The Archon's Assassin (31 page)

Aristodeus was blathering on about lovers and skulls, the black stain at the heart of Verusia. “… counselor to Ipsissimi, the conscience of Nousia. The list goes on. A name once lauded in every corner of the known world, and now everywhere reviled. Even here on Aethir.”

The priest with the big ears shrugged one shoulder and let out a sigh. “Yes, yes. Sad, really, when you think about it.”

“Way of the world, Eminence,” the dragoon said. “Assuming any of it’s true.”

“Oh?” Aristodeus said, setting his teacup back on the saucer with a chink and holding it out for a homunculus to take. “And you have reason to believe it’s not?”

The dragoon gave a double cough and started fiddling with his mustache. “Wouldn’t put it past that blackguard Hagalle to muddy the Templum’s name, sully the reputation of the luminaries. Kick a man when he’s down, wot. Downright scandalous, if you ask me, to insinuate such a thing.”

Aristodeus leaned forward, with that “checkmate” look in his eyes. “It’s historical fact, Galen. Even your own scripture scholars admit to Blightey’s influence in the compilation of the Liber.”

Galen took in the old priest with a glance. “Being a scholar of scripture doesn’t make you right. Templum’s always had its share of heretics, wot. That’s why we have the Magisterium, to sort the wheat from the chaff.”

“So, you deny Blightey ever really existed?” Aristodeus countered.

“Well—”

“In which case”—the philosopher scented blood in the water—“who was it they launched the whole might of Nousia against in the forests of Verusia not so long ago, in the grand scheme of things? Surely, a man of your zeal and military prowess would have been there, seen firsthand.”

“Well—” Galen stammered, but this time it was the priest who cut him off.

“There were other borders to be maintained, men to train, that sort of thing. But you are quite right: the Liche Lord is real. LaRoche is clear about that in his history, and he should know. He was present when Blightey was burned at the stake.”

“Hah,” Galen said, as if somehow that proved him right. “Nothing to worry about, then. Let’s get on with it. Suit of armor, you say? To go with the giant’s gauntlets.”

“He came back,” Rhiannon said.

“What?”

It was Galen that spoke, but everyone turned to look at her.

Aristodeus’s face was a war of emotions, but he finally settled on a fake smile and a raise of his eyebrow. “Recovered, I take it? Well rested?”

She ignored him and answered Galen instead. “In the song.” Elias had played it on occasion, usually when he’d wanted to scare the living crap out of someone after they’d smoked too much of his weed. Apparently, it was worth it for a laugh. “The Ballad of Jaspar Paris and Renna Cordelia.”

“Oh, please,” Albert said. “Quintus bloody Quincey. His ass of a namesake wrote better verse with his overflowing rectum.”

So, Elias didn’t write that one, after all. Figured. A bard was a collector, he always used to say, not necessarily a composer. In truth, he’d been a bit of both, and never bothered much about citing his sources.

“Not sure I’ve heard that one,” the priest said. “Ludo, my dear,” he added for Rhiannon’s benefit. “Adeptus, if you go in for titles.”

Albert laughed out loud. “I’d be surprised if you had heard it. Quincey’s generally performed as a warm-up in brothels and beer halls.”

“I’ve heard it,” Shadrak grunted.

“Now that I find hard to believe,” Albert said. “Last I heard, brothels had height restrictions.”

Rhiannon would have laughed, if she’d been in the laughing mood. Shadrak didn’t seem to see the funny side, either. His thoughts were as palpable to her as a jagged shard of glass ripping open Albert’s paunch.

With ice in her voice—ice that was reserved for Aristodeus—she said, “I don’t remember much, only that Jaspar Paris is in love with Renna Cordelia, but then some woman lures him away and seduces him. Renna tracks them down, finds them at it, and chops the bitch’s head off. But it wasn’t out of revenge or anything like that—”

“No,” Aristodeus said, sounding suddenly serious and very, very somber. “It was a purely soteriological act.”

“Shog’s that?” Shadrak asked.

“She came to save him, I assume,” Ludo said. “Though the term is usually reserved for doctrine.”

Aristodeus was irritated by that, but he grinned, as if to say he knew.

“Well, I’m not sure this is a fit subject for an adeptus’s ears,” Galen said. “Nor a lady’s lips.” The glower he shot Rhiannon was riddled with disapproval.

“I want to hear it.” Nameless’s voice reached her from behind. It was muffled by the helm, but there was warmth in it; something she so badly needed to hear. “Out with it, lassie. Don’t be shy on my account. I’ve seen more than my share of beer halls, yet it’s a tale I’m not familiar with. Arx Gravis is somewhat incestuous as regards entertainment. Most other things, too.”

She craned her neck and gave him a grateful smile. Actually, it felt bashful, like she was a shy little girl once more, and he a kindly old grandparent. Not that she’d tell him that. He’d either die laughing or lop her head off for the slight.

She turned back to Ludo, the only other person not radiating contempt or hostility, and recited what she could:

“The maiden Jaspar rode until,

Her head fell on the floor;

Cordelia’s blade now slick and still,

A saving grace no more.

The skull did rise in curling flame

To fix poor Renna in;

That deathly grin, that leeching pain

That drew her soul to him.”

It was deathly quiet for a moment, until Aristodeus said, “That’s what you will be up against, if you agree to take this to the next level.”

“A flying skull?” Galen said. “After that ruddy giant, shouldn’t take more than a solid stomp of my boot to shatter it into a thousand pieces, wot.”

“It’s invulnerable,” Ludo said. “At least, according to LaRoche it is.”

“No way to kill it, then?” Nameless said. “Sounds like a challenge.”

“It is,” Aristodeus said. “A great challenge. Probably the greatest there is. If you can avoid a direct confrontation, I would advise it.”

“And if not?” Shadrak said. “What then? What can we do against a scut that can’t be killed?”

“I see,” Aristodeus said. “Then I was wrong to bring you all together. Wrong to think there was a way to free Nameless from his helm.”

“But it’s not just about me, laddie, is it now?” Nameless said. “There’s more to this than you’re letting on. True, I want to taste beer again, and true, my teeth are furrier than a rabbit’s arse from where I can’t get to clean them, but if I’m to put these folks in danger, I’d like to know what’s really at stake.”

Aristodeus’s eyes glazed over. Rhiannon had seen that look before. He was in his own head, scrabbling about for an answer; the answer that would best suit his purposes. “It is necessary,” he said when his focus once more shifted outward.

“Try again,” Nameless said. He took a fraction of a step forward, but it was so filled with menace that Aristodeus did a quick rethink, and then he wagged a finger toward the crystal casket.

“When you went after the
Pax Nanorum
, it was a trap, a deception of the Demiurgos.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Nameless said.

“Until then, until your brother went and uncovered its secret in the Annals, you were set to be something… something…”

“Something what?” Nameless inched forward, but the threat had left him. Now, he seemed almost childlike, bewildered.

“There is a war afoot, Nameless,” Aristodeus said. “Call it spiritual, if you will, but in some instances, it is much more than that. There are times and places the Abyss coincides most forcibly with the worlds beyond its nebulous borders.”

“This is about you, isn’t it?” Rhiannon said. “It’s always been about you.”

Aristodeus shot her a look like a guillotine, then carried on as if she’d not spoken. “You were to be an important player in this war, Nameless, for reasons I cannot go into.”

“Go into them,” Nameless said, some of his ire returning. “I insist.”

“If only it were that easy.” Aristodeus let out a world-weary sigh. “There are forces at play, whole histories, time, space, an elaborate network of causes and effects, that should I let go one strand, should I utter one wrong word to the wrong person at the wrong time…” He shook his head, and perspiration beaded his brow. “Let’s just say, if you thought Sektis Gandaw was bad, what I have to deal with day in, day out, is a darned sight deeper, darker, and infinitely more insidious.”

“Then don’t look in the mirror so much,” Rhiannon said.

“Stay out of it!” Aristodeus thundered. He leapt from his chair and loomed over her. “You’re nothing but chattel in all this, understand? No more than a breeding-cow.”

Rhiannon’s fist crunched into his teeth, snapping his head back, and dumping him into the chair.

“Where’s my shogging daughter?”

The bald bastard was white with shock, the gaps between his teeth stained red. He tried to stand, but she slammed him back down, and tipped the chair over, sending him arse over head.

“I say!” Galen took a step toward her, but Rhiannon turned on him, and gave him her sickliest, coldest grin. The idiot stammered something about Nous-forsaken harlots, and looked to Ludo for what he should do next.

Aristodeus got to his feet, red-faced and fuming. “I will not tolerate this kind of—”

She aimed a kick at his head, but this time he was ready. Swift as lightning, he pivoted, caught her foot and flipped. Rhiannon rolled over her shoulder as she hit the floor and came up facing him. The black sword rasped free of its scabbard with scarcely more than a thought.

“Saphra, you shogger! Where is she?” She touched the tip of the blade to his throat. Black flames flickered about his beard. If they burned, he didn’t show it, and she didn’t care.

Aristodeus’s blue eyes clouded over like a winter sky. His face was twisted into a grimace that he struggled to control. He tensed, shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. He touched the tip of one finger to the blade at his throat, gingerly pushed it aside, and stepped away from her. His eyes narrowed, and he held out a hand to Shadrak, whose interest now seemed genuine.

“One of your blades, please,” Aristodeus said.

“Go shog yourself,” Shadrak replied. He went up a notch in Rhiannon’s estimation.

“Here, use mine.” Galen handed over his saber.

Aristodeus twirled the blade, made a few practice strokes in the air, and instantly regained his composure.

“You are no natural with a sword, my dear,” he said in his most parental tone, “but under my tutelage, you have become passable. That doesn’t make you a challenge for me, though, even if I were to fight left-handed.” He flipped the saber from one hand to the other.

Rhiannon feigned a stab at his heart, twisted her wrist, and sliced across his belly. Steel met steel, as Aristodeus deftly turned her blade and thrust the saber toward her neck. She rolled aside, hacking at his head. He parried with ease, switched hands, and flicked the saber out, tearing through her coat and stinging the flesh of her thigh.

She chopped down at his wrist, missed, and back-slashed across his chest. Aristodeus danced away, his blade a dazzling blur, darting and deceiving, cutting the air so close to her skin, it almost kissed her.

She lunged at his groin, but the saber was there; tried to rip a seam from his belly to his beard, but it was there again. With a scream of frustration, she battered his blade aside, and swung two-handed for his face. There was a streak of movement, the clash of steel, and a spray of sparks. Her sword shot across the room and should have clattered against the wall, only it sank to the floor like a feather.

Aristodeus pressed the tip of Galen’s saber to her throat, just hard enough to nick the skin.

“Laddie,” Nameless rumbled. Rhiannon felt rather than saw the weight of his presence. “That’s enough.”

Aristodeus’s cheek twitched, and his eyes narrowed to unwavering slits of gray.

For a moment, Rhiannon actually thought he was going to do it, but then the blue of his irises came back into a hard, chill focus, as if a cloud had passed from in front of them. He reversed the blade and handed the saber back to Galen.

“Nice weapon. Exquisite balance. Cavalry man?”

“Dragoon. Ipsissimus’s own regiment.”

Aristodeus took in Galen’s red jacket, as if he’d only just noticed it. “Of course. The elect of the Elect, eh?”

Galen shrugged and sheathed his saber.

Rhiannon took a fistful of the philosopher’s toga, but he swatted her hand away.

“Do not try my patience, woman. I would have thought one beating was lesson enough, even for you.”

Rhiannon threw a punch with her other hand, but this time metal fingers caught her wrist and held her like a vise.

Nameless gave a bob of his great-helm, which might have been reassurance, and then released her.

“I had my chances,” Rhiannon muttered. “You’re not as good as you think.”

Aristodeus smiled. “But I am good enough. Whatever you might believe, I am not only a better fighter, but I am also a better thinker, and, as if I need to point it out, a better parent.”

“Try telling that to Saphra. Why do you think she stays with me?”

“Because I allow it.” Aristodeus pulled out his pipe. “Or rather, because I used to allow it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He started to pop his pipe stem in his mouth, but she lunged at him.

This time, Nameless stepped aside, but Aristodeus stopped her with a glare. The threat in his eyes was palpable, and somewhere inside, she knew it was true: he was better than her. Not only faster and stronger, more skilled with a blade, but better.

“You knew it was coming.” The pipe reached his mouth at last, but before he could go through his ritual of patting down his toga for a light, a homunculus stepped out of the wall, lit it for him, and bowed obsequiously as it backed away again. “You only have yourself to blame.”

Rhiannon wanted to tell him to go shog himself; wanted to rip his eyes from their sockets, but she couldn’t move. It was nothing he was doing to her; it was the fact he was right. She had no answer for him.