The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  Before Ludo could answer, Shadrak said, “No, he’s wanting you to shut the shog up before I debate you with my scutting fist up your arse.”

  “Darling,” Albert said. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Aristodeus pounced at Shadrak like a rapid dog. The midget backflipped once, twice, three times until he was clear, and came up in a fighting crouch with a dagger in either hand.

  The homunculus in the feather cloak was on his feet, eyes riveted to Shadrak. Galen’s hand went to his saber, but he was looking to Ludo for what to do. The old priest simply put his head in his hands and sighed. Albert raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. If he’d had a chair, Rhiannon could have seen him sit in it, put his feet up, and order a drink for the show.

  “We’ll go,” Nameless said. It was quietly spoken, but stilled the room like a thunderclap.

  “Why?” Shadrak said. “What’s the shogging point?”

  “I ask myself that every morning,” Nameless said, “before I get out of bed. And to be honest, I’m starting to doubt there’s an answer. But what I did back there, to that poor bastard, Sartis…” He sighed within the great helm, and a long silence ensued. Glances were exchanged, but no one dared to speak. “It demands some meaning. It demands completion. Otherwise, I have to concede old baldy’s point, and the day I do that is the day I stay in bed and never get up.”

  What had he done? Rhiannon wondered. She looked to the others for a hint, for an answer, but no one met her gaze.

  Aristodeus relaxed, and Shadrak sheathed his knives but continued to glare.

  Nameless shifted the weight of the axe on his shoulder, looked down at the gauntlet covering his free hand. He waggled the metal fingers, clenched them into a fist, then dropped his hand to his side.

  “Fine,” Rhiannon said, “then I’m coming with you, as soon as this wanker gives me back my daughter.”

  “This is why I am reluctant to grant her wishes, gentlemen,” Aristodeus said. “I have impressed upon you the unparalleled dangers of this quest, and yet she feels it appropriate to bring a child along. Hardly the responsible action of a doting mother.”

  And there it was: the slightest chink, the merest opening, and he was on it, turning every word, every action, every situation to his advantage.

  “You piece of shit,” Rhiannon said. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Ludo came between them. “But he is right, I fear.”

  Rhiannon whirled on him and raised her hand to strike. Galen strode toward her, but Nameless cut across his path and hit him in the breastbone with the palm of his gauntleted hand. Galen flew across the room and smashed into the wall. He sagged to the floor, muttering and dazed.

  “Lassie,” Nameless said, showing no concern for Galen climbing to his feet and swaying back toward them. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but stay here, for your girl.”

  Why? Rhiannon wanted to shout. It’s not like I even wanted her? She flinched internally, clutched at her belly as if it had been mangled out of shape. She knew what it was, knew it was tearing her apart. Her head resented the girl, despised her; but her body, her flesh, the substance of what she was… And it wasn’t Saphra’s fault. She was beautiful. She was everything a daughter should be. Surely, nothing else mattered. So, why did it hurt so damned much?

  Nameless didn’t know that; couldn’t have known, and yet, the way he gripped her shoulder, gently, despite his newfound strength, Rhiannon felt he did know. Felt he knew her inside out. If it had been anyone else—even Shader—she’d have recoiled from the vulnerability, closed herself off to his empathy. But instead, his touch steadied her, made her feel she was not alone.

  Barely able to breathe, she tried to gasp a response, then simply nodded.

  “Good,” Shadrak said, “then let’s shog off before I castrate the bald tosser and feed him his own fruits.”

  Galen grunted and lunged at Nameless, but Shadrak stuck his foot out and tripped him. Before Galen could rise again, Ludo crouched down beside him and whispered something in his ear. The dragoon didn’t like whatever it was, but stood and dusted himself down. To his credit, he gave a curt nod to Nameless, and an even curter one to Shadrak, then he touched his forehead in the Nousian manner. Rhiannon had seen that sort of thing before at the Templum of the Knot. She’d seen it from Shader, too. Nousian humility, imposed with iron discipline on those with the least aptitude for it.

  Aristodeus straightened his robe and made an effort to look unfazed, as if he were squarely back in control. “I find myself in agreement. Too much time has already been wasted.” He turned to Rhiannon. “Bezaleel will take you to our daughter, but she is not to leave the Perfect Peak. I cannot have you placing her in danger again.”

  Bezaleel stepped into Rhiannon’s peripheral vision, as if he’d been back and waiting for a long time.

  “Put her in danger!” Rhiannon said. “It’s not like I knew there were bloody werewolves on the Downs!”

  “Now, there’s a point,” Aristodeus said. “Bezaleel, take her to my study first. We should run some tests. I’ll join you shortly.” He turned back to the others.

  Bezaleel ushered her away. “Always someone else’s fault, eh?” he whispered. “That’s how he thinks. If he knew about the wolves, he expects you to as well. Doesn’t seem to understand that we’re not all omniscient.”

  Rhiannon scoffed at that. Aristodeus was proud to be a know-it-all and expected everyone else to be the same. That kind of figured.

  Wait a minute…

  “He knew about the wolves?”

  Bezaleel gave a conspiratorial wink.

  “A lot more than you’d believe.”

  BIRD

  Plane ship between Aethir and Earth

  Shadrak gripped the edge of the half-egg chair tightly as the room juddered and tilted. The silver walls ghosted in and out of existence, and he caught glimpses of snow-dusted pines through them.

  He’d never gotten used to the disorienting way the plane ship moved from place to place, but it wasn’t that different to any other stress placed on the mind or body: the more you did it, the easier it got; same as with running, tumbling, climbing, the hardness of heart you needed to cultivate to slit someone’s throat, scut or no scut.

  His eyes roved over the others: Ludo, eyes shut like he was praying for it to be over; Galen corpse-rigid and muttering under his mustache; Ekyls curled around the control plinth, whining like a dog; Bird strapped into his seat in some kind of trance, feathered cloak closed over him like a shroud; and Albert, absorbed in his book, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Course, the poisoner had traveled by plane ship before, and he was a master of growing used to discomfort. You only had to think of the months of gut-wrenching sickness he’d endured building tolerance to all the poisons at his disposal. All save one: there was just no possibility of developing resistance to Albert’s infamous “sausage poison”, some kind of culture he scraped off decayed meat. Odd he should have seen fit to bring some aboard before they’d set off for Mount Sartis. Odder he hadn’t felt the need to mention it. Made no difference to Shadrak. He made it his business to know exactly what everyone brought aboard, as soon as their backs were turned.

  Nameless was the only one missing. He’d stayed in his room, despite being warned about what could happen if he wasn’t strapped in and the ship took a lurch. Apparently, he didn’t care. His mood had plummeted the moment they’d come aboard. Whether it was from concern about where they were going, or more ghosts from the ravine city butchery, Shadrak didn’t dare to ask. At times like this, Nameless was like an eruption about to happen, and although Shadrak could go toe to toe with anyone, there was something about the dwarf that said he wasn’t just anyone.

  A klaxon sounded, then choked off mid-wail. The plane ship shook, and a panorama of white hills, thickly forested, strobed through the walls. Ekyls shrieked and wrapped himself even tighter around the base of the plinth. Ludo’s prayer left his lips in a
stream of ejaculations, and Galen vomited down the front of his jacket. The feathers of Bird’s cloak ruffled, and one onyx eye opened.

  Albert looked up from his book. “Are we there yet?”

  Shadrak released the restraining harness and stood, his chair sinking into the floor as he stepped away from it. Careful not to tread on Ekyls—though he was tempted to kick him—he peered at the control plinth, frowned at the numbers scrolling across the black mirror.

  “Think we just bounced. She’s still trying to find a way through.”

  The background hum of the plane ship resumed like a gentle snore.

  “I see.” Albert buried his head back in the book. He’d taken it from Aristodeus’s library at the Perfect Peak. Whether the philosopher knew was anyone’s guess. Always researching, Albert. Always prepared. He’d been the same before the trip to the volcano, soaking up every bit of information he could gather about Sartis and the history of the Jötunn.

  “Ekyls, be a darling and fetch me some tea,” Albert said without looking up.

  The savage uncurled himself from the plinth and scuttled over to the backpack beneath the poisoner’s sear. He pulled out a cylindrical flask, unscrewed the cup that was its lid, and poured into it.

  “Splendid,” Albert said as he took the cup and raised it to Shadrak. “Excellent idea, these flasks. Makes me wonder what else you’ve got stowed away in here.”

  Wonder all you like, Shadrak thought as he shot Albert a wink and a smile.

  Whatever it was that was keeping them from landing was starting to worry him. Something similar had happened on the way to the Perfect Peak that first time, when some kind of shielding had dumped them in the Sour Marsh. Course, Albert had been aboard on that occasion, too, though no one had realized at the time. Least not until the plane ship had vanished, and the poisoner just happened to show up in New Jerusalem, on an entirely different world to where Shadrak had last seen him.

  You had to wonder if it was Blightey, wise to what they were up to, and using whatever dark power he had to thwart them. If what they said were true, and he’d once been pally with Sektis Gandaw, stood to reason he knew all about plane ships, maybe even had the science to stop them.

  Shadrak looked over his shoulder at the rasp of restraints being released.

  Galen stood, stretched his arms above his head, then went over to a panel on the wall. He jabbed at it with a finger, huffing and puffing when nothing happened.

  “Need to check on Beatrice,” he said by way of explanation.

  Shadrak clenched his teeth to hold in a sigh. He went over and opened the door for him. When he turned back to the plinth, Bird was in his way. Shadrak hadn’t heard his strap release, hadn’t heard even the hint of a footfall.

  “We should talk now,” Bird said. “In case we do not get the chance again.”

  Shadrak looked long and hard into his dark, stony eyes. There was intelligence there, mystery, a hint of something primitive that would make even Ekyls seem civilized by comparison. But there was something else, too: concern, warmth… familiarity.

  Galen broke the spell with a cough. He raised his hands in exasperation. “How do I open it again, from the other side?”

  Galen had converted the room beyond into a makeshift stable, stacked wall to wall with hay Aristodeus’s homunculi had procured for him. His horse was chewing lazily, oblivious to the fact that they were somewhere between worlds, riding the spaces between dreams and reality, as the Archon had once put it.

  “Here,” Shadrak said. He punched in a new sequence. “I’ve set it to stay open. Just make sure the nag doesn’t get out. Last thing I need’s a control room full of horse shit, got it?”

  “Indeed,” Galen said. He glanced over Shadrak’s head, and Shadrak looked behind.

  Ludo stood up from his seat and repositioned his glasses on his nose. “I assume we’re safe to walk about now.”

  “Shog do I care?” Shadrak said. Probably, they should have stayed strapped in till they arrived, but it was no skin off his nose if the plane ship banked and sent the others sprawling in a pile of broken bones. He had the agility to avoid that, and even if he didn’t, he was a quick healer. After that creature had shot him beneath the Perfect Peak, he’d been cartwheeling and doing push-ups within a matter of weeks.

  Ludo shrugged and then raised an eyebrow at Galen. “Well?”

  Galen grimaced and came to awkward attention. “About what happened back there,” he said to Shadrak. “When that ruddy woman—”

  Ludo coughed.

  “When Rhiannon had that altercation with Aristodeus and I… Well, I’ve already told the dwarf I forgive him, and—”

  “And now you want to forgive me for tripping you up?”

  “Uh hum. Ah, yes,” Galen said.

  “Well,” Shadrak said, “I ain’t no Nousian. The way I see it, forgiveness is for ponces and shitters. If it helps, I’d trip you again, for a laugh. Stick you with a knife, too, if you get in my way.”

  Galen blinked ten to the dozen and looked to Ludo for help. The old priest raised his fingers and nodded approvingly.

  “And another thing,” Shadrak said. “Make sure you muck the horse out. If I even get a whiff of dung when I get back, there’ll be trouble.”

  “Where do I put it?” Galen asked, with an anxious look at the improvised stable.

  “Don’t tempt me. Plane ship’s as big as a city. I’m sure there’s somewhere for dumping shite. Just make sure you find it before I’m done talking. Coming?” he said to Bird. “Albert, you’re in charge. Call me if we ever arrive.”

  ***

  “So, let me guess,” Shadrak said as the door to his room slid open and he ushered Bird inside. “You’re going to tell me we’re the same: a couple of shit-stirring homunculi spawned straight from the arse of the Demiurgos. You ain’t the first.”

  Everyone from Cadman to Nameless, and even the Archon, had said as much. Shadrak wasn’t stupid. No matter how much he kicked against the idea, it forced him to look at questions he’d gladly left unanswered all his life: such as why he was so shogging small compared to everyone else; where he got his sense of smell, his quick healing; and most of all, where the shog he came from; who his parents were. He’d always known Kadee was his foster mother—they resembled each other as much as fire and ice; but he’d assumed he had a real mother somewhere. And a father. He’d always told himself he didn’t give a shog; that parents who’d give up a child weren’t worth the effort of finding. Unless they were dead, of course, but Kadee would have told him, if they were. That said, Kadee hadn’t told him a whole lot, except some cock-and-bull story about the gods of the Dreamers bringing him to her.

  Bird seated himself on the edge of the bed. It was a shogging liberty that would have earned him a stab in the face under normal circumstances, but Shadrak needed to hear what he had to say.

  “Do you ever wonder about this ship?” Bird’s eyes rolled about the room. “How you came by it? You, and no one else?”

  It was a matter of blind chance, nothing more. He’d been fleeing for his life and scurried down a filthy hole that turned out to be the entrance to the sewers.

  “Guess I was just lucky,” Shadrak said. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then settled himself cross-legged on the floor. “I was out scavenging for food, is all, and these things chased me. If I hadn’t come across the ship…”

  Bird was shaking his head and smiling.

  There seemed no point dwelling on what might have happened if the ghouls had caught him. He had a sense that would be missing the point.

  “You found it when you needed it, Shadrak, because deep down,”—Bird tapped his forehead—“you remembered it was there.”

  “No,” Shadrak said. “Because that makes it sound like I knew about it and forgot; but I never forget.”

  “You remember your infancy?” Bird said.

  Shadrak drew a blank.

  “Seeing Kadee for the first time?”

  He shook his head.


  “Memory is a skill, one you have honed over time.”

  He was right there. Shadrak had treated it as a muscle, like any other: practiced all manner of exercises until he could take in everything about a place, a person, a mission in an instant, and play it back in his mind when he needed it.

  “It’s how you survive in the guilds,” he said. “Have to know what everyone’s doing, where they live, who’s said what to who.”

  “Yes, yes,” Bird said, “but before you learned the skill, your recollection was as flawed, as patchy, as anyone else’s, yes?”

  It seemed a fair point. Shadrak nodded.

  “Children seldom remember much,” Bird said, “and a child of trauma even less.”

  “Really?” Shadrak said. “You seem to know a whole lot about me. Stuff I don’t even know about myself. How’s that, then?”

  Bird looked away, covered his mouth with a hand. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Kadee was good to you, was she not?”

  “No one better.”

  Bird faced him again, a sad smile curling his lips. “Mamba chose her. I doubt many women would have taken in a sickly-looking child with such unnerving eyes. Even your own people, even the homunculi, rejected you.”

  A sudden weight filled Shadrak’s skull, and he held his head to stop it from crashing into the floor.

  “We are both homunculi, Shadrak. Children of the Demiurgos from the deeps of Gehenna.”

  “Lies,” Shadrak said. He tried to stand, but swooned and would have fallen had Bird not sprung from the bed to catch him. “Kadee is my mother, Kadee is my mother,” he said over and over. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t true. The alternative was just too crazy.

  “Your foster mother, yes,” Bird said. “And a good one. But you have no real mother. None of us do. We are begotten, not made. We are like scales sloughing from the essence of the Demiurgos.”

  “The Father of Lies,” Shadrak said. “Isn’t that what they call him? What’s that make you?” What does it make me?

  “Deception runs thick in our blood,” Bird said. “But some of us have chosen to swim against the tide.”