'Hm. Well, how much longer do you think-'
'I have no idea, woman. Knowledge is not something you can measure in time. It does not drip into our heads at a set rate. It comes suddenly, or not at all.'
I sighed and started taking off my armor. She squinted at me in puzzlement.
'That won't make learning any faster.'
'I'm going out. I can't sit here while your knowledge doesn't come. And I can't wander around in the armor of a Morganite.' With my armor off, I unclasped the dozen icons and emblems that marked me as a Paladin. Even my holster and the articulated sheath went away. My padded coat and linen pants were plain enough. I shuddered at the thought of being separated from my oath-bound blade, but I just couldn't risk carrying it. I tucked a knife into my boot, and the bully into my waistband. 'So I'm going out, like this, before I go nuts.'
'Do you think that's wise?'
'You're the Scholar. I'll leave wise to you.'
She didn't say anything else, and I climbed down the tower and through a garbage chute before making my way to the street. By the time I was there I smelled like cabbage and looked like a bum. Nothing like a Paladin of Morgan.
* * *
I bought a half-cape that buttoned down the front. It had a hood that hid my face without looking too much like I was trying to hide my face. And it let me keep a hand on my revolver without drawing attention. I had left the tower with no plan in mind, but as soon as I was on the street my boots turned toward the inner horn, and home. Toward the Strength.
It amazed me how life kept going in the wake of my apocalypse. Vendors were selling food, pedigears cluttered the roads, civilians went to jobs and came home. The streets were alive. Just like any other day. I felt as if a barrier had come down between me and the city of Ash. They had their lives and their futures and their plans. And I was just this hunted creature, alive only to run. I didn't like that. It didn't feel natural.
Of course, there were signs of change in the life of the city. There were more guards, especially anywhere there was open water. The canals looked like they'd been closed down. Patrol boats drifted lazily off the coast, and this was a city of many coasts. There were even valkyn in the air. There couldn't be more than, what, fifty of those beasts all told? It seemed crazy to have them on patrol. Then again, the city had been attacked. We had been attacked.
I approached the Strength from on high. There were elevated walkways that brushed up against the monastery's round plaza, public routes that were usually crowded with tourists from the collar countries. Today they were more crowded than usual. Almost impassable. I climbed higher, thinking the extra stairs might thin out the crowds, but no luck. Even on the top tier it was shoulder to chest. I kept my arms under my cloak, crossed over the cold weight of the bully. Wouldn't be good to have someone brush up against that.
It was a cloudy day, last night's clear skies betrayed by a low mass of pewter thunderheads that rumbled at the tips of the city's towers. My raised hood brought no comment as the first heavy drops of rain spattered down on the crowd. Even in the growing torrent, the crowds didn't thin. I worked my way forward slowly, listening to the gossip.
And of course, they were talking about me. I had gained quite a reputation. By my hand, the Chanter's Isle had split, and at my command the dead had flooded the hidden heart of that strange sect of the Alexian Cult. It was whispered that I was apostate, that I (along with my Elders of Morgan) had declared for Amon the Betrayer, and was leading a secret war against the godking.
None of it made sense. The whiteshirts had been helping us search for the Fratriarch, had lent us an Amonite, had guarded us against the attacks of the Betrayer and stormed out only at our command. We stood together against the Rethari. Why would we betray them? Why would they abandon us?
When finally I reached sight of the Strength, I was horrified. They had great spotlights thrown up against its side, and armed barricades all around the plaza. Smoke stained the windows and doors, and all the glass was broken. The front door hung intact but open.
'What in hell happened?' I whispered. But of course, in a crowd a whisper is a conversation. The man in front of me turned and answered.
'They had to break on in, did the Alexians. Thank the Brother they did, too. That whole Cult had gone bad in the soul. After the Chanters' bloody sacrifice, trying to hold one of them at bay, Alexander sent his boys up. Tried to talk, but those damned sons of Morgan suck ered 'em in and killed a whole platoon. Whiteshirts had to go in in force. Burn the whole place out.' He nodded to the wagons that were lining the promenade. 'Still counting the bodies, they are.'
I felt sick in my stomach. I looked at the stacks of blackened bundles, bleeding ash in the rain. My brothers of Morgan, my sisters of the Warrior. Murdered, and now burned and accused of murder. Of rebellion. Apostate.
A tinny voice echoed over the crowd, and I squinted in the direction of the main door. The voice was coming from a loudspeaker, erected on a stage. There were three platforms above it, hastily erected against the side of the Strength, and three spotlights on them. At first I had taken them for siege engines, but now I saw they were nothing but stationary wooden platforms. On the stage, a man was reading a list of accusations in a very proper, very precise voice. A familiar voice, distorted by the loudspeaker. I focused on him, and saw. And understood. Nathaniel, the man from the abandoned shrine of Alexander, the man Simeon had met with, the Betrayer. Hidden in the arms of Alexander. He was speaking accusations against the Cult of Morgan, gesturing widely up at the platforms above.
And on each platform, an Elder. And on each Elder, a sentence of death.
They stood chained, arms spread, their robes torn and heads shorn, blood on their faces and chests. A metal plaque had been struck with the ancient symbols of apostasy, the sigil of the godking as a blessing and a condemnation. Each of them stared down at the crowds in slack disbelief. Simeon. Isabel. Tomas.
'They're going to kill them,' I said.
'Oh, they'll try them first. Then they'll kill them.'
I fell back into the crowd, shoving people out of my way as I ran. I had the bully in my hand, and damn it to hell if anyone tried to stop me.
* * *
'We're out of time,' I said as I rushed onto the hidden platform. 'I need answers now.'
The girl was facing away from me, her hands loose in her lap, her eyes closed. The screen reflected her face in pale green brilliance. She didn't move when I entered, didn't show any sign of caring when I strode over and shook her shoulder.
When she woke up, it was as if I hadn't been gone at all. Like a machine turning back on.
'You're back?' she asked.
'What the hell was that? I thought you were dead!'
'Yeah, pretty much. The forms of these machines can be tricky. Easy to get lost inside.' She stood up and stretched, then noticed the look on my face and the revolver in my hand. 'What's wrong? What's happened?'
'They've burned the Strength and declared the Cult apostate.'
'We knew that-'
'They have the Elders. They're going to kill them. They say we, that I… that we're trying to overthrow the godking.'
'Again, that's nothing new. We-'
I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her toward me. 'Listen. To. Me. The man who tried to kill Simeon, the damned Betrayer-he's there. He's in charge of the operation. Right now he's reading the accusations against the Elders. He means to kill them.'
She held my gaze with hers, trying to burrow into my head with her stare.
'That sounded an awful lot like an accusation.'
'The Betrayer has infiltrated Alexander. He knew. He's the one who knew that the Fratriarch was at the Library Desolate. That I was his only guard. Where he was going. He stood guard while Elias was killed. Had Owen
