Death's Angels

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You are sure these were Alzibar’s books?” Zarahel asked, glancing at the merchant. He told himself he should not be too surprised that Bertragh had been approached. In a town the size of Redtower there were very few markets for such texts. As a lodge member of the Brotherhood of the Basilisk, Bertragh was always on the lookout for books of lore, to increase his knowledge and his standing with the other members and to add to the Brotherhood’s store of knowledge. The odds had favoured this when he had told the merchant to put out the word on the off-chance that the right people would hear it. He still was amazed it had worked so well though. Perhaps the Old Gods were with them in this after all. He had started to have his doubts.

He told himself not to get cocky. There was always the possibility of some Inquisition trap. One of the rival Brotherhoods might be involved. It never paid to underestimate the cunning of those sorcerous conspiracies. The organisations had not survived through a thousand years of Terrarch oppression by recruiting stupid men.

He thought of how long it had taken him to reach his current position, the layers of deceit he had needed to penetrate; the endless succession of oaths he had been required to swear and deadly missions he had been required to perform, the tests he had needed to pass. And he reminded himself he still had no idea how many levels lay above him and who ultimately he reported to.

He could see the sense of that. After all, of all the members of his cell, Bertragh, the leader, was the only one who knew who Zarahel was. The cell structure made the Brotherhood more difficult to destroy. No one member could betray too much.

He had to admit, he had still been shocked when Alzibar showed up out of the purple, bearing all the required signs and talismans to command his obedience. He had never expected a Terrarch to be a member of the Brotherhood although the Exalted sorcerer had swiftly convinced him of his sincerity and the actuality of his position.

Some of the things he had let slip had been disturbing though. Alzibar had been in the East, had spent time in the Dark Empire and seemed to feel some loyalty to it. Zarahel was not reassured by the thought that ultimately the whole organisation might be a tool of Sardean foreign policy, that the money and the weapons he had supplied the hill-men with had come from the East, and not secret human benefactors.

“I am sure. His mark was on the folio page. The text was written in Exalted Script. It was the third volume of a set of what I am absolutely certain is the Book of Skardos annotated by our Brother Alzibar himself.”

“And you let them walk out of your warehouse with it?” Try as he might, Zarahel could not keep the anger out of his voice. He was irritated. His familiar had started biting him. The bites themselves were not so bad; they were quite pleasurable in fact. In small doses the beast’s poison was a euphoric drug but small itchy blisters had risen everywhere he was bitten. And he wanted those books very badly. It had been bad enough when he believed them lost forever, but to know they still existed and that this fool had let them go…

“What else could I do? It was only one volume and they have cached the rest away somewhere.”

“You could have held them and sent word to me. Believe me I would have made them give up their secrets.”

“Perhaps.” For all his bookish appearance there was steel in Bertragh. “They did not look like men who would have given up without a fight. They were armed.”

“You had half a dozen bodyguards within call”

“They might have been overcome. All three of the soldiers might have been killed.”

“You might have been killed, you mean. My hill-men were upstairs. So was I. You could have sent for us. Believe me, I could have over-powered them myself if need be.”

“You told me you prefer not to be seen. And I would prefer our association to remain secret. It would not have done to have those soldiers witness a Selari factor consorting with hill-men.”

“No witnesses would have survived,” said Zarahel.

Bertragh gave him a cold smile. “Many things could still have gone wrong. If those men died you would have been none the wiser about what they knew. This way we are certain to get what we want.”

Zarahel could see the wisdom of what the factor was saying. Diplomacy seemed called for. “Forgive me, my friend. It is merely excitement and anticipation that made me speak that way. You did the right thing.”

“We will get the books quickly enough. Those soldiers will sell them to us. Why would they not? We are offering them a lord’s ransom.”

Zarahel considered this. “There might be some who would come asking questions if three common soldiers show up with so much money.”

“I have thought about that. Let them bring the books and then you can do with them what you will.”

Zarahel grinned. “And you will get your gold back.”

“An excellent arrangement, don’t you think?”

“Most excellent. Who will care if three soldiers show up dead in the Pit? Especially if they are ones who were known to have hill-men seeking vengeance against them.”

Rik walked through the gloom, ignoring the chatter of his comrades. Events were moving beyond his control. It looked like he would have to give up the books to the factor. A small part of him was almost relieved. He would swap the texts for money, and enjoy the spoils for a little while. But part of him seethed with a barely suppressed rage to possess them. Their effect on the merchant shouted that they were a thing of great value. Bertragh’s attitude virtually spelled out that they contained secrets worth more than gold.

A look at his companion’s faces told him that there was no way he could ever make them appreciate this. They wanted the money, and were happy with the prospect of getting it. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps the lust for the thing he felt was a warning to Rik. Perhaps the books were a danger to his immortal soul. Perhaps the price of their secrets was more than any man should pay, and they should best be left to the merchant or his master.

And yet, deep within himself, Rik felt that even if the price was his soul, he would be willing to pay it. Just the thought of the possession of such diabolic knowledge thrilled him in a way that it should not. He found, much to his shame, that part of him was keen to possess forbidden secrets. That part thought even damnation might be preferable to his current place in the world. A sour smile quirked his lips. At least then, he would be somebody, he thought.

This was a futile exercise, he realised. Even if he owned the books, he was a long way from being able to use them. He had neither the skills to decipher the text nor the power to invoke any of the secrets the text might contain. Should he keep the books, he would most likely still be a nobody, a worm looking up at the stars. A strange soft despair gnawed at him, even as he listened to the boasting of his comrades.

At that moment a sense of the wrongness of things overtook him. It was not right that he or any other man should be made to feel this way. There was something deeply flawed with the ordering of the world when anybody’s spirit could be so crushed down by the way things were. He felt the first stirrings of the rage that the Clockmaker must have felt, and all the other rebels he had fought. Somewhere, somehow, he thought, things had to change. This world would have to be put right, and somehow he would have to find a way to contribute to that.

The moment passed, leaving him feeling strangely empty. The world did need to be put right, he thought, but not just yet. The doorway of Mama Horne’s emerged from the darkness. Now there were diversions to be had, and a mind to be put back to sleep.

Rena was waiting for him.

Sardec strode the boundaries of the camp and looked up at the stars. It was the last night of Mourning and he felt the need of prayer and contemplation. Down below he could see the lanterns of the sentries. From the hilltop, he could see the stars emerge through a break in the clouds.

It came to him then that those were not the stars of Home. They were not the stars under which his people had been born and under whose light their civilisation had been raised up. The moon in the sky was not the orb that had filled the night of Al’ Terra. It was like it but not exactly the same, just as this world was like the home-world but not exactly so.

He paused for a moment and spoke a prayer. He knew of the discussions of the mages and philosophers who claimed that all the worlds of the great cosmos were the same world, and all of them were in some ways twisted reflections of all the others. He had heard the claims all worlds were pale shadows of some central and perfect world.

He was not in a position to know. He knew only that the Shadow argument was a heresy that had bedevilled his people ever since they set foot on this world. Certain sects claimed that if this world was but a shadow of home, it must belong to the great enemy, and that his people were tainted by their mere presence here.

Certainly such an interpretation was easy to support. His people were diminished. Their numbers were increasing once more but their purity was lessened. It was almost as if the presence of so many men had contaminated them by their nearness, and the Terrarchs were becoming more like the lesser breed they must live alongside. They were losing sight of their glorious past, and becoming dwellers in this tawdry age. Perhaps there was some way of regaining their former glory but he could not see it. Only by passing once more through the Eye of the Dragon and reclaiming their ancestral home could they hope to do that, and this was an impossibility. Even could they overcome the Princes of Shadow, Al’ Terra could no longer be the place it once was. It had been tainted by the victory of the Shadow.

It was said that the people of the East thought differently now, and bent all their thoughts to opening the forbidden paths back to Al’Terra and cleansing their home-world. He wondered how much of that was Scarlet propaganda and how much the simple truth. Maybe Arachne’s people had the right of it anyway. Perhaps it would be better to pass through the gate once more, to conquer or die in a final blaze of glory. Surely that would be preferable to this long, slow fading away.

He told himself that these were gloomy thoughts, and although perhaps suitable for the last night of Mourning in that sense, they were inappropriate for a time when he should be considering the sacrifices of the Fallen, and the Promises the Dragon Angel had made for the future. Had she not said she would return, and lead her people once more to their destiny? He knew he should have more faith, but he knew he did not live in a time that reassured the faithful, that there was something awry in the state of the world, and that many things would have to be set right once more.

He reached the top of the hill, and considered the camp below him. He could hear the bellowing of wyrms, and caught their acrid scent on the wind. Beyond the camp he could see the town. The great rotating lantern atop the Dragonspire burned bright and fierce, ready to guide any night-flying dragon rider to the temple. The tower atop Asea’s palace blazed with a light to rival it, as if the Lady of the First was at this very moment working some sinister and powerful sorcery.

Tomorrow was Solace. Tomorrow he would attend Asea’s ball and see her once more. She was a daunting figure but, now he had time to consider, there seemed to be undercurrents to the situation that were intriguing, if she were not just leading him on for her own unguessable purposes.

He decided that he did not like being a fish on the end of anyone’s line. He did not like the feel of being out of control.

Tomorrow was Solace, he repeated to himself, feeling a faint thrill of anticipation, a time of license and extravagance when anything was possible. When masked revellers caroused in the streets, and sometimes even the most restrained Terrarch lay with human.

That thought excited him, and he wished that it did not.