Clan Novel Tremere: Book 12 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Eric Griffin

  He is looking for me, Anwar thought. But if he is the one, why does he delay? Why doesn’t he give the sign? There were no witnesses or other obstacles that might justify his hesitation. Anwar, however, had the advantage of having been secreted in that spot for several nights. Perhaps the thin man was merely being cautious.

  Or perhaps he had failed to extract this one crucial detail from the original contact.

  The newcomer continued his fidgeting. He paced. He stopped suddenly to peer intently into the shadows and then went back to his pacing. He wiped perspiration from his forehead. He rubbed his eyes. He muttered to himself.

  The man’s unease was contagious. Anwar instinctively palmed a knifeblade.

  The man wheeled. His gaze stopped on Anwar—stopped and saw. Anwar was sure of it. Their gazes locked for a moment before the newcomer spun away and resumed his distracted pacing.

  There was more than nervous agitation in the other’s eyes. Was it madness? His gaze seemed filled with blood and fire. Anwar shook his head to clear the impression. Romantic foolishness. It was only the result of the blood-sweat that dotted the nervous man’s forehead, that he kept smearing into his eyes with the back of his hand. Nothing more.

  Anwar watched the newcomer even more intently. The other gave no outward indication that he had picked out the lurker in the dark. He checked his watch, muttering under his breath. With a scooping motion, he cupped his hands before him. Inside the hollow formed by his hands, a low flame leapt to life. He’d struck no match, raised no lighter, yet a flame danced upon his open palm. He raised his hands to his mouth as if lighting a cigarette. Anwar could see the light flickering momentarily through the lattice of the other’s fingers. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the flame puffed out.

  Anwar knew that anyone else observing the brief glint of flame would doubt what he had seen, would convince himself that he had been mistaken. Anwar himself would have doubted the evidence of his eyes, were it not for the fact that the flame was the very sign he had been awaiting. Even now, after the time for action had clearly arrived, Anwar held back a moment. His impulse was to cling to the sheltering shadows and skirt the open area between the buildings as much as possible. He suppressed it.

  If his contact had not kept his end of the bargain—by making the proper arrangements to ensure the success of the mission—there was little Anwar could do about it at this late date. Little, save meet his end with dignity.

  Now that the long nights of inactivity were at an end, the indirect approach would consume vital seconds. Anwar strode purposefully across the open ground.

  He watched his contact’s hands carefully as he approached. They betrayed impatience. Anwar knew it was not yet too late to escape should the kafir prove untrustworthy. Once he was within the chantry proper, however, he would be completely under the warlocks’ power. Escape might well prove impossible. He pressed the concealed blade of the knife more tightly against the line of his forearm.

  To his credit, the nervous man did not jump as Anwar broke from the sheltering shadow. Instead, he checked his watch a second time and cursed.

  “I am Aaron.” The voice was level, curt, as if he had been the one kept waiting. At close quarters, the skin of his fingers and face betrayed his youthful appearance. His flesh was too tight-fitting. It crackled like parchment about the eyes.

  Anwar inclined his head in greeting, his eyes never leaving the warlock’s. In those blood-dimmed eyes, Anwar had expected to see the hard edge of cunning, ruthlessness, opportunism—traits for which the warlocks were infamous. Perhaps he had even hoped to glimpse some hint of the traitor’s motive—the heat of avarice, the sideways cast of guilt, the pure luster of vengeance.

  Instead he saw only desperation, impatience and abandon. It was an unhealthy combination and one which Anwar was accustomed to giving a wide berth. His partner in this evening’s endeavor was quite obviously beginning to unravel about the seams.

  “May Haqim guide your hand and speed your purpose, Aaron Light-bringer. This evening we are of a single will. May the blood that falls between us belong only to strangers. All is in readiness within?”

  “Not here,” came the low-pitched reply. Aaron turned his back and fumbled at the doorknob. Anwar was acutely aware of the cold edge of the knife blade pressed against his forearm. He held the blow, awaited bigger prey.

  The door gave inward revealing only darkness beyond. Aaron slipped within. If he realized the danger he had so narrowly avoided, he gave no outward sign.

  Anwar followed. Crossing the threshold, he was painfully aware that he was now at the mercy of his enemies. But he was not without resources. He found himself wondering how it was that the elders had come to hold power over this warlock—how one of the hated Tremere had become indebted to the children of Haqim. Rumors abounded regarding the fanatical loyalty of the warlocks. Whispers of the unbreakable bonds of blood among the Tremere—bonds that should have made this type of casual betrayal all but impossible—had reached even the remote mountain refuge of Alamut.

  Like all of his people, Anwar could personally attest to the potency of the Tremere mastery over the blood. And of their power to enslave others with it. The memory of the centuries his people had suffered as blood thralls to the Tremere curse was not likely to soon fade—not until the blood of the last of the oppressors had been reclaimed.

  But the elders, Haqim be praised, had discovered a way to turn the tables upon the Tremere and break free of the dark power of the warlocks’ tainted blood. And if the elders could lift the Great Curse that bound the people, what was the blood bond of one solitary Tremere novice?

  Anwar must have snorted aloud. The sound could not have been louder than a whisper, but his guide turned sharply and motioned him to silence. It was evident that he feared discovery. Good.

  Anwar lingered upon the thought of a world in which warlock turned against warlock. He pictured the children of Haqim, as numerous and inevitable as the sands of the desert, rising up to engulf the Tremere pyramid. They would dance hadd, vengeance, atop its ruins. Their pounding feet would drive even the last memory of the warlocks down beneath the shifting sands. Oblivion.

  Yes, the fortress of vengeance was rising even now from the swirling sands, its vast walls climbing, one grain at a time, above the desert wastes. Each grain was mortared to its brother with the blood of their enemies—the blood that had been so long denied them. Surely some great reckoning was at hand. The blood that Anwar would shed tonight would bring his people that much closer—precisely one grain of sand closer—to that fortress of final vengeance.

  What more did Anwar need to know in preparation for this night’s undertaking? He was merely a tool of vengeance. It was not given to him to know the mind of the builders. He was not privy to the secrets of the elders. His duty was merely to strike true. And to avoid, at all costs, twisting or breaking in the master’s guiding hand.

  He had not been instructed in the details behind the kafir’s betrayal of his own foul kind. Anwar had no reason beyond idle curiosity to possess such information. This did not, however, keep him from wondering. Surely the warlock knew the end that awaited them at the termination of this path.

  Anwar grew wary. He was not at all pleased with the arrangement that left him relying upon a kafir—especially one who had given himself up to despair and betrayal. How could such a one be trusted? How could such a one hope to survive his treachery?

  “Follow me,” Aaron whispered. “Stay close.”

  Anwar did so. He placed each step precisely in the space Aaron’s foot had recently abandoned. He suspected that they were already within the perimeter of the chantry’s arcane defenses. There would be no room for misstep.

  A narrow corridor ran from the side door into deeper darkness. The hallway led past a heavy oak door with frosted glass and the painted words: ASSOCIATE DEAN OF INTERDEPARTMENTAL ACADEMIC DISCIPLINARY REVIEW. Anwar memorized each letter and its exact position in the sequence.

  He wondered at the
meaning of the strange words, but, respecting his guide’s admonition to strict silence, Anwar did not press him to read the inscription. The lettering looked bureaucratic and daunting. The effect was calculated, no doubt, to turn away the merely curious—an epithet that encompassed the vast majority of those who haunted these western “universities.”

  Aaron was not put off by the inscription. He inserted a normal-enough looking key into the lock and led Anwar inside.

  The assassin expected to step from the drab, collegiate environment into a stronghold of splendor and debauchery befitting the excesses for which Clan Tremere was renowned. Instead, the office beyond the forbidding door was as nondescript as the corridor without. A desk, filing cabinets and a few chairs were its only furnishings.

  Aaron locked the door behind them and exhaled audibly. “Here we can talk. But we’ve got to hurry. He’s going to ruin everything.” He crossed to the desk and picked up one of two gray robes that lay draped across it. He tossed it toward Anwar.

  “Who’s going to ruin everything?” Anwar caught the robe. He did not don it right away, but waited patiently until Aaron had his head and arms entangled in his own robe. Only then did Anwar follow suit.

  “Foley. The target.” The Tremere stumbled guiltily over the word.

  “Johnston Foley,” Anwar recited, checking his facts. Regent Secundus, second-in-command, Chantry of the Five Boroughs, New York City, New York. Height: 177 cm. Weight: 80 kg. Hair: dark, graying. Eyes: brown. Mustache, beard: full, graying. Apparent age: late forties. Actual age: circa two hundred years, American antebellum period.”

  “Yes, yes. Foley. That’s very impressive. But the problem is…”

  “Known threats—Thaumaturgist: blood magic manifesting through the written word, drawings, glyphs, wardings, ritual diagrams. Firearms: passable shot with pistol, usually unarmed. Poisons: suspected involvement in deaths of two fellow novices, Atlanta chantry. Reassigned, high-risk posting to C5B. Political: high-level connections with…”

  “He’s gone mad.”

  This brought Anwar up short. Another mad warlock. Things were becoming complicated. “Please explain.”

  “I can’t believe he’s actually going through with it. If we don’t get to him soon… Look, when I left Foley, he had already started the ritual, a very stupid and dangerous ritual. It’s going to kill him. If we don’t get there first.”

  Anwar considered. “I do not understand your sudden concern for the target’s safety.”

  “Look, I don’t know what your hidden masters will do to you if you return without killing Foley. But I know what…I know it’s important that Foley is assassinated. Here. Tonight.”

  “And it shall be so. Is he alone?”

  “Yes. He was. But he kept saying something about others coming. I think he might have been talking about you.”

  All right, Anwar thought. Two mad warlocks, and the target has been forewarned.

  “May I ask you a further question, Aaron Lightbringer? A personal question?”

  Aaron looked impatient, but motioned for him to continue.

  “Why is it important that Foley be assassinated? And tonight? And within the walls of the chantry? Why are you doing this?”

  Surely you can see how this must end.

  Aaron returned his stare, unflinching. Slowly, pronouncing each syllable distinctly, he replied, “Why are you doing this?”

  Anwar was taken aback to hear his own question parroted back at him. Then, at last, he understood. Anwar bowed deeply, formally, to his guide. “Let us do, then, what is needful. Shall we go?

  Let’s get this over with.” Aaron turned toward what was apparently a coat closet. He placed a hand upon the knob.

  “I do not think we shall speak again. Beyond this point, it will not be safe. I will see you safely to Foley’s sanctum. If you succeed, I will see you safely out again. More than that, I cannot do. If we are intercepted en route…”

  Anwar nodded. “Say nothing more. It is sufficient, Aaron Light-bringer. We shall do what is needful.”

  The warlock turned his attention back to the doorknob and muttered a few words beneath his breath. Anwar could not be sure if it were an incantation or a desperate prayer.

  Anwar felt his skin tingle momentarily as the words were spoken, whether due to some sorcerous incantation or merely the power of suggestion. He silently berated himself for the shiver.

  The door opened to reveal plain concrete walls and a narrow metal stairway leading downward. The confined space was cool, damp. Something about the view put Anwar in mind of gazing down a well. Anwar dutifully recorded every detail of their descent—the precise number of steps to each turning (seven); the total number of landings (fifty-two); the number of doors they passed in their downward spiral (four); the number of times Aaron stopped completely (twelve), apparently listening for sounds of pursuit, or perhaps catching the distant hint of trickling water, or timing the return of the echoes of their footfalls clanging back up at them from the depths.

  Aaron’s impatience was obvious, so Anwar did not question his frequent stops. He knew if they were not necessary precautions, Aaron would have dismissed them out of hand. It might have had something to do with the chantry’s defenses. Whatever wards they might have passed through thus far, however, were of such a subtle nature that Anwar could not detect them. Perhaps his elders in their wisdom, hearing his exacting description of what he had seen, could unravel mysteries that were hidden to him.

  He kept close to Aaron and turned a deaf ear to the voices rising up at him from the depths of the central well. He was well aware that it was merely a trick of the acoustics that rendered the lull of trickling water into plaintive voices. Children’s voices.

  Hadd, the Children whispered to him. Vengeance.

  Sunday, 25 July 1999, 1:14 AM

  Anteroom of the Chantry of the Five Boroughs

  New York City, New York

  Sturbridge regarded Eva levelly, sizing her up as if truly seeing her young protégée for the first time. So much was riding on her. So much she could not hope to understand.

  Sturbridge nodded gravely.

  “From your mouth to the Devil’s ear, child. The price of the tale is yours alone to pay.”

  Turning her attention back to Talbott, Sturbridge took the storyteller by the crook of his elbow and half-lifted him to his feet.

  “Cede the stump, old bard.”

  “My lady?”

  “Have done. Take a pint and a seat by the hearth, you’ve earned it. The night has grown deep and the tale has passed on to other hands. And don’t argue with your elders,” she added in afterthought to preempt further objections.

  “My elders,” he scoffed nervously. “Well you know that if I were to turn down such an offer—a pint of brown beer and a seat of honor at the hearth—the order would revoke my poetic license. I yield. It is, after all, your tale to tell and none other’s.”

  Sturbridge squeezed his shoulder in parting, and settled in comfortably. Her voice carried over the room with authority. “A Strange Catch to Show for Your Day’s Labor.”

  Emer was waiting in the doorway, her face full of concern. Seeing the pair of them, she turned, scattering a flock of children back into the house. By the time they arrived, there were dry clothes and warm blankets ready to hand. The chairs had been pulled over to the fire.

  The children tore about on their various hastily appointed tasks. One, two…four of them? Only Emer stood unmoved in the middle of the whirlwind of activity, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Corraig ap Culain.” Emer pronounced the name dispassionately, like a lord passing sentence. “Sometimes I think you haven’t the sense the good Lord gave a goat. Did you not see this storm boiling up? Worry a good woman half to death.” She threw a towel over his head.

  “And what a strange catch to show for your day’s labor.” She took the stranger by the arm and led him to the fire. “You must forgive my dear husband. He’s a fairly stable sort most days.
And to think he came with such high references. Of course, you’d never know it to look at him. ‘Puny,’ my poor mother always said, ‘Won’t last long.’”

  “And proven wrong on that count as well,” called Corraig peeking from beneath the towel he was still rubbing over his head. “A man could do quite well for himself by consulting her religiously and then taking the other path.”

  “My, how you will go on. I’m sure Father would be glad to avail himself of your expertise on the subject of divination. I will make sure to mention it to him on Sunday. In the meantime, you might pour our guest a drop to put the warmth back in him. Poor soul’s soaked through. And trembling. “

  “Mustn’t let her frighten you,” Corraig called over his shoulder. “I’ve seldom seen her actually talk the ears off a body.”

  “Pay him no mind.” She scowled after her husband. “Dropped on his head as a child, poor innocent. His mother never forgave herself. Here, wrap up in this. Thank you Padraig. There’s a useful lad. A wonder where he gets it from. Brigid, dear, ladle out a bowl of stew for our guest. And yes, you might as well get one for that man there as well.”

  Corraig recrossed the room with a cup in each hand. “There now. Your health.”

  The ouiskey coursed through the veins like liquid gold—the warm welcome of an old friend. The mind-numbing agony in the Devil’s head receded a pace. The pain, it was still there, but yourman is no stranger to pain.

  “My thanks to you and your lovely lady for the kindness you have shown a stranger. I do not know what came over me. But the spell has passed and I’ll be on my way.

  We’ll hear nothing of it,” said Emer firmly, her eyes fixed on her husband.

  “Of course not. With that storm blowing out there? Well, I’d as soon give a man up to the Devil himself. Small credit to me should I send a man to such a fate.”

  “No, put the thought far from you,” Emer soothed, pressing the bowl of soup into his hand. “Thank you, Brigid. And even if you should venture forth, where would you go? You are clearly a stranger to these parts, you’ll pardon my saying, and even the inn’s door will be shut tight by now. No, we’ll keep you well enough this night. Make up a place for you here by the fire.”