Parabolis (28 page)

“What do you mean ‘they got Terry’?” Mosaic asked in alarm.

“They killed him.”

Mosaic put her hand to her mouth.

“They fired into the crowd,” Sebastian continued. “We rushed some soldiers that were beating a city guard to death, so they just shot at us.” He paused and grit his teeth. “They shot Terry. They killed him.”

Mosaic’s eyes began to well. “What about Rudy? Where’s Rudy?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the quiet streets. “I have to go. Look, a few of us are getting together later this week. You should come join us.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Meet me at the dry fountain in Trivelka Square on the Fifth Day. Sixth hour of the night, sharp.”

“That’s just before curfew.”

Sebastian hushed her. “Sixth hour. Fifth Day. Got it?”

Mosaic nodded.

“And don’t mention it to anyone else. Especially no one at the temple. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Then he jogged back into the rain to his waiting companions. The four walked swiftly around the corner. When they were out of sight, a hooded figure emerged from within the shadows of the adjacent alley. He entered the bakery unnoticed.

“Bad idea.”

Mosaic darted around to see Sparrow standing just inside.

“Oh my God, you scared me. Where’d you come from? How long have you been standing there?”

“You get caught past curfew, they’ll jail you.”

“Where’s Dale?”

“The last I saw, he was on a horse headed for the Ancile.”

She gripped her apron and closed her eyes. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. But he was on a good horse and it was early. The Shaldea and the Baleans wouldn’t worry themselves with one scurrying soul.”

Mosaic opened her eyes. She stared at Sparrow for a beat, to see if he was telling the truth. Comforted, Mosaic walked back into the bakery. As she walked past Sparrow, she asked, “Why are you here?”

“Don’t go to that meeting in Trivelka Square. Your friend doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“What is he doing?”

“They’re organizing a resistance. But they are just going to get themselves killed. And you with them, if you go.”

“How do you know all this?
Why
do you know this? And why do you care?”

Sparrow walked up close to Mosaic so she could clearly look into his eyes. When he saw that he had her full attention, he said sternly, “Go back to the temple, Mosaic.”

She paused, both intimidated and intrigued. Then with equal gravity in her voice, she replied, “I don’t have an umbrella.”

Sparrow turned around. At the door of the bakery, he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, cinched his collar, and ran out into the rain. Mosaic walked over to the front window and watched him sprint across the street and disappear around the corner.

“Okay, bye,” she muttered to herself.

She went behind the counter and opened random drawers, looking for nothing in particular. In the glass of the emptied display counter, Mosaic saw a reflection of herself. Still wearing her mother’s apron and with her hair pinned up, she saw that her face was smudged with flour. As she leaned close to get a clear picture, she thought,
He could’ve said something.
After wiping the flour off, Mosaic took another look to make sure she got all of it. Through the display counter, she saw Sparrow standing on the other side. She darted up to see him holding a red umbrella.

“Let’s go,” he said, standing in the threshold.

“Where’d you get that? Did you steal that?”

“We’re going to the temple.”

“You’re coming with me?”

Sparrow nodded.

Mosaic walked around the counter and under the red umbrella. They set off shoulder to shoulder for the Central District. It wasn’t more than two blocks before Mosaic broke the silence.

“So did Dale put you up to this?”

“Yes.”

“Is your name really Sparrow?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jūng-geun.”

“So why does Dale call you Sparrow?”

“I don’t know. He’s always called me that.”

Mosaic stopped dead in her tracks. “You’re the sad boy! From Azuretown! I remember you! You’re Dale’s friend from when you guys were little.”

“Keep walking.”

They rounded a corner after a few more blocks.

“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” asked Mosaic.

After a few more steps, Sparrow replied, “You ask a lot of questions.”

Mosaic bridled at the comment but made no retort. They were passing Balean soldiers standing post at a checkpoint. Every few blocks there seemed to be a checkpoint, and soldiers on the move, patrolling in between. The occupying presence was stifling.

When they reached the temple’s West Gate, the templar on post asked them for their papers. He gave an obligatory glance at the documents, not thorough enough to distinguish Mosaic’s authentic papers from the forged ones Sparrow presented. They passed through the West Gate and started up the gray marble steps to the main sanctuary’s double doors.

“I didn’t know you were staying here too.”

“I’m not.”

Mosaic was going to inquire further but held her tongue on account of his last comment.

They entered the vestibule where the watchman cleric greeted them. Once she had confirmed that they were not in possession of any weapons, she sprinkled them with myrrh and gave them a blessing.

Just inside the main sanctuary, Sparrow handed Mosaic the umbrella. “Keep it.” And just before leaving her, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Mosaic, listen to me. I don’t know when I’ll be able to check on you again. Do not leave the temple. Don’t get mixed up with anyone. Mind your own business, and stay alive. Okay?”

“Okay.”

With Mosaic looking on, Sparrow walked toward the altar at the front of the sanctuary. There, he knelt down. A minute later, a man in common merchants’ attire walked over and knelt down beside him. With his head cast down as if praying, he whispered, “You are late.”

Magog was in disguise. He had applied make-up to add some tone to his pale complexion and cover parts of his facial tattoo that weren’t hidden below an artificial black beard. In the inconspicuous attire of a common merchant, he looked like any number of the refugee men.

Magog took a peek back to see if Mosaic was still watching. Seeing that she had moved along, he peered sideways at Sparrow. With his head still bowed at the altar he said, “Against my better judgment, I granted you permission to warn your friend. The matter was settled when your friend was warned. Who is
she?
”

Sparrow didn’t respond. Magog turned his head back toward the floor. “Are you forgetting who you are?”

The Samaeli were the keepers of night, the great equalizers—an organization, the origin of which was veiled in mystery. It was as if they had no beginning, as if they had always been. They were the last line, the final option. When all else failed to reset the balance of power, then and only then were the Samaeli summoned. They did not, therefore, have the luxury of morality, to struggle with “right and wrong.” Ideals, values, they were all laid at the feet of what needed to be done. They were pragmatists who dealt in absolutes, each sworn member unwavering in his commitment to his calling. Disciplined like machines.

Sparrow knew this well. It was not long after he had been initiated that Master T’varche was killed—assassinated by the very organization he’d sworn allegiance to. When in his rage Sparrow sought revenge, it was Magog who had explained to him that this was the nature of the Samaeli and that Aleksander T’varche had welcomed his fate. Having proved himself an adept pupil, it was against this backdrop that Magog had extended the invitation to Sparrow to become the Samaeli’s hand of judgment. And when Sparrow accepted, he knew exactly what he would become—what he was. Vengian.

Magog rose to his feet and hovered over him.

“Are you forgetting who you are?” he repeated.

Sparrow stood and met his glare. They postured up like two fighting dogs before the altar, out of touch with fear, unfamiliar with retreat. Sparrow knew that his long time co-conspirator had no qualms about killing him. Though he was no Vengian, he was just as capable. In the blink of an eye, he would set aside years of close partnership. Sparrow had seen Magog do it before. He himself as the Vengian had done it.

“No,” he finally replied.

Though unsatisfied and still suspicious, Magog dropped the matter by proceeding. “Meet me in the south transept when you’re ready.” Then he disappeared into the refugee camp.

Sparrow noticed Magog had left a satchel where he’d been kneeling. Sparrow grabbed it and walked briskly into the washroom.

Sparrow put on the brown, templar squire uniform he found in the satchel. Then he went to join Magog in the south transept. They walked down a dimly lit corridor to the Bene-seneschal’s study. There was a single squire posted at the door.

“Good evening, brother,” he said, as they approached.

“Is the Bene-seneschal in?” asked Magog.

“He is, but I’m afraid he’s not taking any visitors at the moment. Is there something I can do for you?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

Magog lunged forward with a poison-laced needle between his fingers. Before the squire could react, the needle was in his jugular. His eyeballs rolled back as he extended an arm to grip Magog’s outer garment. When he collapsed to the floor, the Vengian caught him and gingerly laid his body down.

Magog knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again.

“What is it?” a voice called from within.

Magog opened the door and entered alone.

“Gaius, I told you I don’t want to be disturbed…who are you? Where’s Gaius?”

From his one encounter all those years ago in that desert outpost of a town, Magog recognized him. Yusef Naskerazim. There were wrinkles where there was once smooth skin. The hair had whitened, and the years out of the desert sun had softened his complexion. His overall look was quite a departure from the once feral, black-bearded
Rajeth
of the Shaldean Riders, but the eyes were the same. And in his eyes, Magog saw that he too was recognized.

“Bene-seneschal, I have come a great distance to see you,” said Magog, exposing his silver teeth in a satisfied smile.

As he stepped forward, Magog took note of the chessboard in the corner. The white bishop was indeed sitting on the square,
g2
, just as the note Sparrow had retrieved from Fairchild’s bedchamber had indicated.

“My name is Magog Siberion.” He removed the beard. “I am the face of an organization your people refer to as the
Zaal’mavorte
.” The blood-red tattoo of the palm over his mouth confirmed for Yusef what he was already dreading.

Magog flung a dart. Like the squire, Yusef had no time to react. He didn’t know what was happening. The abrupt movement startled him. With a jolt, he grabbed the armrests of his chair. Feeling the sting in his chest, he looked down to see the dart buried there.

“Soon, you will be dead.” Magog started around the desk toward Yusef. Yusef began to heave for air. His eyes, wide and desperate, followed Magog around the desk. Magog came alongside him and whispered into his ear. “I warned you that I would undermine all who would profit from this war. I warned you and your Shaldea. How strange it is to see you now, wearing the sacred adornments of the Benesanti. Oh, how far you’ve come from the days of riding the Saracen as your people’s deliverer. If they could see you now—working with Enlil Fairchild in the guise of the cloth. The irony!” Magog snickered. After removing the dart from Yusef Naskerazim’s chest, Magog stepped toward the door.

Unable to resist, he stopped. Once more, he turned to Yusef who was slumped back in his chair. His head was hanging to the side. The eyes were open but Magog could not be sure whether Yusef was still there. His breaths were shallow. They could have been as much a result of lingering reflexes as they were living breaths.

“You asked for justice, Mister Naskerazim. This world—Parabolis—this is perfect justice: that we, the unjust, are condemned to live an unjust existence. You are no more innocent than this Republic you’ve cursed. And that you’ve crawled into the heart of it to die here is fitting. Go now, naked before your Maker, and be judged.”

Aday later than Valkyrie had predicted, they were in the borderlands. The region was noticeably cooler. The prevailing mist they had grown accustomed to since traveling along the coast seemed to linger deeper into the day. The climate changed, but the severity of the terrain remained the same. The dense forestry and the rugged topography of the Wilds extended to the borderlands.

A mile from the Ancile, Valkyrie stopped and held his hand up.

“Hold it,” he whispered.

Everyone froze.

“What is it?” asked Alaric.

Valkyrie slowly crouched down and parted the fern at his feet. He fingered what appeared to be an iron mechanism. There was a snap. A noosed rope went flying up into the air.

He looked back at the others. “We’re not alone.”

Then they heard a voice not far off in the distance. “Damn right ye not!”

Alaric, Selah, and Dale all drew their swords and carefully stepped toward the voice. Valkyrie drew his bow and aimed an arrow toward heavy foliage over their shoulders.

“Drop ye weapons.”

“Like hell,” Valkyrie said, still not seeing who spoke.

“Ye got twenty rifles trained on ye, sandworm. If yon arrow flies, the sound of rifle fire will be the last thing ye hear.”

Selah and Alaric lowered their weapons. Dale followed suit.

“We are emissaries from the Holy Order of the Benesanti,” said Alaric.

“Then tell yon Shaldean companion to lower his aim lest ye all suffer for it.”

“Charles?”

The ranger reluctantly eased the tension on his bow and dropped the arrow. The forest immediately came alive around them. Not five feet from where they stood, shrubs levitated from the earth on the helmets of soldiers. Like paper cutouts, some of the vegetation strolled out from the dense foliage. Men dressed in ghillie suits. Even their faces were caked over with mud. There were only ten of them, but they were each armed with rifles. The squad leader had in his hand a large war hammer. As he walked past, Dale noticed the weathered red of a Republican Guard’s uniform below his camouflage.