Eight: Nict's Secret

"He tried to get in through your window?"

Jordan scowled as he buckled on his weapons belt, but it was no match for the look on Arlen's face. His tutor looked like he was trying to murder Silas through telepathy.

"He's always watching me," he muttered. "He was going to try something sooner or later."

He shuddered. He could still feel that moment of panic when the window squeaked upward, and had spent the whole day trying not to flinch at every noise. Yddris had eventually cornered him when he proved too distractible to train effectively, but even he didn't have solution that wouldn't involve Harkenn, and that was out of the question. If Lord Harkenn mysteriously found out about Silas, then the Devils would be onto Jordan's game in an instant, and he didn't want to find out what that would entail.

His second-best option was to bring it to Arlen, whose reaction was also not encouraging.

"Which is another thing I wanted to talk to you about." If it was even possible, the assassin's mood had darkened further at that statement. "Why did Usk know Silas had been watching you and I didn't?"

Jordan blinked. "I assumed he'd tell you."

Arlen's lips disappeared into a grim line. "I expect you to tell me this shit, kid. Those fuckers," he gestured vaguely at the window, "can't be trusted, okay? Not even the ones who are teaching you. Nict's balls, boy, surely you've been doing this long enough to work that much out."

Jordan's temper flared. He hadn't had enough sleep to be dealing with one of Arlen's tantrums. Still, he forced his voice to stay measured as he said, "And you can be trusted?"

"More than anyone else." Arlen readjusted himself in his chair, not quite hiding a grimace of pain. "When dealing with criminals, kid, it's all about risk and profit. If someone else thinks it's advantageous and fairly low-risk to take you off me, they will try. And they won't necessarily be after teaching you. Just...removing. You understand? I have a vested interest in training you. In criminal terms, that means I'm your lowest risk."

"Somehow the way you worded that doesn't have me overflowing with confidence," Jordan said drily.

Arlen only flashed him a smirk. "In this line of work, coddling makes for an unwise teaching strategy."

Jordan wasn't certain that not turning your apprentice into a paranoid wreck counted as coddling, but he kept his mouth shut. He did up the straps on his boots and then took the chair opposite Arlen. On the table between them were the items Jordan had stolen two nights before from the manor house, and looking at them made him feel nauseous, so he kept his eyes trained on his lap. When Arlen didn't say anything straight away, he glanced up, surprised to find the assassin studying him. He looked sharper than he had in days, and Jordan wondered if Usk had finally run out of places to buy nettle wine.

"You think I'm out to get you, don't you, kid?" Arlen said.

Jordan swallowed. He didn't know how to read the man's tone, and though he could sense his aura around him – all Unspoken could do that – he had no practice interpreting it. The ease with which Nika read Jordan's moods sometimes was a skill that persistently evaded him. He took some consolation in the fact that even if he never learned how to, he wouldn't be as emotionally illiterate as Yddris.

That consolation didn't work in this situation, while sitting across from a man who was still extremely dangerous even while injured.

"I...have pretty good reason to think everyone is," Jordan said. The Devils were one, but the Lord of the Reach had also blackmailed him into contracts more than once. And quite aside from his personal issues, his life as Unspoken put him in the way of a great deal of danger, even before an anonymous group on the loose with unknown weapons started murdering members of his guild.

All considered, he thought he was pretty well-adjusted.

"You may have a point there." Arlen snorted. "You might have one at that."

Jordan relaxed a little. "I don't trust anyone in this guild, and I suspect you'd have Usk shaking me out the window by my ankles if I said I did."

"I would." Arlen grinned, but then his expression became serious again. "But you need me, kid. More than you think you do right now, but trust me, you'll work it out. You haven't met the rest of them yet." He sighed. "And aside from that, I want to hear about anything that can nail that whiny shit if he crosses the line. He's been a pain in my backside from the start."

"How come you got lumped with him?"

Arlen's expression soured. "I coached him through the job that he royally fucked up on his own. I suppose that made it my responsibility, though Nict knows how I was supposed to account for stunning idiocy. For future reference, please never commit a crime in full view of a witness and then maul yourself. It doesn't work."

Jordan knew all the details of that particular crime – Grace had almost been framed for it. It had taken Jordan signing the rest of his working life over to Harkenn before the actual culprit was convicted.

"I'm glad he fucked it up," he muttered, "If he'd escaped that one...." He stopped, remembering who he was talking to. It was incredibly unwise to talk about personal weaknesses with the Devils, even the 'lowest risk' ones. Arlen knew about Grace already, of course – she was leverage the assassin had used against him, too – but he wouldn't push it. "Where am I selling this stuff?"

He gestured at the stolen goods in the middle of the table, finally forcing himself to look at them. He didn't know such beautiful objects could make him feel so revolted. The necklaces glittered at him, and the gold figurine's small carven face appeared reproachful when the light caught it. It was a figment of his imagination, to be sure, but he still looked away.

"Bell Street, in the merchants' quarter," Arlen said. "There's an accountant's office above a butcher. Bloke named Riko; he owes me and his brother is a pawn broker, so he'll take them off your hands and knows better than to cheat me." He readjusted himself in the chair to dig a slip of parchment out of his pocket. "But before you do that, you're taking this to Callan."

Jordan's heart sank. He didn't like the head of House Nict. He hadn't liked him before he found out the strange, wizened old priest had worked for the Devils for longer than Jordan had been alive.

"Sure," he said, reaching for the letter, but before he could take it, Arlen jerked it from his reach.

"If you're intercepted, you burn this. Got that, kid?"

"Sure." Jordan prayed it wouldn't come to that. There was no way he could burn the letter fast enough without using his magic, and while he could now conjure a flame without setting everything around him on fire, it was only with a great deal of concentration – not a luxury he'd be allowed in the event of an ambush. Arlen handed him the letter. Jordan gathered up all the goods from the table and stashed them in his pockets.

"If you find any nettle wine that isn't watered-down piss, pick it up." Arlen flicked him two silver Certs.

"Yep." Jordan pocketed the coins as well, and levered himself out of the window before Arlen could say anything else. Even after weeks, he was no more comfortable around Arlen Blackheart, and didn't think he ever would forgive him for the circumstances that had led Jordan here. If Arlen had never taken an interest in him, he might have avoided this.

Marick was another matter, but at least he wouldn't have been contractually bound to break the law and spy on Nictaven's most dangerous organisation for Harkenn's benefit.

He released some of the hold on his magic to deter muggers. The darkened streets of the dead quarter were silent, though only a fool would think that meant they were empty. He heard whispers in darkened doorways as he hurried past, and once had to make an abrupt detour to avoid a group of scavenging Bone Wights – demons which hunted in packs, wore the skulls of their prey, and were clever enough to know which quarters required silent stalking. The demons found this far from the city centre had learned how to use the total blackness and patchy rune coverage to their advantage, and sometimes Jordan wondered how anyone survived here. If it hadn't been for his magic-tinged sight, he wouldn't have seen the pack until it was too late.

Most of the buildings he passed were derelict, gutted ruins dotted with perpetually damp alleys and smashed glass. After the rains, the whole place smelled like rot – stagnant and catching, the smell of water stirring up dust and mould and reviving algae. He found it an almost comically fitting setting for the Devils – almost, mitigated by the fact that it meant he was stuck in it for long periods of time whenever Arlen wanted him.

The buildings were in better repair in the immediate vicinity of the Nict temple, though still modest and grubby. Jordan breathed a sigh of relief when the lamps in the temple porch came into view, crossing the courtyard quickly and avoiding the cadaver statue.

The prayer hall was empty, as it usually was whenever Jordan visited. His shoes echoed on the grey flagstones and candles flickered in his wake, though they didn't do much to dispel the gloominess of the little temple. Jordan had seen both the Orthanian and Kelian House temples, and in contrast Nict's seemed like an incredibly depressing place in which to worship.

"Can I help you?" A thin, grey-robed priest emerged from a doorway at the side of the hall. Jordan had been down there once, and knew it to be the entrance into the temple records library.

"Well met, Alf," he said. "I've got a letter for Callan."

"Oh." The sour old priest sniffed, looking even less interested than before. "Arlen's brat, is it? Go on through."

Jordan bristled at 'Arlen's brat', but knew better than to start a disagreement over something so petty. After all, as far as anyone in the dead quarter was concerned, 'Arlen's brat' was all he was. He supposed, in a way, that was a good thing. When he was wearing the cloak of an Unspoken, everyone knew him as Yddris's apprentice – Harkenn's favoured. It got him a variety of reactions, some less than pleasant. At least in the dead quarter Arlen was left alone, which by extension afforded Jordan some protection.

Callan's door was open when he reached it, at the end of a narrow corridor lined with sleeping cells. He knocked and waited, fiddling with the edges of his hood and the scarf over his mouth to make sure he was hidden.

The Head of House Nict looked up from his book, piercing Jordan with a steady gaze over the top of his thick glasses. He held out a hand without a word, and Jordan handed him the letter. He waited, trying not to fidget, as Callan read the message and then leaned over and put it in the fire burning in the grate behind him.

"Thank you," he said.

"Sir," Jordan said, nodding sharply and looking forward to escaping. As he turned to go, however, Callan spoke again.

"I'd like to show you something."

Jordan paused. He'd run more than one message between Arlen and Callan, but Callan had never wanted anything else from him and he was hard-pressed to imagine what it might be. As the priest led him back down the corridor, hands clasped behind his back and pace leisurely, Jordan's stomach tightened in anticipation of seeing something he'd soon wish he hadn't.

"How much has Arlen told you about our religion?" Callan asked. Alf had vanished back into the stacks and the prayer hall was deserted, but that was almost more unsettling.

"Very little," Jordan said, guarded. 'Religion' seemed a bit too generous for what he'd seen of Arlen's involvement with gods. The assassin liked to invoke Nict's name if he was in a foul mood, and that was about the extent of it.

"You aren't religious?"

"No."

"Interesting." Callan gave a thin, papery smile. "Not even after manifesting your Gift?"

Jordan almost choked. While he knew that covering himself up wouldn't conceal his magic very well, no one ever mentioned it – not even Arlen brought it up. He was used to it making people nervous, but Callan seemed unbothered, even faintly surprised that he had taken Jordan aback.

"I haven't just insulted you, have I?" he asked. "I'm afraid I'm not very in touch with the etiquette surrounding magic."

Jordan shook himself out. "No. Everyone else pretends it isn't there, is all."

"Good." Callan picked up one of the candles burning in the little alcoves around the room and drew back the dark cloth that hung on the wall behind the altar. It concealed an old wooden door, pitted and pale with age, though it was clearly maintained well as it swung open without a noise at Callan's touch. A gust of stale air greeted them from a darkened staircase. To Jordan's immense surprise, the guttering remains of a rune net lined the stone passage. It had been many years since anyone had tended to it, but it still hummed quietly in greeting. He looked back over his shoulder, but there were no runes inside the rest of the temple.

"What's the net for?" Jordan asked, unable to keep a lid on his curiosity.

"It's still functioning?" Callan asked. "I was sure that thing would've worn out by now."

Jordan didn't miss that Callan avoided the question entirely – the next moment, the Head of House Nict was halfway down the stairs. He scared Jordan too much for him to push it, though, and with another glance at the deserted prayer hall, he followed. Though the passage was dingy and old, he felt more comfortable surrounded by runework.

That changed when he reached the bottom.

A great shadow loomed over him in the dark, appearing from nowhere as he stepped into empty black space. The runes were even fainter down here, giving him enough light to sense the size of the thing and little else. A hoarse gasp escaped him and he stepped back, almost planting himself on the floor as he tripped on the bottom step. Callan shuffled about somewhere nearby, then with a crackle and a flare, a torch leapt into life.

The thing was a Fleshmonger.

"Night take me," Jordan whispered, staring wide-eyed at the mouth full of razor teeth leering an inch from his face. Though the demon was dead – and very desiccated – the memory of his few encounters with the living behemoths lent the glass eyes and moth-eaten hide a ghastly kind of life. He had only once been so close to one, living or dead. After almost killing himself with his own magic after his first encounter with a Fleshmonger, Yddris had always made Jordan stand on the sidelines when they ran across them during patrols.

When he was finally able to tear his eyes from the Fleshmonger, he noticed the skeletons – the dozens of skeletons. They occupied every corner and every shelf, every vertebrate species of demon Jordan could think of. Some forms of Geist – the Death, for one – had no skeleton, and Jordan was grateful for it. In the far corner, the skull of a Listener leered at him, the eyes no less unsettling for being only sockets.

"What is this?" he asked. After the initial shock, fear began to tighten its grip on his heart. He didn't like anything about this. The arrangement seemed almost reverent.

"The origins of this religion." Callan watched him over the flickering torch flame. His blue eyes were sharp as dagger points, like he knew exactly how Jordan felt about this. "There were those, before the Isolation, who believed Death itself watched over this world and sent its soldiers to guard it." He gestured at the demon remains. "Nict evolved from this concept. It was necessary to evolve an acceptable face to allow continued practice. The Harkenns would never have allowed this to continue – especially not after the creation of the Unspoken guild."

"You...you worship demons?" His voice rasped out of him, barely audible, but Callan only smiled. It wasn't at all warm.

"Not anymore. As with many things, the story became the reality. But this has always been here. As a reminder."

"Of what?"

"Mortality. Humility. That this world wasn't always ours." Callan shrugged, setting the torch flickering madly and throwing grotesque shadows across the skeletons and up the walls. "You pick your theory. Most of it has been lost to time. There are some who like to think that this is proof of power over them. We captured them and brought them down here, and they're here still. Some interpret this as the potential for power over Nictaven itself."

"Not possible," Jordan blurted.

"That may be." Firelight lent the priest's expression a sinister cast. "But those who believe are very hard to convince otherwise, and I would strongly advise anyone to be wary of them."

Jordan hesitated. "Are you...warning me of something?"

"I wouldn't presume to meddle."

Callan's words were still chasing each other around Jordan's head when he left the temple, sucking in deep, grateful breaths of fresh air and trying to expel the mustiness from his lungs. If Callan had been trying to warn him of something, he had been too vague. If he had just been trying to scare Jordan witless, then that was an undeniable success. Though Jordan had seen demons in action many times, there was something about that macabre arrangement that made them seem more monstrous than ever.

The fact that House Nict had originated in demon worship didn't surprise Jordan as much as he expected; they worshipped a god of death still, and demons were pretty good reminders of mortality. He wondered if Arlen knew about those roots. He wondered if Yddris had, back when his tutor had been bound to the Devils.

Power over Nictaven. Even with Jordan's relatively limited experience and education, he knew that wasn't possible. Nictaven was the sum of the world – how could anyone control it? If the Unspoken couldn't pass their limits without incinerating themselves, then surely no one else would get close.

He pushed it to the back of his mind as he jogged across the bridge out of the dead quarter. He still had things to do, enough of which could go wrong that he wanted to pay it all his attention. The faster he got it over with, the faster he could get back to Yddris's; he knew his lesson the next day would be about control over his magic, and that was hard enough when he'd actually slept, let alone been running all over the city all night.

Most of the shops he passed were closed as it was well into evening, but he suspected that whoever Arlen had sent him to see would still be awake. He gave the area in which Yddris lived a wide berth; if any of the other Unspoken passed him, they would identify him immediately by his aura. He pulled it in as much as he could when he left the dead quarter, but there was no concealing it completely.

He silently thanked Yddris for the many rounds of the merchants' quarter they had done on patrols, otherwise he'd never have found Bell Street in the winding maze of roads and alleys and narrow lanes. It was full dark when he reached the butcher's shop Arlen had referenced, and his legs hurt from his punishing pace. He could hear demons in the distance.

A bell tinkled as he pushed open the small door to the side of the butcher's darkened window. The narrow stairwell behind it led up into gloom, which set Jordan's nerves jangling after his experience in the temple. There was a flicker of light, and when he was halfway upstairs a door swung open, throwing warm light into the hall. A man stood outlined in it, waiting for Jordan to reach the top so he could pass, and someone inside the room was shuffling papers.

"Thanks," Jordan muttered, but before he could step into the office, the man grabbed his shoulder.

"I've been hoping to bump into you, actually."

Jordan turned, breath going solid in his throat. It took him a moment to place the man's face, and then his heart sank.

"Well met," he said, unable to conceal his dread.

Darin Blackheart, Arlen's adoptive brother, didn't return the greeting. His pale eyes skewered Jordan in the dim light.

"I'll wait outside," he said. "Then we'll talk."