undying legion 01 - unbound man (31 page)

“Brothers and sisters, I say for the third time, dry your tears. Our brother, Garrett Drasso, no longer weeps with us. He rests now in the halls of the Gatherer, as must we all when our lives here are done, there to await the end of all things.”

The priest settled into his discourse, expounding on Garrett’s life, his gifts, and which of the Twenty Virtues he had particularly upheld. Clade allowed his attention to drift. He’d met with the priest’s acolytes the previous day, half worried that one of them might attempt to speak with the dead man’s spirit, as some of the Gatherer’s servants were reputed to do. But either the stories were groundless, or Garrett simply wasn’t worth the effort. The acolytes had asked him questions about Garrett’s life, which he’d answered as best he could, and then they’d left.

The exercise had been tedious enough the first time and Clade saw no need to attend to it again, the priest’s numerous embellishments and exaggerations notwithstanding.
Only half of what I told them was true, anyway. What we’re getting now is even less than that.
It seemed appropriate. The man had built a life around wearing masks to gain advancement. How better to remember him in death than this?

His thoughts turned to Sera, and the conversation they’d shared earlier in the day. The uncomfortable feeling that had seized him still lingered, unnamed and uncaptured. Perhaps, somehow, he felt responsible for her. It was he who had trained her, at least to begin with; he who encouraged her on the path, convinced her that she was capable of joining them. But for him, she might still be free.

Or perhaps not. If he hadn’t been there, someone else may have taken up his role. Perhaps, in the end, his actions had changed nothing.

Nonetheless, I was there. I am responsible.

But what could he do now? Plan to take her with him, free her as well as himself? The thought was madness. Even if she wanted it, the risk would be far too high. And if she didn’t want it, or wasn’t sure…

No, the whole thing was impossible. Sera was Oculus now. She belonged to Azador, just like the rest of them. Which meant Clade had to keep her out. Just like the rest of them.

“Garrett has left us,” the priest said, his tone that of one drawing important matters to a close. “Yet hope remains. He shared this hope, as do all of us here today. It is written that at the end of time, all things will change. The Dreamer will awaken. The Weeper will smile and laugh. And the Gatherer will release all that has been gathered. On that day, at the end of all days, we will see our brother once more. And we will never be parted again.”

The priest bowed his head, and several of the Oculus did likewise. The four casket bearers stood, raising the box to their shoulders and beginning the climb back through the sanctum as the priest on the platform prayed.

“Great Gatherer, we commit our brother Garrett to your care, trusting that you will keep him, and us, until your great task is done. We honour you. We thank you. Amen.”

Clade sighed. The ceremony was over. The others stirred, and the hall was suddenly filled with the sound of half a dozen conversations all starting at once. He stood, twisting to stretch the muscles in his back.
Never be parted again. Gods, what a horrible thought.

“We leave for the burial ground at hour’s end,” the priest said, his voice rising effortlessly above the low hum. “Those who wish to accompany the body should wait in the yard outside.”

The Oculus began to file out in groups of two or three. Clade hung back, watching them as they left. There were no tears now. A good sign.

“Sera,” he said, catching her sleeve as she filed past. “A moment?”

Sera glanced up, her expression uncharacteristically sober. She gave a faint smile, nodded.

He drew her away, out of earshot of the others. “How are you holding up?”

“Well enough.” The smile on her face turned rueful. “It’s funny, you know. I didn’t think I believed in this any more. Well, that’s not true. It’s not that I’ve turned away from them.” She gestured vaguely at the gods depicted on the ceiling. “It’s more like… I don’t know. I didn’t think they mattered so much, I guess, now that I have Azador. But being here, and with the service…” She shrugged.

“That’s every priest’s job in a nutshell, isn’t it?” Clade said. “To convince you that what they’re talking about matters.”

The faint smile returned, acknowledging the joke. “Not all of them, surely?”

“All that I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t do that, I mean.”

He cocked his head, unsure of her meaning.

“Oh, I know you’re not really a priest. Not in the same way. But it’s similar, isn’t it? Azador speaks to the Council. They relay his words to you. You lead us here in Anstice.” She met his gaze, and something in her eyes spoke of secrets on the brink of confession. “But you’re not like the others. You don’t spend all your time trying to convince us to think something. You act as if it’s perfectly obvious what to think and just get on with the practical, everyday matters.” The twinkle returned to her eye. “That’s what I found so appealing, you know. A god that doesn’t need its followers defending it all the time — that’s a god worth following.”

He stared, not willing to believe what he heard.
You looked at me, and thought you saw — what? The confidence of the god? Were my true feelings so easy to miss?
But of course she’d mistaken him, she and all the others. He’d done everything possible to make it so.

“We should go,” Sera said, glancing up to the rear of the room. The great sanctum was empty now, save for the two of them, and an assistant priest surveying the room from beside the door. “We don’t want to miss the burial.”

“Of course.”

They made their way up the steps and out to the anteroom. Most of the Oculus were already gone, either waiting in the yard as instructed or returning home, but Estelle remained, leaning heavily on her stick just inside the door. She looked up at their approach.

“Ah, Requiter. Good. Shall we lay our man to rest?”

“Will Azador be there, do you think?” The words came out before he could stop them. He cursed inwardly, immediately regretting them. But Estelle simply smiled as though he had asked about nothing more significant than the weather, and tapped his chest with the top of her stick.

“Of course it will, Clade. How could it not? Azador sees all.”

Chapter 12

Who among us has not spoken more harshly than we intended, or hastened to mock something only half-understood? Such barbs are seeds, cast heedless into the air; and though nine may fall amid rocks and thorns, the tenth takes root, sending forth shoot and leaves until it stands proud beneath the sun, ready for harvest.

Thus does our past reappear, with knives.

— Tiysus Oronayan
Histories
Second Volume

Arandras peered at his distorted reflection in the bulbous glass mirror held by the barber, then scowled and waved it away. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, smoothing his clipped hair and scraping his palm against his beard.

The barber grunted and reached for a comb, shoving it through Arandras’s remaining hair with enough force to scratch his scalp. After half a dozen such strokes, apparently satisfied with his handiwork, the barber emitted another grunt and pulled the smock over Arandras’s head, releasing him from its heavy folds.

A breath of cool, late-afternoon air stole in through the open doorway, momentarily lightening the close atmosphere within the shop. Arandras deposited a pair of copper duri into the barber’s meaty palm and resisted the temptation to grunt his thanks. Settling for a nod, he stepped out of the shop and into a narrow alley, following its angled path down to a small riverside plaza just inside the city wall.

Mara sat on a bench near the water’s edge, a sliver of sunlight highlighting the top of her head but leaving the rest of her in shadow. The bench faced the powder works and redoubt on the other side of the river; the city’s centre stretched away to the right, the view framed by Bastion Bridge and the line of the old wall. A procession of some sort seemed to be approaching the bridge, though it was hard to tell through the narrow gaps in the stonework.
Looks like a funeral train,
Arandras thought, peering at the knot of walkers.
What a tawdry thing to do to someone who’s just died. Parading them through the streets like a damn trophy.

He came to a halt before the bench. The seat was comfortably sized for two, but Mara sat in the middle, her arms outstretched against its back. Arandras squinted down, the sun warm on his face. “Care to move over?”

She grinned and shuffled sideways. “Nice cut,” she said as he sat down.

Arandras narrowed his eyes. “Why, what’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” A smirk touched the corner of her lips and he watched her try to push it away. “Not unless you count the bare patch on your cheek…” The smirk won out, and she broke into laughter.

“You’re a bad liar,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“Whatever you say.”

Arandras surveyed the river, wrinkling his nose at the faint smell of rot. Not far from their position, a heavily laden barge made laborious progress against the current, half a dozen polemen straining to propel the boat toward one of the arched channels at the bottom of the outer wall. Even with its oars shipped, the barge seemed too wide to fit through the opening; but as Arandras watched, it glided into the tunnel, slowly vanishing like an illusionist’s toy, the curved roof of its cabin perfectly matching the shape of the stone above it.

He let out his breath with a heavy sigh. “We found something,” he said.

“You know who sent the letter?”

“No. Something else.” Arandras glanced around, but the nearest people were a pair of young lovers giggling on the next bench. He lowered his voice anyway. “It’s the urn. We think it leads to a Valdori golem army.”

“
What?
”

“Bannard ran off to find Narvi as soon as we figured it out. They were heading in to see Damasus when I left. Weeper knows who Damasus will want to tell. Someone in Chogon, probably.”

“A golem army.” Mara laughed. “Gods. No wonder those Quill who dug up the urn were killed for it.”

“Yeah,” Arandras said morosely. “No wonder.”

Of all the wonders wrought by the Valdori, golems had been the greatest. Constructs of earth and stone, shaped like giants, their every action directed by their master. In truth, they were little more than glorified puppets — yet what puppets they were. Depending which histories one read, golems had either hastened, postponed, or triggered the Calamities and the fall of the Valdori.
And now I as good as have an army of them right here in my bag, and tomorrow the Quill will be slavering at my feet.

Weeper spare me.

The great waterwheels on the other side of the river swung slowly around in their never-ending revolution. One had a missing paddle, and Arandras watched as the gap rose into the air, crested the circumference, then slid downward, diving beneath the surface before emerging and beginning its ascent again.

“It doesn’t help,” he said at last. “I thought learning the urn’s purpose would lead me to whoever was looking for it. But who wouldn’t want to find… them?”

Mara gave him an amused look. “You mean besides yourself?”

“Gods. It could be anyone.”

“Not anyone,” Mara said. “They’d have to know about it in the first place.”

“Which only leaves scholars, sorcerers, children listening to stories from their nurses…”

“No. I mean this specific urn, buried in a forest in the middle of nowhere.”

The gap in the wheel slipped below the water again. “What’s your point?”

“That the problem is no harder today than it was yesterday,” Mara said. “And if the urn’s not leading you to your man, there are other avenues to try. Find out who else calls Anstice home. Sorcerers. Groups, independents. Anyone who might be in a position to find out about the urn and use it.”

“And then what? Knock on their door and ask whether they’ve killed any Quill lately?”

“We can work that out later. First things first.”

A trio of round coracles floated out from one of the tunnels beneath the wall, each following the one ahead like beads on a string. Arandras had seen them on previous visits to the city: circular boats made of skins stretched over a wooden frame, each filled with straw then loaded with cargo and rowed down the Tienette by men from the villages upstream. On arrival in Anstice, the villagers would sell the cargo, then the straw, then the wood of the frame; then, having purchased some goods and a beast to bear them, they would bundle the skins onto its back and make their way home. Sometimes, instead of buying an animal, they would bring one with them; but Arandras could see no donkey aboard any of the vessels now drifting past, just casks and crates and straw.

He sighed and stretched out his legs. “I hear there’s a madwoman down the other end of the city,” he offered. “Teaches claybinding, apparently.”

“Oh?”

“Uh huh.”

Mara eyed him suspiciously. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“And there’s a nest of Bel Hennese just across the river,” he continued. “Well, probable Bel Hennese. It’s hard to be sure. You know.”

She fixed him with a level gaze. “Arandras.”

He smiled. “Senisha was telling me about them.”

“What, the librarian?”

“The same. Seems to know the shape of the city quite well.”

“Huh. Well, good.” Mara leaned back, propping her elbows up on the back of the bench. “Get addresses if you can. It’ll make it easier.”

“Make what easier?” Arandras said, but Mara made no reply.

The coracles passed under the old wall and out of sight. Across the river, a bird alighted on one of the wheels, riding the paddle to the top and then fluttering away.

“A golem army,” Mara said, gazing out over the shadowed water. “Wouldn’t that be something to see?”

But the excitement that had filled Bannard and Senisha and that now tinged Mara’s voice was absent in Arandras. The Quill could have the damn golems, for all he cared. They’d be willing to bankrupt every schoolhouse in Kal Arna to buy the urn now. Once he found his man, he’d sell it to them, and good riddance.