Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance Page 5

  The Curator graced Rachel with his customary, charismatic smile. “The answer was darkness, actually,” he greeted her in the same resonant voice. “But I’m feeling generous today, so I thought I’d let it slide. Rachel Vaveran, it’s been far too long.”

  Not nearly long enough.

  No one really knew who (or what) the Curator actually was, nor could anyone guess as to where he came from or why he stood guard over this gate. He was like the rainclouds outside or the sun behind them: you didn’t question where they came from or what they were doing, simply because they had always been there. Some of the more sociable Genshwin had tried several times to wring some interesting answers out of him, but no one had ever been able to get past his enigmatic grin.

  It made Rachel uncomfortable. As a youth, she had often tried to provoke him to anger without success. He would just laugh and shake his head at her like a patient father ignoring a petulant child. He was too patient, and she resented that; he was intentionally cryptic and she hated him for it. And the Curator knew it, too.

  She nodded in an obligatory fashion, but did not answer him otherwise.

  “I see you are still unnerved by my presence,” the Curator noted. He was still smiling. “My apologies.”

  “Nothing escapes your perception, does it?” Rachel’s tone put bitter limes to shame.

  “An immeasurable period of life eternal makes you sharp.” He inclined his head, the strange energy of his body rippling with the motion. “Are you here to stay, Mistress Vaveran?”

  The ghost pronounced her name Vave-rin. He always had, because he knew it pissed her off. She’d lost track of how many times she’d screamed at him Vaveran! Vuh-vare-an! She’d eventually given up trying — how do you correct someone who’s mocking you on purpose?

  “I’m just passing through,” she grunted.

  The Curator made a tsking sound. “How unfortunate. We have missed your quick wit around here these past years.”

  “If only I could say the same,” Rachel murmured.

  “Come now, don’t be like that,” the Curator admonished. “The Genshwin are the only family you have, Mistress Vaveran, even if you do have it in for the Patriarch.”

  Rachel scowled. “You’ve known Mrak longer than anyone alive. You know what I know — the things he's done, the things he hides from everyone else.”

  The Curator’s smile did not wane as he shrugged. “Indeed I do. But judge-jury-executioner is not my calling. I’m just the gatekeeper.”

  “Well then, gatekeeper,” she hissed. “Do your job so I can do mine. Open the damn doors.”

  “Very well, Mistress Vaveran.” The ghost bowed once more. Behind him, the ball-key rotated in its slot and sank deeper into the door. The sounds of an army of clanking gears followed, and the double doors opened inward with a grinding reverberation.

  “Fare thee well, Genshwin,” the Curator said, and his body and voice evanesced back into nothingness. “You’ll enjoy your visit, won’t you?”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

  She stepped around the space where the Curator had stood, unwilling to walk through it, and proceeded through the gate. There was another thunderous vibration, and the doors shut behind her.

  Ahead, the cave became a low-ceilinged tunnel. The silence broken only by the crackling of the torches, Rachel continued down the hall, kicking up dust.

  Soon, the tunnel expanded, opening up into a chamber the size of a city plaza with a high ceiling. Unseen lights illuminated the cavern and painted the marble surfaces with a bright glare. Bustling all about were Majiski in Genshwin Shadows, milling about from one place to another. The cavern housed several medium-sized buildings hewn out of the marble: the kitchen, the armory, the treasury, the archive. Several tunnels branched off from this main chamber, leading to dormitories, lecture halls, amphitheaters, and training rooms. And in the middle of the square, a massive tower stretched from floor to ceiling, like a great support beam.

  “Welcome home, Rachel,” she whispered to herself.

  This was Velik Tor, the great lair of the Genshwin. A place that had once been her home. But Rachel did not pause to take it all in. She wanted this over with. Now.

  Without hesitation, she trundled on, cutting through the plaza to the tower. She moved swiftly, avoiding the eyes of any other Majiski that might recognize her. After all, she’d been gone almost four years — anyone she had known before leaving to become a Scorpion undoubtedly thought her dead by now.

  She reached the heavy wooden door at the tower’s foot and pulled it open. Inside she briskly ascended a flight of spiral stairs that circumscribed the inner walls. Every step rang like a bludgeoned bell in the acoustic silo. Every stair was jarringly familiar, the same stairs she had climbed years before, just before being sent to Oron.

  Another door greeted her on the landing. She lifted the bolt and pushed through it without knocking. Awaiting her on the other side were a dozen lines of bookshelves, filled with tomes of every size and color. The Velik Tor library, which sat just beneath the Patriarch’s chambers, remained one of the last collections of books in Io to have survived the Demons’ purges. Replete with almost hundreds of old Commonwealth era writings, it had always been the Genshwin’s greatest treasure.

  But as Rachel moved through the stacks, she noted conspicuous vacancies amongst the shelves. She had never noticed them before she went to Oron, but after hearing all that her master had to say about the Genshwin Patriarch’s history, the empty spaces glared at her like missing teeth: cogent evidence of Mrak’s own purges of knowledge that he himself sought to hide from the Genshwin. It was, in Rachel’s opinion, Mrak’s greatest treason.

  “Rachel,” a gentle voice called through the stacks.

  She followed the voice through the forest of shelves, chasing its ephemeral trail until she found the speaker: an old Majiski standing straight and tall between two shelves. In his hands, he held a copy of Theories on the Formation of Alchemical Compounds, one cold blue eye fixated on the pages. The other eye was covered, as was the entire right half of his ancient face beneath a cloth mask that he wore under his the hood of his robe, having been burned away by fire years ago. As Rachel turned the corner, the man looked up, turning that single icy, calculating eye onto here. The one visible half of his wrinkled face smiled — but it looked more like a leer to her.

  “Welcome home, my dear,” Mrak said, his voice too-perfectly placid, his timbre too pleasant to be genuine, too forced to be anything but overcompensating.

  Mrak had been the Genshwin’s Patriarch since…well, forever. When Rachel had first come here as a child after her family had died, she had viewed him as a kind (if distant) grandfather. Everyone did. But she’d since learned otherwise.

  Technically, the Scorpions (including Notak, Rachel, and their mentor, Oron) were under Mrak’s command. But the Scorpions were a secret even to the Genshwin, and so operated outside Velik Tor’s walls. The Nest of Scorpions was too far removed from Oblakgrad to be under Mrak’s direct influence. And while Oron was faithful to the Genshwin as a whole, his agenda differed greatly from Mrak’s. Oron knew Mrak’s past, his dirty little secrets, and he had shared those secrets with Notak and Rachel. Secrets that, to Rachel, made Mrak just as bad as any Demon.

  Certainly, the old man thought the Scorpions were completely loyal to him. He thought that Oron would keep his secrets for him and leave Notak and Rachel in the dark. He thought they were his tools to use as he saw fit. But the reality was that the Scorpions were Genshwin in name only. While Mrak used his pawns in Velik Tor to do his bidding under the false guise of “fighting for the people of Io”, the Scorpions were actually doing things. Real things. Useful things that worked against the Dominion.

  Mustering every ounce of patience she possessed, Rachel inclined her head politely. “Master, it’s been too long.”

  Mrak set down his book and placed his withered, spindly hands on Rachel’s shoulders. She resisted the urge to flinch awa
y. “The years have been kind to you, my child. You look well.”

  “As do you,” Rachel lied.

  “I trust Oron has been taking good care of you?”

  Rachel ground her teeth in frustration. If there was anything she hated more than Mrak, it was small-talk. “Very well, indeed,” she answered, her lips pressed into a brittle smile.

  Mrak returned the smile, his only slightly more sincere. “But I trust you are not here for pleasantries. Oron informed me that you have need of my advice.”

  Finally, to business.

  “We intercepted a letter today,” Rachel said, extracting it from her Shadow. She handed the parchment to Mrak, careful to avoid touching his ugly hands. “Carried by a Demon, most likely bound for Castle Oblakgrad. Oron said I should deliver it to you.”

  Mrak nodded gravely as he took the letter. He unfolded it and took a moment to examine the contents. His single eye narrowed as it scanned each line. Eventually, he looked back up at Rachel.

  “Have you read this?” His voice was low, so quiet it was almost a whisper.

  Rachel shook her head once.

  Mrak returned the paper. “Read.”

  To the Lady Tempest, Duchess of Oblakgrad, Mistress and Goddess of Storms, etc:

  It is with great trepidation that I address you, as well as the other members of the Nineteen. Normally, I would wait until the Pantheon’s regular inquiry to make this report, but I fear that this matter cannot be ignored for another two months.

  I received a report this evening (the 20th of Tamur), from the station in Milonok. My man there, Felsted, has informed me of a contact made by one of his agents. A potential confidential informant reached out to Felsted’s agent, claiming to possess critical intelligence of immediate import to the Dominion.

  After a good deal of compromise, the informant delivered a missive as a gesture of good faith. I have attached a copy of his correspondence to this letter — in summary, the informant suggests that a network of Majiski assassins, spies, and mercenaries have been operating underground throughout Io. He claims that they are responsible for dozens of murders, attacks, and thefts over the past few decades.

  The informant is demanding amnesty, sanctuary, and financial compensation in exchange for names and locations of the insurgents’ safe houses and center of operations, to be delivered to our agent in Milonok on the 13th of Deach, just short of three weeks from this evening.

  As Lieutenant Minister of Intelligence, I strongly recommend that the Pantheon approve the exchange that this new threat may be dealt with forthwith. I have copied this report to the other members of the Pantheon and sent them by special runners for delivery. The Imperator has surely been notified by now, as Castle Io is just across the bridge from my offices. Please respond with all possible haste, as the deadline is but a few short weeks away.

  Alms and Regards,

  Unin Tangaree

  Lt. Minister of Intelligence, (4/20/107)

  All distaste for Mrak forgotten, Rachel looked up at the Patriarch. Her voice quavered with an amalgam of rage and fear. “We’ve been compromised?”

  Mrak nodded soberly. “It would seem that way. The Dominion knows, at least, of our existence. It’s an unfortunate mistake, but recoverable. We have a month to stop them before they learn too much.”

  “What must I do?” Rachel asked, fists clenched.

  Mrak’s smile was twisted beneath his half-mask. “Things are already underway. The author of that report, Unin Tangaree, is dead. One of my Talons killed him in Litoras five days ago, the night he wrote that letter. But we were too late to stop copies of this letter from being sent to more than a dozen other unknown recipients. However, my Talon did obtain the original report that Tangaree received from the agent in Milonok. I will have him deal with plugging the leak, but meanwhile I have a different task for the Scorpions.”

  “Different task?” Rachel repeated.

  “This letter represents an opportunity,” Mrak answered, crossing his arms behind his back. His voice was all cold business. “Tangaree makes several references to a Pantheon. My own intelligence has recently indicated that this most likely refers to the ruling collective of Demons that control the entire Dominion from within their fortresses. No doubt including Imperator.”

  Rachel though for a moment. “Hang on a second…isn’t Tempest the name of the Mnogo god of storms, or something?”

  Mrak nodded again. “Goddess. And no, I do not believe it is coincidence. Oron and I believe it quite possible that the nineteen Mnogo gods are not ethereal gods at all, but idols modeled after the Demons who control the Dominion. We assume that they deified themselves, created the Mnogo religion around this façade, and enforced worship on the Humans. Both as a means of control, and to keep their identity a secret.”

  “So the Humans have no idea they’re actually revering images of a bunch of Demons hiding inside their castle walls…” Rachel mused. “Clever. And it makes sense. It’d instill an inherent sense of loyalty to them if their identity were ever compromised.”

  “That is part of it, yes,” Mrak nodded. “But if we can get to them, draw them out, reveal the fraud, and kill them, the illusion will be shattered. The Dominion will lose all credibility.”

  “I see,” Rachel nodded. “And how exactly do we get to them? We’ve never penetrated their castles before.”

  “I have a few ideas brewing,” Mrak replied. “For now, go to Dírorth with Notak. Seek out a rich merchant by the name of Hammon, the local authority for the Westward Trade Company. Slay him, steal his shipping manifests, and take them to Oron. I believe he has ties to one of the Nineteen; hopefully his records will provide us with a lead.”

  Rachel inclined her head again. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “Very well,” Mrak said, picking up his book. “You are dismissed.”

  The hatred that had been buried by the news of the Nineteen resurfaced. Rachel hated being brushed off. An urge to punch the wrinkly bastard bubbled up in her chest, but somehow she held it back. Grinding her teeth, she turned her back on Mrak and began to leave.

  “And Rachel?”

  She looked back over her shoulder at Mrak.

  “I believe I have found a third Genshwin to add to the Scorpions,” Mrak said, reopening his book. “A leader, I guess you could call him. I suggest you pay Oron a visit after you're finished in Dírorth.”

  ——

  Notak had just begun wondering what might happen if he called down lightning on Castle Oblakgrad when Rachel returned. A watercolor blur, she sailed through the curtain of rain that dripped from the window frame, splashing water over the floor. Notak flinched reflexively, but stopped himself from lunging at her when he recognized her Shadow.

  Rachel drew back her hood and shook her damp hair loose, tangled locks falling around her face. “Bad news.”

  “I guessed as much,” Notak said. “How bad?”

  “The Genshwin have a leak.”

  Notak’s voice remained impassive, but his cat-like eyes narrowed to slits. “Who?”

  “No idea,” Rachel answered, taking a seat on the stone windowsill. “Mrak’s having it taken care of, but the Dominion bureaucrats taking it up the chain have led us to some new targets.”

  “Namely?”

  “The Mnogo gods.”

  The Elf blinked at her, incredulous. “You are not joking with me, correct?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Nope. Mrak thinks they’re actually an enclave of Demons ruling the Dominion, forcing the Humans to worship idols made in their image.”

  Notak frowned deeply. “And we are supposed to eliminate them…how, exactly?”

  “Mrak is sending us to Dírorth,” Rachel answered. “After some Westward Trade bastard that’s connected to them somehow.”

  Notak made a face. “Well. This should be interesting then.” He was about to stand up when Rachel held up a hand to stop him, her lips pursed.

  “There’s one more thing…” she said hesitantly.

&n
bsp; Notak stared at her suspiciously. “I do not think I like what that tone implies. What is wrong?”

  Rachel looked almost apologetic. “Oron’s going to be training…our third Scorpion soon. Our new leader, Mrak called him.”

  Notak arched an eyebrow at her. “And?”

  “And?” Rachel repeated indignantly, suddenly angry. “How can you stand there and just say and?! It’s going to faul everything up! We’re on the verge of a major breakthrough with this new piss about the Nineteen, and this is going to interfere with that! Even if it were at any other time, it would take months for us to learn how to work with him!”

  “Oh, take a breath, Rachel,” Notak said, exasperated. “Get a grip on yourself. We knew this was coming. The Scorpions are traditionally a trio — it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “Well, yeah, but why now?” Rachel complained, slumping in her seat.

  “Maybe he is important,” Notak suggested. “Maybe God is still watching out for us. Who knows, he may be essential to success in this new mission of ours.” He stood and went to the window, pensive. He looked out into the storm, watching the lightning flicker in the clouds beyond the city wall.

  “Who knows,” Notak repeated somberly. “He could be the key to everything. He might be our only chance.”

  ***

  THREE

  Rabid Dogs

  The sun — hidden behind the thick layer of clouds — had already begun its descent behind the jagged profile of the Spikes as Racath entered the town of Vale. His heavy boots carried him down the dusty road cutting down the middle of the middle of the small mining settlement, the tail of his Shadow oscillating about his ankles. No dust rose from his footsteps.

  Sokol, impatient as she was, had flown ahead toward Oblakgrad a few hours earlier. Racath, on the other hand, was glad for the chance to take a leisurely night at the inn.

  For the first time since leaving the capital, he drew back his hood. Brisk mountain air brushed his face and nestled in his loose dark hair.