The Archon's Assassin (40 page)

“I assure you,” Aristodeus said, “it’s not just my drama. It’s not just my war. Look at what Gandaw did on Earth. And before him, Blightey. How do you think the Liche Lord came to be what he is? Voices from the Abyss, is what. The whisperings of the Dweller—and that monstrosity is little more than the Demiurgos’s lapdog. And let’s not forget about the dwarves of Arx Gravis, what Nameless did to them under the sway of the black axe. No one is safe, Rhiannon. Nowhere. There is an army arrayed against us. Against all the living. Someone”—he stood now, and tugged his toga straight—“needs to organize the defense, lead the counterattack.”

Rhiannon fought back a sneer. “Who elected you? I didn’t vote for you.”

“It’s not a matter of democracy.” Aristodeus looked up at the ceiling, as if he were imploring its support. “It’s a matter of vision. Who else has seen the patterns? Who else has come so close to the chancre they can almost touch it?”

In her mind, she was back in the tower of ivory, heat radiating from the door.

“You mean, who else got suckered into the Abyss?” she said. “Who else is trapped there, with nothing but some imaginary tower between him and the flames?”

“What?” As if in response, sweat beaded on his forehead.

And she’d dreamed of fire. And coercion. And Callixus.

“No.” She felt a surge of confidence and certainty now, and it restored her lagging resolve. “I’m not buying this cosmic shit. Well, I am, for what it’s worth.”
For what difference it makes
. “But this is all about you. You screwed up. You bit off more than you could chew. Admit it: you thought you could take Sektis Gandaw down that first time, didn’t you? You, and only you, could stop the Unweaving. Well, listen up, baldy, because I’ve got news for you. You messed up. You messed up big time, and now you want my kid to get you out of shit creek. Am I right?”

She expected to see anger in his eyes, a confusion of emotions writhing across his face, but instead, he just laughed. Not the maniacal laugh of a bullshitter who’d been found out, but the self-assured mirth of someone who was always right, and knew it.

“But I did prevent the Unweaving, ultimately,” Aristodeus said. “I admit, it was a close-run thing, especially with the setback first time round. But as any good general will tell you, adversity can be turned to advantage, if you’re willing to take risks.”

“It wasn’t you,” Rhiannon sniped back at him. “It was Shader.” And her, and Nameless. But she knew giving credit to Shader would hurt Aristodeus most: the pupil outshining the master. After all, Aristodeus had boasted he’d made Shader, hadn’t he? Taught him all he knew, prepared him for the end of all things.

There was a gleam in Aristodeus’s eyes that hit her with a barb of doubt. Quick as it had come, her sense of triumph evaporated like mist.

“You scut,” Rhiannon said. “Even that, even what Shader did, what he risked, what he lost: it was all part of your master plan? Is that what you think?” Had it all been for nothing? All her own struggles? And Nameless… what he’d endured just to get Shader there, so he could confront the Unweaving.

“Oh, I don’t blow my own trumpet quite so loudly,” Aristodeus said. “Yes, for the most part, it was the choices I made, my planning, my preparations, but it was by no means certain. We work with the tools we are given. Or we forge our own. But I am not like Gandaw. Every instrument has its imperfections, and I have to admit, Shader drove me close to despair on several occasions. But he came through. Whether that’s because of his upbringing, my lessons, the path I set before him, who can say? The important thing is, I took a calculated gamble, and it paid off.”

“You used him, you mean. You took a child and you honed him into a tool to do your own dirty work. Shog, you even gave up on him, tried to make me into a quick-fix substitute. Tell me why that’s better than the Demiurgos. Tell me why I should give a damn about you and what you think, you callous piece of conniving shit.”
Tell me why I should let you near my daughter.

“And I thought you’d guessed,” Aristodeus said. “About Shader.” He let out an exaggerated sigh and let his eyes drift to Saphra, who was now taking apart one of the gray tablets the homunculi were always using. Mephesch watched over her, nodding encouragement, as she extracted tiny crystals, filaments of copper, and strings of goo that hardened and set the moment she placed them on the table.

The homunculus who’d been brushing her hair fussed about by an opening in the opposite wall, then returned to Saphra with a circular tray. He set before her a glass filled with lurid blue liquid, and a scatter of tablets of various sizes and colors.

Rhiannon forced her mind back to the conversation, but her repeated glances must have revealed her distraction.

“What about Shader?” she asked. What had she missed? Aristodeus said he’d told her all there was to know: about him being fostered, his tutoring, the mystery surrounding his real parents. Even as she recalled it, she knew that was what it was: Aristodeus was the know-all to end all know-alls, and yet he’d basically admitted he didn’t know who Shader’s real parents were. She flashed him a fierce look. He’d been lying.

“Optimal nutrition,” Aristodeus said, doing his best to ignore her as he watched Saphra take the pills with gulps of the blue drink. “Excellent teachers, and the genetic jackpot.” He spread is hands and grinned. He ran his eyes appraisingly over Rhiannon then cocked his head in disappointment and shrugged one shoulder. “Give or take,” he added.

Rhiannon refused to take the bait. Instead, she pressed her face back against the glass in time to see her daughter popping the last of the pills and finishing every last drop of her drink. That was a first. At home, Saphra ate like a bird, and there were half-empty cups strewn all over the place.

Without looking away, she asked Aristodeus, “Why the glass?”

Aristodeus rapped it with his knuckles. “More than just glass. One of Gandaw’s innovations in the early days of Global Tech. Made him a lot of money, I can tell you. But to answer your question, you are far too feisty, Rhiannon. I will not have you fight me over her. Especially now. Especially when she’s starting to learn, and she’s at such an impressionable age. You wanted to see her, and here she is.”

“A prisoner,” Rhiannon said. “No, a specimen.”

Aristodeus shook his head like some benign old grandfather. “Safe, is what she is. Safe and in good hands. Satisfied?”

Rhiannon imagined smashing his bald head into the wall; wondered if the glass would shatter, or if his skull would crack. She clenched her fists at her sides, then remembered the black sword at her hip. His eyes tracked her fingers as they stroked the pommel. A thrill tingled along her forearm in response. She tapped it once, twice, three times, then withdrew her hand.

“Why did you send the wolves?”

Aristodeus backed away from the glass and pulled a pipe from his pocket. He began to fill it with tobacco.

“Do you?” he said, holding up the pipe. “No, of course you don’t. You’re a cigar woman, aren’t you? I’m afraid I don’t keep any. Can’t be done with those humidors. Something for you to look forward to when you get home.”

“You seriously think I’m going back without Saphra?”

Aristodeus produced a box of matches like the ones Elias used to use when his Zippo was out of gas. The philosopher had obviously given up looking for his own. He lit the pipe and took a few shallow puffs to get it going. “I’m certain of it.”

He struck another match and passed it around the bowl, singeing the tobacco and drawing on the stem with little sucking noises. “As for the wolf-men, you have Pater Shader to thank for that. I’d forgotten how insufferably stubborn he could be. Nothing like a bit of terror and the loss of a loved one to bring out the combatant in a man. For all his posturing, Shader could never resist a good fight. I remember the time a bunch of wharfies set upon him back in—”

“So, he’s here?”

Aristodeus grinned and blew a smoke ring in her face.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of coughing. “And my friends?” she asked. “Pete and Sandau. Are they here, too?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. My only interest was in Shader and the girl.”

“And me. You brought me here. Why? Because you trained me to fight? You still need me?”

“Hah!” Aristodeus guffawed around the stem of his pipe. “Call me sentimental, if you like, but I had hoped there might be some small role for my child’s mother.”

She couldn’t let the philosopher get to her; had to rise above the disparagement. If she went at him head on, she might never see Saphra again. The thought hit her like a hammer blow. She shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have given a damn. It wasn’t like she’d exactly bonded with the girl. Wasn’t like she’d even wanted to. Did she care only because she didn’t want Aristodeus to have Saphra? Was that it, just some childish jealousy?

Saphra looked round again, and a smile lit up her face. She held up the remains of the gray tablet, as if to say, “Look, Mommy! Look what I did!”

Tears finally came. Rhiannon wiped her eyes; tried to fix a false smile in place. She stuck out her tongue, and Saphra did the same back at her. Rhiannon almost laughed. Wished she could. With a blown kiss that was arthritic in its awkwardness, she pushed away from the glass.

Aristodeus waited for her with the patience of a seasoned chess player. He even showed her the hint of a smile at the interaction with Saphra, but it passed in an instant.

“As regards Shader,” he said, “I think we can safely say my ploy was successful. He has been spurred into action.”

“So, he
is
here.” After what he’d witnessed on the Downs, he’d be livid, once she told him all she knew about Aristodeus’s involvement. “Good. Then he’ll cut your shogging head off and save me the trouble.”

Aristodeus erupted with laughter, coughing and spluttering amid a cloud of pipe smoke. “The thought of it! How wonderful! What do you suppose would happen if he and I were to fight?”

“You’d get a sword through the guts, and I’d get my daughter back.”

Aristodeus regained his composure. “Then it’s a good thing he’s not on Aethir. I felt it prudent to leave him on Earth for a while, let him make his own way back. I’ve made it possible for him, but it comes at a cost, and hopefully by the time he arrives, the anger will be out of his system.”

Rhiannon’s head whirled with all the implications. Shadrak, Nameless, and the others had been sent to Earth. Was that Shader’s way back to Aethir: the plane ship?

“Oh my shog,” she said. “You’ve sent him to Verusia, haven’t you?”

Aristodeus’s silence was all the confirmation she needed.

“How’s he going to take that, do you think? Didn’t he tell you what he’d been through before?” On the fields of Trajinot. He’d told her. Told her what he’d seen, what he’d done, to the extent that he could. Her impression was that the horrors he’d witnessed in the Liche Lord’s realm were unspeakable, the stuff of nightmares; pockets of Shader’s mind that were closed off, sealed from the light of day.

Aristodeus cocked his head and blew out another smoke ring. “He’s a changed man since the Seventh Horse days. And they’re going to need him, the others, if they’re to succeed. They’re going to need all the help they can get.”

“And yet you still sent them? What if he doesn’t make it to Verusia? It’s a long shogging way from Britannia.”

“He’ll make it or he won’t.” Aristodeus shrugged. “As for the others, there really isn’t much choice. The black axe must be destroyed.”

“So Nameless can get the helm off?”

“The black axe must be destroyed,” Aristodeus said again. His eyes strayed to Callixus’s sword at her hip, as if he were thinking, “And then we’ll have to see about that thing.”

It was too much. Too intense. Too incomprehensible. Rhiannon looked back at the glass for refuge.

Saphra was now reading to Mephesch—the same thick tome he’d read to her. He nodded encouragingly, while the other homunculus was back to paying attention to her hair, plaiting and winding it into twin buns at the sides of her head.

“My own treatise on
Clear Thinking
.” Aristodeus gave Rhiannon a smug look. “One needs to understand an argument before it can be refuted. Reason your way to a position, and then reason your way back out again. The rest of the series awaits in my study.”

“She’s four years old.”

Aristodeus’s head bobbed enthusiastically. “Just think what she’ll be capable of at your age.”

Her newfound affection for Saphra wilted in an instant. The girl was a project: Aristodeus’s project. He wanted a genius, and shog knows what besides.

Rhiannon looked from her daughter to the philosopher. Ain, the bald bastard had even named her; insisted on the name. Some secret bloody society at the heart of the Templum, he’d said. His secret weapon. What was he planning for his daughter? Because right then, that’s how it felt: Saphra was
his
daughter. He was the sire of this prodigy. Like he’d said in the control room, Rhiannon was just the breeding cow.

Rage surged through her like lava. She smacked the pipe from his lips. It clattered against the glass and hit the ground. The stem snapped and skittered away from the still-smoking bowl.

She tensed as Aristodeus slowly brushed flakes of tobacco from his robe.

“My first pipe.” He sounded like he was speaking at the funeral of a dear friend. He bent down to pick up the pieces and tried to fit them back together. “Sad,” he mumbled as he shuffled from the room. He paused in the doorway but didn’t turn. “You may remain another hour, and then you will be sent back to Earth.”

She glared vitriol as he left. With a cry of outrage, she swung back to the glass. Mephesch was watching her out of the corner of his eye, lips curling in a slight smile.

Rhiannon ran her fingers through her hair, fought back the tears of frustration. If she gave in to them, she’d collapse, be good for nothing. And so she drove them back the only way she knew how.

“Don’t walk away, you bald scut!” she screamed as she marched out into the corridor. “I’m not finished with you!”

Her words were muffled, muted, as if the air swallowed them. Heat prickled her face. There was a flash of brilliance. She threw up her hands.