the god, yet more like that than anything else. As though something within the ruined shell still remain
ed.
Sera shifted slightly, her rapt gaze fixed on Clade. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “The men converted the ladder into a sling and carried the golem away. I followed for a while, but when the forest turned to scrub I had to give up the pursuit. I spent the next few days going from village to village, but I never found their trail.”
“Gods. It’s frightening when you think about it.”
“How so?”
Sera’s face twisted into a grimace, one that Clade had seen her use often back in Zeanes. Come on, you’re not stupid, the expression seemed to say. “Who were those people? Quill, or Bel Hennese? Someone else? What else have they found that we don’t even know about?” She shivered. “These golems you and Estelle have found. What if someone else gets to them first? What would they do with them?”
What do you think we would do with them? The words hovered on Clade’s lips for a moment; then he clamped his mouth shut. Madness, to ask that question with the god right here. Besides, he knew what Sera would say. She’d say what I would have said, back when I was freshly bound.
Clade’s first loyalty had always been to the cause. The Oculus had shown it to him and he had believed, convinced of their passion and commitment. The Valdori had fallen, but the wonders they had wrought and the blessings they had bestowed were merely obscured, not lost. The Empire could be restored. A new golden age could be established, and this time there would be no fall. This time, it would last.
By the time he learnt the truth about the canker at the Oculus’s heart, the parasite god that haunted them all, it was too late. He had thought to commit himself to the cause, but instead he had given himself over to Azador itself; and whether or not it was a god in truth, it plainly lacked nothing in at least one divine attribute. Azador was jealous.
Did it really seek the Empire’s return? Perhaps it did, to some extent. Maybe that part was true. But that wasn’t its first commitment. Its true loyalty was to itself.
A life had room for only one absolute. Azador’s was Azador. But I still believe. The restoration of the Empire, and all that will come with it.
Life.
“Oh,” Sera said. “What did you say his name was?”
What? Who? He looked up.
“That mercenary.” Sera had a paper in her hand and a crease in her brow. “Terrel, was it?”
“Yes, that’s right. What is it?”
She smiled. “I think I’ve found him.”
•
The covered Tri-God wagon pulled up in the Oculus courtyard late in the afternoon, carrying four priests in sable and pearl-grey robes. Clade greeted them with a formal bow, then stood back and allowed Kalie to direct them to the cellar. They emerged a few minutes later bearing the sealed casket on their shoulders. With the ease of long practice they slid it onto the wagon, tying it in place with a series of buckled leather straps. Two remained in the back; the others helped Estelle onto the driver’s bench, then swung up after her to commence the slow procession to the temple.
The afternoon air was cool, unusually so for the season. The priests kept the pair of horses to a slow walk, allowing Clade and the other followers to keep pace without exertion. All of the bound sorcerers and numerous servants were in attendance, trailing the wagon in a single, formless mass. Sinon strode nearby, his brawler’s frame blocking Clade’s view to the left, trading quips with Rathzange, the stoop-shouldered Gislean claybinder, and Ulthor, a servant whose fair skin and hair marked his ancestry as either Jervian or Pekratan. Beyond them walked Kalie and her sister Meline, their gait and posture an uncanny reflection one of the other. Sera walked near the front of the group, just behind the wagon. Clade caught a glimpse of her through the crowd: head bowed, one hand touching edge of the wagon, the other covering her face as though in prayer.
It was a strange thing, when you stopped to think about it. Azador was a god, or so the Oculus were told. Yet whenever something real happened — a birth, a death, a vow of marriage or vengeance or reconciliation — nobody ever thought to invoke Azador as witness. Nor did anyone pray to it, or not that Clade had ever heard of. The very notion seemed odd. One might as well pray to the Council, or to the archon in his palace. It was understood, somehow, that the god had no interest in the mundane details of individual lives. One could look to the Tri-God in such matters, or the All-God, or even the northern fire cults, and Azador wouldn’t care. Such trivia was beneath its notice.
Every other god must endure endless petitions from its followers. Hear my vow. Grant my desire. Witness my pain. Even the Sareans, who held the All-God to be indifferent to its human creations, still clung to the hope of snaring his notice once in life and so gaining passage to his favour after death. But not us. We expect nothing from our god. We give without hope of receiving back.
The priests in the wagon ahead might call that sainthood.
Was that what they were? Saints? Clade thought not. Azador was a taskmaster, nothing more. The Oculus expected nothing from it not because of their own virtue but from knowledge of its character. Yet the strange thought remained, buzzing around the inside of his skull like an insect that refused to die.
They reached the pantheon as the first streaks of pink touched the clouds. The god had escorted them through the city and over the Tienette, but the brooding presence lifted as they passed through the filigree gate into the yard with its great three-fold statue. The priests steered the wagon around the giant figures and drew up before the temple. Boys in matching sable and grey hurried out to take charge of the horses and to help Estelle down from the wagon. The priests repeated their earlier process in reverse, unloading the casket and carrying it into the temple. Clade and the others followed them in.
The sanctum was huge. Wide and high at the rear, it narrowed and descended in a series of curved steps to a semicircular platform at the front. Coloured tiles covered the walls and ceiling in a breathtaking sequence of mosaics, each showing a scene from Tri-God scripture: the Dreamer, her hand outstretched to create the world and the heavens, her work stark and beautiful, yet still barren; the Weeper watering the earth with his tears, his sorrow quickening the soil to life and so bringing forth the first trees; the Gatherer, arms raised, imbuing the infant world with the gift of purpose and completion; and dozens more. High windows ran the length of each wall, those on the west admitting the soft light of the setting sun.
The priests set the casket down at the front of the platform. Clade and the others filed down to the front of the sanctum, footsteps echoing in the emptiness, and seated themselves on the low ledges. The vast room could have accommodated hundreds. Their group of a scant two dozen seemed barely worth noticing.
If this was how Azador felt in temples, no wonder it avoided them.
“Brothers and sisters, dry your tears.”
The speaker was a priest, but not one of the four who had come for the body. This man was bearded and broad-shouldered, similarly dressed in robes of sable and grey but with gold stitching about the neck and wrists. His voice was that of a practised orator: clear, resonant, with a subtle note of invitation. He stood alone on the platform with the casket, his gaze lifted to the rear of the auditorium as though the room were filled to capacity. With his arms raised, he seemed the very image of the Gatherer come to life.
Priests, Clade thought, impressed despite himself and amused to find it so. Even mummers and noblewomen care less about their appearance.
“Brothers and sisters, I say again, dry your tears.”
Clade glanced sidelong at the assembled sorcerers and servants. Meline was dabbing her eyes, as was one of the servant girls, but that was all. Garrett had had few true friends, and whatever family he had was up north in Eastcliff. Clade’s message informing them of Garrett’s death probably wouldn’t arrive for weeks.
“Brothers and sisters, I say for the third time, dry your tears. Our brother, Garrett Drasso, no longer weeps with us. He rests now in the halls of the Gatherer, as must we all when our lives here are done,
there to await the end of all things.”
The priest settled into his discourse, expounding on Garrett’s life, his gifts, and which of the Twenty Virtues he had particularly upheld. Clade allowed his attention to drift. He’d met with the priest’s acolytes the previous day, half worried that one of them might attempt to speak with the dead man’s spirit, as some of the Gatherer’s servants were reputed to do. But either the stories were groundless, or Garrett simply wasn’t worth the effort. The acolytes had asked him questions about Garrett’s life, which he’d answered as best he could, and then they’d left.
The exercise had been tedious enough the first time and Clade saw no need to attend to it again, the priest’s numerous embellishments and exaggerations notwithstanding. Only half of what I told them was true, anyway. What we’re getting now is even less than that. It seemed appropriate. The man had built a life around wearing masks to gain advancement. How better to remember him in death than this?
His thoughts turned to Sera, and the conversation they’d shared earlier in the day. The uncomfortable feeling that had seized him still lingered, unnamed and uncaptured. Perhaps, somehow, he felt responsible for her. It was he who had trained her, at least to begin with; he who encouraged her on the path, convinced her that she was capable of joining them. But for him, she might still be free.
Or perhaps not. If he hadn’t been there, someone else may have taken up his role. Perhaps, in the end, his actions had changed nothing.
Nonetheless, I was there. I am responsible.