by D. P. Prior
Shadrak glided off into the shadows.
Nameless continued to the end of the lane, grimacing against the stench rising from the cobblestones. Rats scampered out of his way, burying themselves in moldering piles of refuse, or splashing through the dank water spilling from the gutters.
The lane ended at a wrought iron gate flowing with intricate whorls and vine-work. It stood ajar, and the hinges moaned as Shader pushed through ahead.
Nameless followed at a much slower pace, but Shadrak was nowhere to be seen.
The cobbles of the lane gave way to a mosaic pathway between banks of trellises interwoven with ivy and dotted with violet petals. After a stretch, the pathway opened onto an ornamental garden skirting a towering edifice. Harmonious pairings of rockeries and fountains, flowerbeds and herb gardens did their best to soften the looming gray facade of the Academy.
Shader made his way to the broad stone steps leading to a colonnaded portico and disappeared inside.
Nameless tried to focus, tried to take in all the details in the hope of something catching his attention and triggering a better mood.
Flying buttresses splayed from the sides of the building, like the legs of an enormous spider. Each story—there were seven in all—was surrounded by a stone balustrade, upon which sat gargoyles in various lewd poses. The windows were of stained glass, depicting men with the heads of beasts, retorts, crucibles, patterns of fire, water, air, and earth. Passing beneath the shade of the portico’s vaulted ceiling, he approached twin doors of polished oak, which Shader had already passed through.
Shadrak slipped from behind a hedge, turning this way and that, pink eyes glittering scarlet in the sunlight. And that’s when it struck Nameless: The storm still raged beyond the garden, but here, all was tranquil and calm as a perfect summer’s day.
Inside, he was greeted by the smell of must and sulfur. To the right, the antechamber opened onto an enormous circular room with balconied levels rising all the way to the ceiling. Each was crammed with bookshelves, and the floor space of the lower level accommodated dozens of desks. Shining crystal globes were suspended from silver chains. There were people browsing the book cases, and still more bent over the desks, with stacks of books and papers before them. Lucius would have loved it. But thoughts of his brother weren’t likely to send the black dog scurrying for cover.
The man with the tall hat was leaning on a counter sharing a joke with the librarian.
On the opposite side of the antechamber, there was an impossibly vast hall dominated by displays of skeletons, some human, but most of giant beasts. Some were four-legged, with long sinuous necks, while others stood upright and had cavernous maws lined with sword-like teeth.
The antechamber continued past both rooms to a reception area. A young girl with pigtails looked up from the desk. Shader turned to face Nameless as he caught up.
“Who was it Aristodeus said to ask for?” Shader said. “Master Are…”
“Straight ahead, second door on the left,” the girl said. “They’re expecting you.”
“I can hardly wait,” Nameless grumbled.
“Good,” Shadrak said. “Pleased to hear it. Sooner we get this over with, sooner we can stick that bastard Gandaw and go home.”
The girl’s eyes widened for an instant.
“Thank you,” Shader said, and led the way along a carpeted corridor.
Raised voices spilled from an open door.
“… you’re missing the point,” Aristodeus was saying, every word punctuated by a dull thump.
“No, it is you who are missing the point: the point of your swollen-headed hubris!” The second voice was a lilting bass, stressing the consonants like a declaiming actor.
“That the door, you reckon?” Shadrak said with a thin smile.
“Have you no logic?”—Aristodeus’s voice again. “If your so-called magic is drawn from the dreams of the Cynocephalus…” He trailed off as Shader moved to the doorway. “Oh, you’re here.” The philosopher shook his head and turned away. “Nothing like taking your time when everyone’s depending on you.”
“It’s your game,” Shader said, edging into the room so that Nameless and Shadrak could enter. “I’m just the pawn, remember?”
The other man inside laughed. “Aren’t we all? In his inflated mind, at least.”
He was half a head taller than Aristodeus, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. His black hair was streaked with white and twisted into spikes, and his beard was a braided trident. He threw out an arm in an expansive gesture, spreading his crimson cloak like the wings of a bat. The air about his hand shimmered, and a staff appeared in his grip.
“In case you haven’t noticed,”—Aristodeus clicked his fingers before sighing and going to stare out of the window—“the very worlds are being unwoven as we speak. You think that’s a natural storm coming in from the Perfect Peak? You think it’s magical?” He sneered at the last word and peered over his shoulder at Shader. “Master Arecagen and his wizards think a bit of psychic self-defense will see it off!”
“That is not what—”
“Uh, uh, uh,” Aristodeus cut him off, wagging his finger.
Arecagen tensed, his knuckles whitening around the staff.
“Call it a semantic issue, if you like,” Aristodeus said, “but it makes no difference. You draw power from the Cynocephalus, from the raw material of his dreams, yes?”
The wizard sighed through clenched teeth.
Aristodeus strolled back over, taking in Shadrak and Nameless with his sparkling eyes before coming face to face with Arecagen. “Well, let me tell you, Gandaw’s Unweaving will pull the rug out from under you. Everything will be undone, Arecagen. Everything. No Cynocephalus, no magic. Simplex sigillum veri, my friend. The logic of the position is mine.”
“And where’s your evidence?” Arecagen said, punctuating the words by rapping the heel of his staff against the polished floorboards.
“Look,” Aristodeus said, “why not turn your magic on the Perfect Peak? At least it might create a distraction and keep Gandaw’s eyes off of Shader.”
“Impeccable logic,” Arecagen said with a shake of his head. “Even if we could penetrate the scarolite, which we could not, Gandaw has harnessed the power of Eingana, if you are to be believed. What chance do you think magic drawn from the Cynocephalus would have against his mother? No, defense is our best chance.”
“Balderdash!” Aristodeus said.
Arecagen raised a placating hand. “We must agree to disagree. I’ll not hinder your efforts, and you, I trust, will allow me mine.”
“If I must,” Aristodeus said. “I’d prefer it if we sang from the same hymn sheet.” He shot Shader a fake smile. “But needs must. I take it you will honor our agreement, in spite of our disagreement?”
“How long will it take?” Arecagen cast a wary eye over the tubes and packages heaped on the desk.
“A few hours at most.”
“Just today,” Arecagen said, “and then you can find somewhere else. Clear my desk, and shut the door on your way out. Gentlemen.” He gave a stiff bow and left.
“Typical,” Aristodeus muttered as he pushed the door to. “They plan to expand the Academy’s magical shielding over the entire city, as if that will do a damned thing. The Senate’s just as bad. This idea of yours,” he said to Nameless, “getting the Senate to send their legions against the Perfect Peak—they’re going to take some persuading. They’re convinced they’ve appeased Gandaw over the years by suppressing the same things he once suppressed on Urddynoor. What they fail to realize is that he’s way beyond that now. And even if he doesn’t spare the city, as far as they’re concerned, nothing can get past the Cyclopean Walls. Why is it so difficult to understand that there won’t be any walls if everything’s unwoven?”
Nameless’s thoughts slowed to a torpid sludge. He could hear the words, but he was struggling to follow their meaning.
“Deluded bunch of Urddynoorophiles,” Aristodeus said.
&
nbsp; “What’s that, boy love?” Shadrak said, starting to poke about the room, looking in drawers and cupboards. “You old robey types are all the same.”
“Pretentious, is what it is,” Aristodeus said. “If I thought it would do any good, I’d have gone to them myself, but I have more than enough on my plate with that bloody woman of yours.”
“Rhiannon?” Shader said. “She’s her own woman, not mine. Where is she?”
Aristodeus closed his eyes and drew in a long, slow breath. “Left her propping up a bar. She certainly knows how to drink.”
Knows how to drink? Nameless got that bit. Rhiannon, the woman in the white robe from Arx Gravis. The woman who’d disappeared with Aristodeus. She liked to drink? He imagined she was no Cordy, but still, she sounded a lot more promising than he’d first thought.
“Which bar?” Shader said. “Where?”
“Place called Dougan’s Diner, a roach-infested cesspit on 71st, north-south, not east-west,” Aristodeus said.
Shader started for the door.
“No, Deacon.” Aristodeus laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must try the Senate. I’ve never had good relations with them; there’s a lot of history between us, but you may have a chance. Go to them, tell them what you’ve seen, what’s coming. If they resist, reason with them. Please don’t let all those endless lessons I gave you be for nothing.”
“Don’t sweat on it, mate,” Shadrak said. “I’ll get her. Even the mother of all bitches has got to be better than listening to anymore of this shit, and I don’t reckon my presence at this shogging Senate is gonna do us any favors.” Before anyone could stop him, the assassin was out the door.
“Whatever you do,” Aristodeus called after him, “don’t eat the food.”
“But Nameless?” Shader said.
Nameless wanted to say something, be of some use; but he couldn’t move his lips. Energy was seeping from him like blood from a wound. It had happened before, more times than he cared to remember, but now? When others were depending on him? All he could do was watch and listen. It was like being a ghost, a lingering spirit who could observe, but who had no voice, no touch that could be felt.
“Leave him with me,” Aristodeus said. “I’ll tube-feed him, and he’ll be back to normal. After that, we should rendezvous at the diner. Map,” he demanded, holding out a hand.
Shader gave it to him, and Aristodeus scanned it before jabbing it with a finger. “Senate building, plumb in the center of the spider’s web. Now hurry.” He thrust the map back in Shader’s hand and ushered him through the door.
Shader opened his mouth to say something, but Aristodeus slammed the door in his face.
Nameless felt the loss of his new companions almost as much as the loss of home. When Aristodeus came round to peer in through the eye-slit of the great helm, he’d never felt so helpless, so at the mercy of another being. When Aristodeus rapped his knuckles on the top of the helm and tried to smile reassuringly, it only made matters worse.
HUNTED
Fist-sized hail hammered against the rooftop, and sleet spewed across the purple stain spreading above New Londdyr. Shadrak pressed his back into the chimney breast, making a tent of his cloak so that he could study the map he’d taken when they entered the city.
New Londdyr was designed along a simple grid, all carved up neat into roads and intersections going north-south or east-west. Didn’t take no genius to find 71st. Soon as he did, Shadrak scrunched up the map and threw it to the street below. No need for it now; he only had to look at something once to have its image burned into his head. After navigating the maze of passageways that made up the plane ship, New Londdyr was going to be a doddle.
His face tightened at thought of the plane ship, and his eyes narrowed as he ran through the possibilities for the thousandth time. He couldn’t have just lost it, not with his memory. Either the Sour Marsh took it, or someone had found it.
A flash erupted in the sky, back the way they’d come. Shadrak stood, holding onto the chimney so the gusting winds didn’t fling him after the map. Where the light had flared, the purple smudge was speckled with black. It was impossible to tell how big the spots were from so far away, but whatever was happening over the Perfect Peak, it wasn’t good.
He slid to the edge of the roof on his backside and was reaching for the drainpipe when he saw a dark shape out of the corner of his eye. It was on an adjacent rooftop, standing, no thought for the storm.
Shadrak rolled from the roof, caught hold of the guttering, and shimmied along till he’d put the building between him and whatever it was watching him. Because it was watching, he was sure of that. Heaviness worked its way into his arms, and his fingers felt numb. His heart was slinging around in his chest, and an icy prickle crept up his neck. He hadn’t felt that way since… since he was a kid, when he’d stumbled across a pack of ghouls picking over the corpse of a streetwalker and run for his life. The day he’d found the plane ship. Stuff like that didn’t happen to him now. He was Shadrak the Unseen. He watched others; they didn’t watch him.
He dropped to a window ledge, found finger-holds in the wall beside it, and climbed down.
The street was deserted. Water spilled from overflowing gutters, and swirls of wind sent leaves and dust dancing into the air.
Something leapt from the rooftop and glided down to the pavement further along the street. It was black—all black, save for the shimmer of silver on its torso—with slender limbs and a long head. Shadrak caught himself staring, momentarily frozen. It had no eyes, no facial features at all. Quick as a flash, its hand went to its hip and came up firing.
Shadrak dived and rolled and ran. Air whistled past his ear, and then he flung himself headfirst at a window. His arm came up at the last instant, and glass shattered. He tumbled out of the fall, ignoring the stinging cuts crying out all over his body.
Scanning the room, he took the stairs up two at a time, barged through a door, and ran across a bed. A woman screamed, and a man swore. The whole place stank of sweat and other stuff, but Shadrak went straight for the sash window, lifted it, and climbed out onto the sill.
He saw everything larger than life, slow and easy, like he always did when his blood was up. Without a thought, he jumped for the drainpipe and made the roof.
More screams from below, and two thunder-cracks.
It’s got a gun. He shut the thought down before it paralyzed him, but it refused to stay buried. A scutting gun. What the shog?
He sprinted, threw himself to the next roof, rolled and ran without breaking his stride. He kept on leaping from rooftop to rooftop until he was sure nothing could have kept up with him.
Collapsing against an ornate balustrade, he focused on slowing his ragged breaths.
He’d panicked, he knew that, but he also knew that if he hadn’t panicked, he’d most likely be dead. Whatever that thing was, it was fast. Faster than should have been possible. Question was, why had it come after him? Chance? Bad luck? Or was it something else?
He looked up at the roiling skies, half-expecting the creature to glide down out of the clouds. A few more deep breaths, and his heart stopped its flapping. He was seeing shadows everywhere, but that only told him he was still creeped out.
He made a couple of practice draws, spinning the Thundershot before holstering it each time. With one last look around, he decided there was nothing more he could do. Death, when it came, was as swift and as sudden as a knife in the back, in his experience. Shog all you could do about that, save be sharp and honed, and ready to do whatever it takes. He’d been cheating death most of his life; no reason this should be any different.
He made his way to 71st Street calmer than he should have. If the shogger came for him, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do, save kill or be killed. Worrying about it was just going to achieve the latter. Didn’t stop him studying the shadows and listening keenly, all the while treading so softly he wouldn’t miss the slightest rustle, the barest scuff, the most whispering breath.
Besides the odd patrol of bedraggled and miserable-looking militiamen, he didn’t see a thing.
He found his way to the diner with his nose. The sign above the door used to read “Dougan’s Diner”, but some scut had half-painted out “Dougan’s” and put “Queenie’s” there instead. And they’d added “Fine” in between. Can’t have been long ago, either, because the paint was still running from the base of the letters.
Whatever Aristodeus had said about the food, it sure smelled good from outside, and it set his stomach rumbling. Garlic, if he wasn’t mistaken, and the yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread.
Bells tinkled as he pushed through the door. Place was a mess, what with the tables stacked with dirty crockery.
The waiter was over by the bar, between a short, bearded punter with mottled cheeks and Rhiannon, who was out cold, a pint of beer clutched in her hand.
The waiter jumped, like he’d just stuck his hand in boiling water. Shadrak narrowed his eyes. Bloke was a weedy looking beggar in outsized clothes. He was starting to lose his hair. The only thing that set him out as staff was the neat black apron tied round his waist. What he was doing up so close to the bitch was anyone’s guess, but Shadrak reckoned she’d be more than a little pissed when she came to.
“We’re closed,” the whelp said. “Can’t you read?”
Shadrak stepped closer, eyes pointedly moving to Rhiannon and back.
“I was checking her pulse,” the waiter said. “Too much to drink, silly cow.”
“Strange place to look,” Shadrak said.
“Yeah, well I ain’t no doctor, now, am I? And who do you think you are anyway, telling me my business?” His eyes widened, and he guffawed. “What the shog are you, a dwarf to a dwarf?” He patted the bearded man on the back. “Eh, Rugbeard? You didn’t tell me you had a kid.”
The bearded man seemed oblivious. He downed his drink, belched, and then tugged Rhiannon’s tankard out of her grasp. Must have been roughly the same height as Nameless, though skinny and knotted up with arthritis, by the looks of him.