undying legion 01 - unbound man (24 page)

“No matter how many people are involved, they won’t be able to do everything themselves,” she said. “They’ll need help from others. That means buying people off, or calling in favours, or making threats. Probably all three. Find someone being leaned on, and we can follow it back to whoever’s doing the leaning. That’s easier said than done, though.”

“What else?”

Eilwen frowned. “Assume that woman of yours really has tried to contact the Guild, but this rogue element has somehow intercepted her. That’s a significant risk. Yet they’ve been careful enough to keep this whole thing undetected until now. That means they’re ramping things up. The final play can’t be too far away.”

“And that final play is?”

An image of Vorace’s lined face returned to her mind. “Control of the Guild,” she said, suddenly sure. “Vorace has a controlling stake, but no children. The succession is unclear. Someone’s trying to position themselves as the obvious successor.” She paused, and the final piece slid into place. “They’re going to kill Vorace.”

“Well.” Havilah’s nod held approval. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not much of a spy.”

“Gods. That’s it, isn’t it?” Even though she’d figured it out, her mind seemed reluctant to take it in. “What are we going to do?”

Havilah’s expression betrayed nothing. “Whatever needs doing.”

The old hunger plucked at her thoughts, whispering of death, but there was no power in it. She nodded her assent.

“Find out who killed Kieffe,” Havilah said. “That’s your job now. Leave the day to day stuff to Ufeus. Don’t involve him in this.” He held her gaze. “Everyone expects an investigation. That gives you a certain amount of leeway. All the same, tread carefully. Whoever’s behind this will be hoping to avoid a second dead body, but that won’t stop them if they feel they have good enough reason. Don’t give them one.”

“Is that official?” Eilwen said hopefully. “That bit about Ufeus? I mean, if you’re looking into what this chocol woman is up to, maybe you want Ufeus back reporting to you.”

“No. Ufeus is yours. If I cut you out now, it’ll be twice as hard to get you back in. And if your investigation takes you to any of my people, you’ll need the authority to compel their cooperation.”

The question spilled from her lips before she could stop it. “Why do you trust me, then?”

Havilah smiled faintly. “You’re not the conspiring type.”

Oh? What type am I?
This time she caught the words before they could make it out; but something of her thoughts must have reached her expression. Havilah leaned forward.

“We’ll find them,” he said. “I know you’re used to working alone, but you’re not alone in this. If you need anything, just say the word. I’ll be here.”

She felt as though she should say something in response, but the words wouldn’t come, so she just nodded again.

“All right.” Havilah stood. “Let’s take back our Guild.”

•

Murder always left Clade with a feeling of failure.

He paced the length of the study, his back straight, his steps regular and unhurried. His feet fell softly on the rich carpet, except for the three steps near the window where they slapped against stone. Interruptions had been few: a meal shortly after sunrise and another no more than an hour ago, each announced with a soft knock at the door, each too small to satisfy.

Half of the low table still lay where it had fallen. The other half had been shoved aside in the rush to attend to Garrett and now rested upside-down against the shelf on the far wall, its short legs sticking up in the air like death-stiffened limbs. The chair on which Garrett had died remained in place, almost unmarked. The wound had let surprisingly little blood, and the stain merged with the pattern in such a way as to be almost indiscernible during the day. Only when evening came and the lamps were lit did the discolouration become apparent.

He had slept poorly. In his dreams, small details assumed a peculiar significance: the jolt as the bookend struck Garrett’s head; the man’s hand flopping onto his lap as the life seeped out of him. He killed Garrett, and he killed him again; and as his mind repeated the events over and over, distorted memories of past kills began to bleed into the sequence. He pursued a group of sorcerers on the run from the Oculus, and found them sitting in his study. Garrett was a hostage, awaiting a ransom that never came. He was attacked, assaulted from behind with no weapon at hand but a piece of carved marble. And throughout it all, the god waited, always watching, always just out of sight.

He should have found another way. He had seen Garrett’s mask of respect begin to slip, had recognised the danger for what it was. But he’d failed to act in time, and this was the price.

And if murder was unavoidable, well, Clade had a box tucked away in the cellar for exactly this eventuality. A clean death, untraceable, even by the god. Yet he had failed even to make use of that.

I was twice startled, first by the success of my binding, then by Garrett. My discipline failed, and haste filled the breach.

But such thoughts were useless now, and the reproach in his gut was an unwelcome guest. He put it away with an inward sigh.

At least this time I won’t find myself saddled with a new name.

It had been dissenters, the first time: malcontents seeking freedom from Azador. Their leader, Niele, had been foolish enough to put her grievances to paper. When her treatise was inevitably discovered, the group ran, and Clade had been dispatched in pursuit. On his return, the Council had called him Requiter, lauded his ingenuity, his ruthlessness. In truth, he’d done little more than follow directions. Every turn taken by the fugitives, every change in course, every stratagem to throw him off the trail: all had been laid bare by the god, its presence magnified and given voice by the twisted lump of black rock entrusted to him by the Council. He’d come ashore at Neysa with little more than the rock, the clothes on his back, and a blade strapped to his leg. Three days later, the deserters were dead.

Clade had never killed anyone before, but that day he darkened the eyes of two men and two women. Niele never even saw him. He took her from behind, snapping her neck before she had a chance to react. The second and third were messier. One landed a blow across his ribs, cutting open his side; but then the man fumbled the knife and Clade stuck a dagger in his throat. The fourth was young, not yet bound. He begged for mercy before he died. Clade would have spared him, given the choice, but his orders were clear and the god was right there.

Afterwards, he felt none of the nausea that his training had warned him of. Looking down at the lifeless bodies, he was filled instead with profound melancholy. The feeling stayed with him for weeks, haunting his thoughts throughout the return journey. Standing at the rail, staring out over the sea, he’d resolved never again to take a life with his own hands.

Garrett was the eighth.

Someday there would probably be a ninth.

Resolutions were futile. He was a murderer. He had been ever since that day near Neysa. Atonement was a mirage, a false hope peddled by fools and charlatans. If there were gods somewhere who judged men for their crimes, then he, Clade, was guilty. One victim more or less made no difference.

No matter that my cause has changed. No matter that a copy of Niele’s treatise now hides under the carpet beneath my bed. Blood is blood, no matter what.

There was nothing to gain from regrets. He’d more than likely have to kill again before this was through. His life — any life — had space for only one absolute. Eventually, a choice was always required, and he had made this choice a long time ago. Far better to accept it and move on than to agonise over things that could never change.

A magpie alighted on the windowsill, pecking at it briefly before swooping down to the street below to scavenge for food. Clade stood by the window, and watched, and waited.

•

The summons came the following morning.

For some reason, Estelle had chosen a small, bare suite on the second floor. The room was dusty and airless; thick with the presence of the god. A wrapped object lay on the table before her. She watched him enter, her lined face expressionless save for a slight droop about the eyes.
She’s tired. Is that good or bad?
He seated himself in silence.

When she spoke, her tone was formal. “Clade Alsere. You are summoned to give answer for the death of Garrett Drasso two days past. Answer will be given in the presence of the Council and in the sight of Azador.”

She lifted the wrappings to reveal a misshapen black mass about the size of a cannonball. Lamplight bounced off the irregular planes at odd angles, defying his attempt to make out its precise shape. Tiny flecks of green and orange seemed to float just beneath the surface. Clade nodded, unsurprised. Though its deformities were different, the object was unmistakably a twin to the rock once given him by the Council. A greater locus of Azador.

The god’s presence ballooned outward, filling the room like a cloud, invisible yet palpable. Clade felt it pressing down on him, wrapping itself around him as though trying to find a way inside. His gorge rose; he coughed once, then gagged, clamping his jaw shut as the acid taste of hours-old breakfast washed past his throat and into his mouth.

Estelle placed a hand on the stone and the pressure eased. Clade swallowed hard, forcing the contents of his stomach back down. She frowned at a thin stack of papers on the table before her, then looked up.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Garrett attacked me,” Clade rasped. He glanced around, looking for a jug of water, but the only other furniture in the room was a low bookcase, its shelves empty save for dust. “I was forced to defend myself.”

“You know I need more than that,” Estelle said. “Attacked you how?”

Clade shrugged. “Some sort of binding. One I didn’t recognise.”

“Tell me about it.”

He paused, as though going over the event in his mind. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I dodged as he cast it and it split the table. There was no physical manifestation of any kind. Nothing to indicate the spell’s foundation.”

“Theories?”

“To be honest, I’ve been a little too preoccupied with almost getting killed to give it much thought.”

“Hmm.” Estelle examined her papers, touched the stone again. The earlier oppressiveness had lifted somewhat; the god’s presence, though still discomforting, was now more brooding than stifling. A frown crossed Estelle’s brow, and she stared intently at the stone.

Clade coughed, swallowed, and waited.

Estelle looked up. “Garrett cast the binding. Then what?”

“He began to cast it again.”

“The same binding? Are you sure?”

He allowed himself a short glare. “No, I’m not sure. I didn’t have the luxury of making myself sure.”

She waved her hand, conceding the point. “He began another binding, then. Is that when you struck him?”

“Yes.”

“With a marble bookend.”

“Yes,” Clade said again.

“From behind.”

“No.”

She frowned. “I have the physician’s report here. It describes a single wound to the back of Garrett’s head. How did you come to strike him there?”

“Very simply. He turned away at the last moment.”

Estelle looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. Clade met her regard in silence. Further embellishment would do nothing for his credibility; on the contrary, it would simply invite contradiction. Truth was bland, dreary, boring. Meaningless elaboration was a sure sign of a nervous storyteller.

“This is the third Oculus death in Anstice in the past year,” Estelle said. “The rest of us would be forgiven for starting to feel a little nervous.”

Clade snorted. “The others had nothing to do with me.” Bes had been knifed in an alley by some passing gutter dweller, while Farna had managed to fall under a stonecutter’s wagon on East Bridge. “It’s all in the reports.”

She turned back to the stone, her brow furrowed in concentration, and suddenly Clade understood.
You can scarcely hear it. Even with that thing, you can barely tell it’s there.
The god shifted about the room, restless, the swirling motion-without-motion forcing Clade to press his hands against the table to steady himself. Yet Estelle stared at the twisted rock like one straining to hear a whisper in a crowd, oblivious to its agitation, unable to discern whatever it was that Azador sought to convey.

At last she removed her hand and sat back. “Clade Alsere,” she said. “In the sight of Azador, it is my judgement that this hearing be suspended and transferred to Zeanes, there to take place before the entire Council. You will depart this city tomorrow —”

“No.”

Estelle gaped. “I beg your pardon?”

The words seemed to come of their own volition. “Forgive me, Councillor, but I cannot leave Anstice. It is imperative that I stay in the city.”

“Explain.”

Clade moistened his lips. The shock of his interruption was already gone from Estelle’s face, replaced by a strange mixture of offence and curiosity. Azador, too, was still, waiting for his response. He hesitated. Once he opened this door, there was no closing it again. He could speak now and remain in Anstice, bring the resources of the Oculus to bear on the elusive urn, and in doing so multiply the risk of exposure a hundredfold. Or he could play it safe and remain silent, returning to Zeanes and biding his time until another opportunity arose.

Assuming it ever did.

So much for avoiding attention.

“Councillor, I believe I am close to determining the location of a Valdori golem army.”

A surge of greed broke over him, voracious and potent: the lust of the god. He jerked his hand back from the table, away from the stone, retreating inward and barricading himself against the storm. He heard a distant gasp, saw Estelle flinch back from the rock as if burned. She spoke, but the words were muffled, as though his ears were wrapped with wool. He hunched down in his chair, eyes closed, and waited for the assault to pass.

“Clade.” A hand touched his shoulder, shook it. “Clade. Are you ill? Answer me.”