What Was Forgotten (20 page)

Julian looked at the floor and slowly spun his cup of tea as he spoke. “As soon as I met him, he began talking. That was all he did. Like he was desperate for the chance to speak about his life. And after hearing about the confines of their lives, about the secrecy, I could understand. They can hardly speak to anyone about anything.”

“And yet you still somehow caught this man in a lie?” Nasiri’s question was pointed and disbelieving. Julian nodded without looking up to meet her hard stare.

“He talked about his duty and its demands. When we got to the Compendium—”

“Is the entrance as flawless as they say?” Myron asked. Nasiri shot him an angry look which he tried to ignore.

“It seems that way, yes. There was a single keyhole, and Abelus later told me… he was very reluctant to say anything more about it, but he told me that three different keys are needed, and in a specific order.”

“I’ve never heard of such a complex way to lock a door,” Myron said.

Osmun looked at Nasiri. “I told you this was not possible.”

“It is possible, you just heard the boy; you need three keys. He just gave you the answer!”

“And how easy will it be to commit three separate thefts before any of the historians realize their key is missing? We don’t even know which ones
carry
the damned things!”

“He was lying! The Compendium isn’t even there!” Julian shouted. All eyes turned to him.

“When I asked him about the door, about how it was made, he first told me that it was a story for another time, and then he claimed to not even know the answer. He must have realized that he contradicted himself, because after that he became nervous. I knocked on the door and he nearly pulled me away from it. And when I knocked, there was no echo or sound from behind. I don’t think there is anything behind the door but stone.”

There was a long silence. Osmun noticed that Myron and Nasiri both looked at Julian in open-mouthed stupefaction. Osmun smiled. Clearly Julian had learned how to notice the slightest details during his studies, even if those details were not written in front of him.

“So it’s a trick,” Osmun said. “Everyone knows the Compendium is somewhere in the Cathedral, though perhaps not precisely. And as long as everyone is under that assumption, they won’t bother to look for it elsewhere.”

“Some trick,” Myron said. “A hallway built in the Cathedral that leads to a door, and it’s all for show? Some trick, indeed.”

“There could have been something there before,” Osmun suggested.

“The Cathedral did sustain damage during the First Ivesian War,” Julian offered. “Maybe it collapsed.”

“Then we need some way to be sure,” Nasiri said. “That book belongs to my people. I want it.”

“What book?” Julian asked. He looked at Osmun, who shook his head: don’t ask.

“You should get back to the monastery,” Osmun said to Julian. “You’ve done well. All that we’ve asked of you. You should return before your absence arouses suspicion.”

“Everything I do now arouses suspicion,” Julian said as he stood.

“Myron will make sure it is safe for you to leave,” Nasiri said. Myron put down his tea.

“I will? Well, it’s decided, I will indeed. Yes, yes, trusty Myron will make sure the way is clear. And hopefully, by some miracle, his tea is still warm when he returns.” Avoiding Nasiri’s look of disdain, he darted resentfully up the stairs, out of the basement. Nasiri muttered something in Ivesian.

“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” Nasiri said to Julian.

“I don’t think he wants to be branded a co-conspirator,” Osmun said. “You needn’t worry about him.”

The three of them stood, and, pressing his fingers together, Julian looked from the ground to Osmun and back.

“Goodbye, Julian,” Nasiri said.

“Actually…” Julian said, almost a whisper. He cleared his throat. “If there’s more to do, I want to help.”

“Why would you want to help us?” Nasiri said in a disbelieving tone.

“Not you… uh, not you, my lady, with respect. I want to help Osmun. The church needs him. So I want to help.”

“It’s not necessary.” Osmun smiled. He patted the disciple on the shoulder, but Julian shoved his hand away.

“It is necessary for me! There will be nothing there for me, no future, until you prove yourself innocent of… whatever is going on. Don’t tell me what’s good for me or what is unsafe, because it is either this or…” Julian trailed off as if suddenly realizing how excited he had become. He looked at the ground again, breathing deeply. “Just…… let me help.”

He walked out of the basement saying nothing else. For the best, certainly, as Osmun had nothing to add. He looked at Nasiri, gave her an embarrassed grin, and nodded. “I did not expect that.”

Myron returned a short time later and the three of them tried to determine the true location of the Compendium. They argued for what seemed like hours, and, seeming to get nowhere, Osmun grabbed up his tattered and dirt-stained cloak.

“You should stay inside,” Myron warned.

“I’m not a prisoner yet,” Osmun said as he climbed the stairs. “I ought not to feel like one.”

The night was quiet and the streets were largely deserted due to a chill wind blowing in off the sea. He walked, absent-minded, struggling against the absurdity he faced all because of Andrican.

And Egus, too. The old cleric was not without his own culpability. If he was a stronger man he could have at least supported Osmun’s claim or given him time to prove it. In the distance, Osmun could see the harbour. A galleon had come in and its crew was disembarking. Everything about the ship looked worn and beaten; even the sails were fraying. It must have been at sea for some time. Even over the wind Osmun could overhear the crew as they approached locals, asking for directions. “I’ll take you there,” he heard.

Of course.

He laughed to himself as he turned and ran back to the warehouse.

Of course it was that simple.

As soon as they entered the building, Osmun yearned for the fish smell of the warehouse. The floors of the tenement house were strewn with soiled bodies wearing soiled clothes, and even on the second floor standing next to an open window, the smell was overpowering. Even Myron, normally unflappable, betrayed his distaste for the rundown building.

“Did it have to be here?” Osmun asked, sticking his head out of the window.

“This was your plan, priest.”

“I did not choose this location.” He leaned closer to Myron. “And don’t call me that,” he whispered. “At least not so loudly.”

Myron waved him off. “The whole point of this is that you want to be found, am I not correct? Have I so fundamentally misunderstood your plan?”

Osmun shook his head and leaned back out of the window. Beacon save him, the smell was terrible.

“If it’s any consolation, with your unkempt beard and your two-coin cloak, you fit right in here,” Myron said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Why would that be consoling?” He waved his hand and, self-conscious, scratched his beard. “Nevermind.”

“So remember, the Ardent work in pairs. Both of them may come in here for you, but I’m betting that one of them stays downstairs near the entrance. Which is why—”

“I know, I have to skirt along the ledge before jumping down.” Osmun looked outside again. The tenement building – it must have been something else, once –– was only a few narrow streets over from the lower-end market district. This was not where he had once taken his morning walks; this was where the poor and poorer came to buy, sell, or steal whatever they could. Not a place for fine wares: a place for stolen goods, for rum and grog that was made from ingredients no one cared to guess at. And how could Myron say that he fit right in?

“Try not to break your ankles when you jump.”

“It’s not that high of a jump,” Osmun said, trying to reassure himself, though from his present vantage, Myron’s warning did not look baseless.

“So tell me where you go next.”

“Down two buildings, up through the alley to the next street, over three, up again… we’ve gone over this ten times already.”

“Now eleven. And it’s to make sure you do things right. If you’re caught—”

“It won’t be because we didn’t go over this another hundred times. Shouldn’t you be down there? If they show up now the whole plan is off.”

“Good point.” Myron did up his own tattered grey cloak and pulled the hood up over his head. He smiled and nodded at Osmun before walking down the hall, every floorboard groaning as he made his way towards the stairs. At least the Ardent would have their presence made known, Osmun thought. The building seemed prepared to fall in on itself every time someone stirred. From the window he saw Myron walk out into the street below him. He adopted a limp as he walked through the crowd and disappeared between two buildings across the narrow street as dilapidated as the one in which he stood.

Now he had to wait. Myron and Nasiri had supposedly begun spreading rumours that Osmun was hiding in this place in the hopes that those rumours would reach an informant, who would then pass it on to the Ardent. That was the easy part, but after the first few hours of sitting on the window, Osmun wondered if it would even work. If it didn’t, he was not sure how he would ever find the Compendium. And he will have spent hours in this filth for no reason.

Anger welled in him as he thought of being forced into this task in exchange for knowledge. When was the last time he had needed someone’s guidance? And to need that guidance from a heretical Ivesian shaman… if only his future was not at stake.

Every time footsteps came up the stairs, he readied himself, placing one foot on the edge of the window, ready to climb out. Every time, though, it was a pauper hobbling up the stairs, sometimes brandishing a half-empty bottle of something that passed as drink. He took his foot off the ledge. The sun was setting, and the evening light angled down through the street, making everyone facing westward –– including him – squint and cover their eyes.

The stairs creaked, not under the drunken, unsteady gait of a beggar, but under someone that bounded up the staircase in four steps. The man dressed in simple brown leather clothes was running at him full speed. They must have known he was there and waited. Where was the second? He had no time to look; the Ardent was almost upon him. Osmun climbed out onto the ledge that ran across the front of the building and took a few steps to the left. A hand shot out of the window towards him and for a second he looked in the eye of the man after him. No malice. Only duty. He began to climb out after Osmun.

He landed among a throng of people and fell to his knees. The crowd around him, moving inexorably like the current of a river, barely took notice of him save for a few curse words. They did, however, notice the Ardent leaping from the window above.

Osmun ran. He could hear shouting behind him. He went down two building and cut through the alley just as they had determined, and came out into another crowded street and turned right. The setting sun was in his eyes. Why had they not anticipated this? He pushed his way through, squeezing and twisting past the milling denizens of the pauper market. Ahead he saw two figures framed by the blinding sun. They were coming towards him, viciously pushing people out of their way. There was no mistaking that; a second pair of Ardent. They had tried to anticipate everything, but they did not anticipate that. “I must really be important,” Osmun muttered to himself as he spun around and ran the opposite way.

It had been such a good plan.

Myron was waiting in an alley, ducked behind a stack of empty, half-broken crates. He had heard the shouting, so he anticipated that Osmun would run down the alley at any moment with one, perhaps two Ardent after him. But, as he peered around the crates, he saw that the shouting was from the appearance of two more of them moving through the crowded street like a pair of warships through waves.

“Interesting,” he said as he padded down to the end of the alley. Around the corner he could make out another figure moving through the crowd – moving away. “So much for the plan. Can’t say I blame you.” Myron turned around and ran up the alley to the next street up, and ran eastward parallel to Osmun. He counted the buildings as he passed them: one, two, three…… past the fourth he cut left again. This alley was long, narrow, and twisted. Refuse was strewn about and Myron had to fight to keep his balance. There was a hodgepodge of a door on his right and, barely slowing, kicked it open and continued towards the other street. He could still hear shouting. Another door on his right. He only pressed against this one and when he found it unlocked, continued to the street, almost immediately seeing Osmun’s frantic eyes bobbing and weaving through the crowd. Myron motioned to him. Immediately Osmun veered towards him.

“There are—” Osmun gasped.

“I know.” Myron pointed. “Go that way, and close the door behind you.” He shoved the priest along, hoping that he would be able to figure out what he meant. Turning back to the street Myron saw two Ardent approaching. Where were the other two?

“He went this way!” Myron shouted at them, pointing up the alley. “That man, he ran this way!”

He caught brief glimpses of their faces. They carried the hard-set expressions of veterans and mercenaries. Men who followed orders unfailingly. “That way, that way!”