The Traitor God

Chapter 11

I took a deep breath – This is for Lynas – and then entered the great hall at the heart of the Arcanum. Whispers of mellifluous music greeted me as I traversed the marble floor of the nave, with its ornate spiralling columns and vaulted roof. Large globes of frosted crystal filled the hall with pale light and fearsomely fanged dragons swam through wood and gold panels while stylized magi fought back hideous daemons and dispensed words of wisdom through tapestry and mural. One scene depicted the war god Artha. My hands itched, felt stained red. I had been exiled and forced into forgetting, but if I was involved with the gods then it was no wonder I’d been terrified of breaking my bargain.

Heatless silver fire limned the ranks of obsidian-and-gold statues of past archmagi and great heroes. I wasn’t impressed by the display of wealth, but instead admired the years of effort and artistry that had gone into the artwork – all this gaudy frippery could feed the entire city for years. The statues led to the centre of the hall, and the conclave dais where seven golden thrones awaited the Archmagus and the six other councillors of the Inner Circle. It was a conflicted feeling that one of those now belonged to Cillian. Five empty alcoves were set high on the walls, empty and awaiting a god’s arrival if they chose to manifest.

I pulled my hood back and smoothed out my mop of hair as best I could before making my way down a side corridor towards the evidence rooms, smaller gem-lights studding the walls. Most of the people I passed were part of the army of overworked clerks and scribes involved in the minutiae of running a city and an empire. The Templarum Magestus and the Collegiate had been built in a time when there had been many more Gifted, but after the devastating losses suffered centuries ago it seemed like we were old folk rattling around the house long after all the children had gone. An entire wing of personal quarters had been closed off for the last two hundred years. There had been a time when those corridors buzzed with laughter and spirited debate, or so Archmagus Byzant once confided in me.

Such topics had drained the elder magus. The poor man blamed himself for the many mistakes made during the Daemonwar, and had never quite got over the loss of so many friends and colleagues during that daemonic invasion. He deeply regretted the resulting political deadlock that left the Arcanum sitting impotent and idle while the empire crumbled around them. Fortunately I had been able to alleviate some of those worries, when and where I could lend a subtle hand, in my own unique way.

Beyond a warded archway to my left, through studies and libraries and grim guards, lay the personal chambers of the Archmagus. What had happened to my old friend? He had taken a brat from Docklands under his wing, despite my loathsome Gift, only to disappear as I fled the city. Whatever happened that night I had nothing to do with it – I would have taken a knife in the gut for that man.

Next to his chambers were the offices of the Administratum, and below the feet of those merciless bureaucrats lay level upon level of locked vaults containing every ancient artefact ever dug from the desert ruins of the Empire of Escharr by the greedy hands of Arcanum magi. Deadly weapons and devastating magical devices slumbered beneath our feet in the most protected place in the world – so secure I’d never even seen the warded doors to those vaults.

I walked in the opposite direction. A pair of guards checked the scroll provided by Old Gerthan and let me pass into the Courts of Justice without any fuss. Further in lay the Arcanum dungeons, where rogue or corrupted magi were chained and guarded by sanctors until they were put down for good. I’d been on the run for ten years, and if I were caught here then I too would spend my last days languishing in those dank pits.

This area was mostly frequented by wardens and scribes so with any luck I wouldn’t encounter any magi. I confidently entered a large room lined with bookcases and shelves. Eight scroll-laden desks lined one side, occupied by young scribes – those still with sharp eyes – transcribing scrolls. Their quills scratched across parchment, sounding like rats in the walls. One large and imposing writing table guarded the entrance, on the other side of which sat a stern-faced older woman with grey hair pinned back into a tight bob. She set down her quill and scrutinized me, mouth twitching with disapproval. “May I help you?”

I handed over my scroll. “I need access to the evidence rooms and the listed box.”

She unfurled it and scanned the text. “Everything seems to be in order.” She snapped her fingers. “Edmund, show Master Reklaw to evidence room three.”

A lanky lad with a beaked nose jerked upright, chair scraping along the stone. “Right this way, Master.”

He led me through the back and down a corridor to a nondescript door. “May I be of any further assistance?”

Another door opened further down the corridor. A tall woman appeared, wearing azure silken robes, her pale olive skin revealing some mix of Esbanian blood. An elegant gold circlet held back long dark curly hair. My stomach lurched: my old flame Cillian. And then it dropped away into a black pit of dread as a withered old hag of a woman followed her out: Shadea Saverna. With Byzant gone she was now the oldest magus in existence, an elder adept of most forms of magic and a member of the Inner Circle. She was the Arcanum’s foremost expert on blood sorcery and her interrogations were a gory legend. If I was scared of Cillian spotting me, then Shadea made me want to piss myself. If either caught sight of me I was as doomed as a lame horse in a tannery. Spirit-bound blade or not, I wouldn’t stand a chance. The more powerful the magus, the stronger the Gift, and the more their minds and bodies naturally resisted foreign magics. Shadea would be able to resist any mental attack long enough to burn me to ash with the flick of a finger.

I spun to put my back to them. “So how does all this work? I was given some numbers…” It was a poor ruse, but all I could think of.

The boy began explaining the evidence indexing system whilst I sweated and tried to ignore them walking straight towards me. I didn’t listen to a word he said; instead waiting for any gasp of surprise from behind me.

“Indeed, Ahram remains locked in a vicious civil war after the assassination of three prominent philosopher-priests of the reunification sept,” Shadea said, continuing a conversation as they made their way in my direction. “In truth only the impartial librarians of the Great Archive of Sumart hold Ahram together at all. As our main business partners in Taranai this will result in trade remaining disrupted for at least another year, and without those exotic goods coming through our ports the Esbanian merchant princes ply their trade elsewhere and war over more lucrative shipping routes.”

Cillian sighed. “The smaller kingdoms and barbarian tribes across the Sea of Storms also vie with each other. Death walks every land these past few years. Speaking of which, what of the slain warden set to guard that warehouse in the Crescent?”

“If we are to believe the surviving wardens’ story,” Shadea said, “then something sent them to sleep while they were supposed to be guarding the Granton building.”

Oh shite. If they were coming over to review the same evidence I was…

“Whoever this woman they encountered was, we will find her,” Shadea continued. “I am curious – why go to the effort of killing one and disabling two others, then take nothing? One of my own wards was also discovered and broken, and that I did not expect.” She huffed. “This may perhaps be related to the Skinner killings in some manner we are not yet aware of.”

My heart pounded. They. Were. Right. Behind. Me.

“Have you found any trace of an alchemic substance in their bodies?” Cillian said.

“None,” Shadea replied. “The corpse has also yielded no obvious cause of death. I shall obtain the living wardens and research the matter further; however the simplest explanation is most often correct. They shall rue wasting my time if I find they were drunk and taking alchemics on duty. Such incidents have become worryingly frequent of late.” Those poor bastards I had left asleep at the warehouse had no idea what they were in for. Still, better them than me.

“In which case it would seem prudent to remind them of their duty,” Cillian said. “Evangeline of House Avernus has excelled herself of late. The wardens may respond better to her presence than to ours.”

Shadea cackled. “A good choice. I do hope she does not break too many this time.”

They passed by while the boy continued through his list of instructions. I strained to listen as their voices gradually moved out of earshot.

“Master Reklaw?” I blinked, the boy had finished and was frowning up at me. “May I help you with anything else?”

“Ah, right. No, thank you. I’ll be fine on my own.” I opened the door and slipped inside, closed it firmly behind me and let loose a huge sigh of relief.

A broad-shouldered young woman with short dark hair sat at one end of a large bench in the centre of the room. She glanced up as I entered, and I noted gorgeous green eyes in an otherwise plain face. She wore an unadorned tunic and trousers rather than the lavish dress of noblewomen or the warded robes of a magus. She didn’t have the plump flesh of a scribe chained to a desk either. A warden then. I nodded to her and she resumed digging through a box of numbered items, tallying the contents with her list on a scrap of parchment.

I browsed the shelves, trying to locate the box that Old Gerthan had indicated. It was on a high shelf, and as I stretched up to lift it down, my fingers slipped. I overcompensated and flailed to catch it, only for it to tip forward. A deluge of paper and scrolls rained down on me.

The woman failed to stifle her laugh. I flashed a sheepish smile and she came over to help me pick up the mess.

“Is this your first time?” she said. My confusion must have shown. “Being amongst so many magi, I mean. You appear a little flustered.”

“Oh, yes,” I lied, then took a deep, calming breath and wiped sweat from my brow. I needed to appear normal, happy even, when all I wanted to do was tear this place apart. “Two of the Inner Circle just walked right past me there.”

She smiled and I felt a twinge of attraction; she wasn’t a beauty by any measure, but there was that indefinable something in the honest mirth shining in her emerald eyes. Or perhaps I was just a dirty old fool who had gone far too long without the warm caress of a woman.

“They do tend to have that effect,” she said. “Feels like when my mother caught me out drinking with rogues owning far more charm than sense.” She chuckled, “More than once, I must confess.”

“More charm than sense? Why that describes me perfectly,” I quipped.

She raised an eyebrow, brazenly looking me up and down, gaze lingering over my scars. “You will not find me doubting you for a rogue, what with well-worn boots and scars that were surely no accident. That coat looks expensive, the sort of thing that a rich man might wear for travel, one that can surely afford newer boots. An intriguing discrepancy.”

A thrill of danger washed through me. “Is that so?” I said, trying to appear nonchalant. “I only returned to Setharis recently. As it happens, I have indeed been travelling and didn’t see much point in wearing better.”

“What line of business are you in?”

“I suppose you could consider me a sort of investigator.”

Her fingers drummed on the desk. “I see.” She seemed amused, as if I were a puzzle needing to be solved.

I extended a hand, “Reklaw.”

She took it, “Eva,” then looked at the long list on her parchment and sighed. “Well, I really should return to my work. Good luck with your investigation.”

“Thank you.” I lifted my box to the opposite end of the table and took a deep breath, then began rifling through Lynas’ papers. Every so often we both glanced up, and both pretended we didn’t when our eyes met.

Any faint thoughts of a dalliance with the woman died as I began reading. It was impossible not to dwell on Lynas’ murder when his hand stared out at me from every scrap of parchment. My mood grew darker as I worked my way through piles of letters and notes, invoices and inventories, not sure what I was even looking for. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual, not until I found the stock take of alcohol imports. Only one week old and thirty jars of Skallgrim wine were present on paper, but missing from his warehouse, not marked as paid either. It was the perfect amount to fit on those empty shelves I’d noticed. I tapped my nail on the entry. I knew only a little of the Skallgrim, given how few of their traders ever made it across the Sea of Storms even during the calmer summer months. Their scrimshaw was a rare and desirable commodity to the High Houses of Old Town, but as far as I knew they didn’t produce wine, being more partial to mead and ale. The ink was smudged, as if a grubby finger had swept over the entry several times.

Lynas was… had been a stickler for details. His profit and expenses would be tallied somewhere. It was, but, unlike his detailed entries for other goods, the buyer for the wine was listed as blank. Anonymous buyers and stolen wine meant that somebody had something to hide.

Charra was correct; Lynas had dabbled in a little borderline smuggling. If I could track down the missing wine then I suspected that I would find something different contained in those jars. But what would be so valuable that they would kill him for? Gems? Alchemics? And then I found a hasty note scrawled for one of his now-dead staff, containing a name I recognized only too well: “Off to see Bardok the Hock. Again!” That sour old bastard Bardok worked as a middleman for various unsavoury people, and I’d sold him more than a few items myself in the past. I would need to pay him a visit.

I spent hours going through the last of Lynas’ papers, back growing increasingly stiff and sore, arse numbing on the hard bench. I sat up and yawned, stretching my arms out. The woman opposite had fallen asleep at the desk some time ago. She snored softly, head resting on her folded arms. A little spot of drool glistened at the corner of her mouth.

I smiled and walked over. “Excuse me.” No response but a soft moan. I put my hand on her shoulder. “You’d better wake up before somebod–”

She jerked upright, grabbed my wrist and wrenched my whole arm round until the joints threatened to snap. I fell to my knees, gasping in pain as she twisted further.

She blinked away her confusion and let go. “Shit, sorry.” She helped me to my feet. “I didn’t break anything this time, did I?”

This time? “No harm done,” I gasped, my whole arm throbbing like she had been a whisker away from breaking it. “My fault for startling you.” She was strong. Really bloody strong.

She turned away and wiped the drool from her lips, face flushing red in embarrassment. “I really cannot apologize enough. The effects of a week of night patrols, I’m afraid.”

“I always found bookwork tedious myself,” I said, rubbing my elbow. “Ach, buy me a drink sometime and we’ll call it even.”

“Done,” she said.

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised at her answer. We stared at each other for a moment and then burst out laughing. It felt good to enjoy a brief moment of levity.

“One drink for an almost-broken arm does sound fair recompense,” she said.

I stiffened as a thought struck me. Was Eva short for Evangeline? Surely she wasn’t the magus that Cillian and Shadea had been talking about. I cleared my throat. “Er, you wouldn’t happen to be a magus, would you?”

She frowned. “Don’t let that put you off. I don’t discriminate against mundanes.”

I felt like diving head-first out of the nearest window but instead waved my hand at Lynas’ papers and invented an excuse. “I’m kept busy for the moment, but how about we go for a drink some other time?” The strain of maintaining this pleasant façade was mounting.

She smiled and clapped me on the back, none-too-gently. “I will be at the Gilded Swan in two days’ time if you are free. Assuming you have not been run out of the city by then.”

We made small talk and exchanged a few bad jokes while tidying away our papers, her fishing for minnows of my real history, me ducking and diving. It seemed that I had piqued her interest, which was nice in one way and abysmal in others. For a magus she was blessedly unassuming, almost a real and normal person, and as I learned more about her, that joke about her mother catching her out drinking with disreputable men seem increasingly plausible. But she was Arcanum, and not to be trusted. The sooner I was back in the lower city, the safer I would be.

Eva insisted on accompanying me as I made my way back through the great hall and out into the street. She was heading in the same direction and there was no plausible reason to refuse her company. If I seemed any more suspicious then she might have me arrested. As a magus she had the authority to detain anybody for questioning, save another magus or high ranked members of the nobility or priesthood, and if she somehow uncovered who I really was, well, I was a notorious degenerate, dangerous, and also supposedly dead. I would be clapped in irons quicker than I could blink.

It was a huge relief to get out of the Templarum Magestus. The risk of wandering sniffers and magi recognizing me dwindled with every step I took towards Docklands. We pulled hoods up against the drizzle and made idle chat as we passed through the thinning crowds outside the gods’ temples. Outside the temple of the Thief of Life, and in the middle of discussing my utter distaste of sea travel, a man called out to her. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. A shiver rippled up my spine and bile seared the back of my throat.

“Evangeline!” he called again. I glanced up to see high cheekbones, bright blue eyes, immaculate ash-blond hair, and absolute bastardry. Harailt, heir to High House Grasske, had aged badly and was now painfully thin and gaunt. He wasn’t wearing the sort of showy finery I remembered from the past; instead his plain robes blended in with the poorest magi. I quickly looked away, face hidden by scars and hood, and slipped amongst the worshipers wandering through the columned portico of my patron god Nathair’s temple, hiding, watching, hating.

He made my skin crawl. Seeing his face again flung me back to when I was entombed alive, and even now I couldn’t control my fear of dark enclosed spaces. When they discovered what he had done to us, if he hadn’t been the heir to a High House, then the Arcanum would likely have thrown him out. But he was, with all the wealth and influence that brought. Every day after his crimes had been exposed he had sought out ways to persecute and vilify me, as if it would somehow excuse his own villainy. It wasn’t even entirely personal: he would have treated any scabby little runt from Docklands the same for dirtying up his hallowed halls of privilege and power. He was the worst product of the Old Town, the type that considered his blood pure and righteous, and ours tainted with base-born blood little better than animal.

I kept my hands clenched to stop myself from grabbing Dissever and ramming it through his fucking face, the barbs biting deep. He had briefly appeared in Lynas’ death visions – but much as I wished otherwise, that didn’t mean he had been involved; it was much more likely Lynas had been trying to tell me it involved the Boneyards.

“I am glad to have caught you,” he said to Eva, his voice slick with the cultured tones of the High Houses. They all sounded the same, these honey-tongued, spoilt bastards. “The famed Ahramish illusionist Lucata of Sumart is performing a play at the amphitheatre tonight. I was wondering if you would care to join us?”

She groaned. “Always when I am working. I have night patrol with the wardens tonight.”

“A shame,” he said, sighing. “I find shadow-play fascinating. Another time perhaps. Fare you well tonight.” With that he gave a slight bow and left.

“So,” Eva said, once Harailt was lost in the crowd. “You know Magus Harailt?”

“Was it that obvious?” I had slid from mysterious into suspicious.

“You don’t seem the bashful type.”

She had me there. “I knew the heir to High House Grasske when we were young. It’s a long story.” I couldn’t keep the venom from my tongue.

“Ah,” she said. “I have heard about his old scandals. By all accounts he was a flaming prick back then.”

I gritted my teeth. “Was? In my experience people like him don’t change.”

She made to reply, stopped, pondered it for a moment, and then chose her words carefully. “How much do you know about the disappearances ten years ago?”

Careful! A mundane shouldn’t show that he knew too much. “A god died. And Archmagus Byzant disappeared.”

She nodded, “Harailt and Archmagus Byzant were particularly close. It hit him hard when the Archmagus went missing so shortly after Artha died, and, well, there were a few accidents afterwards.” Meaning Harailt had probably maimed or killed people and Grasske covered up the worst of his excesses. “His house disinherited him and the Arcanum shipped him off to work in our embassies based in city states bordering Esban and the southern Skallgrim tribes. When he returned to he had become an entirely different and better person. He is not that odious youth you knew so long ago, that I can personally vouch for.”

Her taste was piss-poor. It still rankled that Byzant, a good and decent man, had shown that cock-maggot Harailt any favour after what he had done to Lynas and I. Maybe my old friend thought he could rehabilitate the swine.

“The bastard can burn, for all I care,” I said. “Some things cannot be forgiven.”

She shrugged, body language displaying her distaste. Not surprising – I was bitter and twisted, sour as any lemon at the suck.

We walked in silence for a while. “I’m sorry,” I said eventually. “It’s not a pleasant topic for me.”

“We all have our wounds, and some go deeper than others. I rarely get to see a man’s scars before I know him well.” She looked at the ragged scars marring my cheek and neck. “How did you acquire those? I suspect that’s an interesting tale.”

“Bad jokes and worse timing,” I said. It was close enough to the truth.

“Ha, I am surprised you are in one piece in that case. I would bet good coin that most of your jokes are terrible.”

My mind was churning with anger, questions, and the acute fear that I would be caught if I stayed any longer in the Old Town. I was not in any kind of mood for flirting and small talk, and as for love or sex – pah, no time for that! She was far too sharp to risk revealing anything more.

“I might tell you that tale someday,” I said, giving her a small bow, as befitting a noble of the Old Town taking his leave. I did have proper manners when I cared to use them.

“I will hold you to that,” she said. “Hope to see you soon, Master Reklaw.”

With that we went our separate ways. I kept my head down and hurried through the gate to the lower city, paranoia ebbing with every step I put between the Arcanum and myself.

I was finished earlier than I’d thought and not due to meet Charra until tomorrow. What to do now? The gaps in my current knowledge of Setharis were glaring. I needed to immerse myself in the underbelly of the city, to feel its ebb and flow before I could identify more links to Lynas’ murder. I knew just the place, and it wouldn’t hurt to earn coin while I did it; information would cost me dearly, and the people there would know who else Bardok the Hock was working with. It was time to toss the dice.