The Horns Of Ruin Part 8

Several things. I had never seen an impellor this small. The enormous devices that ran the monotrains were as big as houses, where this one was maybe fifteen feet long and half that in width. They were also immensely complicated machines, sprouting conduit and gears and various ... flas.h.i.+ng things. Machinery wasn't my strong point. But they looked like big machines.

This did not. This didn't look anything like what I expected. It was almost organic, like a smooth seash.e.l.l, rippled and furled, with whorled apertures of some glossy, fluted material that was colored with the deepest blues and reds I had ever seen. It was a beautiful engine, if it was an engine at all.

I put my hand against its side. The surface was cool and soft to the touch, denting slightly from the pressure. My skin began to vibrate in time with the waves of impellor force.

"Is there a control panel somewhere?" Owen asked.

I blinked and turned to him, then looked around the smooth sh.e.l.l of the impellor.

"No, nothing I can see. It looks alive, doesn't it?"

"It started talking to you, Eva?" He smirked, circling carefully around the artifact. He paused and then put his hand against it, standing opposite me. "Here we go."

I felt a momentary surge of panic along my spine, and then the impellor waves fell out of rhythm and subsided. The artifact lay there on the platform, inert, like an instrument just put aside by a master. I stepped back and crossed my arms, fighting a chill.

"Any idea what it is?" I asked.

"An impellor, isn't it? Sure felt like one." Owen rubbed the hand he'd touched to the device. I walked around and saw what he'd activated. It was some kind of indentation in the side of the artifact, almost like a handprint but somehow wrong. Too small, and the fingers were ... strange.

"Maybe some kind of new design," I said. "Might be these runaway Scholars have more resources than I thought, if they're cooking up stuff like this."

"It is the oldest design," a voice said behind me. I turned and saw that a couple of Owen's boys were bringing an Amonite onto the platform. It was the same guy who had sealed the hatch for us.

"You survived," I said. "Hope you didn't have to fight or anything inconvenient like that. Or did your dogs know not to bite one of their master's boys?"

He ignored me and went to the artifact. His hands trailed along the flutes of the apertures like an artist tracing a line in a painting. When he was done communing with the thing, he turned to Owen, sparing me the briefest look.

"It is not a made thing. Or at least, not made by the Scholar's Cant."

"So it's something they found?" I asked. "Or something they stole?"

"Something they stole," he answered, still not looking at me. "Or perhaps something they bought. This is a Feyr device."

"The Feyr make impellors?" Owen asked.

"The Feyr can make anything, if they decide to. Or they could. The time of the great Feyr fabricators ended when the Brothers Immortal destroyed this city and cast down their G.o.ds. But yes, at one time, this was made by the Feyr."

"So it's old. Maybe something they dug up out of the city. Any ideas where they would have found a thing like this?" I asked, walking to stand in front of the Amonite. I plucked the hem of his hood, so he couldn't avoid looking at me.

"That is not what you are asking. You are asking if I have any ideas about where they might have gone, or where you might find others of their kind. In this, you know as much as I do," he said. His eyes were lined with dark concern, and he nodded up toward the abandoned hideout, far above. "You have seen that place, as have I. Where do you think they might be, now that you have turned them out of their home?"

I grimaced, and put my hand on the artifact. It was cold now, the skin stiff. I paced around it, examining it, running my hand across it.

"The Feyr, huh? It's an interesting lead. Can't imagine it has anything to do with the Fratriarch, though." I looked up to see the Amonite's eyes still following me. Creepy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I shrugged at him, then motioned Owen's people over. "He's not being helpful. Get him out of here."

They led him away, leaving me alone with Owen and the artifact.

"This mean anything to you?" I asked him. "That they had a Feyr device like this?"

"Like you said-probably something they just found. What do you want me to do with it?"

"You guys probably have some kind of warehouse for stuff like this, huh? Why don't you put it there?"

I paused as I heard footsteps hammering down the stairs behind me. Some problem with the Amonite? Turning, I saw one of the whites.h.i.+rts push aside the barrier tape and jump down onto the platform. When he saw me, the guy's face went white and he averted his eyes, then made a beeline to the Justicar.

"Something to report?" Owen asked. The man nodded, then looked back at me. "Something private?"

"No, sir. Not private. Just ... she's not going to like it."

"You think you can possibly tell me something that's going to make my day any worse than it already is, son?" I asked.

Owen held up a hand. From the stairs there was a quiet peal of sound, a clamoring that echoed down the steel and stone from the street above.

Sirens. To hear it down here, the world must be screaming with sirens.

*has was a gardener. A strange enough thing in the Cult of Morgan the Warrior, and stranger because he had practiced this art since childhood. On campaign as a sergeant in the G.o.d's army, the mud in front of his tent was groomed and raked, accented by potted plants and lines of tumbled stone. His barrack post crawled with vines. Even on watch, he took time to prune the hedges on his route. And now, as an Elder of the G.o.d, he kept a terrace on the tall, wind-wracked heights of the monastery, the stone floor crowded with loamy planters and ivy-covered trellises. He slept between rows of dirt, his bed under a canvas roof, the mud under his nails fresh.

When he woke up that morning, it was to stiffness and pain. It had been a late night. Arguing with Tomas, arguing with Isabel. Trying to get Simeon to take a side or at least express an opinion. Missing Barnabas. Missing his voice in the argument, his leaders.h.i.+p, his strength. Mostly, though, just missing his old friend.

Outside his simple room, the wind whipped coldly over the terrace. The sun was a white disk of hammered silver behind the clouds. It wouldn't rain today, but it felt like it should. Like the air needed cleaning. Elias s.h.i.+vered as he slipped from his morning robe, stretching strong, wrinkled arms in the chill air as he a.s.sumed the poses of the warrior. When he was done with the morning ritual, the old man put on loose pants and a leather jerkin, and began the daily rite of weeding and tilling that would settle his mind and gird his spirit.

He was there, kneeling beside a planter of herringheart, trowel in one hand and a fist of dirt in the other, when they came for him. That they would find him here was inevitable. It was where Elias was, at this hour, on these days.

That they would strike him here, high up in the Strength of Morgan, steps from the Chamber of the Fist, on the holy stones of the Warrior G.o.d. That was unthinkable.

He fought. Even caught unawares, even unarmed, unarmored, uninvoked. With nothing but the hammer-strength of his old, wrinkled hands, hands that had planted and nurtured and struck stone and metal and bone. He fought, and he killed. There was more blood here than belonged to an aging Elder of the Cult. There was enough blood here for three men, soaking into the mud of the crawling vines, slicking the water of the artificial pond. More than enough blood. But only one body.

He lay where he had fallen, the trowel still in his hand. Its edge was dull and nicked. b.l.o.o.d.y. His fists were pulverized. The bones of his face lay haphazardly under the skin. Deep cuts traced across his chest, his arms, his legs. He had fought, and he had lost.

I knelt beside him. It had been hours before they found him, and hours more until they had gotten word to me. Alexander's men stood nervously around the monastery. They had failed. The other Elders gathered to take the body into the quiet halls of the Warrior's Rest. I helped them carry, along with a couple whites.h.i.+rts. Afterward, we met in the Chamber of the Fist. Tomas was furious. Divinely furious.

"We agreed to stay because you said the Cult of Alexander would protect us," he said, his voice a hammering monotone, the fury just under the surface. "We agreed to stay because you said we would be safe."

"Since when do Morganites do the safe thing?" I asked, quietly. It wasn't my place, but there weren't many people left whose place it was. "Why are we hiding under a blanket of white?"

Tomas didn't answer me directly, but Simeon and Isabel drew back uncomfortably nonetheless. There were whites.h.i.+rts present: the two who had helped carry Elias's body to the Rest, a couple patrol-level authority figures, and the Elector of our district. Guy named Nathaniel. His armor was pearl white and trimmed with gold and silver. He looked glorious, for a nursemaid. All of them sat behind a table, the third side of the Council's usual triune arrangement. There were enough empty seats, now, that we could afford the s.p.a.ce.

"We had the exits covered, my lords, and regular patrols. The Elder wouldn't have a guard. He refused us," Nathaniel said, his gauntleted hands folded casually on the table. "There is only so much we can do for you."

"Aye, and you've done it," Simeon said. "We've had enough of your help, highness. You may take your leave."

"Your pardon?" the Elector asked, c.o.c.king his head to one side like a schoolchild. "We are here to guard you, Elders. If this can happen with us here, what will happen if we were to leave?"

"I can't imagine it being much worse than this," Tomas said. "An Elder of the Cult was murdered today, sir. Your presence did not prevent it. Therefore, it is no longer necessary."

"There's no need to be stubborn," Elector Nathaniel said. "There's enough trouble without you getting stubborn."

"There's enough trouble without you strutting down our hallways and mucking up our relics," Isabel answered. Her voice was calm, but she sounded like a mother correcting a child. "We've had well enough of that. Eva had the right of it, I think. You will not take the necessary actions. We must see to ourselves."

"I will not-" the Elector began, standing.

"You will not tell us our business, nor make any claims to our safety," Tomas said, standing, yelling, hunched forward with both strong, wrinkled hands flat on the table, and the Council stood with him. Even old men and women can stand strong when the need is great. Especially then. "The Sword of Morgan cut a path for this city. It was on his steel that the Fraterdom was built. I'd thank you to remember where you are, and to whom you are speaking."

"I'm speaking to a dead man, if you kick us out!"

Tomas raised his eyebrows and leaned back.

"I have decided to take that as a threat, sir. You will vacate these premises immediately, or you will face me in challenge. Do you accept?"

"This is ... it's a circus," the Elector huffed. He gathered the paperwork he had brought with him, the sheets rattling in his hand as he clenched them angrily. "A circus. A farce. A mummer's play. You have left your senses."

"And you have still not left the building," Tomas answered, then drew a short, flat blade. Its surface was black, and did not reflect light at all. He balanced the tip on the table and worked his thin, bony fingers over the hilt. "There is little time left, child."

"G.o.ds! G.o.ds in heaven and water, and whatever's in between." The Elector snapped a salute to his men, then motioned them out. The evacuation was precise.

"Boys," Tomas called, as the two who had helped carry Elias followed their lord out. "A moment."

The two paused, nervously. Tomas nodded to them, though he was still fingering that awful blade.

"You bore the weight of my brother, Elias. For this I thank you. The Sword of Morgan go with you, and carry you through the battle that is to come."

They stared at him in silence, then looked at each other with wide eyes.

"The Sword of Morgan," they intoned, then hurried out.

"Still recruiting?" Isabel asked.

"Hm. Well. Brother knows we could use the help," Tomas said. He hid the knife away and turned to his fellow Elders. "We must see to our defenses, and then pray our brother down. Eva, if you would take first stance?"

"I have things to do, Elder. I'd like to catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who are doing this."

"And catch them you will," he said, looking at me with narrowed eyes. "But first you will honor your brother Elias. Or are the rites of Morgan lost to you?"

"They are not," I answered. I wasn't looking forward to hours of meditation in the Rest, but I had no choice.

"I thought not. Elders," he said, looking back to the two remaining members of the Council of the Fist. "We have much to discuss. I will have food brought."

I left them to it, returning to my room to don the ceremonial garb of the Cult. The rest of my day was spent in quiet contemplation of the rites of Morgan, and the pa.s.sing of his brother, Elias. The world went on without me. I hoped Barnabas would forgive me, and swore to honor him, when his time came.

They had argued for hours. It was the kind of argument where everyone knows that none of them is going to win. The room was quiet. No one was looking at anyone else.

"I have served the watch," I intoned, holding out the gold-etched ceremonial sword. "I pa.s.s you my brother's sword, that the watch may continue."

Tomas and Isabel didn't move. Simeon moved further away, turning his back to me and futzing with some fruit on the Council's triune table. I sighed and took a step into the room.

"Come on, folks, someone has to stand the next watch. Elias can't hold this sword."

Tomas sighed and stuffed his fists into his robe, then turned to Isabel. She nodded.

"Elder Simeon," Tomas said, trying his best for Barnabas's commanding voice. It wasn't a bad try. "I believe that this is your watch to stand."

"She has to know, Elder," Simeon said without turning around. "You can't expect her to continue like this."

"She will know."

Simeon turned and faced the smaller man. "When?"

"Stand your watch, Elder. For Elias."

"And Barnabas, if we keep this up," Simeon said under his breath. He marched to me and took the sword, not once meeting my eyes. When he was gone I tried to get Tomas to look me in the eye, then Isabel.

"This is the part where you tell me," I said.

Nervous looks, and then Tomas waved a hand.

"Follow me, child."

Tomas went before me, Isabel behind. I couldn't help but feel that I should be carrying my bully, or at least a knife.

They took me to the solarium. In our glory days, this s.p.a.ce had doubled as a ballroom for formal events. Now it was just dusty, and a nice place to watch the stars. Night now, so the wide, domed ceiling of gla.s.s glittered with the diamond sky and the wash of alchemical light from the surrounding gla.s.s towers of the city. We were high in the Strength, above the fortified chambers, above even the terrace where Elias had fought his last. The solarium was a luxury of the Strength, not found in the other fortress monasteries of Morgan. Not that there were any left in the countryside still dedicated to their original purpose.

Tomas paused by the door and spun up the broad frictionlamps that ringed the gla.s.s dome. The room filled with amber light. The marble floor was unevenly dusty, and the air was cold and stale. I waited for Tomas to finish his business with the lights, watching Isabel walk further into the room. She reached the center and then orbited the inlaid compa.s.s rose, very slowly.

"No waiting around, girl," Tomas muttered as he pa.s.sed me. "We've a lot of business tonight."

We Joined Isabel at the center. He held up a hand for me to stop, just on the edge of the compa.s.s. Isabel came to stand beside me. Tomas kept his eyes on the floor, focusing on the dusty marble. Then, strangely, he raised his arms in benediction. And he danced.

It was a slow step, heel and toe and careful forms that moved him around the compa.s.s rose to an unheard tune. The dust puffed around his feet and stained the hem of his robe. Isabel put a hand on my elbow and tugged me slowly back. One revolution he danced, and then the floor opened and a platform rose into the room, panels sliding and clicking like a magician's disappearing box.

The platform was small and pyramidal, rising to waist height at the center. On the highest part there was a cylinder of banded iron, like a thousand pistons bundled together.

"How many years of dances and b.a.l.l.s held in this room, and no one just happened to step that path?" I asked, my voice a whisper.

"It is an invokation," Tomas answered. He was out of breath, and a sheen of sweat beaded on his pale forehead. "Something you will learn, in time."

"So. What is this thing that we have hidden behind our G.o.d's secret life as a dancer?" I asked. Steps led up the gentle slope to the platform. I ascended and put my hand on the cylinder. It was about the length of my arm, and four times as thick. Heavier than I antic.i.p.ated when I picked it up.

"You will need to invoke," Isabel said. There was a hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice. I ignored her and hefted it to my shoulder, then tottered down the stairs. Isabel shook her head, then invoked under her breath and plucked the cylinder from my grasp. She set it on the ground, and we all stood around and stared at it.

"We don't know," Tomas said eventually. "It arrived, unseen, in the Chamber of the Fist. Two weeks ago."

I knelt beside it. The complicated bindings of my ceremonial doublet creaked as I looked the device over.

"These are Amonite markings," I said, running my finger over a band of runes along one edge. "This is the language of the Scholar."

Tomas took a deep breath and then exhaled a deeper sigh.