The Archon's Assassin (13 page)

A whisper of movement made him turn.

“Hold you still, or I’ll cut you!” a man’s voice growled.

A figure rose up from the graves at the side of the templum. Instinctively, Shader reached for his sword, but there was nothing there. Hadn’t been for some time.

“What’s yer name?” The man loomed closer, pointing with a curved blade. “Come on, give it breath!”

A snatch of moonlight splashed against a mask of black-and-white leather. The eyes were drowned in shadows, nothing but black creases. Recognition tugged at Shader’s awareness, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I’ve nothing for you,” Shader said. “I’m a priest.” The words still sounded wrong coming from his mouth. Even at the ordination, when Adeptus Ludo had laid hands on him, it felt like it was happening to someone else.

With no sword to grasp, his fingers found the prayer cord hanging from his belt. He’d kept hold of it all these years, a present from his mother on his seventh birthday.

And then he remembered. He’d seen this man before, only in the distance, amid the trees on a high bank. That very same day, before Brent Carvin had killed his dog. Before the philosopher had come to tutor him.

“Name, I said! Mouth it!”

“Shader.” And then he mumbled, “Pater Shader.”

The masked man lowered his blade, let it hang loosely at his side.

“Pater, is it? Was expecting to find a Deacon.” He turned, made a short run, and then stopped to peer over his shoulder. He looked Shader up and down. “Sure you ain’t no Deacon?”

Shader felt like a fish off the hook that had just swum into a net.

… when the time is right
,
Aristodeus had said.
I’ll call upon you
.

Well, Shader had already given the philosopher his answer four years ago, after he’d stopped Sektis Gandaw’s attempt at the Unweaving of all Creation, and a dozen times since.

The man stepped between the brambles beside a grassy mound. Thorns clung to his clothes like the hands of corpses tugging him down to the loamy earth.

“Plague,” he muttered, nodding to indicate the mound. “Hundreds packed in beneath it, rotten and slimy. Least they was once. Nothin’ but bones now.”

He pulled clear of the gorse and pressed the tip of his blade to Shader’s chest.

Shader made a fist about the prayer cord. His heart thumped, urging him to act. The longer he stalled, the more it would clamor, until the fire surging through his veins turned to ice, and the will to fight petered away into fear.

“Ain’t this falchion you needs worry about,” the man said. “It’s a blade of another sort that’ll prick your heart.” He tipped his head back, letting the silvery light fall once more on the piebald mask.

“Let me guess,” Shader said. “Aristodeus sent you.” Truth be told, it wouldn’t have surprised him if it
was
the philosopher, hiding behind the mask.

The man’s black eyes flicked from side to side, as if he watched the play of pictures on the moon. “Bald bloke, is he, this Aristodeus? White robe an’ beard?”

Shader nodded. “Same answer as before. He’s wasting his time.”

The man chuckled—a low gurgling, like water draining from a ditch. “I ain’t no lackey of his. I know of him, but he won’t know of me. Mind like his, full to bursting, brimming with itself, don’t see the hidden things of the world. Ain’t just him; ain’t just them three as fell through the Void gets to weave fate. I was here before they came, and will be here when they’ve gone. And not just me, neither. We are like the insects in our numbers.”

Involuntarily, Shader took a step back. His mind was a torrent of implications, all of which shifted the earth beneath his feet, threatened to plunge him into a chasm of unknowing.

“I been watching you a whiles, Deacon Shader, e’en when you was just an unnatural child.”

“Unnatural?”

The man dropped his gaze from the moon, drank deep from Shader’s eyes, then looked back up again, as if he might otherwise miss something. “You did us right, when you stopped the Unweaving, for even we would not have been exempt. One good turn deserves another, I say.”

“We?” Shader asked. He couldn’t form a clear passage through his thoughts. He felt dazed, overwhelmed, buried beneath an avalanche of questions.

“Things is as they are, no matter what the likes of Sektis Gandaw say, nor your philosopher friend. That’s all you need to know. All you are capable of knowing. I see things fer you, Deacon Shader. In the soil of the earth. In the waves of the sea. In the face of the moon. E’en the Dreamers of Sahul speak your name. Aye, and a worldful of daemons, too, truth be told. Priest now, is it? Priest of—what d’you call him nowadays?—Nous, am I right? Not fer long, I say. Not fer long.”

Shader’s hand enclosing the prayer cord came up to touch the pendant beneath his tunic.

“The wolves are coming, Pater Shader. This Aristodeus won’t take no fer an answer. Find the piper; catch the running man; b’ware the snares of beauty. I will aid you, two days hence, atop the beacon.” He looked deep into Shader’s eyes, nodding slowly, then he glanced back up at the moon.

“Don’t fret about the girl, Pater Shader, least not now. She’s a paradox waitin’ ta be unwound. Saphra, her name is. You’ve heard it before.”

The Saphra Society? He’d heard that from Osric, the doomed knight of the Lost. An elect within the Elect, charged with protecting the Ipsissimus’s segment of the Statue of Eingana. Shader would have been inducted, the wraith-knight, Osric, had said, if he’d been faithful in his duties and not fled back to Sahul; for he’d won the Sword of the Archon in the tournament, and the Keeper of the Sword was the traditional head of the Saphra Society. So, what was this girl? A symbol, like the woman on his pendant? He looked at the masked man for an explanation, and once more had the feeling his thoughts were not his own.

“Yours and not yours, she is. Perhaps a savior, perhaps the doom of all. Look fer me in two days atop the beacon; you’re going to need my help. The folk o’ the Downs call me Heredwin.”

He slipped between the tombstones, dissolving into the darkness.

Shader forgot to move, until the cold air made him shiver.

Yours and not yours
. What did it mean?

He shook himself and crouched down to pull his flask from his boot. Tilting his head back, he took a long draft, and warmth trickled through his veins.

Shader’s head started to thump. He took a shorter gulp of whiskey, then another.

Perhaps a savior, perhaps the doom of all.

A cloud smothered the moon, leaving the sky as black as the Void.

…
atop the beacon
…

At least there was no mystery there. There was only one place worthy of the name in this part of the South Downs. He’d climbed it often as a child.

Firle.

But he’d be damned if he was going. Anything he might need from this Heredwin smacked of manipulation, either by Aristodeus or the Father of Lies himself. If it was Aristodeus, then the answer was the same as before, and no amount of scheming was going to change it. If the Demiurgos, then you could do worse than follow the advice of Luminary Tajen and ignore it. Either way, he had plans of his own, and old friends didn’t take kindly to being stood up.

Especially old friends like Rhiannon.

Thrusting the flask back in his boot, he turned once more to the brooding Downs and limped into the night.

THE FENCIBLE

Town of Hallow, Britannia, Earth

S
weat trickled down Rhiannon’s back, stung her eyes, made her grip on the chinning bar slippery. Her forearms burned as if the scars crisscrossing them were fresh once more, and her heart thumped like someone had released a herd of kangaroos in her ribcage. She almost laughed, in spite of herself. Almost cried, too. Reminded her of home; but the chances of her seeing Sahul again were slim to none, even if she’d wanted to. The Emperor Hagalle was waging war against the world, and she was on the other side.

“One more, mate.”

Sandau always called her “mate”. Rhiannon guessed that’s how he thought all Sahulians spoke, and she’d’ve been hard-pressed to prove him wrong.

“No surrender, Ranny.”

She could see him pumping his fist in the mirror. He was so close, she could feel his heat.

“Give me one more. No surrender!”

“Jerk,” she grunted as she gritted her teeth and ground out another rep.

Fighting the impulse to drop to the ground and call it a day, she lowered herself slowly; painfully slowly, eking out every last inch of effort. Only way to do it, in her book. Most of the other soldiers in the gym had their systems, but there was no substitute for hard work. She’d learned that for herself; maybe the one thing she didn’t owe Aristodeus. That and Nous, but the bald bastard had well and truly flushed any pretensions she’d had in that realm down the crapper. No, not him. She’d done it herself by giving him what he wanted.

“Again!” Sandau yelled. Silly shogger actually sounded excited, like he was invested in her battle with herself. “You got an audience. The boys are watching.”

Watching her arse, most likely.

She pulled again, but her arms gave out. Sandau took hold of her feet, lent his support. “One more. I’ll help you.”

“Shog off. You do it.”

He laughed at that. Sandau was as muscle-bound as they got, but it was no secret he avoided chin-ups as much as squats and dead lifts. He claimed he was too heavy, but that just translated as too weak, or too lazy.

She dropped lightly from the bar, landing on the balls of her feet. Say one thing for Aristodeus: he’d gotten her lean and agile. It was hard stopping herself from back-flipping over to the squat rack. That would’ve been showing off, and it wasn’t like she needed any more attention. She tied her slick hair into a ponytail and walked there instead.

“Oi, I’m using that.” A bloke with no neck and pencil legs got in her way. He had a curling bar sitting on the rests, like he couldn’t be bothered to pick it up off the floor.

“Get lost, goat face.”

She lifted one end of his bar and sent it crashing to the floor. Heads turned. Some of the lads laughed. Others muttered and glared. What did they expect, shoggers?

“It’s a squat rack. You know, legs.” She ran her gaze over the twenty or so soldiers working out at various stations, all hitting chest or biceps, save one tub of lard doing hundreds of crunches, like that was gonna outrun all the pie he’d been eating. “Oh, of course. You don’t train legs, do you?”

She started to load up the bar, casting a smirk over her shoulder at No-Neck, who’d picked his weights up and was looking about for somewhere to lay them. He scowled at her, then slung down the bar and stormed outside.

“Come on, mate.” Sandau slapped her behind. “Buns of steel. I’ll spot you.”

“Last thing I need’s you behind me, you perv. Shog off and train yourself. You’re starting to get a gut.”

Sandau lifted his shirt to check, and one or two of the lads chuckled.

“Didn’t hear you complaining last night,” Sandau said.

Rhiannon closed her eyes; sucked on her lip. She’d been pissed again. Pissed and lonely. She was always lonely. “Yeah, well they say booze addles your brain. Shog knows what I was thinking.”

She ducked under the bar and lifted off.

Someone whistled from behind as she dropped into a full squat. She couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. She had the vague sense of a group gathering behind her. Must’ve been rarer than she thought, seeing someone use the squat rack the way it was intended.

“You guys want coaching?” she said at the top of a rep.

“No, we’re fine just observing,” Sandau said.

“That’s right, darling. Keep up the good work.”

Who was that? Dayn Barklin?—Sergeant Barklin now. Tosser. Another bad memory.

Every rep was greeted by clapping and whistling. Her thighs caught fire after six, but she was just getting started. Three more and she paused for breath, sucking in gulps of air and coughing. Groans sounded from behind her, but they turned to cheers when she squeezed out two more reps, breath ragged, arse so tight it felt ready to split. One more rep, and this time she almost got stuck at the bottom. Sandau stepped in, but she swore at him then forced the weight up with a roar.

The onlookers cheered and applauded as she lurched forward and ditched the bar onto the gun rack. Tensing her abs, she raised her vest to check her definition in the mirror.

More applause and cheering.

“Do you meatheads do anything here apart from leer?” She grabbed a towel from Puny Pete, mopped her brow, and dabbed at the rivulets of sweat running down her chest.

“Want some help with that?” Sandau said.

Whoops of laughter.

“Play with your own.” She glanced at his swollen pecs and tossed the towel back.

Pete surreptitiously raised it to his face but dropped his hand when he saw her noticing.

“Who’s for a run?” Rhiannon thrust her hands on her hips and looked for an answer.

“Nah, it’s arm day.”

“Shog that. It’s breakfast time.”

“You don’t wanna be running. Loses mass.”

“Wow,” Rhiannon said. “Britannia’s finest. Hagalle doesn’t stand a chance.” She gave them her practiced grin, full of teeth, and plucked the half-smoked cigar from behind her ear.

“Catch you later, Lieutenant.” Sandau saluted.

“Later, sailor boy.”

Outside, it was raining. Again. Rhiannon turned back to the shelter of the porch to light the stub. Someone was waiting in the shadows. The no-neck she’d dissed at the squat rack.

“Hey.” She forced a smile, as if to say, “No harm done.”

His fist crunched into her jaw, pitched her to the ground. Cold damp soaked into her pants. A puddle. He’d dumped her in a shogging puddle.

She pushed herself upright with one hand, rubbed her chin with the other. She grimaced, rolled her jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. Her cigar floated in front of her like a… like a smoldering floater. It gave her something to focus on, remind herself how to act with this kind.

She pushed herself to her feet, shaking the grogginess out of her head. “Never hit me in the mouth.” Never hit her at all. Never even touch her.