undying legion 01 - unbound man (4 page)

Weeper’s tears.

Side by side, there could be no mistaking it. Despite the differences in language and letterforms, the penmanship was the same: precise shapes, unusually heavy downstrokes, graceful loops. The thickness of the pen, the colour of the ink; even the finely-textured, uncommonly light-toned paper was the same.

He sucked in a lungful of air, the breath shuddering in his chest.
They told me you were dead. Found floating in the river with your throat slit.
His hand trembled on the desk, brushing the old ransom note askew, defying his efforts to still it.

He turned the letter over, but the seal showed no crest or identifying mark, just an abstract, maze-like pattern.
Still no name.
Inside would be different, though. The letter itself would surely be signed. All he had to do was open it, and —

“Arandras? Did I happen to — oh, thank the gods, there they are.” Grae crossed the floor to Arandras’s desk, gazing at Yevin’s letters with the rapture of a man who had just found his coinpurse. Instinctively, Arandras shifted his hand to conceal the unfolded note. “Thank the gods,” Grae repeated as he gathered up the bundle. His gaze fell on the sealed letter before Arandras, and he reached out an expectant hand.

Slowly, feeling as though he were watching from over his own shoulder, Arandras held the letter out. “I thought I recognised the seal on this one,” he said. “Can you tell me who sent it?”

Grae took it and glanced it over. “No, sorry. Could have been someone in Anstice, but I can’t be sure. Most of these are from Anstice.” The letter disappeared into his bag. “These are all for Yevin. Yevin Bauk, one of the scribes up at the Arcade? You could ask him.”

“Perhaps I will,” Arandras said.
Alive and in Anstice, but still no name. Never a name.

The courier nodded and left, but Arandras sat there a long while, staring at the old note and the space on his desk where the letter had been. The note was short, its brief message burned into his memory. Even now, five years on, it haunted his dreams; and when he encountered it there, the final line was always enough to tear him awake.

Speak of this to nobody, or your wife will be dead by morning.

And every time he woke, Tereisa was still dead, and he was alone.

•

Murder always left Eilwen Nasareen feeling ill.

She shifted in the saddle of her Guild-owned horse, rubbing ineffectually at the ache in her bad leg. Today was her fourth day on the road after a successful trade visit to Spyridon, and the third since the kill. Her victim’s face had been bandaged. She’d never seen his eyes. Yet her stomach had been churning ever since, and even now, as she approached the end of her journey, her gorge rose at the memory of what she had done.

And of the four of them, she had killed only one.

Grimacing, Eilwen urged her horse on, her eyes narrowed to a squint against the bright sun. Fields of beans and barley crowded the road, the golden stalks of the latter waving gently in the faint breeze and filling the air with their grassy scent. Behind them stretched pastures dotted with recently sheared sheep, some grazing in small groups, others standing apart as though ashamed to be seen without their fleeces. Despite the day’s warmth, a sympathetic chill stole into Eilwen and she hunched lower in the saddle.

Ahead lay Anstice, almost close enough to smell; its rooftops, spires, chimneys and redoubts all reaching skyward like trees competing for sunlight. The great forest of masonry sprawled across the landscape, spilling past the outer wall and into the surrounding farmland. She’d often felt when returning from a journey that the city had spread a little more in her absence, like a single living entity growing ever more corpulent.

One day it will grow so fat that the earth will collapse beneath it, leaving nothing but a vast chasm,
she thought, and shivered at the imagined scene.

The black amber egg lay quiet at the bottom of her bag, wrapped once more in rags. She’d been a fool to take it out back at the inn; a fool to forget the hatred that stirred whenever the egg identified another of
them,
and the chafing desolation that could only be assuaged with another death. But she’d been weary, worn out by her negotiations in Spyridon and exhausted after her first day on the road. She’d not even realised what she was doing until she touched the polished egg, and then it was too late. After so long carrying the accursed object, she’d known exactly what its complex pulses meant: four servants of the Oculus, token-bearers all; three of them more distant, probably in the common room below, and the fourth in the room just across the corridor from her own.

The door had been unlocked; the room dark save for a candle by the bed in which the man lay. His head had been wrapped in wide linen bandages, but the bindings had shifted on one side to reveal angry, burned flesh across his cheek and ear. She’d been careful, creeping up beside him without a sound, not even a stumble from her bad leg. He’d had no idea she was there until she pressed the blanket over his face.

Afterwards, as always, she had resolved to cast the dark egg away. And then she had wrapped it and returned it to her pack, as she invariably did.

Never again.
She looked up at the road, pressing her legs to her horse’s sides and loosing an involuntary hiss as it broke into a trot.
I will never unwrap the damned thing again.

But, of course, that was what she always told herself.

There was no single point where the fields ended and the city began. Here a slaughterhouse abutted the road, there an inn and stables; then she was riding past a cluster of partially constructed buildings, some nearing completion, others little more than timber skeletons. Builders and craftsmen laboured under the sun’s steady gaze, shouting and hammering and crowding the road, many working with beams and other materials marked with the symbol of Eilwen’s own guild. A high redoubt loomed away to her right, and ahead of her, the wall, cutting off her view of the city beyond. She turned her horse toward the hulking, pale grey gatehouse, its high flags of indigo and gold fluttering above the permanently open gate. Between the flags crouched the great winged leopard of Anstice, cast in snarling, weather-stained stone.

The road split beyond the gate, bifurcating into the twin thoroughfares that passed through the city’s heart and out the other side. Eilwen chose the eastern branch, resignedly settling in behind a covered wagon too wide to navigate around.
Ah, Anstice. Welcome home.
Largest of the five Free Cities worth the name, Anstice ranked among the most important trading hubs on the continent. Eilwen wouldn’t have wanted to live anywhere else.
But gods, I wish this place had fewer people.

Distracted by her thoughts, she almost missed her usual detour. She yanked the reins, steering her horse off the main road and walking it down a narrower side-street. The hunger would be near-impossible to rouse today, what with her still recovering from a kill; but avoiding the Oculus building was a good habit all the same, and in the wake of her latest lapse, she needed to make a point of reinforcing good habits.

After a few blocks, she rejoined the main thoroughfare.

Her first order of business on arrival, she decided, would be a bath. Pel would not expect her full report until tomorrow, and both her bags — one of trade samples, the other containing her personal items — would remain packed and ready for her next trip, whenever that might be. As a factor for the Woodtraders Guild, Eilwen was expected to be ready to travel whenever the instruction came down from the Trademaster. Such journeys were becoming less frequent now, as Pel did his best to allocate those assignments to others and so spare her leg the strain of travel. But Pel’s influence only went so far, and so she kept her purse full and her bags packed, just as she always had.

The road split again at Merchants’ Bridge, one branch a long, gently spiralling ramp lined with couturiers, moneylenders, and chocol houses, the other a wide set of steps that led directly to the bridge. Eilwen urged her horse up the steps and onto the bridge. A knot of children scattered at her approach, several waving sticks in mock combat as she rode by. Then she was down the other side, turning into Traders’ Row, passing the complexes belonging to the other merchant companies and reining up outside the compound of the Woodtraders Guild.

Eilwen walked her horse through the high gate and dismounted heavily, grunting as her feet hit the ground. The main building stood before her, high and imposing, its carved stone face lit up by the afternoon sun. A wide lane on one side led to the river and the private docks at the rear. Coloured paving stones, sculpted bronze lampposts, and ornamental carvings on the older buildings all spoke of tastefully restrained wealth. But the elegance of the original design was now merely a memory. The Guild no longer confined itself to the production and sale of timber — cloth, stone, jewellery, spices, and a hundred other commodities now filled its accounts. Its range of interests had grown broad enough to rival any of its competitors, save perhaps Three Rivers, and with growth had come change. Warehouses, stables, and other, smaller buildings now crowded the compound’s perimeter, their presence offering silent testimony to the triumph of practicality over display.

Abandoning her horse to a groom, Eilwen slung her bags over her shoulders and entered the main building.
First, find a maid and get that bath started. Second, tell Pel I’m back.
She made for the stairs, already imagining the caress of hot, rose-scented water drawing the ache from her leg. But as she rounded the landing, she found her path blocked by a familiar, ponderous form.

“Pel,” she said. “I was just coming to see you.”

Pel nodded, his face pinched in its usual disappointment. Eilwen suppressed the urge to say
I’m back
or something equally inane. Pel’s typical response to such statements was that of a man listening to a once respected but now senile parent: a pained, regretful silence.

When he spoke, his words were not what Eilwen expected to hear. “Master Havilah wants to see you,” he said.

“What?
Spymaster
Havilah?”

The pained silence; a momentary closing of the eyes. “The one and only,” he said, making it sound like a gentle rebuke.

“Uh… right. I was just going to take a bath before I did anything else…”

Pel shook his head once. “He wanted to see you as soon as you got back,” he said reasonably, as though explaining the matter to a child. “You can bathe later.”

A prickle of fear stole through her.
He knows.
Somehow, after all this time, Havilah had found her out. He must have had someone there at the inn, watching her.
Who was it? What did I miss?

Pel turned to leave. “Wait!” Eilwen yelped, and winced at the sound of her own voice. “Sorry. Um… what about my report? Do you want to hear…?”

But Pel was already shaking his head. “Later,” he said.

“Right. Later.”

She took a deep breath, watching Pel’s back as he slouched away, leaving her alone.
Alone.
It was strange that Havilah had not already had her detained. Strange, too, that he had allowed Pel to deliver the message instead of one of his own people.

Eilwen glanced around. Nobody seemed to be paying her any attention. Below, just out of sight, the main door stood open.
I should run.
But she knew she wouldn’t. She was a Woodtrader. Nothing else was as important as that.

I betrayed the Guild once before. I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it a second time.

Havilah’s office was on the ground floor. She turned and followed the stairs down.

•

The door to Havilah’s office was shut when Eilwen arrived. Her repeated knocking drew no response, and at last she retreated to a small, fortuitously vacant meeting chamber across the corridor. She paced, and sat, and paced again, confused and uncertain, as the sky outside the window turned pink and gold.

On reflection, it seemed unlikely that Havilah could have heard about her kill at the inn already. Nobody had seen her enter the injured man’s room, she was sure; least of all the man himself. And she had left the next morning before breakfast, riding as hard as her horse and her leg could manage. For someone to have deduced her involvement and then beaten her to Anstice… no, it was impossible.

He’s found out about one of the others, then. Or more than one. Enough to piece it all together.

But if so, where was he? Why keep her waiting? Eilwen racked her memory, trying to recall any contact she’d had with the man, any scrap of conversation. There wasn’t much. She was a trade factor. She worked for Pel, who was adjunct to Laris, the Trademaster. She had no involvement with Havilah or his little group of spies who kept the Guild informed of its competitors’ activities. No doubt parts of her reports found their way to his desk at times, but Pel coordinated all of that. It was nothing to do with her.

Her thoughts chased each other around her mind as she paced around the room, the late afternoon turning slowly to dusk outside, until at last Spymaster Havilah appeared at the door, an apologetic smile on his dark face.

“Ah, Eilwen,” he said, his voice rich with the rolling accent of the Tahisi. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. I hope Pel let you pick up some food before sending you here?”

Eilwen hadn’t felt hungry for days. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well. Let’s talk in my office.”

She followed him into the next room, her confusion deepening. Havilah seemed relaxed, even friendly.
What in the hells is this about?

Havilah shut the door and seated himself behind his desk. Eilwen perched on the edge of a simple wooden chair and glanced about the room. Books and papers filled the shelves covering one wall, but a second was given over to a large watercolour of a castle Eilwen didn’t recognise. A shallow alcove concealed a door that presumably led to Havilah’s private quarters. A disused raven’s perch stood in the corner farthest from the entrance, half hidden in shadow.