The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  Lychra Maal stepped out from behind the crimson drapes, the adulation of the crowd below breaking over the balcony like the sea. Ruler of the Capital and self-styled Goddess of the Sacred Realm, she allowed herself a moment to bask in the crescendo, standing before the ranks of red-and-gold-robed Immortals. She looked out over her worshippers.

  The packed square below the former Emperor’s palace held pilgrims, supplicants, and locals from every corner of her realm, all hoping to catch a glimpse of their Goddess and sate themselves on Bloodwyne. On cue, a bloated lackey stepped forward and spoke, his dramatic voice rolling over the throng.

  “Citizens of the Sacred Realm! Today you have been gathered to hear the most important news of your lifetime—or any other!”

  The crowd cheered, but the shouting took on an uneasy, feral edge, the people jostling one another on the dirty cobbles.

  “Signs and portents have shown themselves to the Lady Maal!” the lackey said. “The Goddess has communed with the infinite, and the future has been made clear. The Divine Journey will soon come to fruition!”

  The crowd went wild, with even a few muffled gasps from the broken steps of the Imperial balcony. The assembled Immortals looked at each other in confusion.

  The lackey’s rotund form swelled with the importance of the news he delivered. “Yes, fellow travelers in the Divine Journey, the end of this Age is nigh! Soon our Goddess will deliver her final victory over the outcast Citadel and the ironsides! Praise the glory of the Goddess!”

  The crowd roared in response. Thousands of worshippers charged the lines of assembled guards around the square, their hands thrown up in supplication.

  In response, the assembled ranks of gold-robed Immortals raised their hands, singing a hymn of devotion. Groups of servants emerged into the square below, carrying large cauldrons of rich, amber liquid. Fights broke out, the multitude swarming toward the waiting attendants.

  Looking out over the crowd, the lackey produced a gold cup of Musmahu’s blood—pure, undiluted—and offered it to Maal.

  “A large crowd today. Will there be enough?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Maal took a draught of the sticky, golden liquid and watched the lines form across the square. None of them will matter…soon.

  Bored with the spectacle, she turned her back on the worshippers and walked back into the palace. Her heart still fluttered under her breast at the message written on the scroll gripped in her hand.

  Signs and portents indeed. She gave in to the urge to re-read the message inscribed within—the Oracle has risen from the depths.

  At last, that crippled Prioress has sent a Herald. It brought her grim satisfaction. After so long, the final piece is within my grasp. And yet, they let them get away!

  Maal’s pulse started to race, an odd sensation after a century of absolute certainty. Making her way into the palace, she wandered through the maze of corridors until she came to a room where several servants ministered to a wounded man.

  Waving them away, Maal sat down on the bed and examined the fractured body stretched out before her. Besides the soldier’s crushed hip and leg, the subsequent infection reduced the once-handsome body to a pale, gangrenous wreck. His swollen lips twitched, then spoke.

  “My lady—”

  “I have a task for you,” said Maal, cutting his words short. “I need you to hunt a certain person down.”

  “My wounds—”

  “Will not be a hindrance,” said Maal. “Do not think of failing me in this, or the pain you feel now will be a mere shadow of what will follow.”

  “Who?”

  “The person’s name will be Herald, and they will be travelling inland from Eldeway toward the Lernaen Swamp. You will find this person and deliver them to me.”

  “But h-how?”

  She smiled, shifting her gaze beyond the physical world. “By giving you my blessing.” Leaning down, Maal brought her blood-stained lips to his and worked her will upon him.

  The guardsman screamed in agony.

  21

  The latest set of talks between the New Citadel and the Baavghir have failed, with neither group willing to budge on their central concern. The Citadel clerics will accept nothing less than autonomous authority within Baavghir lands, and the Baavghir will not ally with the Citadel while the Canidae Artificers are employed.

  ~from a report to Spymaster Harpalus, dated 97th year of the Exile~

  Harpalus’s consciousness drifted up through layers of movement and muffled sound until words became recognizable.

  “Pye? Can you hear me?”

  The Spymaster tried to speak, but only a dry rasp came out. An old and calloused hand propped up his head, pressed a cup of water to his lips.

  “Easy. You lost much of your strength. Don’t try to move.”

  Harpalus took a long draught and coughed hard. “What happened?”

  “Gyges found you—you fell three stories. By the time he carried you in, you’d lost a lot of blood.”

  Harpalus wrenched open his gummed-up eyes, but met only a collage of gray blurs.

  “The fall hurt you badly. You broke your wrist, shoulder, and several ribs, including a punctured lung. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Pulling himself up, the Spymaster forced his mind into action. His scattered thoughts responded like unruly schoolchildren. Testing his wrist and shoulder, he felt weakness, but no real pain. A gentle touch along his blood-crusted side produced the same result. Blinking through the fog, the shapes dancing before him coalesced into Gyges and Sister Julia.

  She looks tired. He noted the deep lines under her red eyes. Bending his wrist again, Harpalus’s sluggish thoughts clicked into place. “You healed me. You promised me you would never do that.”

  “I know what I promised,” said Julia, her voice sharp. “But the Citadel’s need of you outweighs your feelings on this matter.”

  Harpalus tried to rise, his whipcord frame shaking. “How dare you invade my—”

  “Pye! This is not the time! Now, report.”

  The Spymaster wanted to resist, but in his weakened state, old habits took over, and once more he was twelve years old, marshalling his observations for the old woman who had trained him.

  “The raid went as planned. The Caelbor Lady was smuggling weapons to the island. However, I also found Bloodwyne.” Harpalus turned to Gyges. “Has it been secured?”

  “Secured as evidence in our investigation.” Julia’s gaze glanced to the stone-like Gyges. “Continue.”

  “I suspected that Maal’s contact to the League was aboard, but I made an error.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was a woman—I had her right in my hands! But by the time I realized who she was, she had escaped.”

  The old cleric raised an eyebrow. “You forgot your basic lessons, Pye. What did I teach you? In subterfuge—”

  “There are no innocent bystanders. I don’t need you to berate me for my mistakes.” He took another sip of water.

  “I chased her across the rooftops, but she eluded me. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.” The Spymaster closed his eyes for a second. The silver-haired woman’s back flickered across his memory. “She’s the one who killed Sister Amelia, I’m sure of it.”

  Sister Julia hunched, resting her chin on her cane. “Even without Maal’s envoy, we have enough evidence to hand Rowan over to the Praetorian for treason. We could air the evidence at a public gathering of the League and hope the rest turn him over to save their hides.”

  “They won’t—his hold over them has become too strong.”

  “Then, he’s still a threat that needs to be counteracted before he strikes at the Citadel,” said the Caelbor woman. “It’s a pity. I wanted him disgraced before we killed him.”

  “We can’t kill him…yet.”

  “Why not?” said the old woman in surprise.

  “There’s more you don’t know. The weapons were made by the Canidae artificers.”

  “But...Vae! Could
Rowan have arranged for the weapons without the Citadel’s approval?”

  “No.” Harpalus coughed. “And in subterfuge—”

  “There are no innocent bystanders.” The old cleric sighed. “There’s a traitor in the Citadel.”

  “Someone with rank—someone who would be able to access the Prelate’s offices without being questioned.”

  “A secretary? A Quartermaster?”

  “Probably. I’ll need to go to the Canidae’s headquarters at Prodiginum to find out.” He tried once more to rise, but his weakened muscles betrayed him, and he collapsed back onto the bed.

  “You’re in no fit state for another journey,” said Sister Julia pulling the heavy woolen blankets back over his injured body. “I’ll go to the Canidae’s home city. I’m better with sea travel than you, anyway.”

  The Spymaster tried to rise to the challenge, a snarl twisting his lips. However, weakness overcame him again. He lay back and nodded. Julia turned to leave, but Harpalus groped to touch her hand.

  “Auntie?”

  “Yes, Pye?”

  “Thank you.”

  The old cleric bowed her head and blew out the bedside candle, letting the Spymaster fall back into darkness.

  Why are all these work orders so perfect? Sister Julia sorted through the next satchel of papers. After three fruitless days, she had long ago lost count of reports, her mind awash with names, numbers, and seals.

  It had taken a week to travel to the only known settlement of the Canidae, a sprawl of blocky houses and factories unlike anything the Caelbor or the Exsilium had ever designed.

  Then again, they’re unlike any Caelbor or Exsilium. Julia looked down at the figures toiling on the factory floor below the office. A curious mix of animal and man, the Canidae had manes and fur, with muzzled, dog-like faces and sinewy fetlocks that gave the impression of legs bent in two directions.

  None of the Exsilium knew the entire story of their origin, but the Canidae, as they had come to be called, had become devoted servants of the Citadel. For centuries, they had forged the armor and weapons of the Praetorian Guard and Citadel soldiers. They also offered less warlike services, training masons, blacksmiths, and engineers across the Outer Coast.

  “My lady?”

  Julia set her face into an emotionless mask, her fatigue and worry locked away in the dark recesses of her mind. Looking up, the presence of a dark and handsome knight took her aback, his armor edged with silver, the head of a cruel bird molded into its shoulder.

  “General Dio?”

  “Please, just call me Lord Marcus.” The armored figure offered a slight bow. “I was looking for the store-mistress. I did not know a cleric had business here.”

  “Just a standard accounting,” Julia said, careful with her choice of words. She knew Harpalus’s role was known to the commander of the Citadel’s armies, but she saw no reason to expose herself in the same way. “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

  “Really? Working on behalf of whom?”

  “That is Citadel business.”

  “I am the General of the Citadel forces.” A mocking smile creased Marcus’s beard. “Is this an internal matter, then? One of the Prelates trying to check another’s ambitions? Who is it—Millner? Niena?”

  “Merely something for the Citadel Archives.”

  The metal-clad figure chuckled. “Keep your secrets then, cleric.”

  “What news from the continent, Lord Marcus?” Julia said, trying to switch the subject.

  The General’s attitude turned grave. “The news is not good, my lady. The winter has been harsh and the scabies are desperate for food. Small, uncontrolled bands stalk the fringes of Citadel territory, and there are reports of raids against Haepdon, Thornnes, and the Frostmarch. Citadel resources are still tied up along the warzone, and with the new offensive against Eldeway, there are too few men to patrol the gaps.”

  “What about the League of Nobles?” said Julia, trying to sound nonchalant. “Should they not be worried about the protection of their lands on the continent?”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Lord Marcus, his expression neutral. “Fiercely protective—I have even heard it said that soldiers have been attacked by the League’s militia, mistakenly identified as wandering scabies.”

  “Indeed. Such undisciplined action is disturbing, my lord. League soldiers attacking forces of the Citadel would be a most...rash...course of action.”

  Lord Marcus remained silent for a long minute. “Yes, my lady, I agree, but I’m sure that wise minds can resolve any friction that exists between the Citadel and the League.”

  “Of course.”

  “Certainly.” The armored figure’s face lit up with a smile. “Until then, there are battles to be planned, men to train, and new ships to chase up, so I shall take my leave of you.”

  Julia bowed her head. “Then I wish you every success, my lord.”

  “You too, my lady.”

  As the dark knight left the room, Julia relaxed and reviewed the conversation, letting her mind sort through all the possible meanings. Below her, the Canidae workers went about their duties, loping through the sparks and flames like vengeful spirits.

  What is he up to? Julia turned her attention back to the ledgers in front of her. Sitting back and letting her tired mind relax, she looked out at the factory halls and tried to gauge what time of night it was. A small thought tickled at her attention. Men to train, ships to chase up…no, that’s not what he said. New ships to chase up.

  Julia frowned and pulled the accounts book open again. Flipping through the entries, she focused on the names of the companies transporting Canidae goods.

  The shipping companies in earlier entries were repeated several times across the pages, but in the last few months, new names appeared amongst the numbers. Julia slumped into the chair, her old mind weary, but connecting the different elements.

  Rowan got one of his merchants onto the register of shipping companies for the Canidae. The orders being made for the weapons are genuine, but since the quartermasters of the Citadel armories aren’t placing them, they wouldn’t notice extra weapons being made in their name, if those weapons were smuggled onto the Caelbor Lady before arrival.

  She sighed, pinching the brow of her nose in an effort to complete the picture.

  Pye was right. Someone inside the Citadel is arming the League of Nobles for a rebellion. Someone with the authority to requisition weapons in the name of the Quartermasters, and can get a traitorous shipping company approved by the Canidae. Someone who can hide the entire operation for months without anyone checking on their actions.

  Julia shut the leather-bound tome with a decisive snap. Her exhausted mind hummed, but she felt more alive than she had in years. Underneath the euphoria, however, her thoughts curled in dread.

  Only one group of people have that much freedom in the Citadel. The traitor isn’t working under the Prelates. The traitor is a Prelate.

  “Are you sure?” Pye said.

  “Positive.” Julia looked up from the papers strewn across Harpalus’s desk. “These aren’t forgeries. They’re real. I had someone crosscheck the requests against the work orders and production numbers. The extra weapons aren’t being added by the Quartermasters or Candiae, but by the Office of the Prelates, itself.”

  “I already knew that. Have you considered someone who might be able to steal the Prelate’s common seal? Perhaps a secretary or clerk?”

  Julia examined Harpalus. The man once known as Pye had changed into his usual black silks, cleaned and trimmed his beard, and sat across the table watching Julia through steepled hands. He looked almost no different than he had ten years ago, when he informed her that her abilities as Spymistress had come into question, convincing her to resign her position for failing to protect the Prioress. At the time, the scrawny, unkempt dockyard thug had amazed her, how he could carry the elegant façade of a merchant so perfectly. However, looking at her protégé now, she picked out the paleness
of Harpalus’s skin, and how he kept shifting his weight. She even detected the glimmer of what she hadn’t seen in his eyes for more than a decade—uncertainty.

  “Pye, those few secretaries and clerks who aren’t under your control are being watched constantly by your peons. If anyone tried such a thing, it would have come to your attention long ago.”

  “Who did you get to check the figures on the work orders?” Harpalus shifted in his seat.

  “Sister Kirsten. Do you doubt her skills?”

  “My concern is you instructing agents without my authority.”

  Julia’s lip curled and she almost rose to the bait, but the bony figure before her put a hand over his brow in worry.

  “We are still no closer,” he whispered to the cluttered office around them. “We need to find which of the four Prelates defected to the League. And every minute we waste, they grow closer to springing the trap. A single lost shipload of weapons will hardly stall them if they’ve been stealing from the Canidae as long as your report suggests.”

  “Then set watches on the Prelates. Draw the traitor into making a mistake—”

  “No,” said Harpalus. “Like you said, if he or she made mistakes, it would have been noticed long ago. An operation to isolate a defector could take months, with no guarantee of finding the truth.” The Spymaster sat up, his eyes hard once more. “Gyges! Time for you to earn your keep. Maal’s new killer is a woman. She’s fast, intelligent, and I haven’t been able to find her. Where is she hiding?”

  A hulking shape in the shadows of the room moved. “She was mounting the sea captain.”

  “I’ve already got agents searching the brothels at the Old Docks.”

  “She is a whore.” Gyges empty eyes stared out the small window, into the night. “Our whores were kept in the Goddess’s palace. They danced for the Immortals. No one else can touch them.”

  Sister Julia frowned and opened her mouth, but Harpalus motioned her to be silent, the familiar mocking smile springing to his lips.

  “It’s perfect. Oh, I’ve been such a fool, trailing the League of Nobles from one meaningless meeting to another.”