The Archon's Assassin (12 page)

“So,” Shadrak said, “Nous is the reflection of Ain, and the Templum is his mouthpiece on Earth—”

“Mystical body,” Aristodeus said. “Whatever that means. It has all the semantic rigor of a pituri-smoking Dreamer spouting gobbledygook.”

Shadrak’s hand tightened around the grip of a pistol. Was the bald bastard taking the piss? Was he referring to Kadee? He started to draw the pistol, but the Archon saw and raised a hand for calm.

“Your point, Shadrak?”

“What is it Nousians have?” Shadrak said, relaxing his grip on the gun. “The Eleven Admonishments? Is that right?”

Aristodeus scoffed and shook his head.

Shadrak went on. “One reason I could never be a Nousian.” One among many. “Isn’t there an Admonishment against killing?” Least that’s what he thought Bovis Rayn had said, minutes before Shadrak had put a bullet through his skull.

“Figuratively speaking,” Aristodeus said with a sigh. “Try not to take it too literally, or you’ll start sounding like Shader.”

“Yeah, that’s a point,” Shadrak said. “Always meant to ask him about that. For a man of peace, he killed more than most assassins I’ve met.”

“The Admonishment is correct,” the Archon said. “It is the Supernal Father’s will that we do not take life, unless it is truly necessary.”

“Spoken like a true Sicarii,” Shadrak said. “Though it’s a bit different. We only take life when it’s truly profitable.”

The fire beneath the Archon’s cowl flashed red. A split-second after, so did the scarolite arch. The attendant homunculi all skipped back, rectangular slates held up in front of their eyes, as if they were looking at the arch through them.

“Well, if you’ve quite finished,” Aristodeus said, “that’ll be Londinium signaling they’re ready.”

“Adeptus Ludo?” the Archon said. “Silvanus is harsh to punish him thus.”

“Then replace him,” Aristodeus said. “I, for one, preferred Theodore. Granted me access to the best wine cellar in Aeterna, and even though he was mostly too ill to drink, he never denied me a drop. Oh, I forgot,” Aristodeus said. “You can’t replace him. That would require direct action. You’d get along with the dwarves of Arx Gravis like a house on fire.”

“Remember this, philosopher,” the Archon said, though his gaze was on Shadrak. “I, too, have free will. The day may be approaching when I decide that acting without intermediaries is less of a risk than allowing matters to proceed down the wrong path. Think on this, both of you. I have been patient, but my patience is not as limitless as Ain’s.”

With that, he vanished.

“Was that a threat?” Aristodeus said with a look of mock horror. He turned to the homunculi for a reaction, but their attention was firmly on the arch.

“Yeah, it was a threat,” Shadrak said. It was also a sign of frustration. Frustration born out of fear. More information to file away on the Archon for when the time was right.

The air in the middle of the arch turned black and rippled like water. A head poked through—a mule’s head. Its ears twitched, and its nostrils flared. It brayed and plodded forward, first one hoof striking the floor of the room, then another. With a sigh, Aristodeus strode over, took it by the rope looped around its neck, and pulled. The beast resisted, and Aristodeus reddened with effort as he heaved on the rope. More of the animal emerged. More than a few books poked out of the satchels slung over its back, and the ends of prayer cords dangled from bulging sacks. The mule brayed again and darted forward, sending Aristodeus flying back to land on his arse.

Jezeel, the silver-garbed woman, sniggered but swiftly suppressed it at a motion from the homunculus with the dreadlocks.

Next through the portal was a massive old man in a cassock. He had ears like sails, and spectacles perched atop a bulbous nose. His eyes bulged above them as he took in the room, then fell upon Aristodeus. There was a brief moment of indecision, and then he lurched forward and helped the philosopher up.

Then another man stepped through, this one leading a horse. A fine horse, by the looks of it: a black stallion with a polished saddle and gleaming brass on its bridle. This man was clearly a soldier. He wore a brocaded red jacket, buttoned tightly over a slight paunch that threatened to burst it wide open. His hand rested on the hilt of a saber hanging at his hip. Unkempt graying hair stuck up either side of a bald patch, but he more than made up for that with a bushy mustache and the thickest sideburns Shadrak had ever seen—muttonchops, they called them back in Sarum; at one time, the fashion among the councilors.

“Are you all right, Brother?” the man in the cassock asked as Aristodeus got to his feet and brushed himself down.

“Fine, Ludo,” Aristodeus said. “Though why you felt the need to bring a mule is beyond me. And a bloody horse, too.”

The soldier stiffened and took a step forward. “It’s Adeptus Ludo to you, old chap.” His voice was gruff and grating, like he had a mouthful of gravel.

Ludo silenced him with a raised hand. “My fault. I pictured us arriving in the middle of a barren wasteland. I even entertained a fantasy of evangelizing hordes of unwashed barbarians. It hadn’t occurred to me we might step through into…” He trailed off, taking in the dark walls of the room, the still-glowing archway.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Aristodeus said. “Or did you think the Templum’s archway was an open-ticket to just about anywhere?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought, which I suppose I should have. You see, Galen,” Ludo said to the soldier, “it’s basically a corridor.”

Galen snorted and made a fuss of his horse, scratching behind its ear.

“But a corridor between what?” Ludo said. “Not points in space, surely.”

Aristodeus grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Very good, Adeptus. I can see you’re going to make the most of your exile.”

Galen clipped his boot heels together and stuck out his chest. “The Adeptus is here to proselytize, and I’ll thump anyone who says otherwise.” His eyes roved the room, taking in the homunculi, who were all fixated on their slates, as if nothing out of the ordinary were going on.

“Who’s this?” Galen said, with a curt nod Shadrak’s way.

“This,” Aristodeus said, is your guide.”

“What?” Shadrak said.

Aristodeus went on talking right over him. “Unless you want to wing it; cast yourself on Nous’s mercy and head out into the Dead Lands?”

“Dead Lands?” Ludo said. “That doesn’t sound—”

“And the Sour Marsh beyond,” Aristodeus said. “Shadrak here’s been there and lived to tell the tale, haven’t you, Shadrak?”

“Shithole,” Shadrak said.

Galen bristled at that.

“Full of giant maggots and the like,” Shadrak said. “You’d last all of two minutes.”

“You survived,” Galen said. It sounded like a challenge.

“Always do,” Shadrak said. He glared up at the soldier until he saw the discomfort his pink eyes caused, and Galen looked away.

“My view,” Aristodeus said, “my suggestion to help with your…” He glanced at Galen and then appealed to Ludo. “His Divinity gave me the impression you were to be exiled.”

Galen harrumphed, but Ludo let out a gentle sigh.

“We are to bring the light of Nous to new lands. It was presented to me as an honor, but there is truth in what you say. I overstepped the mark with—”

“Shader,” Aristodeus said. “And I’m grateful for that. The Judiciary might have failed to bring him into the Templum’s war with Hagalle, but I still entertain hopes of returning him to the real fight.”

“Oh?” Ludo said. “I think he’s left all that behind. It was a difficult road you sent him down. I trust it was worth your while.”

Aristodeus rubbed his beard and bit down on his lip. “It still might be, if only I could get him to see sense. And I will, believe me. Before long, he’ll be back here, ready to fight the good fight. And when he arrives, who better to keep him virtuous, eh?” He clapped Ludo on the shoulder.

Galen growled and said, “If you ask me, Shader’s a ruddy—”

“Now, now, Galen,” Ludo said.

“Not fit,” Galen said. “Not fit to wield the Sword of the Archon.”

“He won the tournament,” Aristodeus said. “And it accepted him. How many others could say that?”

Galen flinched, as if struck. “And he abandoned his post. The Keeper of the Sword is—”

“Redundant,” Aristodeus said. “Without the threat from Sektis Gandaw, there’s no more need for the Saphra Society, and no more need for the Keeper.”

“All the same,” Galen said, “any man who reneges on his responsibilities—”

“Galen, enough!” Ludo said. Then, in a gentler tone, he added, “Please.”

“Eminence.” A flush hit Galen’s cheeks, and he dipped his head.

“Well, I don’t know,” Ludo said. “We do have missionary work. I’m not sure we could—”

“This is missionary work,” Aristodeus said. “Believe me, the Ipsissimus agrees.”

“What?” Ludo said. “What exactly does His Divinity agree with?”

“He has a rudimentary outline of what I’m trying to do. But my point is, if you are to evangelize Aethir, you will need a guide, and transport.” He said the last with a look at Shadrak.

“Forget it,” Shadrak said. “Only work I take is for money.”

“And what about Nameless?” Aristodeus said. “How long do you think it will take for the Archon’s patience to run out?”

Ludo and Galen exchanged looks at mention of the Supernal being.

“Trust me,” Aristodeus said. “If all goes to plan, Nameless will be free of the axe, and—”

“And I’ll be up shit creek,” Shadrak said. “One chance is all I’ve got to be free of this bastard pact.”

“And you believe him? You believe he’ll leave you alone if you do his dirty work for him?”

Shadrak hadn’t thought of that. He knew he should have. Desperation was making him careless. He backtracked to where Aristodeus had said, “Trust me.” He’d sooner trust a mawg not to eat him raw. For that matter, he’d sooner accept a meal from Albert.

The door slid open, and Mephesch entered, followed by Nameless, Albert, and Ekyls. Albert’s cheeks had a rosy glow, and he stumbled slightly as he walked.

“Ah, good,” Aristodeus said. “Come, let’s go to my quarters. We’ll be able to talk there in more comfort.” He cupped his hands to his mouth and stage-whispered, “And it’s away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. Not the animals, though. Last thing I need is a carpet of manure. Mephesch, see to it that they’re taken care of.”

Galen started to protest, but Ludo touched him lightly on the shoulder.

Aristodeus put his arm around Nameless’s shoulders and led the way back through the conical chamber with all the screens. “Remember the plan we spoke of? Well, Shadrak has agreed to help us, haven’t you, Shadrak?”

He hadn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so. A confusion of emotions battled inside him, and he was already second-and third-guessing himself. Could the Archon be trusted? Could Aristodeus? Could he really kill Nameless? Would he? He felt himself dragged along by the current of Aristodeus’s persuasion. There were choices, to be sure, but none of them good. Obey the Archon, and kill the only person he had any sort of respect for; or betray him and side with the philosopher. One scheming git or the other, and he still didn’t know enough about either of them to make a move.

Kadee’s face sat like a warm glow behind his eyes. She smiled at him, let him know this was the right thing to do. Let him know he didn’t have to kill Nameless, at least not yet. As she started to fade, his heart leapt to his throat. But what did that mean for Kadee? If he didn’t do as the Archon said, she’d be left in whatever hellhole her spirit languished. On Thanatos, wherever the shog that was. That was the truth of it: the Archon was his only way of finding her.

THE MAN IN THE PIEBALD MASK

Anderida, Britannia, Earth

T
he marsh road ended at the ancient fort’s east gate. Heaped and jagged flint made up the outer walls that penned a scatter of sheep in the haze. A chill fog rolled in from the bay, smothering the dusk and laying to rest the last streaks of sunset.

Shader ducked beneath an overhang as it started to drizzle. With fingers numb from the cold, he did up the buttons on his coat and tugged down the brim of his hat.

The keep glowered at him out of the gloom. Beneath the quickening patter of rain, the waters of the moat sloshed against the buttresses, and he heard the occasional chink of metal, the low bark of voices. His eyes were drawn to the flickering glow of torches upon the parapet.

A spyglass had been mounted on a tripod and pointed out to sea; early warning, for when Hagalle’s ships set sail from Gallia. And set sail they would, sooner or later. Aeterna had fallen, and now it was only a matter of time.

Strange how Britannia, his childhood home, had become Nousia’s last stand, an island fortress against the surging tide of barbarism.

When there was a break in the shower, he followed the bridleway through the sleeping village. Silver shards of moonlight coming through the clouds picked out a cockerel atop the pitched roof of a templum—a weathervane, squeaking and rattling in the breeze.

He’d seen something similar as a child amid a field of winged statues. Their heads had lain broken in the tall grass, empty eyes glaring up at him, like he’d done something wrong. Like he was to blame. And maybe he was, in some small way. Hadn’t he gone farther afield than his parents permitted? Wasn’t it the same disobedience that had landed him in the Judiciary’s dungeons? His guts clenched with the recollected pain he’d felt that day as a child. Tears of anger still threatened to spill from his eyes, no matter how many years passed. That was the day Aristodeus had first come for him. That was the day his dog, Nub, had died.

His heels were angry sores against the tough leather of his boots, and his left leg was shot through with fiery needles. He rested a while on a low wall and rubbed his ruined knee. It hurt like the Abyss from where the ligament had torn on the rack. There were good days and bad, but at times like this, he doubted it would ever heal.

The rain started to crash down in sheets, and he saw no choice but to press on. He squinted up at the dark slopes of the Downs, knowing what it was going to cost him to cross them. Sucking in his top lip with resolve, he set one foot in front of the other, and moved off at a lurch.