Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“You don’t want anything to do with sorcery,” he said back to himself.

“Right.” He knelt down, turning his attention back to the lock before frowning. Those seven wavy lines looked awfully familiar. He touched them gently with one finger, frowning, until it dawned on him. Like the inverse of a Rose.

He drew the Gold Rose out of his shirt and looked at it closely, noting that there was a small raised portion in the center that his Silver Rose didn’t have. Holding it in two fingers, rose out, he pressed the medallion into the lock and turned.

There was a series of clicks, then the sound of steel striking steel. The gate swung open at his touch.

“That,” he whispered, “was too stupidly easy.”

He left the gate slightly ajar and took the stairs to the fourth floor. As he entered the room he realized just how flawed his plan was.

The upper archives was as large as any of the floors beneath it. The long room had vaulted ceilings, and high windows cast lines of afternoon light through the swirling dust. Dozens of rows of files went on for at least a hundred feet, leaving him thousands of boxes, books, and files to look through. It would take months to search all of it.

All for a reference to these godstones Taniel needed found.

He searched the closest shelves for some kind of index, hoping that whoever kept the upper archives in order followed the same protocols as the attendants who took care of the lower archives.

Nothing.

He walked down the rows, tapping his fingers on boxes, hoping to find something that looked promising. He took out boxes at random, removing cloth-bound notebooks and single, apparently unrelated pieces of paper, leafing through them gently. One vellum manuscript appeared to be brand-new, while another note card crumbled to dust the moment his fingers touched it.

He sneezed, scattering the remains across two aisles.

“That’s probably not good,” he said under his breath, quickly heading to the next row of files. He was at once curious and terrified, listening to the steady thump of his own heart as he remained acutely aware of the open gate at the bottom of the stairs, and the unknown consequences if he was caught up here.

“Remember,” he said to himself, “if someone finds you, pretend to belong here. People rarely question someone who looks like they know what they’re doing.”

He’d tested the theory on dozens of occasions, but somehow this place was far more taboo than any other he’d attempted to bluff his way through. The fact he didn’t actually know if he was allowed to be here made his nerves all the worse.

He finally found an index at the far end of the hall. It took fifteen minutes to figure out how it was ordered, and another five to find what he was looking for, each of those minutes ticking by loudly on his pocket watch, precipitating dozens of nervous glances toward the stairs.

A long search provided him with a single volume labeled Godstone . He opened it eagerly, leafing through the pages for several seconds before his heart fell.

The whole thing was written in Old Deliv. He could recognize it, but not read a lick.

He flipped to the front page, wondering if he should try to steal the book and hand it over to Taniel, who could probably find a translator, or take the time to copy a couple of pages.

“Hello?” A voice drifted through the stacks, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Is someone up here?”

Michel took several deep breaths to calm himself. He knew where this was now. He could come back. Carefully, he went to close the book and put it back but his eye was caught by something written in pencil on the first page.

It was a number, not in Deliv numerals, but in Kressian. It looked like a street address. Beside it were the words, scribbled quickly, I found it .

He memorized the address, slid the book back in its place, and straightened his jacket.

“Hello?” The voice had an edge to it now. “You’re supposed to check in when you come to the upper archives. I’m going to have to report this to the grand master.”

Michel’s initial thought to step out and flash his Gold Rose was immediately cast aside. He went to the end of his row and glanced around the corner, catching sight of an old woman wearing a deep frown, clicking along the marble floor with her cane.

Michel timed her steps before heading down a few aisles and making his way to the other end of the archives. He dashed for the stairs, hearing a voice call out behind him, “You there! Stop!”

He was down the stairs a moment later, then down two more flights and out of the archives, managing to avoid all of the archivists and patrons on his way out. Within minutes he was back in his office, heart thumping in his chest. He immediately found a pencil and paper and jotted down the address before he could forget, then sat down and stared at it for several minutes.

Could this be the location of the godstones? A warehouse, perhaps? Something for sorcerous items?

There was a knock on his door, causing him to jump so high he knocked the chair over, spilling him backward onto the floor. He recovered, rubbing the side of his head, and opened the door a crack.

To his relief, it was Warsim.

“Sir,” Warsim said, “I’ve got the first report.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then why are you handing me a folder?”

“It’s the report, sir.”

“I thought you said we didn’t find anything.”

“We didn’t.”

Michel snatched the folder from Warsim, flipping it open to find a single paper with the words “Nothing to report” next to a time and date. Michel rolled his eyes. “By Adom, I hate bureaucracy. How about you tell me when we have found something.” He shut the door in Warsim’s face and righted his chair, collapsing into it. Several minutes passed before he was able to gather himself. He pulled the address out of his pocket and looked it over, muttering it under his breath.

Nothing to do but go find out what it meant.

Styke tarried until dusk in a small town about seven miles due west of Landfall. The town was called Szada, and when he was a boy it had been distant and isolated from the Landfall Plateau, just a sleepy stopping point on the mail route to Redstone. Now it had tripled in size – though it still boasted a population of less than a thousand – and was practically a suburb of the Fatrastan capital.

He left town as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and headed north across the marshes, picking his way through the dangerous, soggy grounds, relying on the experience of old memories to guide him. He wore a dark, mottled cloak with the hood up, and had borrowed a knife from Ibana. He wondered not if , but rather how much use it would get before the night was over.

The sky was almost entirely black when he finally spotted lights in the distance. He knew their source even before he made out the dark, brooding silhouette of the brick manor standing guard over the marshes. As he drew closer the light became well-defined candles placed at regular intervals in the windows of the sprawling manor.

Willowhaven House.

The soil eventually firmed, marking the edge of the manicured lawns around Willowhaven. Styke crouched low, moving between the shadows of the eponymous willows and the border of hedgerows that surrounded the grounds. The bob of lanterns marked the path of the chancellorian guard. He waited and watched, counting out the rhythm of their patrol for more than an hour before finally making his final approach toward the manor.