by karlov, matt
Isaias heaved himself to his feet, shuffling behind the counter and reaching underneath. There was a click and the sound of something sliding. Swallowing hard, he drew out a long roll of paper wrapped in a soft leather cover.
“Is this, my friends, the object you seek?”
The Quill unfurled the map on the counter and began poring over it. Arandras turned away, retreating to the far corner of the room. I had no part in this, he thought, but even in the silence of his mind, the words rang hollow. He hugged his arms around his chest. Weeper have mercy, what have I become? How do I find a way back?
A pouch of coins was upended onto the counter with a harsh jangle. Narvi gave Arandras an excited look, pointing at the map and nodding, his eyes bright. Isaias assembled the coins into stacks, smiling now, chattering on about something or other as though he and Fas had been friends for years; but when Mara offered a chuckling comment, the shopkeeper shot her so venomous a glance that even she could not sustain her smile.
Arandras heaved a shuddering breath and covered his face with his hands.
We did it. The Quill have the map, and I have the Quill. Soon, I will have my vengeance.
Weeper forgive me.
Part 3:
To Wake in Darkness
Chapter 20
There is a secret song in every man’s heart that says, I am better. I am better than my family. My family are better than my friends. My friends are better than my neighbours, and even my neighbours are better than others more distant to me.
My city may overflow with fools, yet it remains the greatest in the land. My land may hold scarce a handful as wise as me, yet beyond question it is greater than all others. And no matter how vile the men of other lands may be, even they cannot compare in barbarism to those who live across the sea.
What need has mankind of gods? Each one of us is a god unto himself.
— Kassa of Menefir
Solitude
They rode out at noon. As soon as they passed the gates Ienn established a brisk trot, and Arandras settled into the familiar one-two rhythm, relieved to be out of the city at last. The Lissil road was wide, and they rode in file two or three abreast, the rumble of half a hundred hooves sufficient warning for those ahead to clear a path.
Mara’s leathers blended well enough with the ochre and black worn by the Quill, but Arandras’s faded crimson tunic stood out among the others like old blood. The contrast was unintentional, but it pleased him nonetheless. Blood, yes. I wore those colours too, but they are long gone now.
See what lies beneath the facade.
He rode alongside a rangy man with the pale skin of a Jervian and the sun-shy squint of one who rarely ventured outdoors. The man sat his horse with grim concentration, eyes focused on the back of the rider ahead, his lips moving in a silent mantra, or perhaps a prayer to whoever it was that he worshipped.
The incident in Isaias’s shop had left Arandras feeling soiled, as though he’d given up some part of himself by remaining silent while Isaias was coerced. Perhaps he had. He’d been more than just a chance bystander. By my presence and my silence I endorsed their actions. Their shame is my shame, also.
Once, during his time in Chogon, the Quill had come across a gold serving platter bearing a faded inscription, apparently a gift from one Valdori noble to another. Inexplicably, the plate had been found in the ruins of a slaughterhouse, and it had fallen to Arandras to clean away its ancient coat of muck. He had set it to soak in the milky fluid the Quill used for such purposes, drying it each day and gently polishing it before returning it to a fresh bath.
Most of the grime fell away in the first few days, but a dark, finger-length stain along one side stubbornly resisted his efforts. After two weeks of continual soaking, he was forced to concede defeat. Somehow, the mark had blended with the gold to become part of the object; an amalgam that could no longer be washed away. Whatever had been inscribed in that place was there no longer. The plate had absorbed the stain into its being.
So it was with the Quill. They don’t notice anything awry because that part of them is already sullied. People like Fas no longer knew what it was to respect the agency of others. To him, those who belonged to the Quill were merely assets to be deployed at will, and those without were either resources to be exploited or obstacles to be overcome.
Now I share that stain. Weeper grant me a way to make it clean.
They crested a hill and a wide valley opened up before them, the silver thread of the Tienette winding its way through fields, pastures, and orchards. The thatched roof of a turnpike booth could be seen halfway up the next rise, with a short queue of foot travellers and covered wagons each waiting their turn to pay the toll and pass through. Far away to the west and southwest, the distant peaks of the Pelaseans jagged the horizon like the broken foundation of some vast but long destroyed rampart. Arandras absorbed the view, relieved that at least they would not be travelling that far. The sooner this was over, the better for all.
Judging from Isaias’s map, their goal lay on the shore of Tienette Lake, near what appeared to be a gorge in the cliffs that edged the water. It was a useful, even fortuitous landmark, the kind that would still be evident even after the passage of centuries. Nonetheless, the location was well and truly in the middle of nowhere, at least so far as Valdori remains were concerned. Such ruins in these parts were few and far between. How big would a place have to be to hide an entire legion of golems? Arandras had no idea.
A windmill creaked in the breeze beside the road, and he caught the scent of baking bread. Chickens pecked in the yard outside, heedless to the world beyond their low mudbrick wall. An unexpected longing rose up in Arandras as their convoy trotted past the modest house. I could live there, or somewhere like it. Somewhere self-contained, away from the cities and their people and their stains.
Only maybe not so close to the road.
A rider moved up from the rank behind, taking position between Arandras and his Jervian neighbour. “Hey,” Mara called with a grin. “Nice day for a ride.”
“Easy for you to say,” Arandras returned. The dark-skinned Kharjik didn’t look to have even broken a sweat.
She gave him a bright smile. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
Arandras shook his head and returned his attention to the road.
“Hey,” she said again. “We’re on our way. The sun’s shining. What’s gnawing your arse?”
Weeper’s breath, you need to ask? He gave her a flat stare. “What you did back there was wrong.”
“Ha. Really?”
“Really.”
They trotted down the hill, hooves clopping and harnesses jingling, Arandras’s horse giving a loud snort as it approached the flat. The Tienette drew near on their right, its water noticeably clearer than it had been in Anstice.
Arandras glanced across. The Jervian seemed locked in a ferocious battle of wills, but whether the man’s opponent was the road, the horse, or his own body, Arandras couldn’t tell. Mara rode easily, one hand on the reins, her long pony-tail bouncing behind her. She caught Arandras’s eye and cocked her eyebrow expectantly, and he frowned. “If you’re waiting for thanks, don’t bother.”
“Is that how this works, then?” She sounded amused, but nettled also. “You get to be all high and mighty about how we got here, but still come along for the ride?”
High and mighty? He took a breath, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “I can’t undo how we got here. Doesn’t mean I agree with it.”
“Didn’t say much against it, either. You went real quiet when you saw it was going to work.”
There was nothing to say to that. I am stained, just as she is. Just as the Quill are. But they had embraced their shame, whereas Arandras’s was fresh and could yet be cleansed.
“It needs doing,” Mara said, and he knew what she meant. Avenging Tereisa. Delivering justice where no-one else would. “Remember that.”
“I know,” he said. “But that can’t justify everything.”
/> “Fine.” She flashed him an annoyed glare. “Whatever you say. Good to know it’s all right to kill a man but not to pick up a cat.”
She leaned forward, nudging her mount into the next rank where Narvi and Bannard rode. Narvi said something inaudible and Mara laughed, pointing at a sheep paddock on the other side of the river.
Arandras watched the display with a sense of weary inevitability. There would be no uncomfortable questions there. No embarrassing examination of unacknowledged stains. Just a mutual reassurance that neither of you is really so bad after all.
And here they were, riding to find a Valdori golem army. One that the Quill would take possession of and use, just as they used everything else.
Consistent with, yet oblivious to, their stains.
Arandras had thought at first that he would claim the golems just long enough to deal with Clade, and then return them to the Quill. He had no interest in them beyond that. There was nothing else he wanted that such things could provide.
But he realised now that that was impossible. There was no way he could hand them over to the Quill, not any more. To do so would be to stand by and do nothing, just as he had in Isaias’s shop, and allow the Quill to impose their will on the world, just as they had on Isaias. And so would my own blemish become fixed, deepening every day with each new outrage perpetrated by the Quill.
Only one action remained by which he might still retain a chance of washing his own stain clean.
The Quill could not be permitted to gain control of the golems.
When the time comes, I must take them myself.
•
The reek of Azador hung above the flimsy table in the centre of the room. Clade wasn’t sure which of his assembled team bore the watching god, but it didn’t matter. It was here, and its presence fouled his nostrils like day-old vomit.
“Dreamer’s arse, I hate waiting,” Sinon growled, arms folded across his broad chest. He glared at Terrel, who sat with his two remaining men on one side of the table. “What are you whoresons looking at?”
His words drew no response beyond a flicker of the mercenary leader’s eyelids. Terrel’s men seemed as disciplined as he — a small mercy, but one for which Clade was grateful.
“Stow it, Sinon,” Clade said. Bannard had sent a message that morning advising that a map had been obtained and Quill departure was imminent. He’d promised to send another as soon as they left. An hour or two, he said. No more. And it’s been what — six? Seven? Clade had assembled his group of sorcerers and mercenaries as quickly as he could manage, anticipating a departure at any moment. Instead, they had been sitting here for most of the day.
What will I do if I hear nothing? Wait longer, or set out anyway? The Quill could not be allowed to get too far ahead of them, but neither could he risk revealing their presence. Perhaps he could send one of Terrel’s men to the schoolhouse, if need be. Gods knew none of his would go unnoticed.
Sinon had been a brawler in his youth and still looked the part. His affinity for sorcery lay in none of the primary Oculus disciplines — water, wood, and clay — but in the domain of air. The man had little talent for reflection and even less for research; indeed, he seemed incapable of completing even the simplest binding. Yet whenever his half-constructed spells collapsed, as they always did, the resulting discharge of power only ever blew out in the direction he desired. Eventually his instructors had given up trying to teach him the finer points of spellcraft and had instead begun training him in the use and control of his sole, destructive gift.
Beside Sinon sat the sisters, Kalie and Meline, both waterbinders, both skilled in the art of neutralising flame. The last thing their expedition needed was a repeat of Terrel’s encounter with a Quill firebinder. Still, neither sister had experienced combat before, and Clade planned to keep them to a purely defensive role. Between Sinon and Terrel’s men — and, if necessary, Clade himself — the group would have plenty of muscle to deal with whatever the Quill decided to bring along.
Assuming they ever depart. Impatience flickered within him and he frowned, smothering the spark before it could flare into something more. Control. Now more than ever, he needed to maintain control. From this moment on, I feel nothing that I do not choose to feel. No worry, no doubt, no fear. No sorrow over Estelle. I am a well, cool and deep, and my waters never stir.
“I need food,” Kalie said, pushing her chair back with a screech. Sharp-eyed and unsmiling, Kalie was the type who might have made Overseer one day, despite the off-putting effect of her horrible, throaty drawl. “Anyone else?”
“Always,” Sinon growled. The mercenaries shrugged their disinterest and Meline sat impassively, showing no sign of having heard her sister speak.
Clade shook his head. “Be quick.”
Terrel and his men had said barely a dozen words since arriving earlier in the day. Clade wondered whether Terrel already suspected what Clade might ask him to do. One man purchased with gold for each sorcerer loyal to the god I intend to abandon. But of course, the balance could work the other way, too. Maybe he’s not sure which way I’m going to go.
The mercenary had introduced his men as Yuri and Hosk, but Clade had already forgotten which was which. The one on the right was lean and hard, his weathered face and greying temples marking him as likely the oldest man in the room. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed, a slight smile playing about his lips as though amused by something only he could hear. The other, a flat-nosed plainsman with braided hair, stared intently at the table as though reading some hidden text in its grain. Between them sat Terrel, hands folded, his face as expressionless as ever.
I could have a word with him once we’re underway. Tell him something reassuring. Or maybe not; done badly, a conversation like that could have the opposite effect to what he intended. No, I’ll leave it be for now. Terrel wasn’t so foolish as to commit to anything before he knew the score. Besides, Clade would only need Terrel to kill his sorcerers if something went wrong. If everything went as planned, the golems themselves would be more than adequate to the task.
Despite the necessity, the prospect of killing more of his own left a sour taste in his mouth. There was always the possibility that one or another might share his hatred of Azador, deep down where nobody else could see. But the risk was simply too great. I must win free, no matter the cost. No eye or ear or hand of the god could be permitted to interfere.
At least his back was clear. With Estelle out of the way, he could present his journey to the rest of the Oculus as if it were just another field trip, unusual only for his own presence on the team. He’d told the others that the Councillor had been called away on an unexpected errand to a village a day’s ride north of Anstice, but that she’d certainly be back within the week. It seemed unlikely that Azador would have another greater locus nearby — besides the one Estelle had brought with her, of course — but even if it did, by the time the god thought to stop looking for the missing Councillor and send a locus-bearer after Clade, he’d be long gone.
Somewhere around the table, a stomach growled. “Weeper’s guts,” Sinon swore, rounding on Meline and subjecting her to a baleful glare. “What’s taking your fat-arsed sister so long?”
Meline swatted at the air between them as though waving away a fly. “Shut it,” she said with regal dismissiveness, and Sinon subsided, nonplussed.
Clade permitted himself an inward chuckle. Now, if those two can just confine their needling to each other and leave the rest of us in peace, this journey might not be too bad.
“Clade?” Kalie stood at the door, a flat loaf in her hand and a boy of nine or ten summers at her heels. She gave the lad a sideways nod. “Says he’s got a message for you.”
The boy stepped forward, a worried expression on his face. “Are you Clade?”
“I am.” Clade gestured him closer. “What is it, boy?”
“A Quill sent me to find you. I tried, sir, I really did, but I don’t know this part of the city very well, and I got lost, an
d then —”
“Slow down,” Clade said. “You’re here now. What did the Quill say?”
The boy bit his lip. “He said to tell you that they were leaving right now.”
“And when was this?”
He hung his head. “Midday, sir.”
“Gatherer’s arse,” Sinon said. “They’ve been gone for hours.”
“Save your bellyaching for the road.” Clade gestured to the door. “Move out now, all of you. Horses are waiting for us in the stables. Go.”
Sinon shoved his chair back with a muttered curse and strode from the room, followed by the sisters and the mercenaries. The boy looked at Clade, tears welling in his eyes, his piping voice carrying over the noise of movement.
“He said you’d give me a silver bit, sir. Only my ma won’t stop coughing and my sister has to look after her, and —”
“All right, boy.” Clade fished a scudi out of his purse and placed it in the boy’s sweaty hand. “Did the Quill say anything else?”
“Gods bless you!” The boy gazed at the tiny silver coin in gratitude and relief. “And yes sir, he did. He said they were taking the river road. Only he didn’t say which direction.”
“That’s fine.” Bannard had already told him the direction they were headed: upstream toward the lake that gave the Tienette River its name. He made a shooing motion. “Run along now.”
The boy darted off, leaving Clade alone in the room. Four or five hours behind. It could have been worse. They’d be able to catch up without much trouble, provided the Quill stuck to the road.
He collected his bag and headed out. By the time he reached the stables, the rest of the group was already mounted, and the god was no longer with them. Clade allowed the hostler to tie his bag in place, then swung into the saddle.
He paused in the courtyard, turning for a final look at the building. Somewhere down in the cellar, Estelle lay sealed in the stillbox. She’s probably shouted herself hoarse by now. It was, he supposed, a fitting end for the one who had drawn him into Azador’s snare all those years ago. Yet her fate gave him no satisfaction. It had been necessary, and that was all.