The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  You don’t say, Shadrak thought.

  “Mephesch,” Aristodeus said, “I don’t have time for this. I promised the Ipsissimus I’d have the Britannia link up and running yesterday. Apparently, our two migrants have beasts of burden fouling up their portal chamber while they wait.”

  Mephesch arched an eyebrow. “You want me to feed Nameless?”

  “If it’s not too much to ask,” Aristodeus said. “Blasted portal was fried when I sent Shader and Rhiannon through that time. Since moving it from Aeterna, Silvanus has just let it go to wrack and ruin. Apparently, maintenance isn’t on the Templum’s list of priorities. At least, it wasn’t until they had someone they wanted to get rid of.”

  Mephesch chuckled at that, then led Nameless back through the way they’d come in.

  “The others, too,” Aristodeus said. “I can’t have distractions.”

  Albert and Ekyls started hesitantly toward the doorway.

  “Offer them a drink or something,” Aristodeus called after Mephesch. “Champagne, or wine. A snifter of cognac.”

  “Cognac?” Albert said, quickening his pace.

  As Shadrak went to follow, the door slid shut in his face. Brilliant light flashed, and he threw up a hand to cover his eyes.

  “Not now!” Aristodeus yelled, jabbing his pipe stem at the vortex of white fire swirling in front of the door. “I’m…” He scrunched his eyes shut and sucked in a sharp breath. When he opened them again, the skin of his face was taut with frustration and a touch of resignation. “… busy.”

  The Archon coalesced into view, flames suppurating from the cowl of his robe. “So, you have your plane ship at long last,” he said in a voice like crackling tinder.

  “I do?” Aristodeus chewed on his pipe. He wagged two fingers at the homunculi standing around gawping, and they immediately went back to checking the arch and tapping away at their rectangular slates.

  The Archon turned his glare on Shadrak. It was like standing in front of a furnace, but Shadrak wasn’t about to let him know that. He pulled his hood low and stood his ground.

  “Ah!” Aristodeus said, removing his pipe and waving it like a baton. “The infamous Maze. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?”

  A homunculus with ropey gray dreadlocks sidled up to Aristodeus. “You want to proceed with the plan, then?”

  Aristodeus opened his mouth to answer, but then his eyes drifted to the Archon, and he faltered.

  “No,” the Archon said. “Do not. You have already taken too many chances.”

  “But this could free Nameless from the black axe,” Aristodeus said. “We could remove the helm, bring him back onside.”

  “He is not necessary,” the Archon said, “so the risk cannot be justified.”

  “Nonsense,” Aristodeus said. “Shader’s out of the race, like he said he would be.”

  The Archon began to float around the edges of the room, feet a few inches above the floor. “He did what you created him for,” the Archon said. “The threat has passed.”

  Created? Shader? Shadrak wanted to ask a dozen questions, but he knew he’d learn more if he kept quiet, lingered in the background while the Archon and Aristodeus had it out.

  “The Unweaving, maybe,” Aristodeus said, “but not the real menace.”

  The Archon stopped in midair and let out a sound like fat dripping on a fire. It could have been laughter. “You are too personally invested, philosopher. My brother’s threat has always been there, behind Gandaw, behind the Liche Lord, behind the black axe and the butchery at Arx Gravis—”

  “And he must be stopped,” Aristodeus said. “Before the next evil arises in response to his beguilement.”

  “You don’t care about that,” the Archon said. “This is about your own plight, is it not?”

  Aristodeus dipped his head and sighed. “I don’t see anyone else opposing him. Do you?”

  “The Templum—” the Archon started.

  “Yes, yes, your hands and feet. Remind me again why it is you need them to act on your behalf. Fear, wasn’t it? Fear the Demiurgos might be freed by any direct action of yours. What is that, some kind of Supernal justice?”

  “We fought before, and I won,” the Archon said, as if he were reassuring himself. The glow from within his hood dampened down.

  Shadrak scarcely dared to breathe. They’d forgotten all about him. The more he could learn about the master who’d enslaved him, the closer he came to getting free. Free without having to murder the only real friend he’d had since Kadee’s passing.

  “Hardly a victory,” Aristodeus said, a sparkle in his eye. “He survived in the Void; threw up the Abyss to preserve his essence by an act of pure will. I, for one, am impressed. I’d like to see you do that. Or me, for that matter.”

  “And he has grown stronger in the intervening aeons,” the Archon said. “I am not proud. I know I could not stand against him, should he be released. But he has no way to free himself from the prison of his own making. Unless I break the rules.”

  “By actually doing something?” Aristodeus said it with a sneer. “Are you really so important that a single act of yours could change the laws of reality? Gandaw was an arse, but at least he was a scientific one.”

  Flames ruptured from the Archon’s cowl. “The laws of the Supernal Realm are as far beyond the laws of this cosmos as Gandaw’s science is beyond a savage’s superstition.”

  “Is that so?” Aristodeus said. “Explain it to me. I’m not as stupid as I look.” He caught Shadrak’s gaze and gave the slightest of winks.

  So, Shadrak wasn’t forgotten, after all. At least, not by the philosopher.

  “We are linked, we three. The Aeonic Triad, the Templum fathers call us: myself, Eingana, and the Demiurgos. We cannot ever act truly independently. We are, in many ways, one. One in the Supernal Father, who you call Ain.”

  “Not me,” Aristodeus said. “Do you call him Ain, Shadrak?”

  The Archon spun round, clearly startled Shadrak was still there.

  Good to know. He wasn’t all-knowing, then. He had lapses, and he could be surprised.

  “Ain, Nous, it’s all the same to me,” Shadrak said. “Bunch of scutting hogwash.”

  “Nous is Ain’s reflection in this cosmos,” the Archon said. “The difference is only in the begatting.”

  “Thanks for that,” Shadrak said. “Something I’ve always wanted to know.”

  “What I want to know,” the Archon said, drifting toward him, “is why your contract remains unfulfilled.”

  Aristodeus came round the room at a pace to stand between them. “Contract? You’re working for him?”

  Shadrak hawked up phlegm and spat at the Archon’s feet.

  “One more kill, Shadrak,” the Archon said. “Remember?”

  “Like I could forget.”

  “Let me guess,” Aristodeus said. “Nameless?”

  Shadrak sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “It ain’t right. I mean—”

  “An assassin with a conscience?” the Archon said. “How novel. A conscience, however, can be malformed.”

  “No, it isn’t right,” Aristodeus said. “Thank you, Shadrak. Thank you for confirming that I am not the only one left alive with a modicum of common sense. You kill Nameless, and the Demiurgos wins another piece. A big piece, even if he’s just a dwarf.”

  Hushed words were exchanged by several of the homunculi. The others, though, maintained a stony silence, eyes fixed on the Archon with either awe or loathing.

  “It is not a game,” the Archon said.

  “Oh, but it is,” Aristodeus said. “A game of wits; of reading the signs, spotting the threats creeping from the shadows; of discerning allies from foes; of grasping opportunities when they present themselves. You saw what Nameless did at the Perfect Peak. Shader couldn’t have succeeded without him. You’re not proud, you claim, but neither am I. Shader was my plan. My masterpiece, but he would have failed without a missing element that came from without. You might think of
me as a control freak, but at least I have the humility to admit I don’t have all the answers. What I do have is the eyes to see patterns in the game, and the ability to turn a weapon in the hands of the Demiurgos to our advantage.”

  The Archon loomed over Aristodeus, glowering down at him. “Unless you are deceived.”

  Aristodeus held up a finger, a smug grin splitting his face in two. “There is something about this dwarf; something that not even I expected. Mephesch…” He looked about the room then rolled his eyes. “Silly me. Sent him off to feed Nameless. The thing is, Mephesch informed me—”

  The homunculus with the gray dreadlocks dropped his slate on the floor, and it shattered in a spray of sparks. Subtler than the handshake Bird and Mephesch had exchanged outside, the homunculus gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  Aristodeus’s mouth hung open, but then a light went on in his eyes.

  “You take the word of a homunculus?” the Archon said. “A creature of deception?”

  Aristodeus puffed out his cheeks and looked momentarily flummoxed. As an actor, he was in a league way above Dame Consilia. “You’re probably right. Never believe a thing they say, eh?”

  Many of the homunculi in the room smiled at that, like they’d been given the highest compliment.

  “You are growing complacent,” the Archon said. There was an ominous churning of the flames beneath his cowl, and a low rumble passed through the room.

  Aristodeus wagged his pipe, as if the Archon were some dimwit pupil. “One step ahead, is what I am. Always.”

  “Desperate, is what you are,” the Archon said. “Tell Shadrak just how desperate.”

  Sweat beaded on Aristodeus’s forehead, and his cheeks reddened, as if he’d suddenly been dropped into a furnace. Finally, he licked his lips and said, “Need-to-know basis. Last thing we want is any more wild cards.”

  “But isn’t that what Nameless is?” the Archon said. “Do you really know what will happen if this plan of yours is successful?”

  “The homunculi were instrumental in forging the black axe, no?” Aristodeus said.

  The Archon conceded the point with a nod.

  “And Mephesch is an ’omunculus, is he not?”

  Another nod.

  “Then logic dictates that, if anyone knows how to destroy the black axe, it is him.”

  Silence.

  Aristodeus pressed on. “Three quests. Three artifacts. Gauntlets of incomparable strength with which to break the axe. Invulnerable armor, to withstand the resultant discharge of energy, or any counterattack. And the Shield of Warding, to soak up any magical defense it may muster. This may be our only chance to free Nameless of its curse and remove the helm. With him restored”—he glanced at the homunculus with the dreadlocks again—“well, it will be a big asset. Huge, even. And if it fails, fine. Shadrak can take him out. Agreed?”

  The Archon shimmered in and out of reality. “And if it is not possible? The dwarf is no helpless victim.” He looked at Shadrak for confirmation, but Shadrak remained stony-faced. “What if he should grow suspicious? Or more powerful with each artifact found? The risk is too great. He must be killed now.”

  “So,” Shadrak said, “Nous is the reflection of Ain, and the Templum is his mouthpiece on Earth—”

  “Mystical body,” Aristodeus said. “Whatever that means. It has all the semantic rigor of a pituri-smoking Dreamer spouting gobbledygook.”

  Shadrak’s hand tightened around the grip of a pistol. Was the bald bastard taking the piss? Was he referring to Kadee? He started to draw the pistol, but the Archon saw and raised a hand for calm.

  “Your point, Shadrak?”

  “What is it Nousians have?” Shadrak said, relaxing his grip on the gun. “The Eleven Admonishments? Is that right?”

  Aristodeus scoffed and shook his head.

  Shadrak went on. “One reason I could never be a Nousian.” One among many. “Isn’t there an Admonishment against killing?” Least that’s what he thought Bovis Rayn had said, minutes before Shadrak had put a bullet through his skull.

  “Figuratively speaking,” Aristodeus said with a sigh. “Try not to take it too literally, or you’ll start sounding like Shader.”

  “Yeah, that’s a point,” Shadrak said. “Always meant to ask him about that. For a man of peace, he killed more than most assassins I’ve met.”

  “The Admonishment is correct,” the Archon said. “It is the Supernal Father’s will that we do not take life, unless it is truly necessary.”

  “Spoken like a true Sicarii,” Shadrak said. “Though it’s a bit different. We only take life when it’s truly profitable.”

  The fire beneath the Archon’s cowl flashed red. A split-second after, so did the scarolite arch. The attendant homunculi all skipped back, rectangular slates held up in front of their eyes, as if they were looking at the arch through them.

  “Well, if you’ve quite finished,” Aristodeus said, “that’ll be Londinium signaling they’re ready.”

  “Adeptus Ludo?” the Archon said. “Silvanus is harsh to punish him thus.”

  “Then replace him,” Aristodeus said. “I, for one, preferred Theodore. Granted me access to the best wine cellar in Aeterna, and even though he was mostly too ill to drink, he never denied me a drop. Oh, I forgot,” Aristodeus said. “You can’t replace him. That would require direct action. You’d get along with the dwarves of Arx Gravis like a house on fire.”

  “Remember this, philosopher,” the Archon said, though his gaze was on Shadrak. “I, too, have free will. The day may be approaching when I decide that acting without intermediaries is less of a risk than allowing matters to proceed down the wrong path. Think on this, both of you. I have been patient, but my patience is not as limitless as Ain’s.”

  With that, he vanished.

  “Was that a threat?” Aristodeus said with a look of mock horror. He turned to the homunculi for a reaction, but their attention was firmly on the arch.

  “Yeah, it was a threat,” Shadrak said. It was also a sign of frustration. Frustration born out of fear. More information to file away on the Archon for when the time was right.

  The air in the middle of the arch turned black and rippled like water. A head poked through—a mule’s head. Its ears twitched, and its nostrils flared. It brayed and plodded forward, first one hoof striking the floor of the room, then another. With a sigh, Aristodeus strode over, took it by the rope looped around its neck, and pulled. The beast resisted, and Aristodeus reddened with effort as he heaved on the rope. More of the animal emerged. More than a few books poked out of the satchels slung over its back, and the ends of prayer cords dangled from bulging sacks. The mule brayed again and darted forward, sending Aristodeus flying back to land on his arse.

  Jezeel, the silver-garbed woman, sniggered but swiftly suppressed it at a motion from the homunculus with the dreadlocks.

  Next through the portal was a massive old man in a cassock. He had ears like sails, and spectacles perched atop a bulbous nose. His eyes bulged above them as he took in the room, then fell upon Aristodeus. There was a brief moment of indecision, and then he lurched forward and helped the philosopher up.

  Then another man stepped through, this one leading a horse. A fine horse, by the looks of it: a black stallion with a polished saddle and gleaming brass on its bridle. This man was clearly a soldier. He wore a brocaded red jacket, buttoned tightly over a slight paunch that threatened to burst it wide open. His hand rested on the hilt of a saber hanging at his hip. Unkempt graying hair stuck up either side of a bald patch, but he more than made up for that with a bushy mustache and the thickest sideburns Shadrak had ever seen—muttonchops, they called them back in Sarum; at one time, the fashion among the councilors.

  “Are you all right, Brother?” the man in the cassock asked as Aristodeus got to his feet and brushed himself down.

  “Fine, Ludo,” Aristodeus said. “Though why you felt the need to bring a mule is beyond me. And a bloody horse, too.”

 
The soldier stiffened and took a step forward. “It’s Adeptus Ludo to you, old chap.” His voice was gruff and grating, like he had a mouthful of gravel.

  Ludo silenced him with a raised hand. “My fault. I pictured us arriving in the middle of a barren wasteland. I even entertained a fantasy of evangelizing hordes of unwashed barbarians. It hadn’t occurred to me we might step through into…” He trailed off, taking in the dark walls of the room, the still-glowing archway.

  “Wasn’t it obvious?” Aristodeus said. “Or did you think the Templum’s archway was an open-ticket to just about anywhere?”

  “I hadn’t given it much thought, which I suppose I should have. You see, Galen,” Ludo said to the soldier, “it’s basically a corridor.”

  Galen snorted and made a fuss of his horse, scratching behind its ear.

  “But a corridor between what?” Ludo said. “Not points in space, surely.”

  Aristodeus grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Very good, Adeptus. I can see you’re going to make the most of your exile.”

  Galen clipped his boot heels together and stuck out his chest. “The Adeptus is here to proselytize, and I’ll thump anyone who says otherwise.” His eyes roved the room, taking in the homunculi, who were all fixated on their slates, as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on.

  “Who’s this?” Galen said, with a curt nod Shadrak’s way.

  “This,” Aristodeus said, is your guide.”

  “What?” Shadrak said.

  Aristodeus went on talking right over him. “Unless you want to wing it; cast yourself on Nous’s mercy and head out into the Dead Lands?”

  “Dead Lands?” Ludo said. “That doesn’t sound—”

  “And the Sour Marsh beyond,” Aristodeus said. “Shadrak here’s been there and lived to tell the tale, haven’t you, Shadrak?”

  “Shithole,” Shadrak said.

  Galen bristled at that.

  “Full of giant maggots and the like,” Shadrak said. “You’d last all of two minutes.”

  “You survived,” Galen said. It sounded like a challenge.

  “Always do,” Shadrak said. He glared up at the soldier until he saw the discomfort his pink eyes caused, and Galen looked away.