Grayshade, page 8
Caoesthenes shook his head and smiled. “This is a little more than just another thrown weapon, lad,” he said, lifting his goggles back onto his forehead. He stood and walked to one of the boxes against the wall. Reaching in, he pulled out a small wooden ball with a point on the bottom and tossed it to me. I caught it and looked at him quizzically. “Send that away from the table, would you?” Caoesthenes said, waving vaguely toward the other side of the basement.
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as I knelt down and placed the ball on the ground, point facing down. With a twist of my hand, I sent the ball spinning crazily off down the floor, humming and sparking as it went. Caoesthenes watched it steadily from his spot by the wall, holding the curved moon lightly, and as the ball went veering suddenly off to the right, then left, I started to wonder if this was some kind of joke. As I opened my mouth to voice the suspicion, without warning the older man whipped out his hand, palm upward, and let the object go.
With a quiet whoosh the moon flew swiftly out, curved points whipping round and round so fast it seemed like an unbroken circle in the air. But Caoesthenes had thrown it wide of its target; the ball had bounced off the wall and was now careening to the left, while the moon was headed straight ahead, a streak of silver in the lantern light.
I turned to Caoesthenes with a smile, but stopped short as I saw his eyes closed in concentration, lips moving silently. A moment later, his eyes snapped open. “Aven,” Caoesthenes said clearly. There was a click, and the shape of the whirling object became larger and distorted; a split second later, the moon shot to the left as if it had been yanked by a string. With astonishing speed, it flew toward the spinning ball—but as I watched in amazement, even as the ball began to curl back to the right, the moon followed. With a thunk, it hit the ball, sending both objects skidding along the floor to the far wall, where they bounced off and slid to a halt.
Now it was Caoesthenes’ turn to look at me with a smile. “I believe you were asking about not needing another thrown weapon?”
Wordlessly, I went to the motionless ball and moon. As I picked them up, I could see the moon had embedded itself deeply within the wood of the ball . . . though as I looked closely, I saw it was no longer a moon, and understood why it had changed shape during flight. Another moon-shaped blade had sprung out from below the first one, positioned so that the resulting object was s-shaped. Carefully I grasped the middle of the s-shape, preparing to ask Caoesthenes how to remove it from the ball—but the minute my fingers surrounded the object a soft click sounded, and the ball slid easily off and fell to the ground with a thump.
I remained silent as I walked back to Caoesthenes, still with a faint smile on his face as he stood by the box on the wall. “Interesting,” I said as I handed it to the older man. “What’s it called?”
“Niscur,” came the reply.
I rolled my eyes. Proper weapons were always spoken in Old Cohrellian, but this was just the word for moon. “You had to be clever?”
“I cannot be anything else,” Caoesthenes said, his smile widening.
I shook my head, though this time my grin matched the other man’s. “You rigged it on a timer, I assume?”
Caoesthenes chuckled. “Unless your targets operate on predictable schedules and movement patterns, I don’t think a timer would be much help.” He tossed it in the air and said “niscur”; immediately the higher blade folded below the lower with another click, and when Caoesthenes caught the weapon, it was again a crescent moon. “No, this works on a much more reliable system: the sensation of movement, but only activated when I choose. It’s not too different from soundshifting, in a way. I throw this toward the target; when it’s within range, I speak the command word—aven—and instantly it tracks the object moving within its sense range. Once locked, it follows the object until it makes contact, or until it hits something else first—a wall, for example, or the floor.”
“So someone could theoretically get away from it.”
“Theoretically,” Caoesthenes admitted, “if they knew what the niscur could and could not do, and if they were fast enough to escape it, and if they were close enough to some obstacle to dive behind it at the last second . . . then yes, they could get away from it. And if they were in a crowd, this wouldn’t help you in the first place.”
“A lot of ifs, I agree,” I said. “But that means it isn’t infallible. What about cutting power?”
“There I think you have little to worry about,” Caoesthenes said. “This is made of revellit steel, and the edges are sharpened with asper dust—permanent. You could cut through plate armor with this and not dull its edge.” He grinned again and laid it on his worktable. “No, on the whole, I’d say this is better than a rannuri . . . better, in fact, than anything you’ll find in the Cathedral’s armory, even anything Jant carries.”
“Then the Service knows nothing of this?” I said, astonished.
Caoesthenes took off his goggles and laid them next to the niscur on the worktable, regarding me seriously. “No,” he said. “I’m retired. It’s no longer my responsibility to report anything and everything I do to the Service.”
“But why keep something from the Service if—”
“Because,” Caoesthenes interrupted, “I have faith in Argoth, and most of his servants . . . but not all. I probably have no reason to mistrust any in the Order, or the Service—not even Jant. But we are all mortals, Grayshade, mortals with mortal failings, and unless I’ve looked into someone’s soul, I can’t be certain whose failings are the most dangerous. I’ve looked into your soul, or as close as anyone can, and I know what risks you do and don’t pose. Others in the Service, well . . . ” He shrugged. “I can’t be sure. Until I do, I’d rather I know who is wielding the weapons I make, and for what reasons. And I have a feeling you’ll have a good reason for using this, if you ever have to. But you can’t have it this very minute, in any case; I have a few adjustments to make first. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
I nodded. “One more debt I’ll have to repay to you, it seems. I sometimes feel you’re determined never to let me even the balance, you know.”
“Fortunate for you I don’t keep strict accounts, then. You know how terribly forgetful I can be.”
“Then I’ll leave you to recover your memory,” I said, nodding in acknowledgement. “I think I still have some looking to do before I can see things the way you’d like me to.”
“Better go, then. But listen, lad,” Caoesthenes said before I could turn to leave. “Whatever you find, remember where your duty lies. The forest is made of more than just the trees in front of you, and Jant and the Council may well be looking at that forest too.”
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I’m not sure that knowledge would be comforting to the tree I’m supposed to cut.” And with a swirl of my cloak, I was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
-
The sky had just begun to lighten when I exited Open-Heart Alley and stopped with an uncertain frown. The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed more answers. Where to find them was an entirely different problem. I could speak to some other Acolytes for information—but Acolytes usually worked alone, and most probably knew less than I did, except of course for Maurend, who was hardly an option in this case. Perhaps I could send Ravel to poke around, under the guise of giving him some training mission; at least he wouldn’t be as suspicious a questioner. But I hadn’t told him anything about my own doubts; besides, Ravel clearly didn’t trust me, and wasn’t likely to do anything which would jeopardize Jant’s position in any case. Caoesthenes was clearly unwilling to tell me more without more evidence, and I needed information now. I could try—
No. Not the Rats. Trusting them with anything was dangerous . . . and trusting them with anything related to me was foolish as well. But if I took them out of the equation, that meant . . .
A thousand Hells. I should have known I’d end up with him. I resisted the urge to spit and sighed heavily instead. The sooner I find him, the sooner I’ll be done with him, I thought; and narrowing my eyes, I turned right and headed away from Open-Heart Alley. Unless I missed my guess, I knew exactly where to find him. Getting information once I did would be, as always, a much trickier proposition.
It took little time to travel from Caoesthenes’ home to South Cohrelle, more commonly known as the Merchant District. It was as accessible as possible to both the Residential District to the northeast and the Government District to the northwest, and as inaccessible as possible to the Church District, to which there was no direct path (save one, and not even all of Argoth’s Acolytes knew about that route). I had often wondered whether the irony of being closer to the merchants than the priests had ever dawned on Cohrelle’s rulers, but somehow I doubted it.
Soon, I came to the massive arch that rose over the end of the road leading into the Merchant District. It was newer than the construction surrounding it, made of fine marble and inlaid with streaks of gold. Very showy, very pretty, but not practical—and a waste of resources which could have been better used elsewhere. It was the product of boastful greed, not faithful devotion, and my lip curled a bit as I passed under it. This was my least favorite district in the city, teeming with swindlers, cutpurses, and hired thugs who jumped as high as the fatness of their employers’ wallets bade them, all in the name of “economic strength” and “commerce.” Commerce: a merchant’s term for legalized theft, though the Order had little difficulty employing them when needed. At least pickpockets were honest about their intentions, once someone caught them. Were it up to me, I wouldn’t spend more than a few passing seconds in this place, but—not surprisingly—my work brought me here more often than it did anywhere else, and I probably knew it as well as the people who lived in the fine houses lining the mostly wide, smooth-stoned streets. Not that my missions had done much permanent good here in changing the district for the better, from what I could see.
A few hundred feet past the arch, promising the finest silks from the lush lands beyond the Silver Coast, I passed two city guards, lightly armored and with Cohrelle’s seal emblazoned on their chestpieces, chatting about wine and song. Despite the riches to be found here, in this district the city’s guards were really more for show than any true protective purpose; the vast majority of the merchants had their own private security, mercenaries, and ex-soldiers who asked few questions and caused fewer problems. Money was good in their line of work, as most of their employers were so paranoid about their servants’ loyalty they competed with each other to provide the most pay (and get the most trustworthy workers in return), so there was little incentive for the private guards to turn on their sources of income. It had happened occasionally, of course; there was that nasty business over the disputed interest payment between Acran and Velman himself some years ago, before Velman had been elevated to the Circle. But normally one or the other party backed down before the city was forced to get involved, which no one—including the city—wanted, so the private guards were more or less left alone to keep things in order. A city guard’s assignment to this district was more of a permanent vacation than an actual job. Only Argoth knew what would happen if they had ever been given a real emergency to deal with.
“No matter, though,” I heard one of the guards say in a low voice as they passed by. “After the problem at Ashenza’s last night, city’ll have more than it knows how to handle unless Jarrett tamps it down, and fast.” Resisting the urge to whirl around, I let a few more people pass by, then turned to see the guards turning right at the other end of the street. News traveled fast in Cohrelle, but if the guards were already gossiping about the event, it had never traveled faster than now. I turned again and increased my pace.
A few minutes later, I neared my destination: a squat, ugly building near the end of the road leading from the Merchant District to the Residential District. A splintered sign swung loosely from a pole overhanging the front door of the building, which looked as if it hadn’t been tended to since before I was born. On the sign, below the picture of a smiling man in a hood holding a bag of gold, was the building’s name, written in fading letters which might once have been painted red: The Honest Thief. It wasn’t clear if the name was intended to be clever or if the inn’s owner didn’t understand irony, but either way the entire display usually amused me to some degree. But not now. I was in no mood for satire, intentional or otherwise.
Clattering and clanging greeted me from within as I headed for the tavern’s front door, and I stopped to listen for a moment. Competing strings of curses battled with accusations and insults, and after a moment I heard a loud bang and thud from the rear of the building.
Hmm. This is actually longer than he usually stays, I thought. Turning away from the front door, I headed down the narrow alley running between The Honest Thief to the right and a tiny house to the left. Carefully avoiding some broken glass and what was left of a few shattered wine barrels, I turned right out of the alley and stopped, shaking my head in a mix of amusement and irritation.
Light streamed out of an open door at the back, illuminating the scene: two of the local enforcers were hard at work disciplining a thin, reedy man in a ripped, dirty cloak, who was having a hard time getting up far enough for them to level him again with repeated punches to the face.
I watched the beating for a few seconds before sighing and stepping forward. “That’s enough, lads. You’ve made your point, don’t you think?”
The two men started and stared up at me, my arms folded as I looked down at them with a thin smile on my face. “We’re not makin’ a point, we’re teachin’ this ralaar waste a lesson,” said the younger man, whose chin was covered with just the hint of a reddish beard. “And unless you feel like joinin’ the class, you’d best keep your mouth shut and go back the way you came.”
I chuckled and stepped closer, and as my face became visible in the light of the open door the older man, heavy-set and balding, gasped and dropped the thin man he’d been beating to the ground in a heap. “Ho, Acel, better back off,” he hissed to his younger companion, who shot him a look of disgust.
“You daft, Kagen? Some drunkard wants to play the hero and save this useless pile of bones, and you decide to get cold feet?”
Kagen backed away slowly. “That ain’t no drunkard. Don’t you know what that cloak means?”
Acel spat and laughed unpleasantly. “Sure. It means I’ll have somethin’ to keep me warm in a couple of months when the winter hits. You were warned, graycloak,” he said with a snarl, and, drawing a dagger from his belt, he charged at me.
I held my ground for a moment before smoothly stepping to my left as the surprised young man stumbled past. Grabbing his belt in the same motion, I pivoted and threw him toward the wall of the house behind me. Acel crashed into the wall with a thud, falling unconscious to the ground a second later. I turned to face Kagen.
“Now look, I’ve got no quarrel with you,” the man said as he backed away with his hands raised, light glinting off the sweat on his face. “I always keep clear of Argoth’s people. I ain’t responsible for him,” he stammered, jabbing a dirty forefinger at his fallen partner. “He’s new—he don’t know any better.”
“Then it’s high time he learned,” I said quietly, gaze fixed on the glassy-eyed Kagen. “Take him with you and teach him, or the next time the lesson’s permanent for you both.”
Kagen swallowed and nodded. Never taking his eyes from me, he walked cautiously to Acel’s body, bent over and lifted him by the shoulders. Grunting with the effort, he pulled the younger man inside the open door, and with a nod and sickly smile, slammed it closed, followed by the clear sound of locks being slammed home—not that they would have helped if I was truly determined to enter the tavern.
I sighed again and turned back to the cloaked figure on the ground, who stirred a bit and moaned feebly. “Anyone who thinks behavior can change has obviously never met you, Rumor. Come on, let’s get out into the light,” I said as I leaned over, grabbed the man by his grubby shirt, and pulled him to his feet. We walked unsteadily to the front of the building, where I sat him down underneath the dilapidated sign and knelt next to him. The street’s lantern light and the brightening sky above exposed the thin man’s pale face, uneven stubble on his chin. He was bloodied and bruised, his right eye nearly swollen shut from the pounding he’d taken, and his left eye, a watery blue, blinked uncontrollably as the light flashed into it.
“Your eyes will adjust in a minute,” I said, “or, at least one of them will. That other one will take a couple of days to get back to its normal ugliness.”
The thin man coughed, revealing two uneven lines of chipped and cracked teeth, and spat a thin line of blood into the street. “Go rot in a mire, Acolyte,” he croaked in an oddly high voice. “I ain’t interested in your jokes at the moment.”
I shook my head. “You’re enough of a joke without me adding to it, Rumor,” I replied. “Should I bother to ask you what you did to anger the fine people of The Honest Thief tonight, or is it the same as always: too much wine, too little money?”
Rumor coughed again. “The only thing that’s always the same is whenever things get a bit rough for me, I’m sure to see your face one way or the other.”
“You would have preferred I left you to deal with your friends alone?” I asked.
“Just a little misunderstanding. I would have cleared it up.”
“With your face, perhaps,” I said. “But I’ll keep it in mind the next time you’re getting the blood beat out of you.” I was growing impatient with the banter, but I knew from long years of experience that Rumor didn’t respond well to being rushed, any more than he did to demands or threats. In fact, the only thing Rumor did respond well to was money, and lots of it. No one knew his real name, nor how he gathered his information; some said he was a former government official who had somehow maintained his contacts on the inside, while others claimed he was related to one of the highly placed noble families in Cohrelle. A few even suspected him of dabbling in forbidden arts, using scrying devices and the like to probe the thoughts of those from whom he needed information. I was inclined to dismiss this last possibility entirely, not simply because “forbidden arts” only existed in the mutterings of lost souls, but because Rumor, unfettered by traditional concepts of ethics and morality, would have done much more with them if they actually did exist.
