The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  It wasn’t something Shader ever wanted to repeat. He’d been utterly deceived, convinced he was in Araboth. And when the truth had been revealed, he would have been lost anyway, save for Sammy Kwane appearing under his own power and showing the way.

  Aristodeus pressed the vial into Shader’s hands. “The Cynocephalus never lets the shield out of his sight. He’s sunk so far into his nightmares, his womb at the heart of Gehenna has subsided, until it is little more than an embolism in his father’s realm. If you are to retrieve the shield,” he said to the group, “then you must enter the Abyss.” To Shader, he added, “Deeper than when you found yourself in that illusory Araboth.” He held Shader’s eyes, beseeched him to understand, to forgive and move on.

  “And this particle thing,” Albert said. “We’ll be able to come back the same way?”

  Shadrak was shaking his head, eyes narrowed at the poisoner.

  “Yes,” Aristodeus said. “But it will not be stable. In and out, quick as you can. If the accelerator fails, it’s game over.”

  “Great,” Rhiannon muttered.

  “Remember,” Aristodeus said, “this is not just about Nameless, and it’s not just about me, either. If we do nothing, if we don’t take the fight to the Demiurgos, his storm head will advance unimpeded, until Sektis Gandaw and his Unweaving will seem no more than a spell of light drizzle in comparison.”

  Shader lifted the vial between thumb and forefinger. The misty substance within pressed up against the glass. He stared closer, then looked to Aristodeus for confirmation. It had two eyes. Pinpricks of crimson.

  The philosopher nodded. “If you are going into the Abyss, you will need a guide, someone familiar with the ways of the dark. Deacon, my boy, allow me to reacquaint you with Dr. Ernst Cadman.”

  A GAME OF COGNAC

  Plane ship between Aethir and Earth

  The plane ship’s sterile interior was anything but the sanctuary Shadrak usually found it. It felt more like the executioner’s cart taking him to the gallows. Not only that, but its silver walls acted as mirrors, showed him what he really was. Not that he’d minded in the past: he’d always been one to check his appearance, ensure his weapons were all properly situated upon his person. But now he didn’t see the perfect assassin he’d always thought himself to be. Now he saw a homunculus. Now he saw the pale skin and red eyes that marked him as a reject, even among his own kind.

  The others had taken to their cabins, leaving him alone in the control room. No one, it seemed, wanted to talk. Talking only made it more real: they were going to the Abyss. But first, they were going back to Earth, this time to the Great West.

  Shadrak had never been there. Never wanted to. The way he heard it in Sahul, the Westies were loud-mouthed braggarts who thought they still owned the world, in spite of the Templum putting paid to that particular boast centuries ago. Kadee said they brought it upon themselves, according to the stories the Dreamers told. Said they grew fat and lazy, and when the war came, they could barely get their lard-arses out of their chairs, never mind take up arms and fight. You’d never catch that happening to Shadrak. Even now, even with his world turned upside down, and him not knowing who the shog he was anymore, he still had his discipline, and he still kept up a training regimen that would have killed lesser men.

  That said, he was bone weary. Verusia had taken it out of him. If it wasn’t the cold leaching away his strength, it was Blightey, and the insidious effect of his evil. Which reminded him: he’d left the bag containing the Liche Lord’s skull in his cabin. He needed to check on it. Again. There was no indication Blightey could do anything from within the bag’s limitless depths, but you could never be too careful.

  Trepidation built as he made his way along identical corridors, navigating by the numerals on the lintels, and relying on his near-perfect memory. When he reached the door to his room, his anxiety blossomed, and his heartbeat sent ripples through the fabric of his shirt. Tugging his cloak about him, and resting his hand over a holstered pistol, he punched in the code, and the door slid open.

  “I wondered how long you’d take,” Albert said.

  The poisoner was seated in the half-egg chair beside the cot bed, glass in hand. There was another glass and a bottle of cognac on the table sprouting like a mushroom from the floor.

  “That the one you gave me?” Shadrak asked. The one he’d warned Albert never to touch again. The bottle was half-empty.

  Albert made a show of reading the label. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, not really.” He took a sip, closed his eyes, and swilled the cognac around his mouth before swallowing.

  “Why are you in my cabin?”

  Albert poured cognac into the other glass, set the bottle down, and tapped his foot twice. In response, a second chair rose from the floor.

  “That’s not how you do it,” Shadrak said.

  “Works for me.”

  “You’ll break something.”

  Albert lifted his foot, studied the floor beneath it. “Do you think so? I was quite gentle.”

  Shadrak drew in a deep breath, held it as he waited for Albert to answer his question. After a while, he sighed and said, “Well?”

  Albert cocked his head and worried his bottom lip. “We need to talk.” He gestured to the other chair. “Will you?”

  Without taking his eyes off the poisoner, Shadrak sat.

  Albert lifted his glass to his lips for another sip. Shadrak was half-inclined to warn him, but decided against it. Whatever the poisoner had to say, he’d grown too dangerous, too much of a liability.

  When Albert pushed the other glass toward him, Shadrak held up a hand and said, “Just talk.”

  “It’s quite safe,” Albert said. “See.” He took a big gulp of his own.

  If only he knew. Shadrak had been expecting something like this, though he hadn’t set a time on it. The first thing he’d learned about Albert was never to accept food or drink from him. He’d seen any number of Albert’s so-called friends die at his hand, usually over a gourmet meal or a drink. He was a cunning shogger. Sly. But not sly enough. After Albert had helped himself to the cognac that first time, Shadrak had taken precautions, slipped in a little something of his own. Well, not his own, strictly speaking: a sprinkle of Albert’s infamous sausage poison, for which there was no immunity. No known cure.

  Shadrak chuckled. He tried to make it good-natured. “Just because you’re drinking it, doesn’t mean it’s safe. I know you, Albert. Know you spend weeks and months building up your tolerance to all the crap you use.”

  “Well, you clearly don’t know me as well as you thought,” Albert said. He drained his glass and refilled it. “And I have to say, I’m deeply wounded.”

  Shadrak shook his head. “So, what is it you want to discuss?”

  He was expecting Albert to try to talk him out of going to the Abyss, or to apologize for his absence during the fight with Blightey. Albert had already done his best to convince the others he was sorry, that he’d heard something and gone to investigate. That when he’d gone back, the door was locked shut, and this time he could do nothing to get it open, as if it were held by magic.

  “In a word,” Albert said, “or rather, two: the Archon.”

  Shadrak forced himself not to react, not to give anything away, even the fact he was surprised Albert was willing to risk bringing the subject up.

  “He approached me,” Albert said. “At first, I didn’t know what to do, so I just listened. But now, with all that’s happened, with all that’s currently happening, I thought I should confide in you. It doesn’t pay for there to be secrets among friends. Not when the stakes are so high.”

  That was the whiff of bullshit Shadrak was waiting for. Albert always had secrets, same as the other Sicarii. Same as Shadrak himself. Assassins were loyal to an extent, but only so far as it carried them. First sign of trouble, and they’d stick a knife in your back. Or wrap a cheese-cutter round your throat.

  “What did he say?”

  Albert leaned ac
ross the table conspiratorially. “That you’re supposed to kill the dwarf.”

  “And?”

  “And that he doesn’t think you’re going to do it.”

  Shadrak leaned back in his chair, let his cloak fall open to reveal a pistol at his hip. “So, he asked you to get the job done?”

  Albert nodded.

  Now, there was another surprise.

  “What else?”

  A frown crossed Albert’s face, and he closed his eyes.

  “What else?” Shadrak repeated.

  Albert held up a hand, puckered his lips, and screwed his nose up. He swallowed thickly a couple of times and then belched. “Sorry. Drank that last one a bit too fast. Are you sure you won’t?” He offered the other glass once more.

  Shadrak raised an eyebrow and waited for Albert to continue.

  “Now, understand, I’m only telling you this to cement our trust-based relationship.” Albert glanced around the room, then lowered his voice. “Can he hear us? I mean, does he know what we’re saying? What we’re thinking?”

  Shadrak shrugged. He didn’t think so. Not all the time, in any case. But it was always better to be cautious, and so he liked to assume the Archon could.

  “Well,” Albert said. “He’s hinted that, if you don’t act soon, by which I think he means before Nameless gets all three artifacts, I am to step in.”

  “What makes him think you would do that?” What was the Archon offering?

  “Maybe I’ve already said too much.” Albert eyed the glass untouched on the table.

  “Unless I join you in a drink?”

  “It’s about trust, Shadrak. Bonding. You know the sort of thing.”

  “I know what happens to those who trust you, Albert. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Albert put a fist to his mouth and belched again. “I’m fully aware of that. This isn’t easy, you know. I’m secretive by nature. We all are. But I don’t mind admitting, I’m out of my depth. Fine. Go ahead. Think I’m trying to poison you, if you like. But know this: I’ve been looking out for you, keeping the Archon off your back. He’s angry, Shadrak, and it’s all I can do to keep him at bay. You want to know more? Well, I’ll tell you more. He wants me to kill you. First Nameless, and then you. It seems you’ve become something of a loose cannon in his tidily ordered universe. An assassin is meant to assassinate. Empathy, or whatever it is that’s staying your hand, doesn’t fit the profile.”

  Albert winced and clutched his stomach.

  “What’s up?” Shadrak asked. “Didn’t build up an immunity to your own poison?”

  Albert’s cheeks puffed up to twice their normal size. He leaned forward as if he were going to vomit, then flung himself back in his chair, wiped sweat from his forehead, and finally let out a colossal burp. “For the last time,” he said, swaying to one side. “I did… not… pois…” He slumped over the side of the chair. A stream of foul-smelling vomit splashed onto the floor, and when the torrent stopped, Albert was dead as a doornail.

  “Yes,” Shadrak muttered. “But I did.”

  He picked up the cognac bottle, peered at the dregs within to see if there was any trace of sausage poison discernible.

  He wondered if Albert had tampered with the cognac. Wondered if he’d been telling the truth, if he really had been coming clean. There was no point speculating on it. Scuts like Albert lied so much, they didn’t know what the truth was anymore. It could have been he was being honest, for once, only to trick Shadrak into swallowing another lie. But with Albert, there was no way of knowing if he was bluffing or double bluffing, or even triple bluffing. Even if there was a way, Shadrak couldn’t be shogged with it right now. Albert had always been a danger, and with what Bird had said about him speaking with the Archon, the time had come for preemptive action. That’s how it was done in the guilds. The worrying thing was that Albert seemed to have forgotten. Either that, or he took Shadrak for a complete moron. Not that it made any difference now. He was out of the way, and that just left the Archon to deal with.

  Shadrak pushed himself out of his seat. It sank back into the floor as he swiped shapes on the panel next to the bed. It’s what Albert should have done, rather than tapping his feet on the floor. Of course, Bird had used some other method, presumably only open to homunculi. At least those that weren’t pink-eyed and white-skinned.

  Beads of quicksilver condensed out of the floor and oozed over Albert’s corpse, the same as the stone-eaters had smothered Blightey. Within minutes, there would be nothing left of the poisoner. The plane ship’s army of cleaners was more efficient than an acid bath.

  THE PORTAL MACHINE

  There was a rap at the door to Shader’s cabin.

  He lay still on the bed, hat covering his face, as if it could hide him from the world. From what he’d seen in Verusia. From the abomination on the rack.

  Aren’t you going to answer it?—a Britannic voice, clipped and piping. Cadman’s voice, only it was inside Shader’s head.

  He peeked from under his hat at the glass vial on the nightstand. Threads of blackness intertwined within. Crimson eyes pressed against the glass, watching him expectantly.

  There was a second knock at the door. It may as well have said, “I know you’re in there.”

  Shader sighed and rolled from the bed; straightened his hat on his head.

  It was bound to be Rhiannon, he thought, as he tapped out the code Shadrak had taught him.

  The door slid open with a hiss.

  It wasn’t Rhiannon.

  It was Galen.

  The dragoon didn’t meet Shader’s eyes as he said, “Thought you might want to see to your horse.” As if he feared sounding critical, he added, “I was on my way to feed Beatrice; muck her out. Shadrak gets uppity if I don’t.”

  There was more, that was plain. More Galen wasn’t saying. But then, when you looked at him, all bluff and stiff beneath that mustache, beneath the brocaded red jacket of the dragoons, what could you expect? Whatever the details, Shader detected a note of apology, though for what, it was difficult to say.

  Without a word, he returned to the nightstand and pocketed the vial, then followed Galen outside.

  They passed along a succession of silver corridors that all looked the same. Silence grew thicker than smog until they entered the control room, and Galen opened the door to the makeshift stable.

  Beatrice nickered and immediately nuzzled the dragoon’s chest. He patted her flanks, ran his fingers through her mane, then led her to the back of the room, where he opened a bag of oats.

  Caledon was more reticent. Clearly, he didn’t approve of being cooped up. Shader was only surprised the horse hadn’t winked out of existence the second he turned his back. Caledon had served his purpose, after all, bringing him to Verusia.

  “You should have gone home,” Shader said, rubbing behind Caledon’s ear. “Back to the Downs. Back to Heredwin.”

  Caledon whuffed. He gave the impression that was the last thing he’d be doing. In spite of himself, in spite of all that had happened, Shader let out an involuntary chuckle.

  “What’s up?” Galen asked over his shoulder.

  “Nothing,” Shader said. “Just never look a gift horse in the mouth, I guess.”

  Galen gave a double cough, as if he were clearing his throat. “Surprised you still have it in you. To laugh, I mean.”

  “Trust me,” Shader said, “there was no humor in it.”

  Galen stood back from Beatrice and turned around to study Shader. He seemed awkward, fidgeting with the end of his mustache. He also looked older, more hunched at the shoulders, and there were streaks of gray in his thinning hair Shader hadn’t noticed before.

  “Do you think he’s a luminary?” Galen asked.

  “Ludo?”

  A frown wriggled its way across Galen’s brow.

  “Adeptus Ludo,” Shader added.

  He thought about it for a moment. Thought about the man who had taught him at the seminary. Thought about Ludo’s obsession with
the Golden Thread, the truth running throughout the Liber. Thought about the big ears, the glasses, the wag of the finger, the bulge of the eyes. But the specter of Verusia lurked behind every memory, robbed them of any lingering warmth they might have had.

  “If anyone is,” he said.

  He led Caledon to the stacked bags of oats and split one open with the gladius.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  It was a good question. What was any of it supposed to mean? After the illusory Araboth with its deluded luminaries, Shader had a hard time knowing fact from deception. After Blightey, he had a hard time believing in anything but the inherent cruelty of the universe. But he’d already made his decision, chosen his new orientation—his fundamental option, as Ludo would have said. But that didn’t give him the right to diminish whatever comforts Galen still took from the faith.

  “I mean, of course he is. I don’t know of anyone better. Do you?”

  Galen nodded, satisfied. And then he moved on. “Ruddy marvelous, this ship,” he said. “Endless supplies of oats, canned food, and Ain knows what else. Shadrak even left us these.” He grabbed a pitchfork and handed another to Shader.

  “He keeps a tidy house,” Shader said.

  “You can say that again. Have you seen the way he continually checks his weapons?”

  Shader had. The assassin was positively obsessional. “You can bet he spends hours in front of the mirror trimming that goatee of his.”

  “Could have been a military man,” Galen said, a note of respect in his voice. “If only he were taller.” He leaned on his rake, stared off into some imaginary distance. After a long while, he dragged himself back to the moment. Turning an eye on Shader, he chewed one end of his mustache as if he had something to say but couldn’t quite get the words right.

  “What is it?” Shader prompted.

  “I… The tournament… in Aeterna.” He indicated the Sword of the Archon hanging from Shader’s belt, then coughed a couple of times. “I acted…” He coughed again, and then filled his lungs with air. “I was a blackguard. Just wanted to say I’m sorry.” He nodded curtly, as if to conclude, “There, I’ve done it.”