The Archon's Assassin (15 page)

She stood to pull off her pants, and flicked them with her foot across the floor. Yawning, she rolled her shirt over her head, slung it on the pile, and ran her hands over her belly.

Saggy
.

It wasn’t. She could see that from the sharp lines of her abdominals, and her waist had grown so narrow, Sandau could fit his hands around it.

She twisted to check her butt in the mirror, gave it a squeeze; turned her nose up. Finally, she cupped her breasts, checked their pertness, and let them drop disdainfully.

That’s what a child’ll do to you. It didn’t help that the mirror told a different story; showed her to be hard and defined. Mirrors were like people. Good liars. Didn’t help knowing it wasn’t the girl’s fault, either. Aristodeus had seeded her; Rhiannon had borne her. And now, she was here, like it or not. Girl. The girl. Saphra, the bald bastard had insisted on calling her.

She rubbed olive oil into her skin and set about combing the knots from her hair. After that, she pulled on an old dress she’d worn in Oakendale when Shader and she were close. It used to be tight, but now the cut was perfect, hugging her waist and clinging in all the right places. She stepped into a pair of sandals, tugged the dress straight, and made adjustments to her hair in the mirror.

It would have to do.

She pulled back the drape and blinked against the sunlight now streaming through the window. Stoppering the bottle, she stashed it under one of the crates and then checked her supplies. Bread, honey, some dried strips of meat (it might have been rabbit). Aristodeus would bring more soon. It was his way of being responsible. Or rather, it was his way of keeping control of the girl. If it wasn’t for her, he’d have let Rhiannon starve, same as most of the other refugees.

Stepping outside, she threw back her head, tied her hair into a ponytail, and shut her eyes against the warmth of the sun. For a moment, it was like being in Sahul. Sammy’s face flashed behind her eyelids, round and ruddy, a big mess of golden hair covering his head. She smiled. Her little soldier. It didn’t last long, replaced by the smoldering ruin of their house, the bodies of Mom and Dad bleeding out on the ground. She clamped her jaw and winced. It still hurt like shog from Carson’s punch.

She snapped her eyes open as the clamor from the shipyard resumed. Sawing, hammering, hollering. It had been the same for months, all day, every day, except for the brief interludes when the shipwrights broke for a beer.

She walked toward the water. The jetties were bustling with sailors, the great galleons of the Southern Fleet low in the water, sails furled, yards groaning. She counted fifteen of the warships, their banks of cannons threatening carnage. Far in the distance, she could see Fair View Hill, the sloping gateway to the Downs that rose above High Mead. It was a long walk, but it would be nice in the sun. She could follow the Ancients’ fancy promenade all the way.

As she neared the barracks of the Sea Fencibles, though, she changed her mind. It wouldn’t do to be seen dressed like this. She had an image to maintain. A reputation.

She thought about it for a minute, but then flagged down a carriage—one of the two-wheelers she hated so much.

***

Rhiannon waited in High Mead for over an hour. It was her good luck the Druid was open, and she sat at a window table by the hearth. Didn’t matter how much she told herself not to do it, how much she tried to convince herself she didn’t care, she had to glance out the window at each shift in the light. Mostly, it was heavy clouds rolling in from the sea, putting a downer on that brief glimpse of sunlight.

The door flew open and banged against the wall. The barkeep looked up, eyes narrowed, then got back to wiping a glass when he saw it was just some punter used to shoving his way inside, and the mounting gale had done the rest.

The punter scanned the pub like he owned it, raised an eyebrow when he found her. Barely suppressing a scowl, she downed her pint and went to stand in the porch.

Wind shrieked, and icy rain sprayed in her face, like it had been waiting for her before it started.

With a muttered curse, she pushed her way out into the storm. Shader would never look for her in the Druid.

Her dress was already sodden, her hair a mess of clinging strands. Made showering seem a waste of time. Dressing up, too. She’d have been better off in her Fencible uniform. Although, the way her wet dress was hugging her curves, she might get a better welcome from Shader than the one she’d expected, assuming the seminary hadn’t involved mandatory castration.

He was halfway down Fair View when he saw her and waved. Even from such a distance, she could see how much he’d changed. He was ungainly, limping, stooped against the buffeting wind speeding him downward faster than he was prepared to go. He still wore the long coat, leather boots, the stiff, high-crowned hat with a broad brim that drowned his face in shadow. His clothes seemed blacker than she recalled. There was no white surcoat, no glint of armor. Made his face look gaunt and pallid. She almost sneered. Like a lanky version of Shadrak the Unseen. A leather satchel was slung over his shoulder, and a prayer cord hung from his belt.

It was an age before he reached her, and when he did, he averted his eyes. He seemed awkward, somehow. Like they’d never really been close. Either that, or he was trying not to look at her nipples pressing against the drenched fabric of her dress. Was that a sin, putting such a sight before a holy man? Shogged if she knew. Shogged if she cared. It wasn’t as if she’d planned to get soaked, and besides, he was more than likely thinking she was a fat cow, or mutton dressed as lamb, as Mom would’ve said.

“Rhiannon.” Shader’s voice was flat, lacking inflection. It had something of the insincerity of the pulpit. “Ain be with you.”

“
Et cum spiritu
.” The words sounded awkward, almost alien. She’d not spoken Aeternam since Sahul, and even then it was just parroted phrases. She raised an eyebrow to invite his reaction.

“You must be frozen,” he said.

Not even a wry smile. Not even a correction of her pronunciation.

“No, I’m fine.” She suppressed a shiver and unwrapped her arms from around her chest.

Shader shrugged off his bag, started to unbutton his coat.

“Said I’m fine.” He looked like he needed it more than she did. She nodded toward the Druid. “Fancy a pint?”

He glanced up at her, but only for a second. “It’s been a long journey,” he said.

No, then
.

“And I need penance daily.”

“Confession?”

He nodded and looked off to the side.

She held out a hand, touched the tip of his finger. “Luminary Sylvea’s isn’t too far. Think you can make it?”
Think you can wait that long?
She hadn’t expected much, what she’d heard these past few years, but it was still disappointing. The Shader of old would at least have taken the beer first.

He accepted her arm, and they headed straight for the shelter of High Mead’s tightly-packed houses.

“You know,” Rhiannon said with feigned enthusiasm. “I’ve not been to confession for a while.” That was the understatement of all understatements. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

The corner of his lip curled up, as if he were smiling at some secret joke.

“Not in the confessional,” She added.
Nous forbid
. Last thing she’d want is him hearing what she’d been up to.

He was studying her face intently now, not a hint of discomfort showing. If anything, he looked… playful.

“You haven’t changed, Rhiannon,” he said.

“Yeah, well appearances can be deceptive.”

***

Rhiannon trembled as she crossed the threshold into the narthex. She’d not set foot in a templum since returning to Earth. Before that, even. Since she’d claimed Callixus’s black sword atop the Homestead, she realized. She’d not made the connection before. Hadn’t really given it much thought. It was only the times she left the sword behind that she could ever consider it with any degree of reason.

“Callixus…” She started to ask so quietly, the name barely passed her teeth.

Shader was halfway down the nave and hadn’t heard her. Probably just as well. The thing was, Callixus had been holy, from what she could glean, at least until Dr. Cadman had perverted his existence. He’d been an Elect knight, like Shader, the Grand Master of the Lost. But something about his sword creeped her out whenever she got any distance from it. In her hand, at her hip, it always felt good. It energized her, gave her courage, and she was sure it spoke with her in some wordless, imperceptible way.

But she’d cut herself with it, first off, that time in the Sour Marsh, and a hundred times since. The idea disgusted her now, but when she held the sword, it excited her. Thrilled her. The need welled up within her veins, a compulsion, and she only found release when she spilled her own blood.

Shader turned back and spread his hands. She shook off her doubts about the sword the same way she might adopt a fake smile to get what she wanted. That was something new, she suddenly realized. Or was it? Had she really been simpler, more straightforward, honest back in Oakendale? She narrowed her eyes at Shader. Maybe before he’d shown up, she had been. But even then, had she ever really been the uncomplicated farmer’s daughter she liked to think of herself as? Gaston hadn’t thought so.

An elderly priest emerged from the sanctuary and hobbled toward Shader using two sticks for support. Shader must have heard the tap of the canes, as he spun round. He looked edgy to Rhiannon. Like the years of fighting were ingrained in his nerves and making his every reaction an overreaction.

She gritted her teeth and walked down the nave. Shader limped toward the priest, apparently to help him toward the confessional. The old man glared and jabbed a cane at Shader’s hat.

“In this country, we remove hats when entering a templum.”

Shader looked to Rhiannon as she drew level with them, then back at the priest. “I’m sorry?”

The old man speared Shader with a look that would’ve earned him a smack in the mouth in Sahul. “In this—”

“This is my country.”

Rhiannon had heard Shader use that tone before. Maybe he hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought.

The old man’s lip curled. He looked around the templum pointedly, gauging his audience. There were a few people kneeling in prayer, and a long line of old women outside the confessional, faces obscured by lace mantillas. That kind of gave them away as Latian. Most half the country seemed to have left with the priests and what was left of the military. Say one thing for the influx of refugees: they sure had changed the face of Britannia.

The priest cleared his throat and tried a gentler tone. “Ah, well it is the custom among Nousians…”

Shader stiffened.

Rhiannon put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you hearing confessions, or do you just want to talk about my hat?” Shader said. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side. Maybe they expected to find a sword there. Instead, they curled around the prayer cord hanging where a scabbard would have been.

The old man reddened and abandoned any effort to sound conciliatory. “I am a priest, you know.”

Shader snorted. “So am I.”

The old man rapped one of his canes against the stone floor. He puffed out his pigeon chest and did his best to square his rounded shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, eyes goggling. “What did you say? Priest, is it?”

“That’s right.”

The old man struck Shader on the hip with one of his canes. “Then you should know better!”

Shader’s fist came up, trailing the prayer cord.

Rhiannon took that as her cue to pull him away. To her relief, Shader put up no resistance.

“Senile old bastard,” Shader muttered, loud enough to be heard.

The old man started to come at them with a fury, his cane tips galloping across the flagstones.

“Don’t!” Rhiannon jabbed a finger at him.

The priest stopped in his tracks. “I beg your—”

“Just don’t,” she said.

She turned Shader to face the door, and he couldn’t get outside fast enough.

“We’ll have to hail a cab to get to the next nearest templum,” Rhiannon said. Before she could stop herself, she yelled back at the priest, “Stupid old scut!”

“Forget it,” Shader said. “I’m not in the mood now. And besides, I was probably getting scrupulous.”

“You don’t say.”

“So,” Shader said, offering her his hand. “How about that beer you mentioned?”

SAPHRA

R
hiannon slapped a couple of bronzes down and carried the beers back to the table, spilling more than she’d care to admit. She’d lost track of time, and lost count of how many rounds they’d had. She could have sworn she’d been to the bar twice in a row. Maybe they weren’t paying Shader a big enough stipend. Either that, or the booze had pickled his brain, and he’d forgotten it was his turn.

Shader was on his feet, one arm leaning against the wall, examining a faded oil painting in a carved frame. When he spoke, his words were slurred.

“Some of these pictures pre-date the Reckoning.”

It was of a middle-aged woman in a claret gown with puffy shoulders. Her hair was twisted into buns that covered her ears, her face peculiarly long and angular.

“Most of them do. It’s the oldest pub in the South. Thought you’d have known that.”

There were plenty of locals proud of the fact. Nous only knew how many times she’d been forced to listen as penance for accepting a drink. The Agnus Dei had been refurbished throughout the centuries, its timbers replaced, walls re-pointed, but its foundations had weathered Huntsman’s cataclysm, not to mention the Great Wars of the Ancients. It had a wattle and daub exterior, and a sagging slate roof. The inside was white-washed, framed with black wood. The ceiling was low and heavily beamed, and warped floorboards peeked from the edges of a moth-eaten, once-red rug.

She’d picked the table beside the fire in the hope of drying her dress. Logs spat and crackled in the hearth, their heat stinging her face in a way that was both pleasant and painful. The tarnished plaque behind her head, she’d been told on many an occasion, was where “H.B.” once sat to smoke his pipe and debate faith, justice, and revolution. Some old coot had once explained H.B.’s proposal for increasing the private ownership of the masses to offset the divide between rich and poor. Struck her as the middle ground between the Nousian way of centralizing the wealth and meting it out in accordance with need, and unbridled Sahulian greed, where the toffs in Jorakum grew richer on the backs of their struggling subjects.