undying legion 01 - unbound man (9 page)

Arandras crossed the square briskly, passing through the Library’s high doors and into a narrow foyer. To the left lay the vast reading room, which formed the sum of most people’s experience of the Library — only registered scribes were permitted either to browse the shelves in person or borrow a book. A waist-high gate at the foyer’s end barred access to the stairs that led to the Library proper; beside it, a man in Library grey surveyed the room, his face impassive. Doors on the right opened to the smaller enquiry room, where men and women in grey sat at high desks built into a long wooden counter, some engaged in low conversation with a scribe or other inquirer, others waiting to be approached.

All right, Yevin,
Arandras thought, entering the enquiry room and scanning the open desks.
Let’s find out what you’ve been reading.

Most of the desks were occupied by regular library staff, but at the endmost desk he saw what he was looking for: a student of perhaps seventeen summers pushing a pair of leather-framed eyeglasses higher on her nose, the embroidered tome-and-inkpot of the Library still fresh on her grey shirt. She looked up at his approach and frowned as the eyeglasses slid back down.

“How can I help you?” she said, adjusting her eyeglasses again and tilting her head back to keep them in place.

“I’d like to check another scribe’s borrowing record, please,” Arandras said. “A man named Yevin Bauk.”

“Oh.” The girl looked at him in surprise. “People really do that?”

“On occasion.” Arandras offered her a slight smile. “If you please.”

As Arandras understood it, the rule had been introduced by one of the later scholar-kings, as an attempt either to undermine the growing power of the scribal class or to shore up popular support by throwing open the Library to the whole city. Whatever the reason, the borrowing records of those accorded the privilege were technically public property, and could be browsed at any time by anyone admitted to the Library. In practice, the request was rarely made, and even more rarely satisfied unless the requester was himself a Library scribe.

The girl disappeared through a door at her back, returning after only a minute or two with a handful of papers. “Here we are,” she said, resuming her seat and adjusting her eyeglasses once more. “Yevin’s most recent loan consisted of two volumes. There, you see?”

Arandras examined the indicated section. One of the books was an untitled treatise by Tiysus Oronayan, a historian and philosopher from the time of the Second Kharjik Expansion, comparing Valdori gods and practices with those of the even earlier Yanisinian culture. The other was simply called
Forms of Sorcery,
with no author listed. He placed his finger on a small squiggle beside the title, marked in a different ink to the rest of the page. “What’s that mean?”

“That’s an instruction not to return the books to the shelf. Someone else must have had them on reserve.”

“Huh. Can you find out who?”

The girl smiled. “See that note at the bottom? That’s a ‘Q’.” She paused, obviously expecting a response, but Arandras just shook his head. “As in the Quill. The sorcerers, you know?”

“Yes, I know who the Quill are,” Arandras said. “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. I thought only Library scribes were permitted to borrow books.”

The girl nodded, causing her eyeglasses to slip again. “That’s right, of course. Narvi of the Quill joined the Library a few months ago. He comes in quite often, almost every week.”

Narvi’s here?
Arandras stared.
What in the hells is Narvi doing in Spyridon?
“A few months ago,” he repeated. “He’s been here that long?”

“Ah, I thought it was you!” came a familiar voice from just behind him, and Arandras started to turn, a smile already forming on his face; but this voice was harsh, grating, and unpleasantly triumphant. Not Narvi. More like…

“Onsoth.”

The official give a satisfied smirk. “Lord Swine. Well, well. How did you get so far from your sty?”

Ignoring him, Arandras turned back to the girl. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“What’s this?” Onsoth picked up the page. “Checking up on who’s borrowing what?” He shook his head, tutting disapprovingly. “Dear me. Feeling envious of our betters, are we?” He dropped the page and strode to the middle of the room. “Excuse me, please,” he called out, and a hush descended on the room. “Staff, please take note.” He pointed at Arandras. “This man is not a Library scribe. He does not have the privileges of a Library scribe. Please treat him as you would any other illiterate, low market scum.” He smiled. “That’s all.”

The weight of the room’s eyes settled on Arandras. He stood, face burning beneath his beard, and started toward the door.

Onsoth stepped into his path. “Nothing to say, Lord Swine?” he said softly, his lips curled in a smug smile.

Arandras met his gaze. “Not to you.”
And still less to your masters, who will pat you on the head and tell you what a good cur you are.
“Step aside.”

With a mocking flourish, Onsoth complied. “Stay in your hole next time,” he murmured as Arandras passed. “We don’t want your stench infesting the books.”

Too late for that,
Arandras thought as he reached the door at last and emerged into the plaza. Against the reek of the Library, no other scent stood a chance.

•

The benefits of being Havilah’s not-quite-adjunct were soon apparent. The house steward invited Eilwen to move out of her single room and into a two-room suite.

The steward offered her a choice between a first floor suite overlooking the river and one on the ground floor by the building’s interior garden. Eilwen inspected both and chose the latter, drawn by the low-branching eucalypt just outside. The suite was already furnished — desk and shelves in the front room, bed in the back — but it took the better part of the day for her to move her possessions, and each trip up and down the stairs sapped the strength from her leg a little more. Her small library was first to come down, the books freed from their crate at the foot of her old bed and placed carefully on the shelves meant for her work. Next came her travel bags, followed by armfuls of clothing, then other assorted items. By sunset, even her good leg was beginning to ache; and when at last she came in with the final sack of sundries, she dumped it in a corner and collapsed onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to lie still.

I’m aware of your hobby. It’s going to have to stop.
Havilah’s words echoed in her ears, low and rolling and sad.
I can do that,
she’d said in response; but in truth, she wasn’t sure. In the days following a kill, while she was still sick with horror and disgust, it was easy to renounce her bloodlust and swear to make an end of it. But sooner or later the horror would pass and her conviction would fade with it, turning first to desire, then to mere hope. And then, predictable as Rondossan clockwork, memories of the
Orenda
would stir once more, filling her with thoughts of justice unserved and a deep, unrelenting hunger, until eventually even hope would desert her and she would yield to the beast within once more.

What reason, then, to expect success now? What had changed that wouldn’t change back? No matter how strong her intentions, sooner or later they would wane, and the whole wearisome cycle would begin anew.

But if she truly meant to stop, there was something she could do.
I can cut out the eye that shows me who deserves to die. I can destroy the black amber egg.

Her mind shrank back even as it found the thought. The polished black spheroid was all she had of Tammas and the
Orenda,
all that was left to remind her of the two crates she’d brought on board, of the dozens of people she’d delivered up to be killed.

And why do you wish to be reminded?
a traitor voice whispered in her mind. She tried half-heartedly to silence it, but it spoke on.
What good has the memory done you? The egg is a chain around your ankle, dragging you down again and again. Be rid of it. Free yourself.

Eilwen pushed the words away. She was a trader. Persuasion was a tool she employed, not one to which she submitted. And the egg, too, was a tool, nothing more. If there was corruption to be found, it lay not with the egg but deep in her own heart, where nothing could touch it. It didn’t matter what she did. Sooner or later, the desire to kill would rise again, egg or no egg.

That’s what you fear, isn’t it?
the traitor voice whispered.
More than anything else. You fear that the urge to kill will come, but you will no longer possess the means to choose.

The thought shook her. Was it true? Was this why she held it so tightly — because even the prospect of killing again was better than the chance she might need to kill but be unable to do so? The darkness yawned, an abyss within her, and she lay trembling on the bed, her heart pounding in her ears.

When she rose, she felt as if she were sleepwalking, as though her body were acting of its own volition. She dug the smooth, black mass out of her pack and unwrapped it. It winked in her palm, bewitching for its darkness, like a jewel of the night.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then, standing swiftly, she drew her arm back and hurled it against the stone floor.

It struck with a crack, bouncing away into the shadows at the foot of the bed. Eilwen scrambled after it, retrieving it from the corner of the room and holding it to the light; but the egg was undamaged, its glossy black unmarked by the impact. A mad panic seized her and she threw the egg again, and again, and when it remained whole she took a rock from the garden outside and struck the egg with it, over and over, trying to crush it, pulverise it, grind it to powder. But nothing she did so much as scuffed the surface; and at last she cast herself onto the bed, weeping, the hateful egg wrapped in her fist.

After a time, another thought came to her. She opened the sacks that she had brought down but not yet unpacked, scattering their contents across the floor until she found what she was seeking: an old iron trowel, its blade notched but still strong.

Outside, kneeling before the eucalypt in the light of the half-moon, she began to dig, angling around the larger roots and hacking through the smaller ones until she had a hole almost as deep as her arm was long. Then she took the egg and placed it at the bottom, reaching all the way in to be sure, releasing it only when her fingers brushed earth. Head bowed, she pressed it into the dirt with her fingertips, wishing she were a Quill earthbinder so she could send it down, deep down, out of reach and beyond recall.

Eventually she withdrew her arm and began shoving the dirt back in, stomping it down, packing it hard. Then the wild energy left her and she stumbled back inside, undressed, and fell into bed. She lay there as the night crawled by; exhausted but unable to sleep, waiting for the grey light of dawn.

•

A loud knock woke Eilwen from her slumber. She sat up, blinking in the light — golden light, not grey. Dawn had come and gone.

She rose, cursing, and reached for her clothes. Dirt stained her sleeves and the entire lower half of her trousers. She flung them on regardless, brushing them off as best she could until a second knock sounded, harsh and insistent, and she gave up.

“A moment!” she called, hastily belting her trousers. She strode into the outer room, hissing at the sensation of cold stone beneath her bare feet, and threw closed the door to her bedchamber. A third knock came. She tied back her hair, paused a moment to catch her breath, and opened the door.

An unfamiliar man stood waiting, a large box slung awkwardly under one arm and a tight expression on his face. He squinted down his long nose at her, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You are Eilwen Nasareen?” He proffered the box before she could respond. “These are for you.”

After the exertions of the previous day, Eilwen had no desire to hoist yet another box, however short the distance. “Uh, thank you,” she said, stepping aside to let him pass. “On the desk will be fine.”

He brushed past her, scowling, and dropped the box on the desk with a thud. “These are agent reports for the past month,” he said without turning, as if addressing the box. “Older reports are also available, should you wish to see them.”

Eilwen folded her arms, frowning at the man’s back. His collar and trouser hems were frayed and showed signs of clumsy repair, and his hair was beginning to thin. “And you are?”

“Ufeus.” He turned, staring at a point somewhere beside her ear. “I perform low-level coordination of our agents in Anstice. Master Havilah informs me that I now report to you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Ufeus. I’m Eilwen.” She caught herself, smiled. “As you already know, of course.”

A flicker of one eyelid was her only response.

Oh, gods, another Pel.
She pressed on before her smile could slip away. “What does that mean, exactly? ‘Low-level coordination?’”

“I maintain regular contact with each agent,” Ufeus said stiffly. “I relay instructions from Master Havilah. I provide agents whatever resources they require. I receive each agent’s reports and channel the information back to Master Havilah. I keep an archive of past reports, which I use to cross-check information as required. In short, I implement the decisions of Master Havilah.”

“Or, now, you implement my decisions.”

Bitterness flitted across his face, there and gone again in the space of a heartbeat. “Indeed.”

“Well. Thank you, Ufeus. I’m sure I’ll want to talk with you again once I’ve taken in all of that.” She gestured at the box. “Is there anything that you feel requires my immediate attention?”

Ufeus hesitated, his gaze shifting sideways to meet her own for the first time. His eyes were hard and narrow — reassessing her, perhaps, or maybe suspicious that she was somehow mocking him. “There is an… oddity,” he said at last. “A complaint from Brielle.” He spoke the name with an odd emphasis, one that suggested some kind of disfavour. “She seems to think that one of our other agents is encroaching on her territory, dealing with some of her contacts directly.”