Part 1 (2/2)

The only way Shadwell would be there is if he were invited, or if he had called the meeting himself. Depending on what the meeting was about either one was plausible.

Grevien's mind was working overtime, crunching all the what-ifs together in hopes of coming out with a lead worth following. If Shadwell risked meeting with the two of them it had to be about money, maybe even extortion money. Were the One Wagers and su'Dresil blackmailing the governor? Did that explain the sudden abandonment of the Enlightened Duke's statutes against pagan wors.h.i.+p?

No, su'Dresil had nothing to gain from legalizing all of the tiny wors.h.i.+p sites throughout town. If anything, it would cripple lucrative fencing and smuggling operations, as well as take away from the business of *protecting' the churches from police interference. The One Wagers would have even less interest in the official sanction of paganism. They rejected all forms of wors.h.i.+pa”even the psuedo-mystical rationalism of the Undying Sparka”as superst.i.tion, and therefore an instrument of worker suppression.

Grevien shook his head. The governor's decision didn't make any sense. In one stroke he had alienated the Undying Spark, the One Wagers, and virtually every criminal organization in New Promise. The only ones to benefit from the decree were the pagans themselves. The benefits weren't even anything tangible, just the freedom to wors.h.i.+p as they had been, but openly.

It was nothing short of political suicide.

Unless an idealistic pagan had something really juicy on the governor, then it might make sense.

Maybe the governor was just letting Feyklin and Hyrannia know what he planned to do, was being forced to do. Oh, to have been a fly on that wall instead of an ogre maiden's boxing dummy. He was just going to have to dig a little deeper to get to the dirt was all. Nothing else for it.

He got up, folded the paper so that the cover story was still showing, and walked along the road toward the Rationarium, careful to stay out of the way of motorcars, horse drawn buggies, and pickpockets.

Squatting majestically on enough land to serve a commercial farm, the Rationarium was the largest building in New Promise. It was also the only one to possess a dome, which was plated in gold.

To Grevien, the gleaming dome looked too flashy and ornamental for a building otherwise built to present a cool, mathematical face to the public. All along the roofline there were large sculptures of persons of various races engaging in acts of craftsmans.h.i.+p and art.

He chuckled. Not a single statesman in the bunch, not even the Enlightened Duke.

Grevien stepped through the enormous Dusk Door, opened just a few days ago. The Dawn Door would remain closed until spring. Both it and the middle door, the Door of the Devoted, were securely locked with stoutly crafted padlocks of hardened orcish steel. The Door of the Devoted, open only two days a year, was popularly held to bring blessings to those who pa.s.sed through it.

He remembered his days as a student at the Rationarium; back then he had bought in to the myth. He never missed walking through the Door of the Devoted: once every spring, once every autumn, based on calculations of the earth's exact position in its circuit around the sun.

It amazed Grevien that the Astronometry sages could tell so much from their telescopes and calculations. That was what had drawn him as a youth to become an initiate. But after memorizing all kinds of information he mostly had little use for, he had dropped out. Somehow he still managed to do well for himself with other types of information.

Like a ghost from the past, Sage Waidlai, still chubby for an elf, seemed to be waiting for him as he stepped across the threshold. Momentarily dwarfed by the thick bronze door Grevien looked up, admiring the coiled symbols of the First Equation inlaid in s.h.i.+ny blackstone. They still fascinated him, even after all these years.

The First Equation began in the center of the dome and formed a dizzying clockwise spiral that ended precisely at the bottom of the dome's perfect North. It was supposed to be an equation disproving all G.o.ds. Grevien had left the Rationarium before he had learned even a tenth of the mathematical symbols and functions necessary to decipher it.

He wondered how many of the Sages could actually comprehend it. As his eyes followed the circling mystery on the ceiling, Sage Waidlai walked up without a word. Saying nothing, his old mentor grabbed Grevien by the elbow as if he were still a schoolboy, leading him toward one of the many small exits from the busy architectural beauty of the entry chamber. From previous experience he knew they were walking toward the Council members' offices.

From a different sort of experience, he knew better than to act surprised when they did not stop at Sage Waidlai's office but continued past it to the stairs at the end of the wide marble-floored hall. He knew whose office this was but had no idea why he was being taken up those revered steps.

Waidlai's scarlet robes swished as he reached around Grevien to push softly on a b.u.t.ton. A chime was struck somewhere beyond the ornately carved door. Ionitricity. And why not? The Undying Spark was all about harnessing the world's natural energies.

The door clicked and slid softly inward in the hands of an eager looking initiate. Probably top of his cla.s.s and look at hima”serving as a doorman. Grevien smiled at the poor kid, who grinned back like it was the first time he had been noticed all week. Grevien and his former mentor stepped up into the office. The initiate left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The floor was covered in plush, sound deadening carpets from the Pinsar Republics. The teak and rosewood desk was larger than Grevien's bed, and sported the unique carvings of Borgnati. Paintings of long dead Wisdoms freckled the walls. Wherever there were no paintings, there were recessed shelves filled with well-maintained tomes and small sculptures of gla.s.s, elfin mahogany, and polished Anghahur granite.

There were no windows; instead the dwarf who sat in this office had small globes of ionic light buzzing at various points along the walls. The place reeked of wealth, history, and power.

The dwarf who currently held the reins of the Undying Spark sat with his meaty lips pursed together. He was clean-shaven, a trend becoming more popular among the more progressive and modern thinking dwarves. He jerked suddenly, as if pulling himself away from a daydream gone amuck.

”That was rather fast, Waidlai,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly soothing for a dwarf.

Waidlai cleared his throat nervously, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. ”Yes, Wisdom, it seems the Equations of Syncronicity worked in our favor. He was entering the Rationarium as I was leaving to find him.”

The pudgy elf bowed his head in reverence to the equations. Grevien copied the action. The return of the old habit felt like a scar that had begun itching again.

Wisdom Errisi pointed at the folded paper still in Grevien's grasp. ”I see you've heard about our problem.” Not sure how to respond, Grevien stepped to the edge of the oversized desk and stretched to hand the paper across. He almost couldn't reach. The dwarf took it, frowning as he cleared his throat, and set it down without looking at it. The silence drew out for a moment before the Wisdom spoke again.

”The governor tells me that this is all about religious freedom, but I don't believe him.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a tabac pipe, preparing it as he spoke. ”I think one of the heathens is blackmailing him with something, something big. I can see from your face you suspect the same.”

He flipped open a jewel studded silver matchbox, and got his pipe going after two tries. ”I want to know who the heathen is, and what he has on Shadwell. I can pay you a pound's worth of gold in Trust Notes every day until you find this out for me.”

Grevien suppressed a whistle. He hadn't expected anywhere near that much. He realized the Wisdom was also paying for his silence. ”I'll need the first week as a non-refundable advance to cover my expenses.”

Wisdom Errisi's eyebrows raised. Sage Waidlai had lost a little color from his normally ruddy elfin cheeks.

”I have to buy protection, something that can't be traced back to the Undying Spark. You can put the funds into an account in my name at the Dwarven Trust.”

Wisdom Errisi's stony eyes glinted with an odd mixture of humor and the respect one has for the industry of insects. His lips curled just a bit at the edges. ”Consider it done, Mr. Derleth,” the Wisdom said. ”Report only to me.”

The young initiate was already opening the door from outside when Grevien and Sage Waidlai, still wringing his hands, approached it. Grevien tossed the lad a coin, which brought a genuine smile of appreciation to the young man's face. The scarlet robed elf pursed his lips and said nothing.

This evening, the New Promise air by the wharf wasn't powdery enough to warrant wearing his facecloth, but Grevien did anyway. It did nothing to stop the smell of dead fish and rotted pilings. But it did keep pa.s.sersby from remembering his face as he left the goblin Fthalgnim's fish market and the shrine to Grtaph the Scurrilous hidden behind a false wall in the icebox room.

When he wasn't selling fish or ministering to the Grtaph wors.h.i.+ppers of New Promise, the cheerful goblin sold outlawed gunpowder weapons under the blessing and guidance of one of the Orcish syndicates. Grevien had selected a four-shot pistol, with a short barrel and a worn grip.

It had probably been used in a murder on the mainland somewhere. Common underworld practice was for tainted weapons to be s.h.i.+pped far away and sold, to prevent police sensitives from using the weapon to tie the victim and murderer together.

Grevien had bought eight bullets, then four more for good measure. Fthalgnim had been impressed with his choice. ”It's a shame you can't tell anyone you got it from Fthalgnim,” he had sighed. ”It's a work of art.”

Grevien agreed on both counts. He was taking a risk even carrying it. Gunpowder weapons were banned in New Promise. Possession alone could get you a year of hard labor. But the rough trade Grevien might encounter made protection worth the risk.

Besides, maybe he'd have a good excuse to plant lead in U'buru's hide. He still owed her for the alleyway trouncing the night before. Until he needed it he kept the pistol tucked into the back of his pants and the bullets in the pocket of his rugged goldpanner's jacket.

The visit had paid off in another way too. For a few extra Trust Notes, he had also gotten the names of a few pagans fervent enough, and well placed enough, to deserve a visit.

He found all three of his leads that night, rousing two of them from their beds at gunpoint. In the end, he believed their pleas of innocence. Funny how having a pistol in the face makes folks want to talk. Luckily, no one had called his bluff: he wasn't sure he could ever actually fire the thing at anyone. Well, maybe there were a few candles that he could stand to snuff.

The last one he visited, an elfin tailor and priest of Lilliani Thornqueen had given him an idea though. ”The ogre maid sees her shaman regularly, the one who sells the fuel and parts for the motorcars. He lives above the store, he might know something,” the lisping elf had wailed, tears flowing freely. It smelled like the little priss had wet himself.

Grevien got the name and address, over on Northside within eyeshot of the governor's mansion. He walked by first to check out the location, his shoes making more noise than he liked on the multicolored gravel. Maybe trim a few pounds and lighten that step, he chided himself.

It was too late to do anything tonight: this shaman was a patron of the moon spirit. And somewhere up there, past the veil of smog that lay across the city, there was a full moon. When he got close to the brick wall, Grevien could hear the faint noises of a grunting chant and regular drumbeats coming from the walled, roofless third floor.

A crowd of ogres at wors.h.i.+p didn't sound like the right place for a human to go waving a gun and demanding informationa”even if U'buru happened to be among them. He satisfied himself that he knew where all the exits and windows were, and made an educated guess about the layout of the motorcar necessities building.

Grevien called it a night and walked back to his room above the Widow Dunnich's, too tired to make the trip out to Piglet's for black ale and banter. Stripping off his facecloth, he cringed at the two black streaks where he had been drawing in air through it. He avoided thinking about how much of the city's sooty air the fabric had let pa.s.s into his lungs today. Finally he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Midnight again in New Promise. The One Wagers orchestrated another strike today, this time the metalworkers wanted fewer working hours every week. The mood on the city streets was like a pot about to boil over; ogres and short-tempered orcs made up the rank and file of the metalworkers' union.

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