Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (11 page)

For long moments Liliana watched the carnage without expression, neither turning away when bits of Semner’s body were exposed to light for the very first
time, nor flinching at the terrible wet sound of ripping flesh. Only when Semner was well and truly dead did she drop her concentration, allowing the bodies to fall motionless once more, to return to the eternal rest they had earned.

She stepped across the blood-drenched carpet, her boots squelching with every stride. Gently she knelt beside the body of Kallist—the real Kallist, not the man with whom she’d spent so many months, complicit in his efforts to deceive himself—and squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry it had to happen this way. You didn’t deserve this.” It was a whisper, and barely that. But it was all she felt entitled to offer.

For several minutes she remained, her head hanging, hair hovering mere inches above the slowly drying blood. She wanted, if only briefly, to abandon the whole endeavor. To fly from the room and down the stairs. To find Jace, to ensure she hadn’t harmed him with the soul-numbing magic that had knocked him flat in the doorway, to comfort and to hold him during what could only be a terrifying,
horribly
painful time.

But she did none of these things. Instead, she rose to her feet and turned to face the darkest corner of the room, the magic already flowing through her. Perhaps when all this was over—assuming they were victorious, assuming Jace survived—she might find a way to make it up to him. But not now.

“Find him,” she ordered. “He can’t have gone far. But stay out of sight. Let me know if it looks like he’s not going to recover; otherwise, just ensure nothing happens to him until he returns.”

The darkness seemed to nod once, to blink with faintly glowing eyes, and was gone, leaving Liliana alone with the dead.

H
e remembered.

He remembered his childhood, before the dreams and visions came. He remembered discovering that the voices in his head were not his own, but belonged to the people around him. He remembered Kallist and Tezzeret, Baltrice and Gemreth, and of course Liliana.

He remembered pain. He remembered the rape of Kallist’s mind and the loss of his own.

He remembered the day it began, three years ago and more.

This was Ravnica, Ravnica as she was meant to be.

The district of Dravhoc flowed down the shallow mountainside like an avalanche trapped in amber, bewitching beneath the brilliant sun. Like the peak itself, it stretched down to the banks of the wide and rushing river, even occupying a few of the smaller isles and outcroppings that rose amid the breakwaters.

Great buildings of gleaming marble lined the wide byways, their roofs sharply sloped, their eaves adorned by figures both abstract and concrete, angelic and diabolical. Some were only a handful of stories tall, but many more towered impossibly, monolithically into the infinite sky,
artificial mountains protruding from the real, or jutting from the deep waters below, casting endless shadows. From broad cupolas and needle-thin spires, a network of bridges spanned the district, a web-work of roadways that never deigned to touch the earth. Towering statues of forgotten gods and heroes stood amid broad plazas or supported heavy walkways on their pseudo-divine shoulders. Some few of the highest towers had no earthly roots at all, but were held aloft by mighty spans of stone, connecting them to other structures with more mundane foundations.

Far below ran roads cobbled in stone that never lost its sheen, from the narrowest twisting side streets to avenues so broad that a crossbow shot from one curb could not kill a man standing on the other. One of those grand avenues ran straight down the side of the mountain, terrace to terrace, level to level, providing those at the top a clear and astonishing view all the way down to the river. Along it strode an array of sentience unheard of on other worlds: Humans and elves, goblins and viashino, loxodons and centaurs, even angels and the occasional ghost rubbed shoulders or scurried from one another’s paths. So many words, so many scents, combined into a voice and an ambiance greater than the sum of its parts, an atmosphere that was, among all the cities of the Multiverse, absolutely unique.

This was Ravnica at her richest—but even here she was slowly dying, just a tiny bit more every day since the guilds fell. She was beautiful still, but beneath her expert makeup she was an aged courtesan, growing ever more sickly and infirm. And whether the city would recover from the travails of the past generation to rise once more into something greater, or whether she would collapse under her own weight, even the farthest-sighted oracles would not say.

Near the uppermost levels, in the midst of that broad and sloping avenue, Jace Beleren sat beneath a parasol
at an open air café called Heavenly Ambrosias and sipped a glass of cold mint tea. Though his hair was perhaps a few inches longer than the current fashion, and he eschewed a full beard in favor of a clean-shaven jaw, he looked every inch the Ravnican aristocrat. His garb was of the finest cloths and leathers, dyed not in the bright and garish hues of the middle classes, so desperate to show off, but in the somber but much richer colors of the truly affluent. His fine tunic and pants of supple suede were both midnight blue, his vest a black so deep one could almost have fallen into it. But most magnificent was his cloak, a flowing liquid hue that could have been a sliver of the darkest oceanic depths. The buttons and clasps of vest and cloak—and there were many of them, as befit the current styles—were all of burnished silver and boasted an array of symbols that looked arcane and mysterious to the uninitiated but were in fact utterly meaningless. Jace just thought they looked nice.

Across from him, drinking something Jace couldn’t pronounce but that certainly packed more of a punch than his own mint tea, was—well, not a friend, exactly, but close enough. Rulan was clad much like Jace himself, though he preferred deep reds and purples to Jace’s unrelenting blue and black. And unlike Jace, Rulan boasted a full, tidily trimmed beard.

A beard that, at the moment, had captured a bit of the foam from Rulan’s alcoholic whatever-it-was. Jace didn’t point it out.

“… half of what’s left,” Rulan said, continuing the thought he’d begun before taking a heavy swig. Casually, he passed a small coin purse across the table. Jace lifted it, scowled at its weight—or, more accurately, the lack thereof.

“Half?” he asked doubtfully. “Really?”

“Half,” Rulan confirmed. “And that’s all the accounts, under all your names, put together.”

The scowl grew, if anything, darker than the outfit beneath it. Jace took a moment to look out over the wall of the terrace to the glistening waters far, far below.

“Maybe you ought to be charging me less of a commission, then,” he offered.

Rulan snickered and took another deep gulp of his drink—a drink that Jace, reluctantly, was paying for. “You find another banker willing to keep accounts in four different districts, under four different names, and see what sort of deal he’ll offer you.” He belched once, covering his mouth with the back of a well manicured hand, and then frowned. “Berrim,” he said more seriously—for that was the name by which he knew his young client, the name under which Jace did all his business in Dravhoc—“you know I’m giving you a damned good deal already.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then I suggest,” Rulan said, rising to his feet, “that you consider either a somewhat less extravagant lifestyle or a somewhat more extravagant income.” He bowed once, with an almost ludicrous flourish, and left his bemused companion to pay the tab.

Swirling a mouthful of tea around his tongue, Jace lifted the coin purse, let it sit in the palm of his hand. Half? He was going to have to find another “patron,” and none too swiftly. He’d always been careful about how much he demanded, how heavily he wielded the secrets that he found so easy to acquire, but he wondered now if perhaps he hadn’t been too conservative with his latest mark. Grumbling to himself in a very un-aristocratic manner, he turned his gaze once more to the river below. He always found it calming, but today it offered minimal comfort. Perhaps …

A surge of fear from the other customers of the café, a tide of emotion Jace could sense without effort, was his only warning. Instincts born partly of experience, and partly ingrained in his mind and soul as his birthright,
had him toppling sideways in his chair and ducking under the heavy table before his conscious mind even identified the threat. A blast of searing fire roared from the heavens and sprayed across the stone under which he huddled. His lungs felt seared by the heated air, and he smelled the tips of his hair burning away.

Still, the table was broad, and the air obscured with smoke. If his attacker hadn’t seen him duck underneath, he might do well simply to wait, to remain hidden and allow the authorities to deal with whatever was going on. Dravhoc was, after all, wealthy enough to employ patrols of the Cloud-Winged Guard. An organization made up of a few surviving remnants of what had once been the Legion of Wojek, former keepers of Ravnica’s law and order, they boasted a reputation for dealing with lawbreakers swiftly, efficiently, and permanently. Let them risk life and limb confronting whatever had hurled fire at him.

Between the crackling of nearby potted plants that had ignited in the conflagration, and the pounding feet and panicked screams of the fleeing bystanders, Jace heard something new, the sound of claws clacking across the tabletop above him.
Something had ridden the fire to earth
.

Muttering a handful of curses, he tensed. The Cloud-Winged Guard’s numbers were few, and the districts they patrolled quite large. If something was hunting him in the plaza, waiting for their unpredictable response was no longer an option.

Glancing over his shoulder, he measured the distance to the nearest exit, wanting desperately to run. He might make it but without knowing what was clawing its way across the table, or how far it might chase him, he certainly wouldn’t have bet what little money he had left on his chances.

A quartet of Jaces lunged from beneath the table, each sprinting in a different direction to take cover
beneath or behind some other flame-resistant obstruction, this one a pillar, that one another table. The thing that had skittered across the stone watched all four. Its ears lay back in confusion, and it stretched its mouth wide to utter an angry hiss that was the crackle of a dozen bonfires.

It might have been a cat, this thing, had it not been roughly the size of a hunting dog—and had it not been made entirely of a living, semi-solid flame.

Moving in concert, all four images of Jace leaned out from cover. From their outstretched hands, a thick spray of freezing water arced across the open-air café to drench the fiery predator. A geyser of steam shot into the air, and the hiss of water-on-fire almost drowned out the terrified shriek of the elemental.

Then the images, the water, even the steam were gone. The feline creature stood, utterly confused, its animalistic mind unable to grasp the concept of illusion.

And Jace—the real Jace, who had been none of the four phantoms but wrapped tight in an illusion of invisibility—rose up before the distracted, disoriented beast, hauled back a fist and struck.

No mere punch, this, but a devastating blow of mystical force. Telekinesis had never been among Jace’s stronger skills—the lifting of a simple fork or the opening of a distant window took everything he had—but manipulation of himself? That came far more easily. More than easily enough, with a few seconds of preparation and a surge of mana, to augment the strength of his own harms, to reach out and violently flip the table.

The flaming beast flew from the tabletop to sail dozens of feet through the air—clear over the protective wall that marked the edge of the terrace, plummeting from sight. Jace didn’t know how many levels of Dravhoc it might have dropped, or whether the fall would be sufficient to kill it, but he knew he intended to be well gone before it could return.

For an instant, Jace cast his senses outward, peering behind walls, around corners, over ledges. But his cursory examination failed to locate the wizard who had summoned the beast, and he wasn’t about to hang around for a prolonged search. The singed hem of his cloak swirling dramatically, Jace moved at a brisk walk toward the café’s exit, trying hard to peer around him in every direction at once, and wondered just who he’d managed to piss off this time.