The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  A group of squaddies spilled into the bar. Sandau was with them.

  “Nah,” Rhiannon said. “I’ve had enough. Let’s walk it off.” She swayed as she stood.

  Shader’s hand lashed out and caught her by the elbow.

  “Still got the reflexes, then,” she said. For a long moment, their eyes locked. She couldn’t decide what she saw in his, but it was no comfort, whatever it was. She looked away, right into Sandau’s jealous glare.

  Normally, she’d have told him where to go, and he’d have played along with her, but with her arm linked in Shader’s, more for mutual stability than anything else, all she could think of was to flash him her winningest smile. She winced the second they were outside. There was only one way he could take that, and it would do nothing to challenge her reputation as the cockiest, most callous bitch in the Fencibles.

  ***

  “So, this is what they’ve done to the Martello Line,” Shader said, as they took refuge from the wind in the doorway of one of the circular towers. Atop the roof, he’d seen two soldiers huddled against the weather beneath a white flag bearing the red Monas. Across from the soldiers, pointing out to sea, was an immense cannon that dwarfed anything he’d witnessed during his stint aboard the Aura Placida.

  The tower was built from hewn granite, and perhaps forty feet in diameter and sixty high. They were all virtually identical. He’d visited two or three as a child, when his father had been responsible for the coastal watch from Holy Head to Anderida. Back then, they’d been empty shells, left over from the time of the Ancients. Theory was, they’d been built to withstand an invasion by sea that had never come.

  Maybe they’d gotten the dates wrong, he mused as he looked out across the churning waters, not for the first time wondering if it was Gallia he could see or just a low bank of cloud in the distance. By all accounts, the invasion was coming, and this time, there was nowhere left to run. At least, nowhere on Earth. That was both the strength and weakness of what Ipsissimus Silvanus was now calling “this island fortress.” The Nousians might have to dig in and fight for their lives, but it was going to be one hell of an uphill struggle for Hagalle.

  “Tower number seventy-three,” Rhiannon said. “There’s seventy-two, and seventy-one.” She pointed down the coast. “And that’s the command center.”

  There were perhaps five to six-hundred yards between the towers leading to the Redoubt, a colossal red-brick fortress with a high parapet and thick black barrels poking through the embrasures.

  “There’s a twenty-four-pounder on the terreplein.” She cocked her thumb up at the flat roof above them. “We got to fire them in training. A crossfire from the neighboring towers covers incoming ships from every angle.”

  Shader looked out to sea and then along the line of towers. “Do they have the range?”

  “About a mile or so.”

  “Doesn’t leave much time if the Sahulians come en masse.”

  Rhiannon pulled him out of the doorway. “Nothing can get past our sea defenses, and even if they did,”—she flexed her biceps, and they popped out, sharp and defined. She’d hardened up since last he saw her, that was for sure. And in more ways than one—“they’d have to deal with the Fencibles.”

  She led him in the direction of the Redoubt, letting the sea air do its best to sober them.

  “The Ipsissimus doesn’t share your confidence. He was planning to send proselytizers to Aethir just before Hagalle took the Great West. There was to be another exodus, if Hagalle won here.”

  “Aethir? How?”

  “Ancient-tech? Something of Gandaw’s, maybe.” Or perhaps the explanation was closer to home. Rhiannon must have been thinking the same thing, judging by the look she gave him. After all, how had they gotten back to Earth after preventing the Unweaving? And Shader had known for years about Aristodeus having friends high up in the Templum.

  Rhiannon shivered. The rain had slowed to a spit, but her dress was once more drenched and clinging in a way that made Shader uncomfortable. This time, when he offered his coat, she accepted.

  They continued to walk, but the further they went, the more Shader’s knee burned. He paused a moment to rub it, felt the swelling.

  “So, what exactly did happen to your leg?” Rhiannon said.

  Shader winced at the memory of the rack, the anticipation of Shin’s iron spike poised to do even more damage. Thank Nous for Ludo’s last minute intervention. “I refused to fight.”

  “For Aeterna?”

  Shader nodded. “They saw it as sinful disobedience. Silvanus is a different kind of Ipsissimus to Theodore. I suppose he needs to be. Ain puts the right man in position for the times.”

  “Was it the Judiciary?” Rhiannon shuddered, though it could have been from the cold.

  Shader pressed his fist to his mouth and thought for a moment. “I don’t think they were meant to damage me quite so badly, but when the Investigator found out, he saw no reason to stop.”

  Rhiannon squeezed his arm and tried to look him in the eye, but he wouldn’t permit it. Couldn’t. He didn’t want her to see the anger blazing there. The anger and the despair.

  “Don’t worry, he muttered into his chest. “Adeptus Ludo got me out.”

  “But you are still a priest?” Rhiannon asked. “You serve a templum? I assumed you were stationed in Londinium. I meant to find you one day, but there were always…” She trailed off and dropped her gaze away to the side.

  Shader gave her a few moments, expecting she was going to tell him something, but when she didn’t, he let out a low chuckle. There was no mirth in it. “I am something of an itinerant these days. I go where I am sent, and if I am sent nowhere, I go wherever I damn well please.”

  “That a fact?” Rhiannon asked, an impish glint in her eye.

  Her mood seemed decided by the toss of a coin. He’d been starting to think the wind and the walk had sobered her up, but in an instant, she was drunk again, and far less awkward than he as she opened the coat to him and shared her warmth.

  “Come on,” she said, “let’s get a cab.”

  As they waited, Shader let his thoughts drift away from her closeness, her heat, the scent of her hair. He grasped at something to say, but their conversation had led him down a well-trodden path, and the words bubbled up of their own accord.

  “Aristodeus came to me in Londinium.”

  Rhiannon stiffened.

  “He still wants me back on Aethir. Insists there’s an even greater threat than Sektis Gandaw, and that he needs me.” He shook his head. “It’s like, all that schooling, all that training, and now he thinks he owns me.”

  Rhiannon nodded like she knew—really knew—what he was talking about. But how could she? How could anyone? “What did you tell him?”

  “Same thing I always tell him. Same thing I told the Judiciary.” His look in her eyes this time was unwavering. “I’ve changed, Rhiannon. And this time, there’s no going back.”

  ***

  They didn’t speak much on the ride down the coast. Shader lost himself in the rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves as the two-wheeler carriage took them past the looming walls of the Redoubt and trundled on toward the shanty town that was just close enough to Hallow for supplies to be delivered or recruits to reach the fortress for their training, but far enough to discourage refugees from making a nuisance of themselves.

  Rhiannon leaned her head on his shoulder, and by the time they pulled up outside one iron-roofed shack among many, she was fast asleep. Shader woke her gently and paid the driver as she stretched and yawned then went ahead to open the door. Her family home in Oakendale had been modest enough, but compared to this hovel, it was a palace.

  She stood aside and gestured for him to go in. Her smile was ear to ear, and the sparkle had returned to her eyes.

  “After you,” she said. “There’s booze inside.”

  ***

  “Obedience is the rock,” Shader slurred, spilling whiskey over his hand as he tried to put the glass on
the table. “It doesn’t matter if Silvanus is a despotic…” He couldn’t think of the word. Couldn’t think of much at all, the amount he’d had to drink.

  “Dickweed?” Rhiannon said.

  “Not that,” Shader said. He still had enough wares about him to know that would be sinful.

  “Dog-breath? Dung-face?” She tried to look serious, but her chin quivered with suppressed mirth.

  Shader shook his head. He knew he was wasting his breath, but he needed to finish his train of thought, for his own sake, if not for her edification. “My allegiance is to the Ipsissimal office, not the man. And whatever you or I might think of him—”

  Rhiannon went to pick up her glass, misjudged, and knocked it on the floor. “Did you see that? It didn’t break.”

  Liquor pooled under the table like she’d had an accident. She took up the bottle and drained it, stopped with it still pressed to her lips, and looked coyly at Shader.

  “Sorry, it’s all gone.” She upturned the bottle to demonstrate.

  “Then it’s a good job,” Shader said, triumphantly plucking his hip flask from his boot, “I always carry an emergency supply.” He unscrewed the lid and took a swig before passing it to Rhiannon.

  She leaned across the table, grinning inanely.

  What was it Shader had been saying? Whatever they might think of the Ipsissimus… “Silvanus is the right man for the times. No one else is going to stop Hagalle.”

  “You could have.”

  She must have meant before the Battle of the Homestead, when he’d pressed a blade to the emperor’s throat. Maybe he should have. Maybe not. Without Hagalle’s help, the Templum forces and the hybrids wouldn’t have lasted two minutes against Gandaw’s hordes.

  Rhiannon fixed her eyes on his. There was a moment’s silence, and then she said, “Go on, admit it. You were tempted, weren’t you?”

  He chuckled. “Lots of things tempt me, but that doesn’t make it right to do them.”

  “Oh?” She slid and banged her crate closer to his. “So, Pater Shader, no one can persuade you to pick up your sword again. Is that what you’re saying?” She brushed the back of his hand with her fingers.

  “Nope.”

  “Not the Ipsissimus?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not Aristodeus?”

  Mention of the philosopher sent his thoughts reeling in another direction, but luckily he was so drunk, they broke and scattered before he could latch onto them.

  “Nope.”

  She tilted her head and faked a sweet smile. “Not even me?”

  She pulled him into a fierce kiss. Shader resisted, but she slid onto his lap and pressed her mouth to his again. This time, he responded. Her lips parted, and she gave him her tongue. She ran her fingers through his stubble and sighed, nibbled at his lip. She lifted his hand to her breast, made him squeeze.

  He winced as his blood ignited; tried to push her away. She responded with a fierce grip around his neck and refused to release his mouth. His dream of making love to Rhiannon—the one he’d first had at Pardes; the one that had plagued him ever since—ghosted through his mind, blurred with what was happening, grew clearer, more tangible, until one became the other.

  Rhiannon leaned back to shrug her shoulders out of her dress. She peeled it lower, arched her back to offer him her breasts. Scars crisscrossed her torso. The same with her forearms.

  He grabbed her arms, forced her to look him in the eye. She snarled and went for his neck. As she sucked and murmured, his resistance waned. He looked passively beyond her at the ramshackle room. Her hand found his crotch. He was dimly aware of his arousal, but something arrested his vision. There was a sword leaning in the corner. The scabbard was his own. He’d given it to her on Aethir. But the hilt poking from the top, handgrip black and roughly knurled, the pommel obsidian…

  “Callixus’s bla—”

  She smothered his words with a breast, roughly pulled his face into it.

  “Shut up,” she purred, grinding herself against the bulge in his britches. Her hand felt its way beneath her thighs and fumbled at his buttons.

  Shader turned his face to the side and rasped, “No, Rhiannon. Stop.” This wasn’t what she wanted. Couldn’t be. And he, a priest. “Please, stop.”

  Her hand wriggled inside, found him. He gasped and then met her lips again, this time with unbridled hunger. She slid back off his lap and dropped to her knees. Shader shut his eyes and trembled with anticipation. He felt the heat of her breath, braced himself as she brought her head down.

  There was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Hello?”—A woman’s voice.

  “Shit!” Rhiannon leapt to her feet and pulled up the straps of her dress.

  Shader fastened his britches, just in time, as the door scraped open.

  A girl entered—no more than four or five, a plump woman behind her.

  “Mommy.” The girl threw her arms around Rhiannon’s legs, pressed the side of her head to her hip.

  Rhiannon stiffened, but then ruffled her hair.

  “Same time tomorrow?” The woman’s eyes strayed to Shader.

  He forced a smile and acknowledged her with a nod.

  “Please,” Rhiannon said.

  The woman let herself out.

  Rhiannon put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and turned her to face Shader. “Darling,” she said. She sounded strained, awkward. “This is Mommy’s friend, Deacon.”

  Shader stared dumbly.

  “And, Deacon,” Rhiannon said, “this is my daughter, Saphra.”

  THE VRAAJO

  Vicinity of Mount Sartis, Aethir

  Shadrak stretched out one leg at a time, shifted into a more comfortable position on the high branch. The wind gusted, sending leaves thrashing about his face. For a moment, he was blinded by the wafting smoke from the cook fire below. Fanning it with his free hand, he pushed his back against the trunk and raised his rifle.

  Down on the ground, Nameless bellowed a bawdy song that resonated inside his great helm and boomed into the depths of the forest. He sat beneath a yew, tapping out a rhythm on his axe haft. Tongues of flame from the fire danced over his armor, set the green flecks in his helm aglow.

  Albert was crouched over the spit, sniffing delicately, dipping his fingers into bags of spices and touching them to his lips. He’d turned Adeptus Ludo’s mule into a walking kitchen, laden it with pots and pans, black bread, dried fruit, and jerky. Galen had thrown a fit when Albert had dumped all the scriptures and prayer cords in the plane ship, but the adeptus had reassured him with some crap about the needs of the body preceding those of the spirit.

  Every now and again, Albert would glance at the notes he’d scrawled on a scrap of paper, snippets of information they’d been given by Aristodeus relating to their mission. Shadrak didn’t need written notes; it was all filed away in his memory. The others had shown no sign they were even listening. Say one thing for Albert: he might have been a fat poisonous bastard, but at least he was a professional fat poisonous bastard.

  Bird had left the minute Ekyls returned with the rabbit. He’d not been seen since. Gave the impression he was squeamish about the killing of rodents. Either that, or he was scared the same thing would happen to him if he turned into one. If he could. So far, he’d just done the raven thing.

  Ekyls was somewhere about—his stench carried on the wind like a moldering carcass. How much could the savage be trusted now he was back to his own element? Chances are, he’d bugger off, no matter what hold Albert had over him. Bugger off or butcher the lot of them when they were asleep.

  A blast went up from the volcano, singeing the treetops and swathing the sky in red. It was still a mile distant, its long shadow cooling; the steam from its core roasting.

  Ludo shivered and clutched at the sleeves of his cassock.

  Galen lifted his huge head, rubbing at his sideburns and looking pleased with himself. “Your move, Eminence.”

  He took up his clay pipe and plucked a brand fro
m the fire to light it. The breeze dislodged some thin strands of hair that had only just been meticulously wetted and combed over. He sat ramrod straight, all brawn and whiskers. Big dumb ox. Defenseless at that very moment. How easy it would be to squeeze the trigger.

  Ludo bent over the chessboard, touching a finger to his lips. Shadrak focused in on him, twisting the tube until the crosshairs centered between the adeptus’s doleful eyes. His face was drawn and furrowed, the lips cracked but softly smiling. Shadrak reckoned Ludo was younger than he looked, probably in his fifties. He still had most of his hair, thinning curls feigning retreat but never quite leaving the field.

  “I believe that is checkmate.” Ludo ran his tongue along the brown stubs of his teeth and put on his spectacles, as if that were an end to it.

  Galen held the pipe in the corner of his mouth, eyes flicking over the board with the same rigorous scrutiny Shadrak had used on the combination locks of the plane ship. “Blimey,” he grunted, with the lift of a bushy eyebrow. “Caught me napping there, wot.”

  Nameless launched into another song, louder and bawdier.

  Ludo winced and started to pack away the pieces.

  “Best of three?” Galen tugged his jacket straight; it was stiff and scarlet, heavy with epaulettes.

  “Maybe later, Brother. But the Demiurgos does love an idler.”

  Galen looked over his shoulder, as if he expected to see the Father of Lies there, goading him into another game.

  Ludo picked up a leather-bound book from beside the chessboard. “Discipline is to do what we must, even when lost in the drama of competition.”

  Apparently, Galen got his point. “Yes, yes. Quite.” He tapped out his pipe and fussed about in his jacket pockets. “Upon the hour, every hour.” He produced his own book and started to thumb through it. “Well, not quite, but thank you for reminding me, Eminence. Ora et labora, wot.”

  Shadrak shifted his aim, scanning the tree-line, peering down at Galen’s black mare and the mule. The animals were nervous, dipping their heads into their grain sacks and swishing their tails, but every now and again throwing back their ears, nostrils flaring. The mare whinnied.