It took longer than it should have to reach Kehsereen’s apartment. I got lost once in the Warrens, but mostly the dog was to blame. It wasn’t only the incessant sniffing and pissing everywhere, or the barking matches with every other dog we passed. When we came within smelling distance of a butcher’s stall in a tightly enclosed courtyard, the damned thing wouldn’t move on until I had bought it breakfast.
At this rate, I was going to end up broke.
The clouds had begun to come apart above us, slowly separating as if teased apart by fingers, dropping pillars of scarcely moving sunlight onto the city, but the air down here remained still. A thin layer of sweat had built up under my shirt.
Kehsereen opened the door to me with only a brief glance down at the dog. “I don’t have your information yet. I’m going to meet a contact later today. She should be able to tell me much of what you need.”
“That can wait. I need something else.”
I realised as I said it that it sounded ungrateful, but he stepped aside and waved me in.
I lowered myself into a chair on the opposite side of the room to his desk. It had been a tough morning – emotionally fucking traumatising, as well as all the walking and carrying – and unlike the dog, I hadn’t eaten. Mages didn’t need to eat or drink as often as other people, and a high mage could probably go for weeks without food. Magic helped sustain us, even heal us when we slept, but it didn’t stop us getting hungry.
“What is it you need?” Kehsereen hadn’t sat. He fretted restlessly in the space between the desk and the chairs.
“I want to get some information from one of the scholars at the university,” I said, “but he’s not going to want to give it to me.”
“Have you considered torture?”
My eyebrows shot up before I realised he was joking. It had taken me a while to pick up on Kehsereen’s sense of humour, and even now, I often missed it. “Don’t tempt me. He’s a scholar at Pauper’s College. I need to offer him something in exchange for that information. Something he would want but couldn’t get for himself.”
“And you don’t know what. What’s his speciality?”
Being an annoying, self-regarding arsehole. “Religion, specifically Fatracian and Pentathian gods, I think.”
Kehsereen peered off into the space above my head. I resisted the urge to turn to see what he was looking at.
“Agatos scholars don’t really undertake original research. They prefer learning from books already written. I doubt I have any that the university doesn’t. Perhaps an artifact might pique his interest, if you could find one.”
I shook my head. “Not for what I’m asking from him.” The fact that he’d demanded that I raise the Godkiller the last time I’d gone to him meant he wasn’t selling information for a trinket.
“Then you will want a book or manuscript that he won’t have seen.”
“I’m not going to be able to pick that up in the Penitent’s Ear.”
“You would be surprised, but no. It would be unlikely, and I have something specific in mind. The most well-known Fatracian deity was Tulbek the Old. But long before it became Tulbek, it was a tribal god associated with a river called the Eyvonne in northwest Fatracia. It is not so far from Khorasan, and I spent some time in the area. There is a small city there now called Perrammes. The early religions of the area were documented in a volume called The Silver Oak, but most copies were destroyed during the Fatracian Ascendancy.”
There had been a reason I’d drifted off in my history lessons. I had no idea what most of those things were. I probably couldn’t pick out Fatracia on a map.
“Which helps us how?”
“I am almost certain that your scholar will not have a copy.”
“Yeah, well, neither do I.”
Kehsereen smiled. “But Senator Greenfield probably does. He’s said to have the most extensive private collection of religious texts on the continent.”
“Great. And he’ll be willing to give it to me, will he?”
Kehsereen’s smile widened. “Absolutely not. He protects his collection jealously. I imagine you will have to steal it.”
This day was going from bad to absolutely terrible faster than a drunk taking a tumble down the Corithian Steps (ask me how I know; my ankle still hadn’t recovered all these year later from the wall I had met at the bottom). If this hadn’t been about the Lady’s murder – no, if this hadn’t been about getting back into Benny’s good books – I would have laughed it off. My two attempts at burglary so far had led to me being framed for murder and having to flee from a temple I had accidentally burned down. But I wasn’t going to be offered many more chances to make things up with Benny.
“I don’t think I know this Senator Greenhill.”
“You’ll like him. He has a palace near the top of Horn Hill. His family were rich, but he cornered the trade in high-value items from Corithia, Myceda, and Kendar after becoming a senator. Marble, gold, craftsmanship in ivory.”
Of course he had, the fucker. If there was one thing you could rely on, it was that senators would enrich themselves before helping the city. Mica’s boyfriend – partner, whatever – claimed to be different, and maybe he was, but neither of them were exactly living in poverty.
“He has a personal mage, too.”
I stilled in my chair. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Most mages attached themselves to one of the high mages – my mother, the Wren, or Carnelian Silkstar, until his death. A dozen or so – not those with ambition or particular power – worked directly for the Senate, generally on public works, maintaining the morgue-lamp network, the wards on public buildings, and the city’s magical defences, degraded though those had become over the centuries. A small handful took up private employment with wealthy families or businesses, looking after their interests and staying out of the politics of the high mages. Then there was me, of course, Agatos’s sole freelance mage, taking jobs from anyone who could pay and who didn’t piss me off too much, and struggling to meet each month’s rent. Honestly, I was surprised more mages hadn’t followed my example.
The private mages weren’t going to trouble a high mage in terms of power, but they were well-trained and focused on their one job. In the case of Greenfield’s mage, that would include protecting his assets from second-rate mages on the steal.
“That’s really the only option?” I asked.
Kehsereen shrugged. “If you want the book. I don’t know what else might persuade your scholar.”
Yeah. Me neither. Maybe some needles under his fingernails or a ball of fire up his arse. But I’d had enough of being arrested this year. “Fine. Tell me what I’m looking for.”
Kehsereen eyed me thoughtfully. “The senator has a large collection, I understand. I think I will need to come with you.”
I stared back up at him. A tourist. That was all I needed. Fuck me.
Any normal time, I would have brought Benny along on a jaunt like this. He had been a professional thief most of his adult life, and he still wasn’t dead or in gaol. My two attempts had been … mixed … to say the least, although I had walked away with my stolen opal from the temple I had burned down, so there was that. Benny had been in on the first attempt – the framed-for-murder lark – so that was a mark against him, too, but overall, he had a far higher success rate than I did. But I didn’t know where I stood with him. Would he think I was trying to dodge my part of the deal? Anyway, he had more important things to get on with – procuring apple tree wood and volcanic glass to shield the Lady’s body from magical detection – and three people was too many for a quiet bit of burgling.
“We’ll do it this afternoon,” I said. “Three o’clock. Meet at the top of the Corithian Steps. You know it?” That way I could avoid my mother’s palace. Even the thought of going near that made my heartbeat stutter and my skin tighten uncomfortably.
“Why not tonight?”
“The Senate will be in session this afternoon. He’ll be out the house, as will many of his staff. If we’re lucky, his mage will be with him.”
If not, we would have a problem. Another problem. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I could take on Greenfield’s personal mage head-to-head. I was right on the bottom of the scale when it came to power, not much more potent than an apprentice. I had some tricks and plenty of skill, but when it came down to brute power, I wasn’t impressing anyone. I had lost my obsidian-headed mage’s rod in the explosive chaos and destruction of the city’s dockyards. My fault, unfortunately, and they still hadn’t finished rebuilding the dockyards, but I’d had a good reason. I hadn’t replaced my rod yet. I missed the heft and reach of it when it came to confrontations. I had surprised a few overconfident opponents with a crack across the head or a balls-bursting smash between the legs, and no one wanted that in a fight.
“Then I shall look forward to Senator Greenfield’s library,” Kehsereen said.
“Yeah. You do that.” Personally, I would look forward to us not being horribly killed by the wards, the mage, or the guards.
I wasn’t sure which of us was being more optimistic.
It was a long time until my appointment with Senator Greenfield’s private collection. It wouldn’t hurt to give the place the once-over – check entrances, windows, wards, that kind of thing – but there was only so much I could do without getting inside, and there was no point raising suspicion. Anyway, if I spent too long thinking this through, I would just drive up my anxiety. I didn’t operate well when my anxiety took over. And I still had another job.
It hadn’t escaped my memory that I had promised to save the Brythanii priest, Cursed Ethemattian, from being murdered by his own congregation. Time was ticking down, and it really wouldn’t help my professional reputation if one of my clients was beaten to death. I still didn’t have the information I wanted before I tried to investigate the Brythanii temple, and distracting Kehsereen with this Senator Greenfield shit wasn’t helping there, but as often as not, in my very limited experience, the people most willing to fuck you over were those who were supposed to be closest to you. I could start with the priest’s family.
I headed home to exchange the dog for my black mage’s cloak. There was something distinctly more intimidating about looking like someone who could turn your blood into steam rather than wielding a dog that tended to wag enthusiastically at everyone he met. Then I headed for the address in the Stacks that Cursed Ethemattian had given me for his brother.
Over its hundreds of years of existence, the rulers of Agatos hadn’t made a great number of sensible decisions. A few days in this chaotic mess of a city would be enough to convince anyone of that. But it just about worked in its own way, particularly if you were rich, and speaking as a chaotic mess of a human being who just about worked in his own way, I fitted in.
One of the few sensible decisions the Senate had made was to restrict the sprawl of city into the Erastes Valley. The valley was bounded by steep, almost impenetrable mountain ranges on either side, and while most of the city’s goods arrived through trade, the Senate had understood the need to protect the farmland and natural resources within the valley in the case of blockade or failure of trade. It would be almost impossible to march an army into the valley. The Storm Gate that guarded the narrow northern end of the valley, where the Lidharan Highway marched higher into a narrow mountain pass, was impregnated with old, powerful magic, and if any mage did force their way through, they would find a detachment of Ash Guard waiting. The harbour had similarly potent defences, along with the city’s mages and batteries of cannons facing down any fleet. But cutting the city off from trade, well, that would be significantly easier. Thus, the preservation of the farmland, quarries, and forests beyond the city limits. The northern boundary of the city was littered with the torn-down ruins of buildings whose owners had tried to extend beyond. When I needed to feel better about the city, I would go and look at those ruins and imagine the merchants and politicians who’d thought the rule didn’t apply to them.
Of course, this policy also meant that those who owned land and property within the city’s boundaries – many of them, by an astonishing coincidence, senators themselves – suddenly found themselves several times richer. And, again of course, the very wealthiest had their palaces and estates in the foothills at Carn’s Break further up the valley, which by another equally astonishing coincidence appeared to be exempt from the rules.
Funny how things turned out.
It was this policy, though, that had led to the birth of the Stacks.
If they couldn’t build into the valley, the citizens of Agatos had shown they would build just about anywhere else, over, under, in between, or up. And so the Stacks had emerged. On the eastern side of the valley, before the cliffs because impossibly sheer, beneath the ominous façade of Ceor Ebbas, houses clung to the steep slopes, piled like toy blocks almost on top of each other, so that the ground floor of one house was level with rooftop of the one below.
I had always liked the Stacks. Along with the Warrens, Dockside, and parts of the Grey City, it was where many of the immigrants to Agatos settled. Unlike the Upper City, I didn’t look out of place. If it hadn’t been for the precipitous streets that would fuck my bad ankle seven ways, I could happily have lived here.
The part of the Stacks that many Brythanii had made their home was at the northern end, about two thirds of the way up. I noticed that, unlike many parts of the Stacks, which had a good view of the city, the sight of the Brythanii temple in the Street of Gods was blocked here. I wondered which had come first, the settlement or the temple. Either way, their refusal to even look towards their hated god was the type of long-term grudge I could get behind.
I didn’t know what kind of country the Brythanii had originally come from, only that it had been far to the south and without much sun, judging by the near-white skin and pale hair of most Brythanii. Their homes and businesses had a characteristic style, painted red and green in sharp, angular, abstract patterns, with the same patterns carved into wood and stone. I didn’t know if it originated in their homeland or was something they had picked up or developed in the generations-long migration north. But I knew I was in the right place.
The family address Cursed Ethemattian had given me was a small home with a covered work-yard attached to the side. Lumber was neatly stacked, raised off the ground, and sheltered by the roof and a stone wall. From further back, I heard the gentle tap of a hammer striking something repeatedly and a murmur of voices. I let myself in and made my way around the lumber.
Two figures perched on stools at a workbench, a man of maybe forty and a girl who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Sereh. Twelve, thirteen, perhaps. Both were working, the man carving a block of wood with hammer and chisel, the girl carefully sanding a nearly finished piece, a face with exaggerated cheekbones and forehead cut from wood. Neither of their pieces seemed particularly Brythanii in style.
“Hello!” I called as I approached.
The man’s hammer stilled, and he glanced towards me. “What do you want, mage?”
The black cloak didn’t seem to impress him. I supposed when your entire culture had sworn a vendetta against your own god, a mage was pretty small time.
“Are you Retha Ethemattian?” I could see a similarity between this man and my client. He looked older, but maybe that was just the difference in lifestyle between a pampered priest and a man who worked for a living.
“Might be.”
“I need to ask you some questions.”
He turned back to his work and gave the chisel a gentle rap with his hammer, then pursed his lips. “If it’s about how much it’ll cost you to commission my services, go ahead. Otherwise, I’m busy.”
I wondered if that often worked as an approach to getting customers. Basically telling them they were an inconvenience and you wished they would go away.
Is that so different to the way you run your business?
“Shut up,” I muttered at my brain. Well, it would take more than some amateur-level rudeness to put me off. “It’s about your brother.”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
I was certain this was both the address and the name the priest had given me. Was he pissing me about? If so, he was going to get my toe up his arse.
“Ard Ethemattian? The priest?”
“That man’s not my brother. Not anymore.”
Great. A sibling grudge. But it was interesting. I was looking for people who might have reason to hate my client, and this guy wasn’t showing a whole lot of love and affection.
Or was this a cultural thing I was unaware of? The Brythanii hated their god, and they ritually murdered one of their priests each year. Perhaps disowning the priests was another way of showing their disdain.
“Why?” I asked.
The Brythanii lowered his hammer and chisel. “Who are you, mage? Why are you asking?”
A pretty fair question, all things considered. Most people just saw the cloak and started talking. This guy was going to be less helpful.
I could hardly tell him I was working for the brother he hated. “I work with the Ash Guard.” If being an unpaid informant and occasional suspect counted as ‘working with’.
“What’s Ard done this time?”
“This time?”
He looked away. Unexpectedly, the girl spoke up. “Dad was supposed to be the priest, but Uncle Ard got in first.”
Her father’s hands tightened on his tools. “He knew I wanted it. He knew that had always been my ambition. But he always wanted what I wanted.” He shook his head. “It’s ironic. He was always better at woodworking than me. He had the hands of an artist. He should have inherited this place. He had no interest in religion. Then he realised how much power and influence a priest could have. He joined the temple a week before I had planned to. He knew I was going to, so he made sure he got there first. That was Ard every time. He’s not my brother.”
So, someone who wasn’t afraid to clamber over others to get to the front of the queue. My client sounded like a man who would be good at making enemies.
“There can only be one priest in a family,” the daughter added. “It should have been dad.”
If this was true, then, honestly, my client was a bit of a wanker. He didn’t deserve to die for it, though.
“We don’t talk about that man anymore.”
They had done a fair amount of talking about him, but who was I to complain? I had just poked the boil and watched the pus seep out. The fury this man still held for his brother was palpable. He certainly didn’t lack motive. But he was a wood carver. How could he have influenced the selection of priest for this bloody ceremony?
“What are you working on?” I nodded towards the abandoned carving on the bench. Retha Ethemattian looked surprised to see it.
“It’s a piece for the new Temple of Gwillan-Whose-Light-Falls-on-the-Few-Not-the-Many. The old one burned down.”
“Yeah. I heard that.” We didn’t need to go into how it had happened. “I’d have thought you would be working on site.” I had walked past the ruins a few times out of morbid curiosity. It had always been swarming with workers. If you could say something for the adherents of Gwillan-Whose-Light-Falls-on-the-Few-Not-the-Many, you could say they weren’t exactly short of cash, and the merchants of the city were engaged in a self-aggrandising contest to see who could do the most and in the most public way towards the restoration of the temple. If you looked at it right, I had done everyone a favour in burning the place down.
“People don’t like having a Brythanii on site. They think it might offend their gods.” He turned his head and spat. “It’s easier to work here and send my work to the temple.”
“You do a lot of work for temples?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
“How about for the Brythanii temple?” I had been wondering how someone like him would get access to the Sanctum where the selection of victim had taken place. But if he worked there…
The man’s face twisted into a sneer. “No Brythanii would honour the betrayer god by working on its temple.”
Hard to argue with that, from what I had seen. “You know your brother was chosen as sacrifice for your ritual?”
Something passed across the man’s features too quickly for me to identify, to be replaced again with the sneer. What was it? Guilt? Fear? Regret?
“What of it? He made his choice. No one has to volunteer.”
“Have you ever wondered that if your brother hadn’t taken your place, it might be you waiting to be beaten to death in four days’ time?”
He snorted, but again there was that fleeting expression.
“You said only one member of each family can be a priest. When Ard is killed, maybe you’ll get to be a priest after all.”
I wanted to push him. I wanted to see what that emotion really was. I wanted to know if there was enough motive for him to arrange to have his own brother killed.
Maybe I pushed him too far. His hand closed around his hammer. “That’s enough, mage. The Ash Guard has no business here. There’s not magic. You’re not welcome.”
I had stretched my luck enough. If this came to violence, Captain Gale wouldn’t be sympathetic to my deception when I was inevitably arrested. I still held out a faint hope that she might one day agree to a date with me, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Anyway, Retha Ethemattian looked fairly handy with a hammer, and I would get nowhere with this job if he knocked a hole in my skull.
Frustration almost won out. I hadn’t expected to solve this case here, but I’d hoped … what? That it would be handed to me like sweetmeats at a Charo celebration? How often did that happen?
I just wanted this job to be over. Benny had handed me a chance to mend the friendship I’d broken, and this job was an obstacle. Maybe I should abandon it and return Ethemattian’s payment, tell him I couldn’t help him. But if I did and he died, that would be on me.
Having a conscience was a bastard.
I would wait for Kehsereen’s information, then I would do my job and hope to fuck it didn’t get in the way of what I had promised Benny.
Retha Ethemattian was starting to look twitchy with that hammer. Never let it be said that Mennik Thorn couldn’t take a hint. I left.