"I must talk a lot in the future," Sword said ruefully.
Rune laughed. "I didn't have to look. You're an open book, girl."
"Who you calling girl? We're the same age."
"How do you know? Besides, I'm wise in years." Rune flipped the knife. Shimmered as it twisted in the air. Caught it.
"Doesn't it get boring?" Sword asked.
"What?"
"Always knowing what's going to happen."
Rune laughed. It was a quick laugh, a bullet bursting from her lips, then going silent just as fast. "I hardly ever know what's going to happen," she said.
"But… I thought your Gift –"
"My Gift lets me see exactly six seconds in the future. And I get one chance to change those six seconds. One chance. I can't look forward again during those same six seconds, so if I change something and it turns out badly for me, well…." She shrugged. "Tough luck, you know?"
On a whim, Sword reached out and snatched Rune's knife from midair. "So you didn't see that happening?"
Rune shook her head. "Nope. Wasn't looking for it." She shimmered. Then smiled. "But I'll wait while you think about the ramifications of future sight. And the fact that I know the word 'ramifications.'"
Sword looked at Rune. Trying to parse out what the other girl had just said, trying to figure out how the girl's Gift worked, exactly… and then realizing she had remained silent, thinking about just what Rune had said she would.
"You knew I was going to think about your Gift," said Sword.
Rune shimmered again. "And what really messes you up – it messes most people up, so don't feel bad – is wondering how much of the future I change, and how little you're in control. So let me help you with that: you're not. But if it makes you feel any better, I'm not either." She grinned. Shimmered. And caught the knife as Sword tossed it back to her.
Sword was silent much of the rest of the way. Brother Scieran and Rune talked a bit – mostly logistics of feeding and caring for the refugees under the mountain – but passed long stretches in silence as well.
And then they arrived.
The bazaar held its own dock, of course: nobles could hardly be expected to walk long distances between landing their air-cars and their destinations at the bazaar. But at this time of night the bustle had died down. There were only three other air-cars at the dock, and the attendant who waited on them seemed bored with the universe and only perked up slightly when he gave them their landing chit. He kept his hand out, waiting for a tip for his service.
Brother Scieran made the sign of Faith. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, my boy," he said.
"In spirit," muttered the attendant.
"And if you're asking a priest for a tip, you've a ways to go," said Brother Scieran in a loud voice. "So view my blessing as the best gratuity you could possibly get right now."
The attendant jumped guiltily, then waved them through the gate.
Even in the middle of the night, there were still people in the bazaar. Mostly it was people restocking their spaces, cleaning up around areas where too-excited buyers had wrecked things or simply disordered the stock. But there were also some tents that were open for business: a psychic (whom Rune decried as a fake and a cheat of the highest order), a tent ablaze with glo-globes of every shape and color, a place that sold meats and breads to soldiers who were hungry after late-night shifts.
They gave the last as wide a berth as possible, but there was no avoiding it completely, since it stood more or less directly in front of the Imperial Archives.
The Archive was modeled after the palace. A wall surrounded it, with the roof of a large building just beyond. The wall wasn't wide enough for guards to walk patrol on top of it, but there was a guard at the large gate, pulled shut at this time of night.
Only the Archivists or people with a note bearing an Imperial Seal could enter the Archive, Sword knew. Getting in would be tricky.
She suddenly remembered her first mission as a Blessed One. She and Garden running for the wall, her friend enchanting the grass underfoot so that it became a ramp to carry them over the top.
I miss her.
"How do we get in?" said Rune.
"I've been wondering the same thing myself," said Brother Scieran. He looked at Sword. "Do you have any ideas for sneaking in?"
She shook her head.
Brother Scieran shrugged. "Well, then I suppose we'll have to try a frontal assault."
And without waiting another moment, he walked directly toward the guard at the gate.
Sword stared at him in shock. She looked at Rune just in time to see the other girl glimmer, then shrug. "Whatever he does, it happens after the time I can see." Then Rune hurried after the priest.
Mad. They're all mad.
But she found herself rushing after them.
Straight at the guard, who had a whistle at his lips, ready to call down a garrison of soldiers upon them.
Brother Scieran acted as though the guard wasn't even there. He marched right to the gate and pulled on it. Of course it didn't budge. He spun to the guard. "Well?" he roared. "Are you going to open it?"
The action and words were so brazen that Sword thought the guard might swallow his whistle. Instead, he spat it out and said, "Who in the Nethers do you think you are, priest?"
"Who am I? I am a Priest of Faith, of the Order of Chain. And you, my boy, had better drop the attitude and leave off the cursing, or your soul will be in danger of damnation and your body," he added, fingering his whip, "in danger of a flogging."
The guard gaped again, then pulled himself together. "I don't care if you're the Gods themselves. Unless you have business here, I suggest you withdraw, priest, or it's you who's likely to be flogged. Emperor don't take kindly to people banging on his doors in the middle of the night, 'specially not those what don't have official permits."
"Permits? Permits? Permits?" The last word was so loud that people at the nearest tents looked over to see what the hullabaloo was.
What's he doing?
Sword looked at Rune, hoping to find some answers there, or at least some support in this moment. The girl was smiling as though this was the most fun she'd ever had.
Brother Scieran pulled his sickle from his belt and started poking the guard. "You tell me I need a permit? How about the Gods? How about Heaven? How about…." He pointed at Sword, who felt like crawling into herself and hiding. "A Blessed One?"
The guard looked at Sword. "I don't see no Blessed One," he said. "I see a weird old man who's poking me with the business end of a nail trimmer, and two little girls who should be in bed." He put the whistle back in his mouth. "I'm giving you to the count of three. One. Two. Gods!"
He screamed the last as Sword finally realized what Brother Scieran had been up to this whole time. She held forth the black disc she still wore around her neck, showing the guard her emblem of power as a Blessed One. There was always the chance that the military had received word of her defection, had had her description circulated. But she doubted it, on reflection. It wouldn't do for the Emperor or the Chancellor to admit that one of their top servants had fallen away.
The guard began to bow and scrape. "Your pardon, sir. Er, ma'am. Er, your Blessedness."
He looked so uncomfortable that Sword almost laughed. Only the nature of what they were doing here kept her mouth firmed into a straight line.
Rune did laugh. "Well, open the gate, dimwit," she said.
The guard kept bowing. "Yes, certainly, of course." He pulled a silver key from a pocket. Put it into a hole in the gate. Turned. There was a click and he pulled the gate open, gesturing them inside. "I've got to lock it, of course," he said. "But just you knock when it's time to leave and I'll let you right out. Just knock!" he shouted again as they walked through and he pushed the door shut behind them.
Sword rounded on Brother Scieran angrily as soon as the door closed. "You could have taken the five seconds to explain what you were going to do."
"And waste five secon
ds?" Brother Scieran looked amused. "During a mission this important?" His grin widened. "I must say, having a Blessed One along is extremely convenient. Never was able to just walk up to the front door like this before. I rather like it."
There was another guard at the entrance to the archive building itself, but this time Sword was more prepared. She marched to the front of their small group and showed him the disc. "Let us in," she said perfunctorily. Whether it was her manner or the disc or a combination of the two, the guard visibly trembled and let them in without a word.
The Imperial Archives was nearly windowless, lit from within by glo-globes. It felt more like a keep than a hall of records. But it held most of the important documents of the Empire – births and deaths of nobles, probate and legacies, matters of lands and trusts.
The palace was the head of the Empire – the place where the decisions were made, where policy was decided. But the Archive was its blood. This was where order was maintained.
"Why haven't you just attacked this place?" asked Sword quietly. There were bureaucrats working even in the middle of the night, hustling and bustling back and forth with piles of papers, heavy-laden with scrolls that had to be copied and filed in septuplicate.
"What?" said Brother Scieran.
"If you mean to overthrow the Emperor, wouldn't this be a good weak point?" asked Sword. "It's barely guarded, and the Cursed Ones could easily come here and destroy it, or even just toss things around and send the state of property in the Empire into chaos."
Brother Scieran looked horrified. "We don't want chaos!" he nearly shouted. One of the passing civil servants looked annoyed at the intrusion into the tomb-silence of the archives. "We don't want chaos," Brother Scieran said again, quieter this time. "We want order. If we destroyed this place it would lead to confusion, yes. But also to riots, to starvation, to murder on massive scales. We want to prevent those things. We want the Emperor deposed, but only if we can do it in a way that will give the Empire something better. It does no good to depose a tyrant and provide only anarchy in return."
Rune sniggered. "What?" said Brother Scieran.
"I love you, priest," she said. "But you do get very… preachy sometimes."
Brother Scieran harrumphed. "What do you expect?" he asked. Then he snagged a passer-by. The man looked like some kind of minor functionary: dressed in the simple blue robe that marked him as a lower-level Archivist, probably someone who had tried to make it in the Great University in the State of Knowledge before washing out and ending up in the resting place of all incompetence: the government.
"Where can we find records of the auction houses?" said Brother Scieran.
"How would I know?" snarled the man. "Do I look like –" His words cut off when Sword flashed her disc. "I… well...." He nodded down one long hall to their right. "You might try that way. Ask in the fourth door on the left. Tell them Talib sent you."
Then he pulled away from Brother Scieran's grasp and was gone down another corridor, muttering about "late" and "filing fees" and "Gods' nuisance" as he went.
They tried the fourth door on the left. Where they were referred to the second hall down, fifteenth door on the right. Which directed them to the third floor, take the first right atop the stairs, third door on the left. And on and on. After awhile Sword felt like she was fighting a battle, but one that her particular skills were worthless to help with.
Rune phased out a few times, but always shrugged when she re-solidified, usually saying, "This guy talks so long I can't see past his first sentence," or something similar.
Eventually – what felt like days later – they presented themselves at a desk where an Academic sat copying lines of figures from one scroll to another. He wore spectacles at the tip of a hawkish nose, and what little hair he still had was white and almost ghostly. In addition to his black suit and tie, he had a thin silver chain around his neck: the mark of someone who had graduated with honors from the University. Not just an Academic, but a High Academic. Sword wondered why he was here, toiling away in the depths of the Imperial Archives rather than working for one of the great banking houses, or even as un under-Minister of Finance.
He didn't look up when they entered the room, and even when Rune cleared her throat noisily he kept working.
The second time she did it, the Academic spoke. His voice was strong and clear: the voice of one much younger than he appeared to be. "You might consider a glass of water, young lady."
Brother Scieran seemed to understand that this was someone of a different caliber than the underlings and petty bureaucrats that they had been dealing with to this point. "Friend Academic," he said, "we seek the records of the auction houses."
"For what year?"
"Between nine and twelve Turns ago."
The Academic finally looked at them. He didn't tilt his head up at all, but his gaze flicked over the top of his spectacles. "That's rather a broad range," he said.
"I regret we cannot be more specific," said Brother Scieran.
"And let me guess," said the Academic. "You want slave records, particularly girls."
Sword's eyes widened. How could he know that?
"Yes," said Brother Scieran. He sounded startled as well. "How did you know?"
"It seems to be a popular choice," said the Academic. He shook his head and added, "Follow the aisle down forty-two stacks. Turn left across three aisles, then up two more stacks. The records for the girls are on the right side. Do you think you can remember that?" He said the last sentence while staring at Rune, as though he had determined that she was the mental weak link in their small group.
Rune bristled, but Brother Scieran put a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Brother Academic," he said. He led them up the aisle, counting under his breath.
"What do you think he meant by that?" said Rune.
"That we asked for a 'popular choice'?" said Sword. She shrugged. "I have no clue." She looked at Brother Scieran. "Any ideas?"
"Shh," he hissed. "I don't want to lose my place and have to start over."
He led them through the stacks. Over several aisles. Up. Over again.
And as they turned the last corner, Sword understood what the Academic had meant by his words. Because someone else had been looking for the same records. And he was still there, staring at a scroll, lips moving as he read the words it contained.
He looked up as they came around the side of the stacks of scrolls and ledgers.
"Sword," said Armor.
17
Smoke had been born poor, and his father had been a weak man. Not weak in body, but weak in spirit and mind. The kind of weak that sought to prove strength by breaking others down. The man had killed Smoke's mother in a drunken rage one night. But because he was a soldier of the Empire, and Mother had only been a poor woman brought up out of the slums that comprised most of the mountain of Fear, nothing ever came of it.
Smoke killed the man two nights later. That was what earned him his second stay in the prisons of Fear. He was incarcerated in the Walled City of Fear itself, a city of nothing but criminals. It was a place officially named for some emperor who had lived five hundred years ago, but everyone inside it called it by its informal name: the Netherworlds.
Food was provided only if the prisoners delivered a quota of minerals and metals brought from the mines whose mouths were at the center of the city. So Smoke was sent into the deepest places, the mines so far below the tops of the mountains that you could see the clouds pooling at your feet. Going below the clouds was forbidden even in the mountain, and if you went too deep without paying attention… well, you would disappear even from the deep mines and your body would appear in the upper world the next day, gracing one of the spires that ringed the Imperial Palace.
Nor was that the only danger. Underground rockslides were common, burying many a man before he had time to scream. Poisonous gases seeped in from the rocks themselves, smothering groups of men who huddled together as if for the warmth of a final embrace.
&
nbsp; And, of course, the prisoners themselves were dangerous.
Smoke – though he hadn't been Smoke then, just Nkrumo – quickly learned to stay in groups whenever possible. To stay away from the biggest men who wanted to take the minerals he found and claim them as their own in the hopes of having their sentences reduced.
And from the even bigger men who often wanted things darker, and more dangerous.
But he couldn't stay away from them forever, of course. And one day – or perhaps night, since it was impossible to tell one from the other in the place below the Netherworlds – Nkrumo found himself facing three men. They were all large, much larger than him, even though he had come into the mines as a big boy and had only grown with the hard labor and the passage of time.
He killed them all. When the other prisoners heard of it, they left him alone. And the next morning the Netherworlds' inkist gave Nkrumo his first tattoo – a three-headed eagle that spread its wings across his back and was the signal of his first prison kills.
Those kills were not his last.
It was during another fight – this time facing off against a full half-dozen men who were willing to kill first him and then each other for the diamond he had just unearthed – that he found his Gift. He suddenly felt like he was seeing sounds, hearing the wind on his skin. Everything mixed up, but in a way that was so beautiful it was as close to a religious experience as any he had ever had.
The men facing him backed off, most of them making the sign of Faith as they did.
He didn't understand until he saw his face on the newly-cleaned blade of a pickaxe. A face poorly-reflected, pitted and gray… and very much not his.
And he just knew. Knew what he could do. All of what he could do.
He took the place of a guard. Killed the man, stole his face, walked out of the mines, then out of the Netherworlds.
And ran to the sanctuaries of Faith, afraid he would be pursued, hunted, murdered for daring to be free, for daring to kneel to no man.
Father Akiro found him. Sent him to Brother Scieran.
The Sword Chronicles: Child of the Empire Page 25