When the Heavens Fall (10 page)

The assassin stabbed her blade into the tabletop and looked at him askance like she thought he might have been the one who opened that door—with his Will. “Why have you come back, Luker? You still haven't told me.”

He shrugged. “Didn't find what I was looking for on Taradh Dor.”

“Which was?”

“Never worked that out. Hoped I'd know it when I found it.”

“I could have saved you the trouble of looking. The place is a shithole.”

“No arguments there. Whole Shroud-cursed island smells of fish. As for the islanders themselves … miserable bastards, the lot of them. Use the same word for ‘stranger' as they do for ‘blood enemy.'”

Jenna threw back another glass of spirits. Her cheeks were becoming rosy. “So what happens now? Are you going back to the Guardians?”

Luker told her of his meeting with Gill. The assassin listened without interrupting, her face expressionless. When he finished she said, “You're going to look for this Book?”

There was something in her voice he could not place, but the way his skull was pounding he was in no fit state to think on it. “I'm going to look for Kanon,” he corrected her. “If his trail leads me to the Book, so be it. If it doesn't…”

“And if it leads to Kanon's grave?”

The argument between Gol and his companion was growing more heated. Luker had to raise his voice to speak over them. “Not a chance. Kanon's too sharp to get caught up in the war with the Kalanese.”

“What about this mage he's chasing?”

“You mean, could Mayot Mencada have done for him?” Luker shook his head. “Kanon survived everything the Black Tower threw at him on the night of the Betrayal. Never met a mage yet who could match him.”

Jenna pursed her lips. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“Is that allowed?” Luker regretted the words even as he spoke them.

The assassin scowled, and for an instant the Guardian thought she would get up and walk away. Instead she reached for the bottle of spirits and poured herself another drink. The silence dragged out. Jenna took a hairband from a pocket and tied her hair in a ponytail. Her expression was contemplative. When she finally looked back at Luker he could see she had made a decision. “I'm coming with you.”

It took a few heartbeats for her words to sink in.
Just when I thought I was done with surprises for today.
“Why?” Luker said. “You don't even know Kanon.”

“This isn't about Kanon. I've been thinking of leaving Arkarbour for a while. Now seems like a good time.”

“Not to visit Arandas, it isn't.”

“That's not where I'm heading.”

“Then where?”

Jenna looked away. “Why don't you let me worry about that.”

She doesn't even know,
Luker realized.
She's running, and she doesn't care where to.
Clearly the assassin was more concerned about staying put in Arkarbour than she was about bumping into a Kalanese soulcaster on the Gollothir Plains.
What in Shroud's name has she got herself caught up in?
Luker opened his mouth to speak then shut it again. He knew better than to ask questions when Jenna was in this mood.
Always did like her secrets.
“You should know I'm not traveling alone,” he said. “There'll be two others coming.”

“Are you afraid to be seen with me?”

“Should I be?”

“They don't need to know who I am.”

“And if they recognize you?”

“I don't leave witnesses,” Jenna snapped. “I also don't take ‘no' for an answer.”

Luker searched her eyes for a moment before leaning back against the wall.
Guess that's settled.
Now he thought about it, it might not be such a bad thing having Jenna along. It was three years since they'd made that fateful voyage south from Mercerie. Luker had been sent there to eliminate Keebar Lana, an Erin Elalese senator who'd turned traitor. The Guardian had tracked him down to a mansion in Mercerie's Temple Quarter, but when he climbed to the roof of the Sender's shrine opposite he found Jenna already perched in the one place that gave a clear view of the house's entranceway. It was probably only the sudden appearance of Lana at his front door that had stopped the two of them coming to blows.

Jenna had insisted on taking the killing shot at Lana. After, as the night erupted with the shouts of his guards, Luker and Jenna had parted without a word. By pure chance they'd met again on the road to Koronos, though the assassin had needed convincing that Luker wasn't following her. Later he found out she'd been spotted fleeing the shrine, and was forced to leave Mercerie when Lana's sorcerer, Peledin Kan, began slaughtering every female assassin in the city. The demons he'd sent to pursue her had caught up to her just as she and Luker were renewing their acquaintance outside some nameless village—just as she was training her crossbow on him, in fact. Three years on, she still hadn't thanked him for stepping in to help against her hunters, and even after the demons were dispatched, the journey to Arkarbour had been something of a bumpy ride.

But then anything beat traveling with just a Breaker and a mage for company.

“We leave at dawn,” Luker said at last. “Doesn't give you much time to get ready.”

“I'm ready now,” Jenna replied. This time, her crooked smile was forced. “Can't stand tearful good-byes.”

Meaning you've got about as many friends in this Shroud-cursed city as I have.
Luker drained his tankard and stood up awkwardly, the backs of his knees pressing against the bench. “We're meeting tonight at the tenth bell. Imperial Stables by the North Gate. I'm going to get some rest.” He glanced at the near-empty bottle of spirits on the table. “You should do the same.”

“Yes, Father,” Jenna muttered. She looked at the door. “And if anyone out there is still following you…”

“I'll deal with him. If he trailed me here, though, he may have seen you arrive. Watch your back.”

“Always.”

*   *   *

Romany despised forests: the roots and brambles that tripped her; the mud that sucked at her sandals; the needleflies that seemed attracted to her skin as if she were smeared in blood honey. It was remarkable, she mused, that so many trees could exist in such a hot climate, but then, as she knew from her studies as an acolyte, the ketar and wolsatta trees that made up the Forest of Sighs were uniquely adapted to the heat and dryness with their deep root systems and waxy leaves. The priestess sighed. It was strange to think she had been so intrigued by the physiology of the trees when she'd first read about them in the temple library, but nature was always more interesting when considered from the comfort of an easy chair.

She was still feeling disorientated after her journey to the forest along the threads of the Spider's sorcerous web, a voyage of scores of leagues completed in as many heartbeats. It was not an experience she wished to repeat—as if her body had been pulled apart and whisked away on a gale born of the Furies themselves. Arriving battered and shaken in the forest, she had been thrown back together by the goddess with unseemly haste. It felt to Romany as if her heart had rematerialized in her mouth. More disturbing still, her waistline appeared to have filled out noticeably from how she remembered it.
The Spider's idea of a joke, no doubt.

To ensure Romany's arrival was not witnessed, the goddess had deposited her a considerable distance from her destination. The trek had been uphill, naturally, and the priestess's legs were aching from the climb. Forced to hitch up her robe to avoid it dragging in the dirt, her ankles and shins were being scratched bloody by knots of nettleclaw. After what seemed an eternity she arrived, breathing heavily, at the outskirts of the dead city where Mayot Mencada was holed up. The Spider had called this place Estapharriol, which meant “refuge” in the language of the people who once lived here—an unfortunate choice of name, considering the city's history. All that remained of the buildings were crumbling walls and mounds of rubble, interspersed with trees. A few trunks even sprouted from the middle of roads, leaving the flagstones round them cracked and buckled.

The layout of the ruins indicated the buildings here had been clustered tightly together. They were small too, smaller than the quarters of Romany's servants—acolytes, she corrected herself—at the temple. No sign of marble either, just some coarsely veined white stone that reflected the sunlight with a dazzling glare. Sweat trickled into the priestess's eyes, and she wondered if there was a bathhouse in this godforsaken place. Hardly likely, she conceded, for she had yet to see even a single building with its roof intact.

The trees thinned out as she approached the center of the city, and she found herself longing for some shade. The air ahead was filled with the sound of rushing water. Romany came to the first of dozens of stone channels snaking between the ruins, each half filled with water and narrow enough for her to step over. It was a while before she worked out what she was looking at: the River Amber, split into scores of tiny watercourses and redirected through the city. One of the streams had overflowed its channel, flooding the ground to either side. Rather than wade through the muck, Romany decided to circle round. Looking back from a short distance upriver, she saw the watercourse was blocked by the corpse of a dusken deer. Behind it had collected the bodies of scores of coral birds and ruskits.

So it has started, then.

Romany could now sense the invisible strands of death-magic all about. Where they brushed her skin she felt a chill that cut through the stifling heat. The air stank of rot, and she shook out a perfumed handkerchief and held it to her nose. She saw her destination then, rising above the treetops: a vast domed structure beside a densely forested hill, an eighth of a league away. To have survived the millennia, the building must once have been a place of powerful magic, though what significance it had held to the people who used to live here she could not say—the Spider had proved typically frugal when it came to sharing her knowledge of the city.

A quarter of a bell later, Romany stood before the dome. The base of the building had been sculpted to resemble a rocky shore pummeled by waves. Snaking through those foaming waters were the curls of some huge, barbed sea serpent, while higher up the priestess saw a carving of a three-masted ship in full sail. The image stirred an uncomfortable recollection of the one time, five years ago, when she had been reckless enough to surrender the sanctity of dry land …

Grimacing, she pushed the memory aside.

The reason for the dome's longevity was readily apparent in the whiff of decaying sorcery that bled from its walls. Not death-magic this time, but … something else. The power appeared to have seeped out into the rest of Estapharriol, for the buildings surrounding the dome were more intact than the ones on the outskirts of the city. Romany followed the wall of the dome east until she came to an arched entranceway. Stepping through, she found herself in a corridor. A breeze blew into her face. To either side, the walls were pockmarked with an apparently haphazard arrangement of holes. As the wind entered and exited the openings, it made a rhythmic hissing sound like the lapping of waves. Romany's stomach heaved.

After a dozen paces the passage opened out onto an immense, gloomy chamber. Light filtered through star-shaped openings in a roof so high the priestess half expected to see clouds passing beneath. Around the sides of the dome were the remains of tiered stone seating, while in the center was a square dais with steps leading up to it on all sides. At each corner of the base was a ketar tree, apparently growing from stone.
A false floor then,
Romany surmised, for she could see no roots aboveground. Over the dais, the trees' bare branches intertwined to form a tangled canopy. The floor of the dome was covered in leaves that rippled in the wind.

On a rusty throne near the middle of the dais sat a shrunken, white-haired old man dressed in black robes. His gaze followed Romany as she crossed to stand at the foot of the steps. He might have been expecting her arrival for all the reaction that showed in his bloodshot eyes. She could tell from the stench of sweat that bathing was a lost art to him. He also needed a new tailor, judging by the way his robes swallowed his gaunt frame. With his left hand he stroked a leather-bound book that rested on his lap. Death-magic oozed from its pages.

Romany forced a smile and said in the common tongue, “Ah, Lord Mayot, I believe.” She doubted he merited the honorific, but—as with all men—he would be easily swayed by flattery. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Mayot was so long in answering, the priestess had begun to look round for a chair. “Who are you, woman?”

“A worthy question. Alas, modesty forbids me from revealing my identity. Think of me only as … a friend.”

“A
friend,
” Mayot repeated, speaking the word as if it were new to him. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage then, friend. For while you seem to know who I am, I know nothing of you.”

“A grievous blow to my pride.”

“I take it our meeting here is no coincidence,” Mayot went on. “A strange place indeed for a chance encounter, wouldn't you agree?”

“Irrefutable logic, my Lord. My congratulations—”

Mayot's right arm snapped out, and a wave of grainy black sorcery shot from his hand toward Romany.

She stiffened, no time to react …

As it was, her magical wards were not unduly troubled, channeling the mage's power away to leave her standing unscathed. She heard an explosion behind, followed by the sound of grinding stone. The leaves on the floor had been thrown up in the wake of the sorcery, and they now started floating down again, scorched black by Mayot's death-magic.