Chapter 6:
The Cursed Vault
I
Most actors held that one assumed a character the moment the mask was donned. Since meeting Hanuvar, none of Antires’ acting had taken place under a mask, but he still held with the adage. He assumed the mindset of his character as he dressed, adding elements of personality as he added each element of the costume.
When he pulled on the fine tunic, he luxuriated in the thread density. The man he pretended to be deserved only the finer things in life and did not yet have enough of them. There was no eques’s ring on his hand, for example, which would rankle, despite the bejeweled citizen’s ring that glittered in the lantern light as he slipped it onto his left hand.
His sandals were plain, slightly worn but of good make, brown and sturdy. Here, too, he imagined the man he played expected one day to have the mark of an eques upon the footgear, the little hoof symbol that from time immemorial meant the wearer could supply a horse and serve as a mounted warrior. In the modern era the emblem more likely meant you had the money to hire someone to serve for you on a horse, but it still meant whomever had it was worthy of notice and probably had more money than most who would be observing it. And the man he pretended to be would want that, very much.
Once he had dressed, he left for a well-lit room within Carthalo’s complex. Carthalo’s oldest son Horace waited for him there, quiet and intense. His black hair was naturally curled almost as tightly as Antires’ own and his long-lashed eyes would nicely compliment the whole ensemble.
Antires addressed Horace in something like his own voice, but with the pressured arrogance of his role creeping into his delivery. “I’m going to want to look as though I have many slaves to tend me, though I probably only can afford one or two.”
“The man you’re playing, you mean?” Horace asked.
“The part. Me. I am playing the role,” Antires explained. He hated having to break character. “I’m getting into character now. And as my assistant, you need to be in your role.”
“I’m only pretending to be your body slave,” Horace reminded him. “Do you expect me to hold your mirror?”
Antires passed it over. “If we’re to be convincing, then our actions must feel natural. If we are not convincing, then we fail. And if we fail—”
Horace finished the sentence reluctantly. “We will die. Painfully.”
“Yes. And betray the cause, and—”
“Yes, yes. I’ll hold the mirror.” Horace’s voice grew eagerly servile. “Shall I trim your nose hairs as well, sir?”
“I will handle the nose hairs. But perhaps you could attend to these eyebrows.”
“Your eyebrows seem fine to me. Sir.”
“The man I’m imitating is one of those obsessed with the detail. He’s a perfectionist that should always look his best when he can be observed by anyone who matters. Does that make sense?”
“Of course, sir. I shall trim ever so neatly.”
“Excellent. See that you do,” Antires added in a clipped tone.
Horace lifted the small scissors and set to work. “Now you have me wondering if maybe I should have my own eyebrows looked at.”
Antires responded with dismissive arrogance. “We shall see if another slave has time to attend you.”
Horace chuckled.
It took almost an hour before Antires was thoroughly satisfied with both his appearance and that of his servant. This left them ready well in advance, another point Antires had insisted upon. Hanuvar seldom required his specific talents, and while their lives depended upon a convincing performance, he more urgently hoped to demonstrate to Hanuvar that he was a master of his craft.
In the time remaining to them, he and Horace rehearsed various lines and substitutions. Horace was naturally reticent, but in his role grew even more so, adopting a subdued affect and a humble readiness. Antires coached a respectable aplomb as well. He couldn’t resist reminding Horace, as he had several times in their weeks of rehearsal, that something always goes wrong in every performance, but that as long as they remembered their lines and, briefly failing that, their characters’ motivations, they could sail though.
Finally, Hanuvar called them to a private meeting in the tavern basement. Hanuvar already wore his revenant’s uniform, though he had not yet put on the helmet. So facile had he become with makeup that he had created a convincing scar running along one side of his cheek. Carthalo was with him, though he was not yet in costume.
Hanuvar looked to be about Antires’ age, in his late twenties. At that time in his life, he had been leading a Volani army across the length of the Tyvolian peninsula, a fact Antires still found amazing. Unlike then, he was now clean shaven, and his hair was square cut straight across his forehead. It had also been dyed a vivid black, to better match his somber garments, although the scar was probably the most masterful touch. It would also draw the attention of anyone encountering him so that it would remain the dominant feature in their recollection.
“You know what you need to do,” Hanuvar said. “Aleria[8] sent word that she’s ready and heading off to the rendezvous. We’ll be behind you shortly.”
Antires nodded confirmation. He would have advised against relying upon the thief for anything, but Hanuvar had tracked her down and invited her into the scheme before Antires’ arrival. While involved in their plans, Hanuvar had held all rehearsals and conversations that involved Aleria beyond Carthalo’s tavern complex. He relied upon her to carry out her part, but said he’d be a fool to trust her with information that could endanger the future of his people.
For the fourth or fifth time, Carthalo repeated his warning. “Remember, if for any reason you feel that you must abort, drop the red scarf you’ve been given on the stairs as you exit.”
Antires bowed his head, formally.
“Go and make us proud,” Carthalo added.
“We will, Father ,” Horace answered. The two embraced. Antires, in character, frowned impatiently.
“Do you want a hug?” Hanuvar asked him.
“From a revenant? Thank you, no.”
“You look like a miscreant anyway,” Hanuvar said, suddenly sounding like a judgmental martinet. Then, more warmly, he said: “Off with you, then. And good luck.”
They had practiced the route three times and Antires had it memorized as well as Horace, though he doubted he could have navigated it blindly, as Horace claimed his father’s key operatives could do. A small run of tunnels lay beneath Carthalo’s complex, and they had been expanded over the decades so that some intersected with the vast Dervan sewers and a partial cave system running even more deeply. Antires wished that they had even more tunnels and more exits, but Carthalo had laughed and told him there was only so much digging you could manage without bringing buildings down on top of you.
Outside the tunnels, small hideaways lay scattered through the city. Antires had been shown to some of these as well, should their project veer wildly off course.
He and Horace travelled the tunnels for what seemed an interminable time, although Antires knew objectively their route required less than a quarter of an hour. In the end, they emerged from stairs hidden in the cellar of a small bakery owned by one of Carthalo’s lieutenants. The baker’s back rooms were allegedly closed all day for a private function, so that when Antires and Horace emerged the few people sitting at the counter must have assumed the haughty Herrene and his officious tablet-bearing slave had been part of some important gathering.
Outside, the afternoon was fading toward evening. A blue, cloudless sky domed the city. Winter ebbed but still clutched with chilly fingers. Those abroad in the streets wore leggings and cloaks to protect themselves and many walked in boots.
Antires hardly felt the cold at all, so fixated was he upon their goal. In a few blocks they veered left onto the Avenine way and made for the forum. Its stalls were populated by fewer vendors than usual, owing to the lateness of the day. Antires and Horace were just one more pair of well-dressed figures walking through the center of the Dervan Empire.
A single bored guard stood at the bottom of the dozen wide stone stairs to the colonnaded temple of Savernus. The praetorian[9], in the white cloak and tunic of his order, warmed his hands over a smoking brazier. Antires ignored him and the guard glanced at them without suspicion. To his eyes, they probably looked like functionaries, not Cerdian spies or thieves or any other threat.
Soon they were up the grand stairs and past the wall of six pillars fronting the huge temple. Both monumental bronze doors were closed. Each towered three stories high and were likely large enough for Savernus himself to pass without stooping, should he happen to take possession of the statue inside and decide on a stroll through the forum.
A human-sized wicket door was inset into the left portal and opened to Antires’ touch. In moments they were walking through the cavernous space. It was cold, dark, and austere. At one end of the chamber, an enormous and stiff depiction of the god stood in the gloom. As usual, the ancient carving was lit with candles on nearby plinths and from mullioned windows below the soaring roof line, so that all but his stern face and sandaled feet was cloaked in shadow. It surely impressed the Dervans, but then few of them had seen the masterwork of the Herrenic sculptors in their native element.
The marble floor was well-worn by the passage of feet through countless years, black and cracked in places as the ground beneath had settled. Two doorways opened to dim chambers, one to the left and one to the right. Familiar with his destination, Antires bore left and was soon headed into a stairwell lit by lanterns hung in scalloped recesses. The stairs were wide and deep, and turned back upon themselves at a large landing. Light glowed beyond the archway at the stair bottom, where they stepped into the warren of bureaucracy that was the Dervan treasury department, markedly warmer than the temple above. A half dozen tunic-clad slaves of the civil service sat at lamp lit desks, scribbling on parchment. Sturdy bronze doors stood in their casings up and down both sides of the wide hallway and a smaller set of bronze doors sealed a service entry down the hall and to the left.
Other bureaucrats walked along the corridor, and a pair of armored praetorian soldiers lounged on cushioned chairs toward the middle of the chamber, beside another smoking brazier.
Antires was intercepted within a few paces by a large nosed, heavy-set man in an immaculate white tunic, the head slave of the treasury. Slaves owned by the civil service took immense pride in their positions and, in recognition of their dedication, lived far better than the average Dervan citizen. They could look forward to generous pensions and citizenship upon their retirement at age 45.
He’d never personally met Antipater, but Antires had been fully briefed on him. The slave was only two years from freedom and was always skeptical of requests from senators, whom he seemed to feel had nefarious political motives for any interaction with the treasury department. Antires suspected he was right.
“Good afternoon, citizen,” Antipater said. “I am afraid this is a restricted area.”
“I am well aware of the nature of the area,” Antires said stiffly. “You must be Antipater. I have been appointed by Senator Starsis for an inspection of certain materials held here within the treasury.”
Antipater frowned at this news. “I have not been informed of any inspection.”
“That was entirely the point. The senator wished mine to be an unanticipated survey.”
The senator had requested no such thing. Elderly and retiring, Starsis had once been a minor power with ancestral ties to the priesthood who ran the religious duties carried out in the temple above the treasury. He had also been a vocal proponent of launching a war of extermination against Volanus. Starsis was currently out of the city in the warmer, southern climes. There he could not be easily contacted for confirmation about the activities of any supposed subordinates.
Antires snapped his fingers without turning his head and Horace, acting the part of a dutiful slave, crisply produced a stamped document from his case. Antires passed it to Antipater.
The treasury functionary accepted it with grave dignity then slowly moved it out from his face, squinting.
In case Antipater should be familiar with the senator’s handwriting, Carthalo had acquired several samples of the senator’s letters.
Unlike many men in positions of power, Starsis insisted on continuing to write out his own letters rather than dictating them, and his was a shaky old man’s hand. Carthalo, long used to fabricating documents, had practiced until he had a fine approximation of his scrawl, and he and Hanuvar had cooked up the appropriate phrasing, authorizing the senator’s rrepresentative to investigate as he saw fit. So as not to inconvenience the hard-working staff Antires as agent was to limit himself to three randomly chosen areas. The letter went on to ensure the reader that he, Starsis, had no doubt that the treasury was as well organized as ever, but that certain malcontents sought to increase their own standing by suggesting the department was poorly administered, and this fact-finding expedition would be used to counter their efforts.
Antires waited stiffly, affecting boredom. He followed Antipater’s eyes as they swept over the page. Carthalo and Hanuvar had imitated the old senator’s prose well, beginning sternly and bluntly and then moderating before sounding almost apologetic by the close, as if Starsis lost confidence in his own authority as he went. Antipater’s expression hardened near the midpoint of the letter then softened as he reached the end. He returned the letter. Horace stepped forward to receive it, then retreated smoothly.
“You must pardon me, sir,” Antipater said with grave formality, “but do you possess any additional credentials?”
Antires motioned Horace forward again with a crooked finger. The pretend slave produced a small sheaf of papers, attesting to Antires’ citizenship, family holdings, and character. Antipater considered the citizenship papers most closely and merely skimmed the rest. He returned them to Horace. “Everything appears to be in order. You must pardon my thoroughness, sir.”
Antires replied briskly. “No pardon is necessary. I’m told you must ask for such identification no matter how famous the visitor.”
“That is quite true, sir, unless they are personally known to the attending clerk. It sounds as though this spot inspection is to be conducted swiftly, which suits us both.”
“Yes, two to three places.” Antires turned to consider the hallway doors stretching right and left. “Felix,” he said to Horace, “pick a number between one and eight.”
He didn’t watch Horace, but he knew from their rehearsal that the young man was furrowing his brow and wrinkling his smooth forehead, though not for very long. Horace wished to appear dutiful, not imbecilic. “Five, master.”
Antires turned to Antipater. “The fifth chamber it is, if you please, clerk. Upon the left,” he added.
“Very good, sir. Follow me.” So saying, Antipater turned down the hall, his shadows shortening and lengthening between lanterns. They passed clerks of varying ages copying or inspecting documents, most of whom were too involved in their work to glance up. Antipater gestured to the Praetorian Guards. Only in government service might a slave pass orders along to a member of the armed forces without causing insult, so ingrained were the complex hierarchies of the Dervan state.
Up rose the praetorians, a young muscular one and a lean man with prematurely silvered hair. They left their helms on their bench. Hanuvar’s inquiries had found the details about these men as well. The first was a ranker finishing his fifth year of service and recently appointed to this relatively cushy position, the fourth son of an unimportant eques likely destined for a minor governmental post. The praetorian centurion was nearing the conclusion of ten full years of service. This was Catullus, a man who had risen slowly but steadily through the ranks by following every rule to the letter and making no particular waves. Sources said that when he left the service he planned to run for public office under the wing of Senator Epulius.
Antipater halted as the two soldiers drew close.
“Who is this man, Antipater?” Catullus demanded.
“A representative of Senator Starsis, Centurion. This is Entirion.” He indicated Antires.
“And what has the senator sent him here for?”
Antipater quickly explained their story while Antires waited. The centurion motioned for the papers, which Horace provided promptly. He was unworried about this particular challenge. So mired was the Dervan state in bureaucratic process that as long as you presented the appropriate paperwork you could get into nearly anywhere without sustained questioning.
Catullus frowned over the introductory letter, his expression clouding. He then visibly relaxed and flipped through the rest of the documents before passing them back. “It seems in order. You couldn’t have come earlier in the day? I have a dinner engagement in two hours.”
“My apologies, Centurion,” Antires said. “The senator suggested I arrive late in the day when attention to duty might be expected to be more lax.”
The centurion frowned. “It is never lax here in the treasury.”
“Indeed,” Antipater agreed.
“Let’s get this over with, then.” Catullus sent the other soldier running for a lantern, then both praetorians walked with them for the fifth door on the left. Antipater stepped forward and lifted a heavy ring of keys from his belt. He thumbed through them with elaborate care.
Antires retained his bored affect, though he worried about the length of time everything was taking. Had Hanuvar calculated this finely enough? If he were to burst in too soon, everything would go awry.
Finally, the slave produced the proper key, fitted it to the lock, and turned it. There was a click. Antipater pushed open the door, removed a lantern hung in a small recess beside it, and walked into the vault.
Antipater lifted the lantern so its warm glow illuminated the space ahead. No deeper than twenty-five paces, the vault was stacked with heavy wooden chests, three high. They lined the walls, and much of the floor, with three wide aisleways providing access. This was but one vault housing a small portion of Derva’s treasury, though it alone held more coinage than many a small country.
“You shall find everything quite secure,” Antipater reported. “Every chest is individually locked. The holdings of each, large to small, are carefully accounted for, twice before being placed in storage, and counted again upon every access. Each time by a different attendant.”
“Let me see for myself,” Antires said. “Soldier, give my slave your lantern. Felix, try the latches along the far aisle.”
“Yes, master,” Horace replied.
The praetorian obligingly passed across the lantern even as Catullus stared in disbelief.
“You wish your slave to test the finances of the empire?” the centurion asked.
“If these lockboxes are in danger from my slave’s fingers, then the empire is in far more peril than the senator suspects.” Antires finished the declaration with a sniff. “Proceed, Felix.”
Horace bowed his head. “Yes, master.”
“I’ll follow the slave,” Catullus said gruffly to the other praetorian. “You stay with this one and Antipater.”
“Yes, sir.”
That, Antires thought, had worked beautifully. Now the more observant of the soldiers would be away from him. That still left Antipater. Antires contemplated the chests to right and left, as though his course had not been predetermined for the middle and smaller aisle, where chests of ordinary size were stacked. He began to bend and examine the locks, rapping on the wood as if to confirm their solidity. He tried to open all of those to right and left at waist height. As he had expected, each chest was completely solid. All he intended was to make the two keeping pace with him comfortable with his handling of the containers.
What he wanted was the tenth chest topmost along the left-hand side. He coughed as he neared it, patting his chest and palming the stub of charcoal he’d hidden in the folds of his tunic. The cough was the signal for Horace.
From the other side of the aisle there came a muffled slap as of a sandal hitting stone and Horace suddenly cried out. The light of his lantern wobbled. Horace had pretended to stub his foot and steadied himself against a bank of chests.
The attention of both Antires’ companions was diverted. As the two men craned their necks to peer toward the other aisle, Antires sketched a tiny symbol upon the lower side of the top chest, then covered it with his hand.
Horace, meanwhile, was apologizing for his clumsiness.
“What have you done, Felix?” Antires called, which was their agreed upon signal his part of their deception was complete.
“I’m just clumsy, master. I tripped.”
“Pull yourself together. You yipped like a little girl.”
“Yes, master. Sorry, master.”
The praetorian with Antires chuckled, and for his benefit, Antires shook his head in exasperation.
Hand still braced over the tiny symbol, Antires looked across the aisle at the chest on the right and stepped there. Neither the soldier nor Antipater appeared to notice the charcoal sign drawn upon the sturdy banded wood, and he proceeded with a cursory examination of the chests along the right side, although he stopped looking at every one of them. He made a pretense of checking some along the back wall and the far aisle, then declared he had seen enough, though he made sure to advance down the far aisle, rather the central one where his marked chest sat.
Horace returned to report that all the chests were locked.
“Nothing to alarm yourself about then, apart from your sandal?”
Horace looked down as if abashed.
Antipater showed them to the doorway, and Antires and Horace emerged first into the hall, followed by the soldiers. The slave shut the door after them, locked it with elaborate care, and held the key ring in one sturdy hand as he looked down his nose questioningly.
“I have seen a vault,” Antires said. “Perhaps a document room. Are those further down?”
“No, sir. They are on the right. Doors seven on.”
“If you please then. I will pick—” He lifted his hand as if he were choosing at random, then turned to Antipater. “There are more doors on this side.”
“Yes, sir. Twelve total.”
“Then I shall select door number eight.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Eight,” he added, “has always been my lucky number.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Do you need us for this part, Antipater?” Catullus asked.
Naturally the soldier had little interest in accumulated papers. Hanuvar had anticipated as much. There might be some important information within the vaults, but it was the more physical manifestations of wealth that the centurion would think needed protection.
“No, Centurion,” Antipater said. “I think matters are well in hand.”
Catullus nodded to them as a group, motioned his underling to follow, and the two walked toward the cushioned bench where they’d been sitting.
Straight-backed and dignified as a priest, Antipater led Antires and Horace past a half dozen more clerks with heads bent over papyrus. One sat inking and stamping documents a younger clerk presented to him.
Some of the chambers on this side held offices. Behind door number eight, however, were documents that could forever change the lives of dozens of Volani living in Dervan captivity.
Antipater stopped before it and once again sorting carefully through his keys. Antires, feeling the rising tension, did not check with Horace, though he felt an impulse to do so. He did not look to the arch that led upstairs, afraid he would see Hanuvar already on the way. Not yet, he prayed silently to Caleva, muse of theatre. Not when things had gone so well. Let us get to the other side of this door and perform a few more minor steps, and then let it all go as willed.
Antipater found the proper key at last, fitted it ever so carefully to the lock, turned it with dignified calm, and then pushed the door open. Liberating the lantern that hung in the alcove beside the door, he led the way inside. Antires fought and won a final impulse not to look over his shoulder and followed.
II
When he’d first been posted to his current assignment, Catullus had thrilled to the responsibility. That he should be entrusted with the safety and security of the empire’s chief treasury certainly sounded impressive, and he had fantasized about uncovering some flaw or inventing some security plan that would earn him acclaim.
But his enthusiasm had long since abated. Odd as it seemed, the government slaves held all the real power over a system that had been set in place generations before. Neither they nor the praetorians who stood watch could make any change without convoluted and laborious processes, even to the smallest of procedures. Both Antipater and himself were but new mortar in an old wall, and sooner or later they would be replaced with other mortar, while the wall remained.
He would never have identified himself as a friend to any slave, but after so many years serving amicably with Antipater, he trusted him to maintain the drudgery of the agency to which he had dedicated the rest of his career, just as the slave trusted him to maintain security.
Not that he ever had much security to trouble himself with. There were the occasional senators who demanded accountings over various things, and several mobs had formed in the forum over the years, though none had ever dared to storm the treasury. The slaves even served as the initial security, greeting those who entered the lower hall. As a result, Catullus spent most of his time lost in idle thought. So deadly dull were his service days he had sometimes imagined bringing in a scroll to amuse himself with, but he sensed that sort of thing simply wasn’t done, and it certainly wouldn’t look very good during one of the rare inspections his superiors ran.
He so often longed for something interesting to happen, a chance to distinguish himself in this role, that he was startled to realize how annoyed he’d been with the Herrene’s interruption. He puzzled over his reaction after he returned to his bench and supposed he was too used to comfort.
“What’s the strangest visit you’ve had here, sir?” Lentullus asked him.
Catullus thought briefly, then smiled to himself. “There was that senator who came in with two whores. He had a letter with an official stamp claiming he needed to perform a personal inspection of one of the vaults. He got irate when Antipater wouldn’t leave him alone with some open chests. It turns out he just wanted to get laid surrounded by a horde of gleaming gold.”
The young soldier laughed. “Some old men need extra help to get a rise.”
“This was a young senator.” So many senators, he had come to learn, were simply idiots. He had resolved that he would never be an idiot himself. He would follow the rules and keep his mouth shut. No one would make a spectacle of him.
The clatter of footsteps rang in the stairwell and a helmeted figure in dark armor emerged into the light.
Lentullus gasped, and Catullus barely restrained his own surprise. There before them was a centurion of the revenants, in full gear, complete with shining ebon helmet fronted by a silver skull emblem and crossed transversely by a black horsehead crest. The man was scarred, with grim black brows. One step behind him was a woman in a dark cloak, her stola black as his armor, her brown locks crossed with a silver circlet.
“Who’s in charge here?” the revenant demanded.
Antipater’s assistant Pullo was already hurrying toward him, and Catullus shot to his feet, clapping his own helmet to his head. He didn’t have to tell Lentullus to get a move on, for the younger man was already in motion.
Pullo introduced himself and gestured to Catullus as he strode forward.
The revenant’s dark brows were clouded; this, Catullus sensed, was a dangerous man. The woman beside him might have been pretty were she not so somber and oddly pale. From the skull-faced necklace at her throat and her presence beside the centurion he guessed her for one of those rare witches used by the state to stamp out sorcery.
“I’ve ordered your man above to secure the building,” the centurion said to Catullus. “He’s confirmed that a Herrene entered the temple a short time ago, accompanied by a slave.”
“He did. What’s this about? Who are you?” Catullus asked.
“I am Centurion Claudius Fulvo,” the stranger replied impatiently. “And I am in search of an impostor. Where is the Herrene?”
“The Herrene’s paperwork had to be in order,” Pullo said, sounding flustered. “You saw it, didn’t you, sir?” He looked to Catullus for help.
The revenant cut in before Catullus could offer any assurance. “He’s a mercenary paid by Republican rabble to weaken the empire. He and his boy must be taken alive, for questioning.” The revenant scanned the hall, but Catullus was already staring toward the vault where Antipater had led them. Curiously, the door had been closed, and Catullus’ heart sped. And here he had been wanting something diverting to take place.
Catullus slapped his hand to his sword hilt. “They’re in there.” He pointed and started forward.
“Alive,” the revenant hissed. “He knows vital secrets. And we move quietly.”
Pullo held up a hand. “I am very sorry, Centurion. But protocols must be followed. I must insist . . . that you . . . ”
The revenant officer scowled and thrust folded papers at him. “You think someone would dare to impersonate a revenant? Do you know the penalty?”
He was right, and Catullus frowned at the slave, even as he realized Pullo had longstanding instructions that could not be bent, just as he himself did. He was a little annoyed that the slave had done a better job of remembering than he had. His eyes strayed again to that closed door. Gods, what had he allowed to happen on his watch?
While Pullo nervously scanned the revenant’s paperwork, Catullus sought clarity. “What’s this Herrene’s plan?”
“He’s planning to curse the treasury so that nothing in here can be touched for a generation, which his backers think will drive up the value of their own holdings —”
He was interrupted by the woman. “Centurion Fulvo!” Her voice was low, breathy. The revenant whirled on her as though she had pulled his dark cloak. She steadied herself against his armor and Catullus watched in growing worry as her eyes rolled. She wobbled.
“What’s wrong?” the revenant snapped.
“Magic has been activated.” Her voice grew stronger and she blinked, regaining her equilibrium. “I sense its power. Growing. We have to stop him before it worsens!”
“You heard her,” the revenant glowered, his gaze fixing on Pullo. “Unless you think my paperwork needs to be inspected further?”
“No sir,” Pullo stammered. “It looks to be in perfect order.”
“Quickly then,” the revenant said. Catullus dashed ahead, fearful now that he had overlooked something, something he would be blamed for.
The revenant kept pace with him.
Catullus started to place a hand to the door, but the revenant slapped it out of the way. “Lydia and I move first,” he said. “There’s no telling what sorceries may have been wrought in there.”
“They haven’t been in there long,” Pullo squeaked, then said to Catullus: “Oh, I hope Antipater is alright.”
The revenant thrust open the door and swept inside, the woman coming after.
They found a strange scene within. Entirion’s slave had backed Antipater into a corner and held a knife upon him. Entirion himself squatted on the floor, where he was in the midst of drawing a white chalk arc surrounded by strange symbols and intersected by lines and circles and triangles. The Herrene gasped and started for his knife, but the revenant leapt forward without hesitation and caught the man’s wrist, dragging him to his feet.
The woman advanced on the slave—Felix, the Herrene had called him, one hand outstretched. The slave turned, threatening her with the blade, but she spoke to him in a quavering, haunting voice, one hand pressed to her forehead. “Lower the weapon.”
The slave stared at his hand in disbelief as it shook. It dropped suddenly to his own waistline, seemingly without his volition.
“You can’t command me so easily,” the Herrene spat.
“Silence.” The revenant’s voice was icy.
“Drop the blade,” the woman commanded, and the slave did so. It clanged against the stone floor.
“You,” the revenant said to Lentullus, and pointed to the slave. “Keep him still. And watch him. He may be a magician as well.”
The junior praetorian seized the young slave and shook him a little, to let him know he was in charge, but the young man must still have been under some magical influence, for he flopped at the shaking and barely held to his feet.
“Just keep him still, man, or you’ll break the trance,” the revenant commanded.
The woman drifted along the edge of the arc the Herrene had drawn. “This spell focuses dark powers,” she said in a sepulchral voice. “I pray we interrupted him in time. It appears energies were directed there.” She waved her hands over a wall lined with cubbyholes, filled with documents.
A wide-eyed Antipater sidled away from the Herrene and the slave. “He was mumbling strange words under his breath and gesturing there before he began to draw upon the floor.”
The woman nodded. “Centurion, the energy’s intensifying.”
The revenant scowled and turned upon Antipater. “You. Arrange these documents for transport. They must be disenchanted.”
Antipater started to object, but the woman cut him off.
“It’s not just the documents, Centurion.” She placed one hand to her head again, as though she were weary from magical effort. “There’s more.”
Then the Herrene laughed. It was startling and eerie. “It’s too late,” he cried.
“You lie,” the woman said coolly, and spoke to the revenant. “It’s not too late if I act quickly.”
“Has he been anywhere else?” the revenant demanded.
Shamefacedly, Antipater answered. “He was in one of the treasury vaults.”
The revenant’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Did you allow him to touch anything?”
“He and the slave touched a lot of chests,” Catullus admitted. He gulped. “Does that mean he’s already cursed them?”
Rather than answering, the revenant gritted his teeth as if experiencing enormous pain, or the stupidity of fresh cadets.
“Forgive me, Centurion,” Antipater pleaded. “He had the proper paperwork! He said he was on an inspection!”
The revenant looked as though he were ready to slap Antipater, for he raised his hand. The Herrene resumed laughing uproariously and the revenant slapped him instead.
That silenced Entirion for a moment, though he continued to chuckle.
“You,” the centurion said to Lentullus, “take his slave out of here. Wait by the doors in case I need him.” He turned again to Antipater. “You heard me. Find a chest and get all of these scrolls on this upper quadrant into it.”
“What about the curse?” Antipater asked warily. “Are we cursed, or just the papers?”
“You’re already affected,” the witch said. “But I can clear it with some effort. These papers, though, are too far gone. It will take more magic than I can currently muster to clean them.”
The revenant appeared frustrated by the delay but was icily cordial to Catullus. “Centurion, did you see what chests were touched?”
“Antipater, Lentullus, and I did. Are all of us cursed?”
The revenant scowled at him. “Lydia will see to that. The empire’s treasury is in danger, soldier. Show some backbone.”
Lentullus shamefacedly looked away.
Antipater quickly relayed to his assistant Pullo to ready the scrolls for transport, then hurried from the room, struggling for some of his customary dignity while fumbling with his keys. The revenant pushed the Herrene, arm twisted behind his back, ahead of him. Entirion still smiled maniacally. Lentullus had pulled the stunned slave into the hallway, looking pale as a cadet waiting for a dressing down.
Catullus trailed after Antipater and the revenants and the prisoner. “How much damage can they have done?” he asked. “None of the chests were opened. Were they, Antipater?
“No, sir,” the clerk confirmed. He hurriedly sorted through the jangling keys, found the proper one, and inserted it into the lock.
Catullus looked to the Herrene, who smiled archly. He seemed awfully pleased with himself for someone in the hands of the pitiless revenants, and that only added to Catullus’ concern.
Antipater opened the door at last, took down the lantern with a shaking hand, and headed into the vault.
Catullus searched in vain for any sign of disaster and found only closed and sealed chests. No underworld monsters capered atop them, and no arcane symbols were drawn upon the floor.
“Where was he?” the revenant demanded.
“He touched all of these,” Antipater answered.
“Touching is one thing.” The witch put a hand to her head, wincing as she closed her eyes. She faced the middle aisle and lifted a hand. “Did he go this way?”
A chill ran along Catullus’ spine.
“He did,” Antipater confirmed with a gulp. “He handled many of the chests.”
“But did he make a mark?” the revenant asked. “So long as he made no mark, we may yet be well.”
“He made no marks,” Antipater said. “I had my eyes upon him the entire time.”
“Are you sure?” The woman advanced into the aisle, one hand outstretched, one hand still to her head. She waved taut fingers across one chest, then another.
The Herrene no longer smiled and watched with hatred in his eyes.
“Here. This one.” The woman stopped by a chest of medium size. “Do you see?” She pointed to a small, strange wavery triangle symbol inscribed upon the chest, though she was careful not to go near it.
Antipater moaned. “I don’t know how he did it. I swear I thought I had my eye upon him the entire time.”
“He’s clever. He already tricked two of my colleagues as they were closing in on him,” the revenant said.
“Why mark this chest rather than a really large one?” Catullus asked. “If he wanted to do the most damage? Wouldn’t that harm more gold?”
“This one is centrally placed. The spell must be powerful enough to affect the chests around it. It may even amplify the curse he launched in the other room.”
The Herrene muttered something, and the revenant shook him once.
The woman waved her hands over the symbol, speaking under her breath in a hoarse, sibilant voice. She stopped after a long moment, breathing heavily. “He built threads here but it hasn’t expanded yet. It’s confined to this chest. And everything inside it.”
“What do we need to do?” the revenant asked, speaking as if the others were entirely absent.
“We’ve got to treat it, carefully. And I’m already weak after using so much magic. It needs to be evaluated by the tribune in any case. The Herrene dared to use the symbol of Abruses.”
The revenant centurion sucked in a breath, then turned to Antipater and Catullus, his eyes narrow. “We will need to take the chest as well.”
Antipater cleared his throat. “Sir, I can’t let you do that without, well, a number of forms and permissions—”
The revenant showed his teeth. “Fine. I’ll just leave it here to spread like mold over everything in the treasury so that none of it can be used for decades. Would your superiors like that?”
“I’m sorry sir. But my superiors—”
“Antipater,” Catullus said. “It’s not as though the revenants are going to steal it!”
The revenant laughed once without humor. “We can’t even safely touch the contents while it’s cursed!”
Antipater wouldn’t quite relinquish his duty even then. “But what about after?”
“You’re the head clerk, aren’t you? Each of these chests must be numbered and counted in triplicate, so you know exactly how much is inside. Write out an accounting and I’ll sign it myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Antipater agreed reluctantly.
The woman turned to Antipater and placed a hand upon his arm. Perhaps it was meant to be comforting, for her look was, even though the slave shivered at her touch. “The order will endure every hazard to ensure these coins will be useful once more.”
“You heard her.” The revenant shook the scowling Herrene again and spoke to Antipater. “Ready men to carry the chest.”
“I will begin a counter spell,” the woman said. “To protect against any effects that may yet linger in this room.” She exchanged a look with the revenant and spoke softly, though Catullus overheard: “You should keep clear, in case things go badly.”
She was trying to warn him, which meant she was putting herself at risk, but the centurion didn’t acknowledge it. He just turned and shouted for the rest of them to clear out. Catullus looked back at the brave woman as she began to mumble over the symbol.
The revenant didn’t seem to be concerned with her in the least, because he shifted immediately to the subject of transportation, explaining that he’d requisition a carriage near the service entrance. “We’ll load up there.” He then passed over manacles he’d carried on his belt and ordered Lentullus to put them on the prisoners.
“What about the curse on us?” Catullus said. His skin still crawled with the thought of it. “You said she could clear the curse placed on us.” He looked back at the open doorway to the vault. From where he stood, Catullus could not see within. He wondered if the young woman was still alive.
“If she’s successful then she can work her magic in the central chamber,” the revenant said. A faint trace of empathy could be heard in his voice. “It will be a protective circle. I’ve sat in them before. You won’t feel anything, and after an hour’s time you should be able to safely leave it.”
As he finished talking the woman emerged wearily and called for everyone to gather. Catullus sent Lentullus upstairs to retrieve Julius, who the revenant had ordered to bar and guard the front door.
By the time Lentullus returned with his fellow praetorian, Antipater had drafted a document that the revenant had signed, and the clerks had opened the reinforced inner and outer service doors opening to the side street, built for those occasions when large monetary transfers had to be made. The clerk oversaw the carrying of a chest of papers and the much heavier treasury chest into a passenger carriage outside. A frightened patrician and his very young wife spoke softly to one another, casting worried glances at their requisitioned conveyance before resignedly setting off on foot. Lentullus and Catullus himself escorted the two sullen prisoners while the revenant spoke sharply to the huge carriage driver about watching them closely. The revenant then returned with the praetorians to the temple interior.
Desks had been dragged aside so the revenant’s woman could chalk a large white circle in the chamber’s center. She did not seal its final portion until she had all the clerks and praetorians seated within. She then wiped sweat from her brow and sprinkled the outside barrier with powders.
She stepped back, then dully intoned a long prayer to Jovren and Hecalia, goddess of the moon and witchcraft, and used a candle to set the powder alight. A number of the clerks gasped in shock, for the fire burned green.[10] Catullus managed to keep his own reaction muted.
The woman sagged against the revenant centurion, who steadied her. She addressed those within the circle, her voice utterly drained. “Take your ease here for another hour. By then a full trio of revenants will arrive to look over the area. You are safe so long as you do not leave before then.”
“I should have gone pee,” Lentullus whispered.
Catullus hushed him. “You’ll be fine.”
The revenant announced, “We’ve acted swiftly enough to contain the danger. I will return tomorrow to personally complete the inspection.”
“Thank you,” Catullus told him.
The man nodded gravely. “I merely serve the empire, like yourself.”
Many of the clerks and the other soldiers gave their thanks to both the revenant centurion and the woman, who leaned heavily against him as they departed. It wasn’t until they had shut the inner set of transfer doors that Antipater remarked they had no way to lock either the inner or outer doors for the next hour.
Catullus laughed at him. “No one’s going to even think to try to break in here. And besides, they’re cursed if they do.”
They all laughed then, and Antipater smiled in chagrin. “I suppose you’re right.”
III
Aleria stayed in character until the man she knew as Helsa[11] returned to the carriage, climbed inside, and removed his revenant helmet. The Herrene and the younger one had already undone their manacles. Helsa leaned forward to address the cart driver through the little window to the front bench. “Any trouble?”
The driver’s deep voice came over the clop of the horse hooves on the brick. “A patrol came past shortly after you headed back inside. I showed them the paperwork, but they still seemed suspicious.”
The carriage had been there from the start, naturally, and Helsa had only pretended to requisition it from confederates dressed as patricians. He’d also arranged official looking documents for the driver to present in case he was questioned while parked in the lane beside the Temple of Savernus.
Helsa closed the window and put a finger to his artificial scar.
“Don’t mess with it,” the Herrene chided him. “A man with a real scar would be used to it and wouldn’t fuss with it.”
“We’re not under watch anymore,” Aleria reminded him.
Ahead of them the horses neighed and came suddenly to a halt.
Aleria looked out through the narrow window to the front and gulped. A band of six praetorians blocked the street, a broad-chested centurion in their lead.
The whole plan had simply gone too well. Bad luck had finally caught up to them.
The praetorian centurion was advancing on the driver. “My men tell me you have revenant paperwork,” he said crossly. “Revenants don’t have jurisdiction here.”
Helsa stepped out of the carriage, pushing back his cloak.
“Centurion,” he said with icy formality. Aleria couldn’t see him, but she heard him continue. “Revenants have jurisdiction everywhere. We’ve just completed a special investigation. You need to stand aside. We have prisoners aboard for questioning.”
The centurion frowned. “If you’re a revenant, where are the rest of your men?”
“One is incapacitated; the other led a unit another direction. I cannot stress to you—”
“This seems suspicious to me,” the centurion growled. “Where are your papers?”
Aleria swore under her breath.
“It’s alright,” the Herrene whispered. “He’s got this.”
He sounded so certain Aleria eyed him with renewed skepticism.
Helsa pretended outrage at being challenged and he and the centurion postured about their particular jurisdictions. She only half listened, thinking back to the circumstances that had brought her here and wondering why she’d gone along with it. A much younger looking Helsa than she remembered had presented himself last week, explaining the difference in his appearance as the skillful application of makeup. She would have had a harder time believing him if he weren’t so clearly the same man she’d met last year on the other side of the Ardenines.
He’d told her then that were she interested, he had a caper that would net them a tidy sum. When he’d proposed this scheme and laid out the information about the temple’s schedule and its staff, she realized just how carefully he’d analyzed its flaws and opportunities.
And until this moment, everything had gone according to Helsa’s carefully detailed plan. She had been about to congratulate him on his cleverness, but then doom had arrived with the praetorians. She eyed the door, wondering how far she could get if she made a break for it. Probably the soldiers would be kept busy with the men.
The two on the carriage seat across from her remained tense but expectant, as if they had information she lacked. The praetorian centurion was demanding for a third time to see some papers when an armored figure rode into view, resplendent in black armor and a black horsehair crest. Now they were really done for, because he was clearly some kind of revenant tribune or legate, judging by the gold gilding upon his cuirass and helm.
His voice was crisply challenging. “What seems to be the trouble, Centurion?”
The praetorian centurion drew himself to attention. “Sir! This carriage was loitering outside the treasury.”
“This man is an officer of the revenants under my personal command. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, sir!”
Now the young man beside the Herrene grinned, and Aleria realized that whomever that man on the horse was had to be a final protective measure put in place by Helsa. The phony revenant officer continued to flex his rank as Helsa climbed into the carriage and closed the door. The others grinned at him, but he remained in character, ordering the driver to move ahead.
It was not until they rolled into a side street that she breathed a sigh of relief. “By the gods, that was close.”
“I told you he had things taken care of,” the Herrene said, and then flicked an admiring glance at Helsa. He nodded slightly to her. Another man might have looked immeasurably pleased, or cocky, but he seemed only satisfied. As though he were already thinking about further obstacles.
“Is there something else we need to worry about?” she asked.
“That’s the end.”
“And you anticipated that final challenge?” she asked. “Why didn’t you mention it? Who was that?”
“Another ally. You did well, all of you. I picked the right people.”
The boy was laughing. “Dad always said you were amazing, but I had no idea. I mean, he told me stories, but . . . that was incredible!”
The Herrene smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “If he chooses the terrain and can plan ahead, he’ll be ten steps ahead of nearly everyone.”
“You make it sound like he’s a general,” Aleria said, and the Herrene and the young man fell silent, casting guilty glances toward Helsa, as if suddenly aware they had spoken out of turn. She looked at Helsa. “Who are you, really?”
“We,” said Helsa, “are the people who just walked out of the Dervan treasury with a chest of gold, some of which is yours.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
He smiled. “That’s all that’s important.”
“And the papers? What are those for?”
“They’re valuable in a different way.”
She would have liked to have heard more about them, but she sensed he would reveal nothing else, and the other two looked uncomfortable, so she let the matter drop.
“I wonder how long those men are going to sit there in that circle,” the young man mused.
“Probably a full hour,” the Herrene said. “You two were very convincing.”
“So were you,” she said, and he smiled at that. Like most men, he seemed to need the praise. She then looked through her lashes at Helsa. “That was the best executed plan I’ve ever seen.”
“It worked well,” he agreed. “But no plan can succeed without skilled participants.”
So much for that gambit. But then she had seen before that he appeared to be immune to charm. It frustrated and amused her at the same time. “Is it always so hard to give you a compliment?”
He laughed. “Sorry about that.”
“At least tell me what this is all for. Obviously you aren’t going to go spend this in sybaritic luxury.”
“I need to help some people,” he said. “Leave it at that.”
She shook her head.
She was only a little concerned that he might double-cross her. A woman had to be wary. But when they parked the wagon in the rented warehouse and changed into new garments, Helsa counted out a tidy sum of gold for her as the driver and the younger man loaded their gear into a worn-down tradesman’s wagon, and she placed it into a metal reinforced wicker basket and then covered it with empty packages. The Herrene oversaw the transfer of the gold and the chest with the papers while Helsa scrubbed off the scar. Without it, years seemed to have dropped from his face. Garbed now as an ordinary workman, Helsa walked her to the door. She had donned a bright pink dress and darker cloak, washed the pale makeup from her face, and brushed out her hair.
“This is goodbye, then?” she asked.
“Resist our mystery,” he said. “Enjoy your gains. For your own sake, steer clear of us.”
It was as if he was daring her to be interested in him; the fact that he understood her curiosity both irritated and intrigued her. “If I need to find you, how can it be done?”
“I’m hard to find. Can I still leave word for you at that tavern near the fountain of the two swans?”
“If I’m in Utria it will be hard to reach me fast, but, yes.”
He opened the door for her. She was only halfway down the street when their carriage passed her. Helsa waved and then the vehicle turned and headed south, toward the river. She lost sight of it when she took another street toward her home, tucked up above a bakery. She was just laying hands to the door latch when several disparate thoughts dropped suddenly into alignment, and for a brief moment she thought she glimpsed the truth. Helsa was a meticulous planner, and followed by a cadre of loyal, devoted men. He had the air of a veteran officer rather than a thief, and if she had read the young man and the Herrene correctly, he had achieved many notable successes.
Then she laughed at herself. That famous enemy general, here, in the capital of Derva, robbing a treasury? She shook her head. No, that was outlandish. And he was too young, even if he weren’t dead, as many claimed. He must be some disgruntled former serviceman, maybe an adherent of one of the emperor’s enemies.
She opened the door and started up. She’d lay low here for a few weeks and then do just as she’d promised, and head for Utria. Twice now Helsa had done right by her, this time more lucrative than the last. But both times his motivations and his identity had remained mysterious. She promised herself that if there were a third time, she would find a way to learn his secrets, one way or another.
***
While the influx of gold was welcome, it was the treasury papers we’d recovered that were most vital. We might have found our way to wealth through a dozen other methods, but the treasury was the only place where the sales records of Volani nationals to foreigners and government institutions was stored. We had deliberately cast our net wide with those documents so that our interest in the Volani would remain obscured. Carthalo discovered useful information in some of the additional paperwork as well, for the man had a gift for assembling fragments into revealing and even compromising wholes.
You might think that the Dervans would have been up in arms after our escapade, sending guards boiling through the city like ants after a child kicked their nest. The praetorians and the revenants did arrive at the treasury in force, but they weren’t left with useful leads, much less physical evidence, and their investigation proved useless. The government quashed rumors there had been a break-in at the treasury, as well, and gossip about it was wildly inaccurate. Carthalo’s sources suggested that the emperor and his advisors believed the theft the work of Herrenes, Cerdians, or merely homegrown thieves. Not even the revenants suspected Hanuvar’s involvement.
I remained hidden within Carthalo’s quarters for a week, collecting tales from his family and staff, then reluctantly started the long journey north to resume what was left of my managerial duties, for Izivar Lenereva was swiftly making me irrelevant. Construction had continued in my absence and had advanced remarkably fast. And Carthalo’s agents made steady progress so that a small trickle of Volani were continually being purchased from amenable owners.
Not all were willing to sell, of course, which would eventually require drastic action. That winter, however, the efforts of Hanuvar and Carthalo were circumspect. Any procurements that would draw particular attention, especially in or around Derva itself, they decided to leave either for ideal circumstances, or until the final moments of their campaign.
For weeks, everything flowed smoothly. And then, just before the spring festival, Hanuvar received word that Ciprion wished to speak with him, in person. Through hidden channels the men had exchanged an occasional note, but this was the first time they were sitting down face to face since their meeting the previous year. Ciprion was well known and might be under surveillance both by enemies and alleged allies. Hanuvar understood that if Ciprion had requested a meeting, it must be for an important reason. And so he disguised himself and headed forth, never guessing the heartache that lay before him.
—Sosilos, Book Nine
Footnotes
8) This is the woman thief Hanuvar encountered in the provinces during the events Antires described in his tale of “The Autumn Horse.”
—Andronikus Sosilos
9) By ancient decree, armed forces were not allowed within the city limits of Derva, for the citizens of the Republic had wisely not wanted armed bands determining the course of policy or selecting their rulers. With the accession of the first emperor and the creation of the Praetorian Guard, laws were passed excepting the praetorian soldiers from such considerations, and while this set many to grumbling, it was widely acknowledged that some public spaces would benefit from having an official protective guard force. The Revenant Order, created later, were likewise exempt from the laws that kept militias and ordinary legionaries from walking the streets with weapons, and there was even louder grumbling about them, at first, until the revenants became the organization most efficient at silencing dissenters.
—Silenus, Commentaries
10) Green fire was a secret of the Volani priests, and Arbatean magicians. While known as bluestone, in the single demonstration of its use that I witnessed, it was oddly enough a white powder, and said to be poisonous if consumed or even handled over much, and is laboriously harvested from a crystal found in certain mountainous regions.
—Silenus, Commentaries
11) When interacting with Aleria, Hanuvar apparently retained the assumed name he had used when they first met.
—Silenus, Commentaries