The Horns of Ruin (7 page)

A square, like a courtyard, but shabbier. I don't know what
I compared this place to, to consider it shabby. There was a statue, a high
wall that surrounded the circular drive, an iron gate that was open. I was
standing in the lee of a grand high building, made of old stone and curving
smoothly away from the ground like a big old egg. It looked like the coldest,
hardest place I'd ever seen. There was a door that looked tiny, but only
because it led out from this enormous place. A dozen half-circle stairs led up
to the door, and there were two men in simple gray robes standing close to the
building, out of the rain.

The car roared to life behind me, and I turned just in time
to see it roll through the iron gate and out of view. How did I feel about
that? Surprised? Relieved? Cold. Mostly I felt cold.

The closest man tossed a cigarette into a puddle and
shrugged his hood over his head, then ran out into the rain to me. He was a large
man, his shoulders wide as blocks, his face wrinkled and smiling. Like he
enjoyed running in the rain. He leaned over me, cutting the rain off with his
bulk, then held out a wide, flat hand to me.

"Miss Eva Forge? Welcome home. My name is
Barnabas."

"Barnabas what?"

He shook his great head slowly, happily. "Silent. But
never mind that. We don't have use for more name than that, here. Would you
like to come inside?"

I looked back to the gate, where the car had driven off,
then up at the friendly man and his enormous face.

"My name is Eva Forge," I said.

"Of course, dear. Now come inside."

His hand smelled like nicotine and oil. I held it and
walked back to the door. He took tiny steps at my side, hunching down and
keeping the rain off my nice, new hat.

I burst through the door and swept into the foyer. The
Alexians had given me a white linen cloth to clean up with on the way over, and
I tossed it at the stony feet of the idol of Saint Marcus and made for the holy
nave. The whiteshirts who had given me a ride clustered anxiously at the door,
afraid to enter but anxious to see the scene.

"Tomas!" I yelled. "Isabel! Any of you
bloody old ... lordships, if you please. Tomas!"

"You rode in on every siren in the city, Eva. You
don't have to yell," Tomas said from the engraved stone archway that led
to the Chamber of the Fist. "We're gathered, all the Elders. Let Barnabas
come inside and we can talk about whatever it is-"

"Talk later. He's been taken."

"Taken? Who?" He dropped his cigarette and ground
it out with an old, oil-stained boot. "The Fratriarch?"

I brushed past him, not sparing a glance toward the open
door of the Chamber. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the upturned faces of
the rest of the Elders. There was a relic of armament next to the Chamber. I
threw back the cowl and began rummaging through the offerings.

"They came at us after we left ..." How much did
he know about our business? What had the Fratriarch told him? Barnabas had said
nothing to me of our business, and I was his guard. But these were the Elders.
"After we left the Library Desolate. There were two guys, following us,
and then-"

My hand strayed to the dark wood tray of bullets. I hadn't
seen those two again, I realized. The two bulky men with their metal cowls and
tattooed cheeks. They had been following us, for sure, but they hadn't been in
on the attack.

"Then?" Isabel asked. I looked up. The whole Fist
of Elders was standing around me, eyes wide. Only Simeon, his dark face
impassive, seemed to have gotten past the shock. He shouldered Tomas aside and
began gathering bullets from the tray. I snapped out of it and joined him,
pinching them into the empty cylinder of my bully.

"Then we were attacked. Strange guys ... metal faces,
goggle eyes. Never seen them before. They fought me off and took the
Fratriarch."

"The Rethari have struck us here, in the city?"
Tomas said, his voice trembling with rage.

"Not Rethari. Forget the field reports, Elder. I know
those war drums have been beating for months, but these guys weren't the scaled
bastards. They were men." I sighted the weapon, and made sure there hadn't
been any damage in the fight. "They were machines."

"And the scholar?" Isabel asked.

I stopped what I was doing and looked at her. "The
girl?" I asked.

"Yes, the Amonite. What became of the Amonite?"

I stood there, silently, watching Simeon load shot into his
antique revolver. The rest of the Elders were clustered tight, nearly
trembling.

"The hell with the Amonite," I hissed.
"Barnabas is gone, Isabel. Your Fratriarch has been taken."

That broke the spell. They stepped back, Isabel nearly
fluttering with anger.

"I am an Elder of this Cult, Eva, and your sworn
master. You will not-"

"Next time, Izzy." I slapped the cylinder of my
revolver shut and holstered it, then walked briskly to an anointing tub and
dipped my sword into the water. It came out shimmering, the remaining dead,
cold blood of the Fratriarch's kidnappers rolling off in clumps. "We can
have this spat next time, when I have a day or so to listen to your holy
nonsense. Today, right now, while we're talking, Barnabas is in enemy
hands."

"Of course," Tomas said. "There is no time.
We will convene the Fist and contact Alexander's representatives. The city must
be mobilized."

"Sure thing," I said, then all but ran out into
the street. The giant wooden door, carved with the histories of the scions of
Morgan, greasy and worn with time and neglect, slammed closed behind me.

Felt good to be on the move again. To be mobilized.

The representatives of Alexander. The Healers, the whiteshirts,
the nurses. Alexians. They had to be contacted, right, because they wouldn't
otherwise notice the gunfight that just broke out in the middle of their city?
Sure. It was a whiteshirt patrol that had given me a ride from the crash site
back to the Strength of Morgan, and another patrol that was tearing hell to the
godking's palace. Probably to amp up their own security.

I love my Elders, honest to Brothers, but they've gotten
old. Even Elias, hard as stone, isn't going to do much more than carry that revolver
tucked into his belt while he putters around his highgarden. Doing things was
up to the Paladins, and these days, that was me. Just me.

I swung into the whiteshirts' wagon, crouching on the bench
so my sword wouldn't bang against the wall. The Justicar sat across from me.
His head was wreathed in a communications rig. I tapped the shiny iron band
across his eyes and leaned in.

"Any word?" I yelled.

He opened the rig and gave me an angry glare. "It
wasn't on, lady. You don't have to yell."

I slapped the rig, knocking it fully off his head, then
grabbed his collar and put my lungs into it.

"Any! Word!"

"Gods, okay, okay. It's not like ... Okay, it's
exactly like that. Hold on." He picked up the rig and spun it up.
"There's been some kind of interference today. Something wrong with the
channels. But no. Your Fratriarch hasn't been seen. Not him, not the convoy of
flying corpses that you say took him. Just one wrecked train and a lot of
scared citizens."

"This is why you were late? Why I had to fight off the
whole stinking pile of them myself? Your ... channels were interfered
with?"

"Yeah, that's part of it. These things go out,
sometimes. Bad timing."

"Terrible timing. The worst timing." I leaned
back in my seat and cursed as my articulated sheath rattled against some gear,
knocking it to the ground. "Can we go somewhere, already? Can we just ...
just turn that siren on and let's go?"

"Where are we supposed to-"

"Go," I howled, then leaned forward and slapped
the siren on. The rest of the patrol piled into the wagon and hauled the doors
shut. We sat there in the wailing of the siren, the Justicar and I looking
daggers at each other. Finally, he sighed and turned to the driver.

"Get us to the Harrington Square station. We'll check
in with the land line there, see where we should deploy."

The wagon lurched forward.

I smiled at the Justicar. "It's a good start, sir. A
good start."

"Glad you're happy with it."

"Happy enough. Your name's Arron, right?"

"Owen," he said.

"Owen. You're doing fine, Owen. Alexander would be
very proud."

"To hell with that," he said, then twisted back
to the driver. "And turn that damn siren off."

he station was a squat brick
building, sprouting a crown of heavy communication wires that crisscrossed the
city like a spider's web. Inside it was hot and crowded, everything painted a
dull, chipped white, the paint applied sloppily and thick. The air smelled like
kitchen cleaner.

We checked in with Owen's patrol coordinator and were told
there was no news. We checked in with headquarters. No news. A runner came from
the Strength, specifically to tell us that there was no news.

The Fratriarch of the Cult of Morgan was missing, and no
one knew anything more than that. I gave my interview to one of the
representatives from the palace of Alexander, a real efficient-looking guy in a
suit who asked brief questions and got brief answers. When we were done he
folded up his notes and walked out of the station. Everyone seemed relieved
when he was gone.

The city was busy enough, that's for sure. The printsheets
were stuttering out of the vendors splashed with big, black letters: FRATRIARCH
OF MORGAN KIDNAPPED. Every time I got up to pace to the door, one of the
whiteshirts would put a hand on my shoulder to say that their boys were on the
case, they had people working leads, that it was best if I stayed put and let
them do their work. I felt caged. I felt like those Amonites in the Library
Desolate must feel, only I hadn't signed up for it. It was well past noon when
I gave up being patient and kind, and decided to go ahead and be a Paladin of
Morgan. It was my nature.

"I'm going," I told Owen as I marched to the door
for the fifth time that hour. They had tried to take my sword and bully when I
got there. They settled for the bullets on my belt, and a promise not to draw
steel. More for their own good, I think. Owen followed me to the guard station
and tapped his foot while I checked out the ammo. I examined the bullets. All
in order.