The Guild (41 page)

One, two, three . . . she tried for a fourth sip to stretch out the command and stall for time, but the spell apparently considered that more than the commanded “few” sips and stopped her. Giving up, she held on to the cup and waited.
At least I can think . . . and the roach is now repaired. Someone’s bound to see me when the mages Alonnen set to watching the scryings ’round the clock see a new set of images in the mirror in his office. The roach is even pointed the right way, more or less; I’m sure I’m in its field of vision . . .

“You are the new Guild Master of the so-called Holy Guild, is this correct?” Elcarei drawled.

Her mouth opened, words forcing their way out of her. She could delay them for a few seconds, but only a few. “That is correct.”

“And your name is Rexei Longshanks?”

“It is,” she admitted. Again, a slight delay before she was forced to speak the truth.
Maybe I can adjust what I say—keeping it the truth but only the portion of the truth I
want
them to know?

“Do you really think your strumpet of a Goddess will ever be able to supplant the rightful place of Mekha in this world?” Elcarei sneered.

“No,” Rexei managed to say. Elcarei’s brows lifted, a look of surprise and delight in those brown eyes. The spell forced her to clarify that
no
, because without clarification, it could not be true. But she was able to say it in her own way. “Guildra is not a strumpet, and there is no need for Her to strive to supplant the False God in the future, because She has already done so.”

“Bastard!” Elcarei’s hand lashed out, backhanding Rexei. Her body swayed and her cheek throbbed, but the pain wasn’t too bad. It helped that the Aian mage, Torven, snatched at the archbishop’s wrist.

“Do
not
hurt the sacrifice!” he ordered sternly. “The more powerful a demon is, the more they will want to wreck their prey themselves. That sort of bloodlust can be useful during the binding process. Control your
own
bloodlust, Archbishop Elcarei.”

A shiver swept over Rexei’s skin. Resisting the urge to rub her arms, she hoped they didn’t notice the goose-prickles.
It’s true, they’re going to kill me just to summon a demon. Guildra, I wish I knew
how
to use my priestly strengths to thwart them. Alonnen and I were waiting for the priests among the other Guardians to pass along what they knew or could find.

“Ask your questions. Learn what you need to know. And be
grateful
the boy is so easily compelled that he tells you the full truth. Even if it isn’t a truth you want to hear,” Torven added, staring down the slightly older man.

Elcarei stared back, then let out a heavy breath and lowered his
arm. Torven released his wrist. “Be glad I am the one doing this interrogation. If Archbishop Gafford were doing it, the boy would be bleeding in seven spots by now.”

“The archbishop has his own assignment. Stick to yours, as we planned last night.”

Planned last night? Planned what? Were the other cockroaches able to spy on them last night, while Alonnen and I were—?

“Tell me about Master Tall,” Elcarei ordered her.

The collar prodded her into speaking, but the pain was weak. Unfocused. Rexei, therefore, said the first thing on her mind. “Master Tall is short. Or at least average in height.”

She fell silent the moment the compulsion to reply ended. Elcarei covered his forehead with one hand, the other bracing his elbow. Dragging his palm down to his mouth, he stared down at her, in her coat, cap, trousers, and boots. One finger tapped the side of his cheek, then he pulled his arm down across his chest. “Is Master Tall the Guild Master of the Mages Guild?”

“I . . . don’t know.” Rexei blinked up at him, feeling a tingle wash through her mind, almost as if the inside of her skull itched. She honestly didn’t know, and she didn’t like the way her answer made the archbishop scowl.

Elcarei glared at her and growled under his breath. “Gods-be-damned amnesia spells . . . You’re lucky I thought of an alternate way to ask. Describe the location or locations you have visited in the last week.”

“Buildings made out of stone, wood, plaster, and tile. Streets and roads covered in snow or damp with winter rains . . .” Outwardly, she strove to give him a blank look. Inwardly, she felt a twinge of fear.
The oath I swore . . . I think it made me forget something important, just now. Something very, very important. Guildra, what did I just forget?

He almost lunged forward and slapped her. Checking himself
at the last minute just as Torven caught his wrist again, Elcarei dragged in a deep breath. Composing himself, he tried again. “Each time you left the city in the last two weeks, which road or roads did you take?”

“The north and east ones,” she said. Again, her head felt like it was itching deep under her scalp. Rexei felt another surge of fear.

“Were you on foot, or did you take a vehicle of some sort, and if so, what kind?”

“A . . . a motorhorse . . . and a motorcart . . .” Since she hadn’t been forbidden from moving her arms, she lifted the one not holding the cup and scratched, dislodging the cap perched on her short, dark locks. She wanted to unbutton her coat, too, since she was now growing a bit warm down here, out of the cold, damp winter air.

“How far would you say you traveled each time, in terms of either distance or time?”

“I . . . don’t remember.” She didn’t, and that worried her.

Growling, he grabbed her by the upper arms, pulling her up off the bed. “
Where
is the Mages Guild located?!”

“I d-don’t know!” she stammered as he shook her. “I don’t know of any Mages Guild!”

“Bah!”
Thrusting her away from him, he let her drop back down onto the thin, wool-stuffed pallet that served as the cot’s mattress. “You’re pistoning useless—you’re not even good
for
a pistoning, you useless little pile of goat manure—sit here, eat your food, and obey the rest of my orders from earlier,” Elcarei snapped, gesturing for the silently watching apprentice to hand her the bowl. “You will keep yourself healthy and well until we’re ready to sacrifice you. Stupid Gods-be-damned renegade mages . . .”

Forced to accept the bowl, Rexei watched the archbishop storm out of the cell. With a heavy sigh, Torven followed, and the dark-haired apprentice, the one whose name she couldn’t remember,
followed. She remembered her time in the Servers Guild spying on these priests, but not all of them had served in the public areas where guildmembers were allowed to go . . . and she couldn’t remember
why
she had gotten a job cleaning the temple.

She couldn’t remember why she couldn’t remember, either, which was unnerving. Rexei remembered most of her life in great detail, but this? There were now gaps in her brain and an ache in her heart. And in her bottom. She didn’t know why she had a sore bottom, yet could not remember being violated in any way by the priests, beyond being captured, dragged down here, and slapped by the ex–Archbishop of Heiastowne.

Why is my bottom feeling a little tender? Did I eat the wrong food at some point?
That thought brought her back to the compulsion laid upon her. Stooping, she set the cup on the ground, then gripped the handle of the spoon and dug into what she thought was a stew. It wasn’t, at least not in the traditional sense. Stews had vegetables and gravy, sometimes some grain, and meat. This glop, from what she could tell, was all meat in a bit of rich gravy.
That’s odd. Why would they serve me something as expensive as meat? I’d think the mage-prisoners would be fed on cheap grain and vegetable pottage with only a little bit of meat now and then, not pure meat. Why would they feed a demonic sacrifice meat?

There were too many things about the world, about magic, and about monsters which she simply did not know, but the collar compelled her to put the first spoonful into her mouth and chew anyway. Rexei was hungry; she remembered she hadn’t had her midday meal yet. Doing what Archbishop Elcarei wanted did not make her happy, though at least it was something she
could
do.

There was nothing in this room to distract her from her predicament but the cot, a chair directly under the suncrystals in the corner—she didn’t remember where she had learned what they were called, but that was what they were—the refresher, the sink,
and her cup and bowl. And a cockroach sitting on the corner of her current bed.

It wiggled an antenna at her. She resisted the urge to squish it, feeling surprisingly sympathetic toward the repulsive little scavenger. Mainly because she would have traded just about anything to have been a Cobblers Guild apprentice once again, dealing with roaches by the dozens. Resolving to ignore the bug, she kept feeding herself what tasted like a mix of beef and ham stew. There were hints of pepper for seasoning, but mostly it was a rich reduced broth coating fall-apart-tender meat.

Her thoughts whirled with the need to figure out how to escape and regret she hadn’t brought someone else along to meet her brother, or at least had them follow at a discreet distance since she would not have wished a second capture on anyone else. And despite the flavorful, expensive-for-a-captive meal, her stomach felt sour with the sinking feeling she had forgotten something very, very important just now. Something very specific, because there were fuzzy spots in her memory of the archbishop’s interrogation and of several other points in her recent past. That worried her deeply.

T
he linens room on the bottom-most level was large, but the presence of one Aian mage and fourteen ex-Mekhanan priests, most ranked bishop or higher, made it feel crowded.

Torven shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I still cannot find the source of those scrying-spell auras. Some sort of blurring spell makes it vanish the moment I try to focus on more than one quarter of a room where they are. They move occasionally; they don’t just sit still. And
yes
, I have checked for spells placed on insects. Nothing alive shows any signs of magic, and when I applied a toxic gas spell to a warded area, I found bugs and even one mouse dead when it was through, but the scryings have continued. We are just going to have to accept that we are being spied upon, save in this location, or by relocating.”

“We cannot relocate quickly, and if we do, we will be vulnerable,” Archbishop Elcarei stated. “I have Hunter Squad members still loyal to the priesthood trying to find traces of this ‘Master
Tall’ but we may just have to be content with ridding the world of this stupid youth who dares call himself Guild Master of the ‘Holy’ Guild—he should be enough of a sacrifice. Don’t demons enjoy defiling the pure?”

“Some do. Others prefer to have them pre-defiled by the persons offering them,” Torven admitted. “Based on what we have discerned through interrogating the lesser residents, this ‘Lesser-Prince Demon Nurem’ of the seventh Netherhell we contacted prefers to defile his victims himself. I wouldn’t even have suggested feeding the boy meat, save it will depress the ability every peasant yokel has to cast a last-moment curse. If we try to move to a scrying-free location, we run the risk of being stopped.”

“Then we need to act fast,” Archbishop Gafford said. His voice was smooth, his words reasonable, his appearance almost charming. The men in the linen closet with him knew of his ruthless reputation, however. “If we act now, we can sacrifice, bind, and have a major power in our back pockets within the hour. From there, we can cross-bind lesser demonic powers with ease. With our sanctum secured with that much might, we can work in safety on turning this Nurem into a chained God bound to our will and rule once more. Build the fortress, gentlemen, and
then
you can send out raiding parties. With this Lesser-Prince under our thumb, your ‘Master Tall’ will be rendered impotent, which means he will be easily caught, caged, drained, and gutted. Does anyone disagree?”

Gafford and Elcarei looked to Torven while the other twelve men exchanged glances and shook their heads. The Aian mage rubbed his chin in thought.

“I think we should set up just a few extra precautions, before we begin,” he finally said. “I’ve made you those casks of Gating powder—strictly for travel within this world, not cross-dimensionally. I know it’s a risk to bring them into the power room, but I cannot help but
think of all those horrid adventure tales from the Tower wherein the heroes arrived
just
in the nick of time to ruin their enemies’ plans.”

“I see,” Archbishop Gafford said, raising his brows in mild respect for the foreigner. “We’re supposed to be spaced out around the wardings to help contain the demon with our powers. If we position mirrors around the chamber, with little pots of Gating powder, anyone breaking in would not be able to stop all of us from escaping.”

“Yes, but escaping to what?” the bald-headed Bishop Hansu asked. At the confused frowns of his compatriots, he explained. “It’s all well and good to leap out of a burning building to save our lives, but are we leaping into an equally flaming haystack, into a dockside river, or into a pile of rusty farming equipment? I, for one, would rather have a landing that would put out the fire in my clothes and carry me downstream, far away from trouble.
Where
are we to direct our mirror-Gates? As far as I know, one can only direct them to a place one actually knows, and
then
adjust the view to somewhere within a mile or two of that starting point.”

“He’s right. You’re the only one with solid knowledge of what the world looks like beyond Mekhana’s borders,” Elcarei agreed.

“I suggest, gentlemen,” Gafford interjected, “that we don’t
care
about where the mirror-Gates are aimed, so long as they are aimed somewhere that we can safely escape to.
Afterward
, we can journey to a predesignated meeting place.”

“In that case, I suggest picking spots ahead of time where we can toss through some wealth to await our escape if needed,” Torven said. “I’ve been cast once before through something like a Gate with just the items I wore . . . and I would far rather not have to start from scratch like that again. If there is no need to flee, then we can use levitation spells to bring the goods back through our mirror-Gates once the Lesser-Prince is bound. If there is, then we will have already set the mirrors to scry upon a safe location, we will have funds, and we can escape as we go.”

“What’s to prevent the others from following us?” Brother Grell asked. The young man was not yet a bishop in rank, and until they regained power probably never would be, but he was one of the stronger mages within the temple grounds and thus had to be included in this shelving-flanked planning session. “If we all go through, the mirror-Gates would remain open for anyone to pursue—and don’t say one of us will have to sacrifice himself to remain behind. The power room is too huge to have one man go around casting the powder upon each mirror in turn to seal it shut again, never mind the time it would take to shift the scrying image.”

“We just need time-delayed destruction spells,” Torven stated. “Break the frame, and you shatter the opening. While the rest of you double-check the main warding circles against the diagram I made, I can make enchanted sheets of paper to be laid at the base of each mirror. Stomp on it as you go through, and it’ll explode after ten heartbeats have passed. If anyone tries to follow, it’ll be just one or two at most, and they might even be caught midway through and cut in half.”

“Clever. Do it. But first . . .
where
should we meet up again?” Gafford asked, his voice taking on a pointed edge. “I know the lands to the north of here far better than anything close by. I’d be relatively safe because I’d be hundreds of miles away. If you stick strictly to what
you
know locally, the locals might realize where you have gone and send their version of Hunter Squads after you, and you’ll be besieged within the hour if you stay wherever you go.”

“Outkingdom,” Koler grunted. The others looked at him, and he repeated himself. “We head outkingdom. Mekhana is falling apart, and from what you told us, young man,” he added, eyeing Gafford, who bristled at the patronizing words, “the Patriarch is none too happy about the idea of binding and draining demons for power, so don’t be too sure of your ‘hundreds of miles away’
protecting you. It takes less than ten minutes to transmit a short message from one end of Mekhana to the other via talker-box, after all.”

“It is gratifying to see that each of us
can
think, when we put our minds to it,” Torven stated dryly. “If we cannot bind a demon tonight, we head out of the kingdom. I suggest we pick a place that is not in the next kingdom over, for that matter; your neighbors would not be pleased with you if they realized you were ex-priests of their former divine enemy.”

“We each have the spells in our books—or should—that teach us how to make translation pendants for interrogating captured foreign mages,” Gafford said. “So traveling to another nation should not pose a language problem. But there is the concern that other, farther-flung lands might think a foreigner with an accent from Mekhana would be suspicious, and not want foreign priests congregating in their lands. I suggest we change professions if we have to flee.”

“To what?” Elcarei asked his former superior. “Excepting the Aian, we were all raised and trained to be priests, not journeymen of the Tinkers Guild or whatever.”

“Scholars,” the green-clad archbishop said. “We are scholars, and we will be traveling to the one place where a foreigner would not be amiss: The Great Library of Mendham, in the kingdom of Mendhi.”

“Good,” Bishop Koler grunted. “I approve.”

“Looking forward to new books to peruse, Brother Koler?” one of the other priests asked him.

He shook his head slightly, fingers first scratching at his chin, then combing through his long, streaked beard. “No, looking forward to somewhere
warm
for a change.”

“I certainly cannot disagree to that,” Torven said. Even Elcarei let his mouth curl up on one side in humor. “Any opposed? No?
Motion passes. Let us move the mirrors, find and secure our retreating sites as quickly as possible, and begin the binding ritual. And
not a word
to anyone else. Take what apprentices and journeymen you can—make sure they know that only the last one through is to stomp on the paper—but only tell them
where
we will be headed
after
the mirror is destroyed.”

“How will we know when the mirror is destroyed on the other side?” Priest Grell asked.

“Bits of debris will come through the opening, before the Gate collapses and is sealed,” Gafford told him. “Make sure to shield yourselves as you count to ten, and then check the floor behind you. If something has fallen through, grab your goods and retreat from the region, in case they recognized where you went through. If nothing glasslike has fallen . . . then flee even faster.”

• • •

“
T
oday, I serve Guildra, Goddess of Guilds, Patron of this land.”

The motorwagon jolted over a rut in the road. Alonnen clenched his jaw and continued loading his hand-cannon. Like most of the weapons developed in secret by the Munitions Guild for the Mages Guild, it was not a standard cannon. He didn’t have to measure the munitions powder and pack it into the barrel; he didn’t have to drop in the flannel charcloth or the lead ball and ram it down into place. Nor did he have to grease the openings to keep any moisture from reaching the powder and ruining it before the sparking gear could ignite it.

“Today, I shall be a warrior of the Light of Heaven, striving to defend the innocent and protect this land from the profane.”

Some clever soul with a secondary status in the Brassworks Guild had come up with clever little capsules with the powder tucked behind the payload. In Alonnen’s case, the missile being fired out of the short, heavy barrel was not one large ball, but
rather, many smaller beads. The range was short, but that was fine with him; Alonnen was headed into the stone-walled confines of a temple, not facing down a foe from the far side of a battlefield. These “buck beads” might not go through a man unless fired from up close, but they would turn a chest, an arm, a leg, whatever got in their way into painfully shredded meat.

“Today, I ask my Goddess to forgive my flaws, and grant me the purified instincts to do what is right and just with my foes.”

He had the faces of Torven Shel Von and Archbishop Elcarei firmly in mind. He wasn’t entirely sure if firing a hand-cannon into their faces was going to be right or just; he only knew he’d feel safer without them in the world. Still, he tried to focus on the fact he was going to the temple to rescue the woman he loved and not to kill the most dangerous, annoying men in the world.

“Today, I, Orana Niel, dedicate myself to the works of Heaven in my efforts to defend and cleanse this world of evil.”

“Today, I, Alonnen Tallnose, dedicate myself . . .” he recited along with the other mages accompanying them into town, just as he had recited every other line given to them. They hit a pothole, and he almost lost the last two brass capsules. Catching them against the felted-wool coat of the man seated on the floor between his feet at the back of the wagon, he muttered an apology and pushed the little brass cylinders into the holes in the firing cogwheel.

Orana paused, squinting a little at each man and woman crowded into the back of the wagon, then nodded. “Good. Your auras are suitably sanctified. Keep this feeling in mind, and remember to focus your thoughts upon Guildra as you enter the former temple. Picture the various guild symbols, and imagine a woman whom you trust, respect, and think of as strong marching in there beside you, ready to help you kick out all that is evil. Remember: What we think, our Gods become.

“True, you lost control of the previous one, and you sank into hopelessness and despair as the priests seized control and power. That weight is gone. You face priest-mages who are still somewhat strong, but who are no longer backed by a False God who fed upon stolen powers. You have your own powers, and you know how to shield each other. More than that, it is
you
who have the power of the Heavens on your side this time. You are free to worship again . . . and you
know
what your Guilds honor, what cornerstones and foundation blocks underlie your best way of life.

“Put those feelings into your Goddess, and She will manifest in ways both subtle and sublime.”

The motorwagon swayed around a corner and lurched to a stop with a yelp from the driver, who had stomped on the stopper pedal. “Oy! Grinding idiots! They blocked the road.”