Quartz (21 page)

At the front door of the mansion, with his luggage once again in his hand, Rafe refused the litter and started down the hill on his own two feet.

Fresh air was also good for clearing his head of a burning desire to punch a certain ambassador in the nose.

Light was not in short supply in Ironheart. Lamps illuminated the bustle and industry of the city with white light. The hiss of gas was a constant refrain. Now and again Rafe saw a passerby or laborer casually relight a lamp that had gone out with one of the firesticks that stood in holders on every street. Accustomed to Oakhaven’s stricter fire laws and a contingent of uniformed state-employed lamplighters, Rafe found this entire attitude reckless, albeit in a scandalously freeing way.

His dusty clothes and average physique helped him blend into the crowds, in spite of the Oakhaven garb Coop had needled him about. The only boldly inquisitive glances he got were from children playing skip-the-stone and jump-rope amidst mountains of rubble and in fresh-dug ditches.

The man he hailed gave him directions to the Three Ships Tavern, but followed them up with, “Though, it is Sixth Day and everything shuts down when the Prayer Bells ring.”

“Ah, yes.” Rafe had forgotten that Ironheart, freed from the state-imposed atheism of Blackstone, had embraced religion with a zeal that amused the less devout Oakhavenites. “Forgive me, I am a stranger to your customs.”

The man laughed. “Aye. You have that Oakhaven way of talking. Younger son, are ye, lookin’ to make yer fortune, eh?”

“You could say that.”

A solemn bell tolled. Once, twice, thrice, each note considered and weighty. This was followed by the wistful chiming of lighter bells, the sound that lace might have, shaken out and draped over a bride’s head on Girdlesday.

Men put down tools and left their work, hurriedly splashing hands and faces in stone troughs. Children left their games and women appeared from inside houses. Since Coop was likely to be at the Prayer as well, Rafe let himself be jostled towards the nearest prayer house.

It was a small square building, very plain with whitewashed sides and a gray slate roof. Rafe entered the close dark space, where whispers and clothing rubbed against each other. He stood with his back cool against the brick wall, leaving what little space was available on the benches for the devout. More and more people streamed in, men and women and even children, till it seemed the little building would burst. There was no separation of the sexes like in Oakhaven. Rafe was squished between a stout woman with a basket over her arm and a solid laborer. The basket handle dug into his side. The only illumination came from lanterns on the raised platform up front and those merely turned blackness into grey.

They suddenly winked out.

The rustle and movement all around halted, as if cut off with a knife. The entire room held its breath.

A voice came whisper-soft through the black. “Welcome, brethren, friends, comrades, to the House of the Hidden One, the one who has turned His face away from us, because we turned our backs on Him. Listen, ye who would return, and hear the words the Hidden One spoke to our ancestors.”

A sigh ran around the room. The sheer ferocious concentration of everyone on that voice was a palpable force. In spite of his role as curious observer, Rafe felt all of his attention drawn to the front, and he waited with expectation to hear whatever mysteries, whatever oracles of an ancient god were about to be revealed.

“Lo! I am fire, all-consuming, all-brightening. I am water, ever-cooling, ever-refreshing.

“The chief of my commandments are love, charity, justice.

“Watch and wait, for I shall be among you.

“Call upon me and I will heed. Call upon my name and I will answer. Call for me by name and I will bend my eye to you and lay my hand upon your head. I am your god and my name is….”

A pause. A silence.

The voice again, no longer powerful and rich, but human, broken and rasped with some deep grief. “The name we have lost, brothers, sisters, friends. The name that once we knew is now hidden in darkness.”

Soft sobbing filled the room. Rafe felt awkward and uncomfortable, a stranger to the emotion all around him. The exit, though barely three arm’s lengths away, might’ve been in Oakhaven for all he was able to move. He made himself small and tried not to breathe too loudly.

Moments stretched away into darkness. Rafe counted his heartbeats. Then, “There is hope, brothers! Remember that He is fire and water, bounty-giving as well as all-consuming. Remember that charity and love are His commandments, and as He commands, so shall He do. Remember, brothers.” Lights flared around the room and Rafe recognized the speaker as Printer, one of the councilmen Rafe had met. “One day He will reveal Himself in the light.” He lifted his hands in benediction. “Go, and keep always before you the commandments of love, charity, and justice.”

It was over. The people surged to their feet, and a wave of humanity carried Rafe outside. He was disgorged like some kind of flotsam left on a beach as everyone scattered to their tasks.

It was the strangest service he had ever seen, and the briefest. Rafe tried to imagine the cynical irreverent Coop attending one of these and failed. Shaking his head, he went off in search of his friend.

“We don’t have fancy art and antique shops here like Oakhaven does. There are rubbish men and jumble sellers, all over, though, if you’re looking for serviceable iron skillets and used knickers.”

“It’ll take too long to dig through those,” said Rafe.

Cooper gave him a serious look. “What will you do once you find this mage artifact of yours?”

“Make a fair offer for it,” said Rafe tersely.

“Why does Oakhaven want this?”

“I’ve told you. We have some ancient kayan devices that could be weapons or wards. Leo and others think the Key can help activate them.” That was the official story. Leo had warned him not to breathe a word about the Tors Lumena. Ironheart, lacking the large agri-caves of other states, would certainly not balk at the chance to acquire one of their own.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I want Roland to get his hands on one of those, seeing as how everything provokes him these days.” Coop whistled through his teeth. “Where do we start?”

“I have to find a woman.”

“Again, eh?” Coop’s eyebrows arched. “Got a girl, finally?”

Rafe ignored the comment as he pondered how best to phrase his description of Isabella.
Have you seen a tall, dark-eyed woman, cold and humorless, with as much warmth in her manner as a machine?
No. How about,
A woman with no last name, sometimes going by Isabella, who seems to be in the heart of any trouble, possibly with ties to malcontents in Oakhaven?
Rafe grimaced. Not that, either.

In the end he settled for, “I’m looking for a woman this tall”—holding his hand up to indicate her height—“has silvery hair, very dark eyes, solemn and sober, dresses plain, keeps to herself. She goes by Isabella.”

“Doesn’t seem quite your type, Rafe,” muttered Coop, but he kept Rafe company as his friend stopped at every inn and teashop, asked every vendor hawking dried peas and roasted corn. The only answer they received was a shake of the head and an offer of food. Trying to find Isabella in Ironheart was like trying to find a diamond in a mountain of coal. Or maybe it was the other way around.

“They are twenty five thousand people in Ironheart,” Coop told the sky. “This could take a while.”

“Maybe not.” Rafe stopped in front of a garishly colored poster, blues and reds and greens all bleeding into each other. An impossibly muscled man in minimal clothing and wearing a constipated expression juggled balls of fire. There even appeared to be a halo of flame around his head. Emblazoned across the bottom was T
HE
G
REAT
J
ONGO
A
ND
H
IS
D
EATH
-D
EFYING
S
TUNTS
. Rafe pointed to where in tinier letters was written:
Freedom Field
.

“Isabella likes being around performers. We’re going there.”

“My sister makes the best scones this side of the Divide,” said Coop wistfully, but he led Rafe Freedom Field-ward cheerfully enough. Rafe had scrutinized a map of Ironheart on the boat, but the city was a maze under construction. Rafe and Coop scaled mounds of rubble, crossed ditches, and once, even jumped up on an unmoving digger. There was no Primary in Ironheart, all the machines were made from steel and iron and ran on steam, each operated manually. The lack of background buzz left a blissfully clear space in Rafe’s head.

Freedom Field was more swamp than arena at the lowest part of the valley, a waterlogged area under huge area lights. Sickly-looking fungi clung to the ground. Rafe squelched with every step and the red clayey soil clung to his boots. At the far side, a mass of performers whispered and jostled and held up kerosene lanterns.

Rafe heard, “Dead as last week’s fish” and “Phaugh, looks like one, too!” as he shouldered his way into the crowd of familiar people. Yes, definitely Burgess’ troupe. Someone else muttered, “She’s a bad omen. Things always go wrong when she turns up.”

Rafe had a good idea who the man referred to. He made his perfunctory pardons and pushed through the ogling performers. “Oy! Isn’t it Brev…?” began one, but then the last line broke without any resistance and Rafe half-fell into an open space.

He was not terribly surprised to see Isabella, kneeling beside something dark and crumpled-looking. An unhappy-looking Burgess, this time in a green vest and orange tights, lurked nearby.

Rafe squatted beside Isabella and saw that the hands of the corpse were paper-thin and that the face, turned away from the crowd, was fixed and ghastly. He had seen a corpse like this once before—and recently.

“Your contact?” he asked, soft-voiced, resigned.

Without looking up at him, Isabella nodded. Yes.

C
OOP GAVE A STRANGLED
gasp. Rafe turned his head sharply. His friend’s face was chalk-white and his eyes like holes. “You know this man?”

Coop swallowed, looking sick, immobile as if his knees were locked in place. “Yes. It’s my… grandfather, Rafe.”

Isabella rose in a fluid cat-like movement. “Then your family has the Renat Key and they are in danger. Lead us there.”

Swallowing down his astonishment—Coop had let him traipse around the city on a fruitless search—Rafe shook his friend’s shoulder. “
Now,
Coop!”

“But my grandfather!”

“Burgess.” Isabella looked at the burly firedancer. “Take care of this, won’t you?”

Burgess nodded, though he didn’t look too happy about it.

“Let’s go.” Rafe pulled Coop into a shambling walk, then a jog. “Do you want your sister to end up like that?” he said fiercely. “Then, move!”

Galvanized into action, Coop’s stride lengthened. Rafe chucked his suitcase at a nearby campsite and the three of them sprinted for Coop’s sister’s home.

“Felicity? Felicity!” Coop banged on the metal door, making it rattle in its frame. He pushed it open and strode into a narrow hall, Rafe and Isabella crowding in at his heels. “It’s Ver. Felicity, where are you?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Thank the Hidden God!” Coop turned right at the back of the hall, and abruptly stopped in the doorway. Rafe peered over his taller friend’s shoulder.

The woman who must be Felicity, Coop’s sister, was backed against a range in one corner, tight lines around her mouth.

And across a square table from her, holding a bundle and a knife, stood Karzov, the Blackstone Shadow.

Cooper made a sudden movement, abruptly stilled as Rafe grabbed his shoulder and pushed him out of the doorway and into the kitchen. Isabella, dark eyes hard, slid in after him, posture tense.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here?” said Karzov cheerily. “Why, it’s dear Izzy and the great Breveldo, himself. Last time I saw you,” he addressed Rafe, “you performed magnificently. Do you know, I think you could have a stage career?”

“Enough, Karzov,” said Isabella. “This is no time for us to be bickering on Blackstone and Oakhaven’s behalf.
They
are here. And a man is dead.”

“My grandfather.” Coop took a long step forward, fists clenched. “Did you have anything to do with it, you vile…” Isabella hushed Coop with a look, but Coop looked angry enough to melt iron.

Felicity paled. “Gramps?”

The room seemed likely explode with all that pent-up tension. All of them could probably take Karzov on, thought Rafe. He’d seen Isabella fight.

“Uh, uh! Don’t wake the baby!” Karzov jiggled the bundle in his arm and a blanket fell away to reveal a sleeping infant with a cap of fuzzy dark hair and a small face scrunched up in thoughtful repose.

Rafe stared. He had never seen a child that young.

“Don’t hurt him,” implored Felicity. Isabella broke in with, “Leave these people alone, Karzov. This is bigger than they are.”

“Well, he is rather sweet,” Karzov absently stroked the baby’s cheek with the pinky of his right hand, bringing the long knife so close to the baby’s face that Felicity gasped and Coop swore. Rafe held his breath.

“But, as you of all people must know, dear Isabella, duty calls.” Karzov smiled the sad smile of a man whose hand is forced.

“Your
duty
is not to the Protector or to Blackstone, but to your oath,” said Isabella. “By Selene Matriori, Karzov, have you forgotten what battle you’re really fighting?”

A tingle went down Rafe’s spine.
They
are here. Corpses that crumbled. Voices in the dark. And that cave, with the living darkness in it…

Karzov cocked his head. “And on your watch, too, Izzy! Tut tut. Why don’t you run along and deal with it while Mrs. Riley here hands over the Renat Key her family has been keeping safe for so long?”

Rafe tensed, measured the distance between himself and Karzov, the baby and the knife, and didn’t think he could make it.

Felicity gave Coop a fierce despairing look.