undying legion 01 - unbound man (40 page)

“And what if —” He broke off, clenched his jaw shut.

“What if what?”

The question was soft, gentle, as though she were the one offering succour to him. Clade’s throat constricted. “Nothing.”

A point of light emerged from the side of the temple, followed a heartbeat later by another, then a third. The Kefiran candle-bearers, silent now, completing their circuit of the tabernacle and filing onto the street. The candles seemed to flare for a moment, then guttered all at once; and in the darkness, the song began anew.

The surrender of sight. Abandonment to the will of the All-God; and with it, deliverance.

“Did I offend you the other day?” Sera’s voice was soft, hesitant. “When I said you were like a priest?”

“Offend? No.”

“Only it seemed like you were… I don’t know. Avoiding me.”

Yes, I imagine it did.
“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just… I never thanked you before.”

He looked up, but her features were hidden in the dark. “Thanked me for what?”

“For inviting me to join the Oculus. For giving me purpose. What we’re doing — what Azador is doing — it’s real, Clade. More real than anything going on down there. It matters, and it’s good. And the only reason I’m part of it is because of you.” She leaned closer, close enough for him to see the soft glint of her eyes. “Thank you.”

He nodded again, his face immobile. “Of course.”

The song ended on a single note, long and high. Sera turned back to the balustrade. When she spoke, her voice was wistful. “We should have something like that, don’t you think? Something that tells the world who we are. Something beautiful.”

I cannot say anything,
Clade thought.
I must not.

He stood wrapped in his thoughts, gazing at the dark emptiness of the street below, Sera silent beside him but for the soft, steady rhythm of her breaths.

•

The morning saw a fresh influx of correspondence. Clade gestured at the pile on the floor and the servant stooped, placing the new messages carefully alongside the old, then stood and cleared his throat.

“Something?” Clade said.

“Your pardon, Overseer,” the servant said. “Councillor Estelle wishes me to tell you that she will see you within the hour. She instructs you to await her arrival.”

“Does she indeed?” Clade glanced around the room. Papers sprawled across the floor, the pile’s edge barely a pace in from the door. Pieces of the table that had stood between the cushioned chairs lay against the wall, legs sticking into the air. “There’s no need for her to climb all the way up here. I’ll go to her.”

“Forgive me, but the Councillor was quite specific. She wishes to see you here.” The servant bowed. “Overseer.” The door closed with a soft click, its heavy timber not quite enough to mask the servant’s receding footsteps.

Clade lowered himself into a chair and tried half-heartedly to corral his frustration. Estelle would no doubt want to hear of his progress.
If only I had some to report.
He’d hoped Terrel might give him something, some other avenue to pursue, but the mercenary had turned out to be as useless as Garrett.
I’m surrounded by fools and incompetents.

Which, no doubt, was exactly what Estelle would think when he gave her the news.

The pile of unread correspondence lay by the door, offering mute testimony to his negligence. Sighing, he scooped up the papers and deposited them on his desk.

A corner of heavy white paper caught his eye. Frowning, Clade pulled it free. The paper had been folded over on itself in a style common to southeast, but rare among the Oculus. The seal on the back bore the tome and inkpot of the Spyridon Library; and on the front, his name and address inscribed in Yevin’s unmistakable hand.

The message within was short and to the point.

C—

Received visitor yesterday enquiring after your identity. I revealed nothing. Man seemed to have intercepted our correspondence; suggest we avoid Three Rivers carriers henceforth. He knew about the urn.

Man was of compact build, bearded, educated. Someone of similar description reportedly departed for Anstice this morning, in Quill company. I was unable to discover his name.

—Y

Clade turned it over, examining the message for a date. None was present.
How long ago was this sent?
It was a four day journey from Spyridon to Anstice, though the message itself would have made it in three. Or perhaps not. Yevin might have traded speed for security to ensure the letter made it through.

Frowning, he read the message again.
Quill company.
Unlikely, then, to be involved with the mystery woman Terrel seemed to think had gained possession of the urn. Maybe there was no woman, and the Quill had somehow slipped the urn away themselves.

Maybe the urn was sitting in the Quill schoolhouse right now.

A dark swirl touched his thoughts and he started, bracing himself to keep it out; but it was still distant, perhaps a floor away, moving at a pace that suggested its bearer was either taking their ease or slowed by age and infirmity. He grimaced.
Here she comes.

Clade stood, tucking Yevin’s note back into the stack. His gaze fell on the horse-head bookend and he paused, running a finger over the cool marble, remembering how it had felt as he swung it against Garrett’s head. His hand closed over it, feeling its mass against his skin, its smooth curve nestling into its palm. It had felt
right…

“Clade?” Something rapped against the door. Estelle’s stick. “Open up, Requiter.”

He stood frozen, his hand outstretched; then, abruptly, he shoved the bookend away. It toppled onto a low stack of paper with a muffled thud.

“It’s not locked,” he called.

There was a low mutter beyond the door; then it swung open to admit Estelle’s walking stick, followed closely by Estelle herself.

“Councillor,” he said. “I’m afraid I still have nothing solid on the whereabouts of the golems. I’m pursuing all avenues —”

“Never mind that now.” Estelle sank into a cushioned chair with a sigh. “I need gold, Clade. How much do we have?”

Clade blinked. “Gold?”

“Gold, yes. Oculus gold. From the reserves here in Anstice. How much is there?”

“I, uh… it will take some time to calculate. Our assets are split across several accounts. I could probably get you a total within a few hours.”

“An approximation is fine, Clade. How much?”

He frowned, performing some hurried additions in his head. “About twelve hundred lurundi.”

“Twelve.” She gave an indelicate grunt. “Well. Fifteen would have been better, but twelve should suffice.”

Clade shook his head, lost. “Suffice for what?”

“I’ll need you to draw up some letters of credit,” Estelle said. She handed over a scrap of paper. “These are the first payments.”

Clade ran his eye down the list.
Three Rivers Trading Company: two hundred and forty lurundi. Woodtraders Guild: one hundred and ninety lurundi. Doylen Company: sixty-two lurundi.
In among the larger trading houses were numerous smaller merchants: Scamander Jull, dealer in horses and oxen; the shipbuilding collective known as the Storm Sons, whose shipyard at Borronor’s Crossing had produced the last three river galleys purchased by Anstice for patrol of the Tienette; and the local representatives of the Falisi, producers and purveyors of sorcery-resistant anamnil. He looked up. “This covers half the merchantry in Anstice.”

“Half the significant ones, anyway.”

Unease whispered through his breast, ephemeral as the wind. “What’s this about?”

Estelle considered him. “Sit down, Clade,” she said, and smiled when he complied. “Tell me, how long have we been here?”

“In Anstice? Twenty years, or near enough.”

“Twenty-two, in fact. The first Oculus unit to be established on the mainland. Still more than twice the size of our next largest group, in Scarpton. As for the rest, well…” She gestured dismissively.

“What’s your point?” Clade said.

Estelle leaned forward, hands pressing hard against the arms of her chair. “Didn’t you ever wonder, why here? Why focus on Anstice and not somewhere on the coast, where we could more easily travel back and forth to Zeanes?”

“We do have units on the coast. You just said so yourself. Scarpton, Neysa, others.”

“Yes. But Anstice is, shall we say, our base of operations on the mainland. This is the point on which our ambitions hinge.”

Our ambitions?
He eyed her, trying to divine her meaning. The god shifted about her head, restless, impatient.

“Oh, come on,” Estelle said. “You know our purpose. Restoration of the Empire, and all that. You don’t think we’re going to achieve it if we remain cooped up on our island, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“No. We must expand our influence. That’s why we’ve positioned ourselves the way we have.”

“Meaning what?” Clade cast about for an explanation. “The Oculus is moving off Pazia? Moving here?”

Estelle shook her head. “Not moving. Not yet, anyway. And not here. Neysa.”

“But you just said that the Neysa unit —”

“Not the unit,” Estelle said, and she smiled, thin and wide, like a child about to reveal the best secret in the world. “The city.”

The city?
A hollow opened in his stomach. He stared, speechless.
You can’t mean…

“Anstice would be ideal, of course,” she continued. “Wealthy, central, powerful. Unfortunately, a little too powerful, and with rather too many friends. So we’re going to take Neysa instead.”

Take Neysa.
Clade moistened his lips.
You’re going to
take
Neysa. Just like that.

“Do you see now? An assault on one of the Great Cities is bound to unsettle the other four, but Anstice is the only one close enough or strong enough to do anything about it. But if the local merchantry have enough business wrapped up with us, the archon won’t be able to act. The Consulate won’t allow it.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing here,” Clade said, his voice flat. “Getting into bed with the traders of Anstice.”

“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” she said, but there was no offence in her tone, only amusement. “There are more mundane considerations, too. To take Neysa we’ll need men, food, equipment. Anstice will act as our supply base, which will bind its merchants to us even more tightly afterwards. How can they object to a new order they helped bring about?”

An invasion. Gods.
Azador pulsed its satisfaction, and Clade shivered. No wonder it wanted the damn golems so much.

“So you can see why the golem army is so important,” Estelle said, as though tracking his thoughts. “Not that the garrison in Neysa is anything special. But next time…” She trailed off, eyes gleaming, and the god surged.

Next time? They’re already thinking about the
next
city?
The god’s violent hunger pounded against him, and he fought the urge to cover his head with his arms.
If this boulder truly begins to roll, where will it end?

“Clade,” Estelle said, and he snapped his head up to meet her gaze. Her face was a mixture of excitement and confusion.
And impatience.
“What is it? I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am,” he said. “Of course I am. I just… I had no idea. The sheer magnitude of it. Who else knows?”

“Just the Council. No, it’s all right. You’ll be joining us soon enough anyway.”

“Of course.” The small matter of the unfinished hearing into Garrett’s death seemed forgotten, for the moment at least. Azador’s greed pressed against him, and he suppressed a shudder.
No. I cannot allow this to happen.

Estelle stood. “Draw up the letters. I want them delivered to my hand by midday.”

“As you say, Councillor.”

The door closed behind her, the god’s lust hanging in the air like smoke. Clade tracked its retreat as Estelle made her slow path back down the stairs.
Demand. That’s all the damnable thing knows how to do. And now it wants a city, and more.

He hissed out a sigh. The god was a perversion. It had to be stopped.

But until he escaped it himself, there was nothing he could do.

He returned to his desk, retrieving Yevin’s message from the stack and pressing it flat. The Quill party would have arrived from Spyridon days ago. By now, the entire schoolhouse should know whatever news they had brought.

Thoughts racing, Clade cleared a space in front of him, located pen and ink and paper.

Time to repay your debt, Bannard. You’d better be worth it.

•

Back in Spyridon, when Arandras had needed to get away from the four walls of his small shop, he’d had no shortage of havens. The great hill beneath the Library afforded a multitude of vantage points at which he might while away an afternoon, gazing out at the red roofs of the city and the surrounding countryside. The Arcade, set as it was near the top of the hill, offered the best view of all; yet Arandras’s favourite spot was a stone bench halfway down the hill, hidden away at the end of a twisting alley, unknown to any save a handful of locals. The bench looked out to the nearby town of Port Gallin — these days, an extension of Spyridon in all but name — and the glittering waters of the Sea of Storms away to the south. A few hours spent watching the ships put in and depart, or contemplating the ponderously slow construction of the new wall and breakwater, never failed to soothe his spirit and calm whatever agitation had taken root within him.

Anstice had no such places. The city stood in the middle of a great plain; featureless save for the Tienette winding its way toward the eastern coast. The river was pleasant enough in its own way, to be sure; but after several hours spent roaming the promenades, staring at the water from one bridge or another, and breathing its dank, faintly rotten scent, Arandras found himself no calmer than he’d been on waking.

The nerve of them, to break off association with me!

He grimaced, pushing away from the rail of Island Bridge and turning south. A thick granite tower thrust skyward in the middle distance: one of the nine redoubts scattered about Anstice that housed the city’s army and military supplies. Unlike some, this one seemed entirely intact, with a series of dark spots that could only be windows running around the tower’s crown. There would be a view, if only he could get to it. No doubt Anstice’s army would be thrilled to have him tramping through their stores and barracks for the sake of a pleasant vista.