by karlov, matt
Almost certainly.
But there was still an almost. The conclusion was logical, even obvious. Yet they still lacked proof.
A sudden urge filled her to go and find out. The garden door in her own apartment had no lock, merely a latch on the inside and a conveniently placed window beside it. Presumably Laris’s was no different. I could go in tonight. The broken window would tell the Trademaster that someone had been there, but it wouldn’t tell her who…
But no. She’d already skirted Havilah’s instructions more than she should have. Impulsiveness was not her friend.
Gods, I should know that by now.
The Spymaster’s door opened and Havilah stepped outside, standing at the edge of the garden and rolling his neck and shoulders. Mouth dry, Eilwen stood, allowing herself to be seen. Now? Or later? Anticipating reproof was bad enough without having to wait for it. Can we do this now, please?
Havilah’s eyes narrowed when he saw her, but he continued his exercises with no other acknowledgement of her presence or her implied request. She stood before the bench, feeling increasingly foolish as he stretched his arms and chest and back, then bent over to touch his toes. At last he straightened and turned to face her, tilting his head in the direction of his suite before disappearing back inside.
Well. Her shoulders twitched in a jerky echo of the exercises she had just witnessed. Good.
Her father had known only one answer to her childhood infractions. He’d made a point of only striking her with an open hand — fists, he said, were the weapons of bullies and drunks — yet his blows were still hard enough to bruise, and she’d taken to rubbing her face with dirt in an attempt to hide her discoloured cheeks from the other children. Later, when her anger at his maltreatment began to emerge, she abandoned the dirt and began wearing the marks as a badge of defiance, imagining herself to be shaming him by refusing to conceal the work of his hands. Only after he died, claimed by an outbreak of sweating sickness in the same year as the Orenda, had she finally realised the truth.
The marks, not the pain, had been her true punishment. There was no such thing as a private rebuke. Only by making her sins known to the world could they be expunged.
But Havilah is not like my father. He will not parade my disobedience before the Guild. He cannot.
She stepped inside and closed the door. As she turned, she found herself rubbing her cheek, and she snatched her hand away.
Havilah was already sitting behind his desk. “Sit,” he said, the accented word sounding more like an order than an invitation.
Eilwen sat.
“Repeat to me what I told you,” Havilah said.
She swallowed. “Don’t go back to Qulah’s,” she said. “Don’t talk to the masters. Don’t —”
“I told you to tread lightly.” The Spymaster spoke softly, enunciating each word separately, as though she were the one unfamiliar with the language. “Tell me what you think that means.”
“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” Eilwen said, grimacing at the quaver in her own voice. “When I came back from the Quill shop I should have come straight to you.”
“No, you should never have gone there in the first place! Burning Mother, what were you thinking?”
“I —” The words wouldn’t come. She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”
Havilah exhaled through his teeth. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Eilwen,” he said softly. “Do you understand that?”
Passion bloomed in her chest, a heady mix of pain and anger and other things she couldn’t name. “And why does that matter?” she demanded. “This is about the Guild, remember? That’s what you said. So long as the Guild is protected, who cares what happens to you or me or anyone else?”
Havilah had gone still. “I care,” he said.
“Why?”
“For the Guild’s sake,” he said. “And for mine. And for yours.”
She shook her head. You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was. But those sins still hung about her neck, secret and unpurged, and there was no longer any way to remove them.
“Eilwen,” Havilah said. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, she met his eyes. “We are the Guild. You, and me, and Ufeus, and all the others. All of us. Without our people, what else is left?”
“And the traitors?”
He pursed his lips. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.” She buried her hands in her hair. “Look, I know I let you down. I’m sorry. Can we just leave it at that? Please?”
Havilah frowned, but the expression held more disappointment than anger, and more sorrow than either. “As you wish.”
Thank you. She took a breath. “So. What news about the cannons?”
“Nothing yet,” Havilah said. “And our woman from the chocol house seems to have gone to ground. But I have received word from someone close to the East Mellespen Syndicate.” He leaned forward. “Mercenaries, Eilwen. The Syndicate has taken a contract to supply several hundred siege-ready mercenaries to an unknown buyer. Possibly as many as a thousand.”
“Gods.” Eilwen stared. “An invasion.”
“It looks that way,” Havilah said. “I’m hoping to receive confirmation later today.” He paused. “Another thing. It seems an old woman was seen several days ago entering the house of the Falisi legate.”
“She’s buying anamnil.” Which meant she expected to be fighting sorcery — or, perhaps, that she wanted to protect her swords from the work of her own binders. “A major city, then. Maybe even one of the Five.”
“Just so.” Havilah folded his hands. “I spoke to Caralange.”
Eilwen nodded. She’d explicitly invited the sorcerer to confirm her story with Havilah, and when her anticipated summons from the Spymaster had failed to materialise after her release, she’d guessed that Caralange had taken her offer up — and in so doing had delivered all of her news ahead of her, leaving nothing for her but rebuke. “What are we going to do?”
“Do you believe him?”
“Who? Caralange?” Eilwen thought back to her interrogation. “He was furious at first. Convinced I was in league with whoever killed Kieffe.” She shivered. “I don’t think he was acting.”
“Which leaves us with Orom.”
We have to follow him. Find out who he’s meeting. What other leads do we have? The words hovered on her lips. But there was nothing in them except what Havilah already knew. And she was tired of urging action only to be shot down by the arrows of Havilah’s caution. He’s going to make the call regardless of what I say. Let him decide and be done.
“I think we should follow him,” Havilah said.
Eilwen blinked. “Oh. Good. So do I.”
“We’ll use a double tail: you and me, one following the other. When Orom spots the first tail, they drop off and the second takes over.”
She shook her head. “Double tail, yes, but not you. You’re too easily recognised. Make it me and Brielle.”
Havilah’s frown returned. “We can’t risk bringing anyone else in on this. Not even Brielle.”
“She’s already in. Didn’t Caralange tell you what happened?” Eilwen sat forward. “She came after me, Havilah. Somehow she figured out that he’d grabbed me, and she came and put a knife to his throat. If that’s not enough to earn our trust, I don’t know what is.”
The Spymaster considered her. “You’re sure we can trust her.”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “Go. And Eilwen.”
She paused, half-risen from her seat.
“Maybe we’re going to win this,” Havilah said. “Maybe not. But win or lose, the Guild will always need people like you.” He offered her a faint smile. “So be careful. Yes?”
It wasn’t true, of course. The Guild didn’t need the real her.
But perhaps she could at least square the ledger.
“Win or lose?” Her answering smile was fierce. “No. We’re going to win.”
&n
bsp; •
“That’s him.” Eilwen pointed as a lightly-built man descended the steps from the main building, a canvas bag slung across his shoulder. He glanced around the compound as he walked, eyes darting back and forth. “That’s Orom.”
Brielle nodded beside her in the gloom of the stable. “Got him.” She rose to a crouch. “Boy better not make me late for dinner, or my ma’ll have his hide, and mine too.”
Orom passed out of sight and Brielle moved to the entrance, pausing a moment before easing out behind him. Eilwen waited for the span of a dozen heartbeats, then followed.
Trailing Brielle was easy. The woman’s head rose above most others on the road, bobbing gently in time to her long, easy stride. Eilwen followed at a comfortable distance, watching for the signal that showed Orom had spotted his shadow and it was Eilwen’s turn to step up. Caralange had told her that Orom seemed increasingly paranoid about being followed, even within the compound itself, so Eilwen had decided to give him what he expected, instructing Brielle to stay close and make only a cursory effort to disguise her purpose. With luck, Brielle’s striking height would so capture Orom’s attention that he would overlook his second tail entirely.
And it wouldn’t hurt to show that the investigation was bigger than just her and Havilah, either. Might make them think twice about killing anyone else.
Orom led them across the eastern thoroughfare and through central Anstice, choosing a course set back from the river but parallel to it, his brisk pace sparking a dull throb in Eilwen’s bad leg. Narrower roads meant fewer people, but the late afternoon traffic was still heavy enough to provide adequate cover. The street bent westward, revealing the glaring sun directly ahead, and Eilwen was forced to squint at the silhouetted heads before her as she hurried in Brielle’s footsteps.
They crossed the western thoroughfare. Ahead, Brielle turned toward the river, then west again, her course taking them along the riverbank where vendors with covered trays peddled the day’s leftover food: loaves, fruit, lukewarm pies. A Mellespene in a wide-brimmed hat stepped into Eilwen’s path, holding out a package of spiced meat wrapped in a grape leaf. Eilwen shook her head, sidestepping and brushing away the proffered food, knocking it from the vendor’s hand. He snatched after it with a curse, catching it at his shins and snarling after her in his thick northern language.
She glanced up to see Brielle scratching her earlobe, her head turned in the direction of the river as she walked away. Damn, he’s stopped. Where is he? Eilwen slowed her pace and cast about the promenade in the slow, unfocused manner of one admiring the view. There he was — buying a pastry from a pale, long-haired Jervian. Eilwen leaned against the wall of a spice shop and pretended to examine her fingernails as Orom watched Brielle stride down the riverbank and away toward the coloured spires of the Tri-God pantheon. Her task done, Brielle was now free to head out to whatever eating house she’d chosen to celebrate her mother’s birthday. And it’s not yet sunset. You might even be early.
Orom waited until Brielle was out of sight. Then he turned, flicking the half-eaten pastry into the river, and resumed his course along the bank. Raising a hand to shade her eyes against the sun, Eilwen followed.
She didn’t have far to go. Orom halted at the pale stone facade of a riverside gaming house, where he glanced after Brielle one last time before ducking inside. Eilwen approached the establishment with a frown. The building’s rear seemed to open directly onto the riverbank, though access to the outdoor section was barred by high timber fences, their boards warped and faded from years of exposure. Only one way in, unless I want to try swimming. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, and Eilwen paused in the doorway, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Tables filled the room, each hosting games of dice or tiles or dilarj. The scent of roasting meat hung in the air, growing stronger as she approached an open kitchen door halfway along the wall. Players glanced up disinterestedly or ignored her entirely as she picked her way toward the rear, scanning the faces at each table. Orom was not among them.
The back door stood ajar, just wide enough for Eilwen to slip through. Diners sat around tables facing the glittering river or tucked against the high fence, some combining their meals with a game, some not. A man carrying a tray of empty mugs looked at her inquiringly, gesturing at an empty table; Eilwen smiled her acknowledgement but did not move.
Where are you, Orom? He had to be here somewhere. Where have you —
A woman’s laugh caught her ear. Instinctively, Eilwen backed toward the doorway even as she looked in the direction of the sound. I know that voice. Her gaze fell on a man wearing the leather and indigo of the city, seated by the fence with two others, both with their backs to Eilwen. Then the woman laughed again, turning her head behind her high collar to say something to the third figure, and Eilwen beheld the features of Laris and Orom.
Triumph filled Eilwen, and with it, an unexpected feeling of relief. Havilah was right. Caralange, too. And what was more, they’d both told her the truth.
Laris said something short and pointed, provoking a chuckle from the unknown man. Eilwen retreated further into the doorway and scanned the dining area. The space was a bare rectangle, with nothing to conceal any part of it. Every table lay in sight of every other. But Laris’s table was hard against the fence. Perhaps…
She turned, pushing past the gaming tables and out of the building, heading around to the side. The fence consisted of eucalypt boards that had clearly never been treated for weathering. Eilwen ran her fingers lightly across the timbers. Though the boards were no longer flush, the gaps between them were still too narrow to see through. Lowering herself to the ground with the sigh of a footsore traveller, Eilwen leaned back against the fence and listened.
“He’s expecting a delivery, but he doesn’t know what,” Laris said. “Your man will need to press it into his hand, like this. Now, go.”
A rough scrape indicated a chair being pushed back, followed by the sound of receding footsteps. A few moments later Eilwen saw Orom retracing his steps along the promenade, one hand resting on the canvas bag at his side.
She gave him something. Damn it. Eilwen watched his retreating form, torn between following him further and staying put. It seemed a reasonable assumption that the sorcerer was on his way to yet more members of Laris’s conspiracy. But Eilwen had been swimming in assumptions for weeks; now, at last, she had a chance to establish some facts. With a voiceless sigh, she settled back against the fence, returning her attention to the conversation behind her.
“… wouldn’t tell me where he found it,” Laris said. “You know how he is.”
“Dug up somewhere by his cat, maybe?” The man chuckled.
Laris might have shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Good timing, though. Saves us from a bigger mess.”
The man murmured something too soft to make out, prompting a silky laugh from Laris. Eilwen blinked in surprise. Is this man her lover?
“Very well,” Laris said, her tone teasing. “Tell me where we’ll be seen tonight.”
There was a creak as someone leaned on the table. “How about Crescent Hall?” the man said. “Last performance of the Weeping Sisters choir. I hear the archon himself attended a few nights ago.”
“Really?”
“Apparently he hated it,” the man said. “Which means that tonight the hall should be full of people eager to wag their heads at the great man’s lack of taste.”
“To the archon’s boorishness!” Laris replied, laughing.
The conversation fell away, and Eilwen shifted awkwardly against the fence, trying to remain silent as she found a more comfortable position. There was another creak, then a new sound, soft and moist, directly behind her. Gods. They’re kissing. Grimacing, she drew up her legs and rubbed her knee.
When the man spoke next, it was almost too low for Eilwen to hear. “I still think this is too hasty.”
“He’s after the body,” Laris hissed, and Eilwen
pricked up her ears.
“So what?” the man said. “There’d be nothing left to see by now.”
“Letting him find it at all was bad enough! Now he suspects, and he’s started digging.”
“So he sent someone after it. That hardly means he’s on your tail.”
“He sent three people. First my old trader, then Caralange, then another of his. Brielle, the tall one.”
“So he suspects,” the man said. “That doesn’t mean he knows it’s you.”
“No. And I don’t intend to wait until he does.”
Rage filled Eilwen, roaring in her ears. Got you, Laris, you bitch. The man said something, but all Eilwen heard was a distant murmur. You treacherous, murdering shit. We’ve got you now.
“Relax.” Laris chuckled. “No mess, remember? Nobody will be able to prove anything, except that Havilah’s toy turned out to be a little too clever for him. A tragic accident, nothing more.”
“You’re sure,” the man said.
“I’m sure.” A smile entered Laris’s voice. “Now, take me out and give me an alibi that even the Gatherer couldn’t dispute.”
Slowly, the words penetrated Eilwen’s whirling thoughts. An alibi. Gods preserve, it’s happening now. They’re killing Havilah right now!
She scrambled to her feet, all thoughts of secrecy forgotten. Heart pounding, she broke into an ungainly run, cursing her weak leg as she raced back up the promenade. Hold on, Havilah, she thought, shoving past vendors and ambling pedestrians as the sun’s last light slowly leached away. Just hold on.
I’m coming.
Chapter 18
Two fears drive us to secrecy: the fear of being understood falsely, and the fear of being understood truly. What are the hazards of deceit or betrayal against such perils as these?