Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (40 page)

“Who?” she asked him.

“Kamigawa,” he muttered after a moment. “Just what I need right now. I swear, if that damn rat-shaman’s interfered with another of our shipments …”

“Do you want me to deal with it?”

“No,” he told her. “I’ll handle it. It’ll give me time to think, if nothing else.”

The room into which Tezzeret eventually walked was highly ornate. Silk curtains in bright hues, chosen to perfectly offset the darker rugs, draped the walls and the open doorways. Paper lanterns illuminated the chamber in a dim yet steady glow, and the scent of heavy incense was almost overwhelming.

Standing before him, bowing low in a show of great respect, was a seemingly young woman clad in a dark kimono, her hair hanging loose around her ears. Only the narrowness of her features and the pale hue of that hair suggested a faint trace of the tsuki-bito moonfolk in her ancestry. The third leader of the Kamigawa cell in as many years, she’d inherited a dangerous post, and Tezzeret honestly didn’t think much of her long-term chances. The shaman of the Nezumi-Katsuro
had not only never forgiven the attack that claimed the life of his shogun, he’d killed half a dozen Consortium agents, as well as tortured and murdered the cell’s prior leader, in an effort to coax Tezzeret into facing him personally. His most recent challenges had been addressed to the “Metal-Armed Emperor,” suggesting that he’d learned much from his interrogation of the prior cell lieutenant.

Tezzeret, of course, couldn’t be bothered to deal with the rat himself. The cell would handle it eventually, no matter how many leaders it had to go through in the process.

“What is it, Kaori?” he asked gruffly, glancing at the broken shards of tubing on the wall. “You know how hard it is to replace those.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” she offered, her musical accent almost lost amid the buzzing of the gears. “But there is one here who would speak to you, one whom you have employed in the past, and who swears she bears information that you must hear. She claims she knew of no other way to contact you.”

“Is that so?” Tezzeret furrowed his brow, then nodded as one of the curtains on the far wall drifted aside and a newcomer entered from the adjoining hallway.

“Well. Liliana Vess.”

“Tezzeret,” she greeted curtly.

“And to what do we owe—”

“Forgive me if I don’t take the time for pleasantries,” she interrupted. “I don’t have a lot of time before I’m missed.”

“All right. I’m assuming this is important, since you damn well know better than to contact me like this.”

“Depends. Do you consider Jace Beleren important?”

Tezzeret leaned forward like a hound straining against his leash. “You know where he is?”

“Not exactly,” she lied. “The ghosts from whom I’ve learned of his recent activities were not so specific. Either they don’t know, or they have reason not to tell me. But they’ve told me much of his activities, past and recent, and I can tell you how to flush him out.”

The sun had set on Gnat Alley—or rather, the sun had set on one end of Gnat Alley, for the longest thoroughfare in all of Ravnica saw neither dusk nor dawn at the same moment on each tip. Here on the ground, beneath the veritable webwork of bridges and suspended streets, the towering spires and floating platforms, the streets were ill maintained, the structures dark and often dilapidated. Squatting in their midst like bloated spiders were numerous brothels, gambling halls, and bars that sold drinks unavailable or illegal topside. Gnat Alley
had
to be as long as it was, for somewhere along its length a brave or foolish stranger could find for sale any goods or services imaginable, and a few inconceivable to any sane mind.

Assuming, of course, that said stranger survived long enough to do so.

In the darkest shadows on the “night side” of Gnat Alley, two human men and a goblin woman sat in a poorly lit booth within one of the many nameless taverns along the street of iniquity. The floor was filthy, the table coated with the remnants of past meals. The ale was so watered down that any customer would certainly drown in it before consuming enough to get drunk, the food had never even been in the same general vicinity as a professional cook, and a fresh dose of vomit on the floor would actually have improved the bouquet.

None of which mattered, since there wasn’t a patron in the building who had come here for food or drink.

Tezzeret, who had wisely chosen not even to touch his mug of whatever-it-was, produced a small leather
pouch from a compartment on his belt and slid it across the table. The goblin snatched at it, opening it and examining the gold dust within. She blinked once, sniffed once, and then grumbled an affirmative to her companion.

Unlike the goblin, and even Tezzeret, who looked as though they belonged here, the other human was impeccably shaved, his red hair slicked back, his black tunic and wine-hued leggings the height of fashion. Even his nails were manicured.

And since he’d survived more than three minutes in Gnat Alley, dressed in such a fashion, he clearly had just the sort of connections Tezzeret needed.

He smiled a charming, friendly smile at the goblin’s report. “Excellent,” he told Tezzeret. “I think we’re in business, then. Accidents?”

The artificer knew precisely what the apparent non sequitur meant. “Absolutely not.” His own grin was wolfish. “Knives, fire, spells. Make a show of it. I want a blind man to be able to tell these people were murdered.”

The human and the goblin exchanged startled glances, then shrugged. He was the one paying, after all.

“Then I think all that remains is to discuss names,” the dandy said.

Tezzeret reached into another pouch and removed a scrap of parchment, treated to burn instantly to ash the moment it came near an open flame. On it was the list Vess had given him; the artificer couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of Jace’s face when he found out.

“Rulan Barthaneul, human, a banker in Dravhoc District,” Tezzeret read from the list. “Laphiel Kartz, also human, also of Dravhoc. Eshton Navar, human, owns a tavern in Lurias.

“And Emmara Tandris, elf, of Ovitzia.”

Liliana glanced up from the table, and the cup of fruit tea she’d barely touched, as her host appeared from within the nearest pillar. “How is he?” she demanded.

Emmara waved a hand and otherwise ignored the question long enough to take a seat—as far down the table as she could without being overtly rude—and requesting a beverage of her own from the tiny construct servants. Only then did she turn again to her guest.

“He’s improving,” she said simply.

“Delighted to hear it,” Liliana said, her tone suggesting nothing of the kind. “Of course, that’s what you’ve said every time I’ve asked you for the past two days! But you still won’t let me see him!”

“That’s because when I let you talk to him the first time, you got him so riled up that I think you set him back almost a day,” Emmara retorted. “So how about you stop pestering me, and him, and let me do my work?”

For several breaths they glared at one another, the tension finally breaking only when the construct clumped back into the room with the elf’s juice. Emmara took a large sip, and then sighed, shaking her head.

“He really is doing a lot better, Liliana, but I don’t want you going up there just yet. He still needs to rest a while. I’ve had a hard enough time convincing him that whatever it is you two need to do, it can wait until he’s fully recovered. Would you go dashing into his chamber and undo all that work? Get him excited and running about, so he can tear open an internal wound that hasn’t had time to mend?”

Liliana grumbled something unintelligible and slumped back down in the chair. She failed to notice the elf’s wince as the slender wood creaked beneath the unexpected impact.

“You care for him a great deal,” Emmara said. It was not a question, yet she sounded unsure.

“You sound surprised,” the other objected.

“I am,” the elf admitted. “I don’t tend to think of your sort as being all that compassionate.”

“My ‘sort?’” Liliana asked dangerously. “Human?”

“Necromancer,” Emmara retorted.

“Yes, I am,” she said without shame. “Death, undeath, age, and decay. None of which makes me any less human.” She placed just the slightest weight on the last, as though daring the elf to make an issue of it. “Jace is … important to me.”

“To you?” Emmara asked. “Or to what you want?”

“And what of you?” Liliana demanded, suddenly eager to change the subject. “You’re a healer, or so Jace tells me. Why is he not up and around after almost two days?”

“I could mend his wounds more swiftly,” the elf admitted. “But the bolt struck deep, uncomfortably near several organs that he wouldn’t do well without. I’ve chosen to take the more careful route, to ensure the inner damage is repaired before I seal the outer. The magic is at work, even as we speak. He’ll be well enough, soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Liliana said grudgingly. Both sipped from their respective glasses, examining one another in silence.

“You and Jace …” she began finally.

“Berrim. I knew him as Berrim.”

“Whatever. You two weren’t together?”

“Of course not!” Emmara protested, taking her meaning. She actually shuddered. “He’s
human.”

Liliana couldn’t help but grin at the elf’s revolted tone.

“We were friends,” Emmara continued. “Or I thought we were. Perhaps I’ll know for certain when he tells me precisely who was Berrim and who was Jace. And why I only learned of the latter when a number of
very unpleasant people started searching for him. The guilds may be gone, but I still have my sources. It didn’t take me long to learn the Consortium was looking for someone who went by both names—and several others, besides.

“I’ve lived long enough to understand change, Liliana, be it cities, governments, names, or people. And from what I’ve heard of Jace, I can understand why he might have preferred to become Berrim. But he could have trusted me enough to tell me. Now I don’t know who my friend actually was. Do you know who it is you actually care for?”

The almost-but-not-quite-hostile conversation continued, but Jace ceased listening. With a moment’s effort—made only moderately more difficult by his lingering injury—he allowed his senses to recede, pulling away from the table but not dismissing the spell of clairvoyance entirely.

Sadly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he dropped his head into his hands. Much as he felt his use of a pseudonym had been justified, he couldn’t blame Emmara for her anger. She’d thought him a friend, he’d
claimed
to be a friend, yet he’d failed to trust her even with his own real name.

Everything he’d ever done, he’d done for what he thought were the best of reasons. How had he managed to screw it all up so dramatically?

And how could he know he wasn’t doing just as badly even now?

Yet for all that, she’d taken him in, tended his wounds, even though she owed him nothing, knew that he wasn’t who she’d believed him to be. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he found his thoughts of Emmara turning to thoughts of Kallist. Jace Beleren wondered if he’d ever been worthy of a single one of his friends—and he wondered, too, if all of them would have to suffer for him.