Caine's Law (14 page)

T
he Monastic Embassy on the island of Old Town in the heart of Ankhana—only a bowshot and change from the Colhari Palace itself—had been considered a uniquely hazardous post since the days of the Khulan Horde. It became substantially more hazardous some years later, after a Monastic assassin was implicated in the murder of Prince-Regent Toa-Phelathon. The Monasteries had maintained a queasy pretense of neutrality during the First and Second Succession Wars, but the actions of some renegade friars, during the events of the Artan assault now known as the Assumption Day Massacre, had convinced rival powers that the Monasteries had effectively become an adjunct of the Ankhanan Empire—an auxiliary, in fact, of the Eyes of God, collecting intelligence and performing covert operations.

This made the Ankhanan Embassy an especially tempting target for the Empire’s rivals, as well as enemies of the Monasteries; it was popularly supposed that the Ambassador to the Infinite Court, though theoretically subject to the orders of the Council of Brothers, had become an independent authority with virtually unlimited power to command any and all
Monastic operatives throughout the continent, and that he did so in unabashed support of the Empire’s interests.

Unlike the common run of popular suppositions, this one was entirely correct.

Thus the Monastic Embassy in Ankhana was among the most comprehensively defended structures in existence, possessed not only of a bewildering array of Artan weaponry, security, and surveillance devices scavenged and rebuilt from the wreckage of the invading force, but also a vast and detailed standing array of countermagicks to prevent all manner of thaumaturgic espionage. Not least among these defenses were the Walking Brothers—highly trained friars specializing in counterinfiltration operations—who in every hour of every day patrolled the embassy’s every hall, corridor, and chamber.

These defenses had been so effective for so long that when a Walking team rounded the corner of a corridor on an upper floor and discovered a pair of their comrades—one bound and gagged, apparently unconscious on the floor, the other similarly gagged but standing upright, hands tied in front of her, making a very persuasive human shield for a middle-aged man who stood behind her, one arm crooked around her neck and with a small matte black knife against the soft tissue under her chin while his other hand leveled at them across her shoulder a very large, similarly matte black, powerful-appearing pistol—they could not instantly comprehend what they were seeing, and so merely stared blankly for a second or two instead of instantly raising alarum, and spent another second drawing weapons of their own and splitting to opposite walls of the corridor so that the middle-aged man’s pistol couldn’t cover them both at once.

This brief interval gave the middle-aged man time to say—

“I am a Citizen of Humanity and a Servant of the Human Future. I have broken neither oath nor law. I claim Sanctuary; by law and custom, Sanctuary is my right.”

The Walking Friars exchanged frowns, then as one turned their frowns upon the middle-aged man. One said, “To be granted Sanctuary, you must state your name and abbey.”

“Hey, go to the head of the fucking class,” the middle-aged man replied. “That was just to give you an excuse to stop and think before you got stupid. I need to see Raithe. He needs to see me. Privately. I would’ve let myself all the way in, but you’ve upgraded your security and I’d rather not kill anybody.”

The Walking Friars leveled weapons as well. “I don’t believe the Ambassador to the Infinite Court receives callers between midnight and dawn.”

The middle-aged man squinted at the friars’ weapons—both shaped of wood inlaid with precious metals, shimmering with power—and shrugged. “You boys aren’t Beloved Children.”

“Of what possible concern to you is our religious faith?”

“None at all. Go get Raithe before I start killing people.”

The younger of the two friars tightened his grip and sighted his weapon. “You will have no opportunity to—”

“Kid. Seriously. That’s a nice piece you’re holding. Just like the ones I took off these two. I’m pretty good with them. But they’re not what’s pointing at you right now.” The middle-aged man tilted his head a centimeter to the right. “Why do you think that is?”

The Walking Brothers exchanged another glance.

“If I have to make moves in here, we’ll all get bloody. You, go wake up Raithe. Tell him Hari’s waiting to see him. He’ll come with you.”

“Hari?” He frowned like he wasn’t sure if he was being kidded. “Of what abbey? In what land?”

“Hari of Do as You’re Told in the land of And Shut the Fuck Up.” He twitched the pistol toward the other one. “You, do all your buddies a favor and don’t let anybody walk in here. I’ll keep these two company and we can all part as friends, huh?”

One more glance between them, then one said, “What if he’s telling the truth?”

The other shook his head. “There’s no way to know.”

“Sure there is,” the man said patiently. “Tell Raithe I’m here. Let him decide whether to sit down for a chat or have me killed.”

“I have decided already.”

The voice was soft, almost gentle, wholly deliberate and precise, and it came from the empty air behind the middle-aged man’s left shoulder. The man jerked, stilled himself, then gritted through his teeth, “Someday you’ll pull that shit and I’ll just start shooting.”

“I trust you’ve been well.”

“You knew I was coming.”

“I have a stated policy to hope for the best and prepare for the worst,”
the quiet voice replied.
“Thus I am never surprised to see you.”

“Yeah, okay, funny. Raithe, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“We?”

“Everybody. The world.”

“This seems somehow familiar.”

“It’s not a big favor. Then I’m gone. Probably forever.”

Silence.

Then:
“There must be a compelling reason for you to come to me for aid, instead of your … more amicable options.”

“There’s an easy way to find out.” Silence.

Eventually:
“Rellen will guide you to my chambers. After you release Tamal, she can tend to Rastlin. Ansen will clear potential witnesses out of your way.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Raithe of Ankhana, Monastic Ambassador to the Infinite Court, received his visitor in the large office attached to his personal apartments. He stood to receive the visitor, but did not offer his hand. The last time his visitor had been in this office, he had murdered Raithe’s predecessor.

The Ambassador was of average height. The whipcord physique he’d brought to this post had lately softened, a victim of the necessities of diplomatic work—especially diplomatic dining. His hair, never thick, had thinned until he’d decided it was useless to trouble with; now his head was full-shaven and glossy, the color of buffalo hide. Only his eyes had not changed: pale as winter sky, they still had a purity of focus one expects in the eyes of eagles but is unsettling in the eyes of a man.

His visitor too had changed in the three years since they had last met. His hair and beard had gone salt-and-pepper. His skin had darkened as much as his hair had lightened, and added decades of creases: the color and texture of an old saddle. He wore layers of loose-fitting clothing that Raithe knew concealed a variety of weapons, some perhaps more lethal than the large pistol he wore behind his belt. Raithe was not concerned with them; the man’s real weapon was behind his eyes.

It was a matter of passing irony to Raithe, justly famous for powers of mind that could trap the will, blind the eye, or even slay outright, to contemplate that he had the second most dangerous mind in the room.

“How’s the hand?”

“It hurts.” Raithe lifted his left hand, frowning faintly at the darkening stain upon its wrapping of thick white gauze. “For more than two years, I’ve had to add dressing only every second or third day—rewrapping as the inner gauze dissolves and is consumed. Lately, I’ve rewrapped three or four times a day … and still must awaken in the morning dark to wrap again, lest a leak set my bed afire.”

“That’s why you were expecting me.”

“Not that alone. There are … matters afoot. Subtle gestures of politics and power, a gathering weave into cloth of a pattern known to … interest you.”

“It’s been awhile since anybody talked about me and subtle in the same sentence. But you’re not exactly subtle yourself.” The man waved a hand, a slight, irritably dismissive gesture taking in the office where the two stood. “Look at this fucking place. You haven’t even changed the rug.”

“On which you stood when first we met, a decade past,” Raithe said. “The night you murdered the man who was more a father to me than my own had ever been.”

“I’ve done lots of things I regret.” His flatly neutral tone did not indicate whether he counted this among them. He nodded toward the vast scarred writing table that dominated the room. “That’s not even Creele’s, y’know. It was Dartheln’s.”

“It belongs,” Raithe said with dispassionate precision, “to the Ankhanan Embassy.”

“Yeah, whatever. Can we not bicker? It’s bad enough even being here.”

“We meet here because I think we both can benefit from being mindful of the … context … of our relationship.”

“Fuck context. You don’t see me bringing up how you murdered my wife.”

“Until just now.”

“Can we wait to score debate points until after we save the fucking world?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I apologize.” With a sigh, Raithe settled into the large leather work chair at the table. “You caught me sleeping. My nights have been a long march through evil dreams. You’ll forgive a moment of … irrationality.”

“You don’t need my forgiveness. Look, I just …” The man sagged, rubbing at his eyes, all of an instant very old and losing a desperate struggle against exhaustion. “I really need your help. There’s no one else. Please.”

Raithe found his own eyes stinging with fatigue. “This is about Assumption Day.”

“Was that a mystery?”

“No. We are gradually coming to accept as established fact that
everything
has to do with Assumption Day. Ahh—how should I call you? The name Hari … awakens bitter echoes. And the more famous of your names … well, I find myself reluctant to speak that name aloud, as though evil powers will wake at the sound.”

“If I really wanted to scare the crap out of you, I’d tell you just how right you are.” He found a chair and sank into it, wincing. “Lately I’ve been going by Jonathan Fist.”

“Of course. Is that the name you prefer?”

“It’s an inside joke.” He shrugged, looking away. “It’s a legend of Earth—you know, Arta. He made a deal he couldn’t get out of.”

“I recall making a deal with you, once.”

“And you got what you paid for.”

“I did not imagine any price could be so … painful.”

“Nobody does.” He waved off the subject. “So it’s like this. I spent most of the spring down south, working into County Faltane and back.”

“I’ve read digests of the reports. And the transcript of your interview in the Thorncleft Embassy.”

Old pain scoured the other’s face. “Of course you have.”

Raithe allowed himself one thin, humorless chuckle. “And are you now so far removed from the Monasteries that you have forgotten who we are?”

“Not exactly. I just thought … well, I guess I thought my story was over. That’s all. I’ve been getting comfortable with being nobody special.”

“And yet here you are, having breached the most heavily defended installation in this hemisphere, brandishing an alien weapon and speaking of the end of days.”

“Another fucking Armageddon,” he said. “We should be used to it by now.”

Raithe again ventured a slim smile. “Your friend J’Than occasionally likes to say, ‘Past performance is no guarantee of future results.’ ”

Jonathan Fist only looked bleak. “You get reports on me. So you’re probably up on our old pal Damon and his pet project.”

Raithe went still. “How do you know of that?”

“If we both live through this, I’ll tell you all about it. It’s really true?”

He didn’t move. Not even to blink. “What do you mean by
true
?”

“That pretty well sums it up, then. Okay, listen. You’ve read my original History on the Breaking of the Black Knives?”

“Of course.”

“The night I escaped, just after Pretornio overloaded, when the head bitch—Skaikkak Neruch’khaitan—when we were struggling there by my cross, when she hit me and I blocked with the spike and her hand exploded—”

“I recall. You described the experience as being joined with her by the Outside Power. When you learned the location of Panchasell’s Tear.”

“Something like that. But that wasn’t all of it. That wasn’t most of it.”

“Yes. Her name, and the names of—”

“No.” He sat forward on his chair. He didn’t look old anymore. “She was … nothing. Not even a speck. The Power—it knew me. It knew all of me. And for however long I was out, I knew all of it.”

Raithe looked thoughtful.

“The thing is … well, you know. An Outside Power—a human mind can’t even come close to comprehending that kind of consciousness. Mine sure didn’t. But some things … I don’t know, it’s coming back to me. Somehow. Mostly little stuff. Some of it not so little. Some of it fucking terrifying.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“I need to know what I know, Raithe. The shit you can do with your mind—Raithe, I need to
know
. All of it. Everything lurking around the back of my brain. Now.”

“Why do you not go to the Emperor? Surely his powers outstrip mine by orders of magnitude, and you are his closest friend—”

“He can’t know anything about this. Not one thing. I have to stay out of his way. If I’m right about this, you’ll have to stay out of his way too. And I mean out. No friendly hand waves at a state dinner. No chat on the Artan Mirror. Nothing. I know you’re elKothan, but you’re also the only guy I can depend on to keep his mind shut along with his mouth. Don’t even
think
too loud.”