“What if he were?” he pressed. “What if he accepted it?”
The Hunter’s gaze fixed on him: diamondine, piercing. “You mean, what if he became a sorcerer in truth? Then he must face the condemnation of the Church as few men have known it... perhaps even the condemnation of his own soul. Would you wish that kind of torment on any man?”
Knowing the question for what it was, he met the Hunter’s gaze head-on. “No,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t wish that on any man.”
The Hunter turned away from him. Sensing that he needed the moment of privacy, Damien upended his bottle of ale once more. There was still nothing in it. “He must know the truth, then,” Tarrant said at last. “Or all our efforts are doomed to failure.”
“Yeah. Only who the hell is going to tell him?”
“Perhaps I—”
"No," he said sharply. “You’re right up there with the Unnamed as far as he’s concerned. If not worse. What good can you possibly do? Stay out of this one. I’ll think of ... something." Only, dear God ... what?
“Very well, then,” Tarrant muttered. It was clear he had misgivings about Damien’s judgment, but for now he was acquiescing. Thank God. “See what you can come up with. If not ... it need not be direct contact, you understand. Or anything he would connect with me.”
Realizing what he meant, Damien rose up from his seat as he warned, “Don’t you Work him! You understand me? We’re talking about something that could cost this man his soul; leave him his free will to face it with!” When Tarrant didn’t answer, he pressed, “You understand me, Gerald?”
The Hunter glared. “I understand.”
“Promise me.”
“Don’t be a fool! I said I understood. I respect your opinion, although I don’t agree with it. That’s more than most men have had of me. Leave it at that.”
“You’ll leave him alone?”
The Hunter’s tone was venemous. “I won’t compromise his free will, I’ll promise you that much. As for the rest ... find a safe way to enlighten him, or I’ll do what I must. The odds against us increase dramatically if he remains ignorant, and I won’t risk that just to coddle your overblown sense of morality.” Before Damien could protest again, he ordered, “You go see if the Church Archives have anything useful on the Iezu. I’ll Locate the local adepts, see if they have any notes of their own.” He shook his head angrily. “Damn Senzei Reese, for what he destroyed! If the man weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
For a moment there was silence between them, but it was a purely vocal phenomenon; the channel that linked them was alive with such hostile energy that Damien could hear the Hunter’s next words as clearly as if they had been spoken. Don’t press me for assurances I won’t give. All that you’ll accomplish by that is to strain the tenuous foundation of our alliance, and that would put us both at risk.
Tarrant started toward the door. Damien stepped forward quickly and put out a hand to stop him. With his other hand he reached into his pocket for the object he had stored there, drew it out, and offered it to the man. The Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is it?”
“A key. Basement apartment in this building. It’s paid for.”
“For what? My lodging?” He stared at Damien as if the priest had suddenly gone mad. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll find myself a safe place—”
“This isn’t the rakhlands,” he snapped, “with miles between us and the enemy. He’s here, all around us. Can’t you feel it?” He held out the key toward him, urging him to take it. “There’s a bolt on the front door that can’t be opened from the outside. I boarded up all the windows. The landlady was paid well to leave you alone-she thinks you’re a rich eccentric—and I even checked the quake-wards on the building, to make sure they were sound.” When Tarrant made no move to take the key, he pressed, “Remember how he dealt with us? Divide and conquer. First Senzei, then you. Then Hesseth and me in the Terata’s realm. He’ll try it again, you can bet your undead soul on that. Let’s make it as hard as possible for him, okay?”
He glared at the key, but finally took it from Damien’s hand. “I’ll assess the danger myself,” he growled. “If the place seems safe ... I’ll consider it.”
“Good enough.” He stood back, giving Tarrant room to exit. At least one thing had gone right tonight; he had feared Tarrant wouldn’t take the key at all. God damn him for his stubborn, pigheaded independence. When the Hunter was gone, he went to the icebox, pulled out a fresh bottle of ale, and opened it with a sigh. Iezu and Unnamed demons, sadism and vengeance ... each separate thing was terrifying in its own right, and he had to deal with them all at once. Yet those threats paled to insignificance in the face of an even more daunting challenge, and he grimaced as he swallowed the cold ale, dreading it with all his heart and soul.
How the hell were they going to deal with the Patriarch?
9
The lobby of the Hotel Paradisic was a study in conspicuous consumption, and an effective one at that. While Narilka was critical of its aesthetic approach—too gilded for her taste, too discordant, the artificially aged paint of the ceiling murals at odds with the gleaming fresh quake-wards that guarded the entrance-there was no denying that its message came through loud and clear. Enter here, all ye who can afford it. And as for the rest of you, back to the streets. She was glad that she had once delivered a commissioned necklace to one of the luxury suites here, and thus could find her way about without having to ask for assistance; the check-in staff was cold to mere tradesmen.
She traversed two halls and a short flight of stairs, all carpeted in velvet. After that came what she sought: a door, and a number. Suite 5-A. She stared at the letters-neatly engraved on a flamboyant golden plaque—and suddenly wondered what the hell she was doing here. What did she think was going to happen? What did she want to happen? She nearly turned around and started home then and there, but the anticipation of Gresham’s certain scorn kept her from doing so. What’s the matter? he would demand. Lose your nerve? And after he had tried so hard to talk her out of coming here in the first place!
But Andrys Tarrant’s haunted face could not be banished from memory so easily, nor his eerie likeness to the Hunter dismissed so casually. At last she forced herself to raise up a hand and knock on the suite door, her heart pounding. You have a legitimate errand, she reminded herself. He’ll respect that, if nothing else. Again she tried, but there was no response. What if he wasn’t in? That was a real possibility, but not one she had prepared herself to face. Would she have to come back later and do this all over again?
“You’re gonna have to hit harder than that, honey.” The voice came from a uniformed maid several doors down the hallway. A heavyset woman, middle-aged, she grinned broadly as she told her, “They were up till all hours, that lot.” When she saw Narilka hesitate, she urged, “Go ahead, hit it like you mean it.”
She drew in a deep breath and did as the woman suggested. The sharp blows resounded in the hallway, and she half-expected some other lodger to appear to investigate. But long seconds passed and there was still no response. She knocked again, even harder. This time there was a shuffling sound from within the suite and murmurs of what might have been a human voice. She stepped back, wishing she could still the wild beating of her heart. Why couldn’t she face this man calmly?
After a moment the ornate handle turned and the heavy door swung open. “I thought I ordered-” Andrys Tarrant began. And then he saw her-saw who she was—and all speech left him. For a moment he just stared at her, his green eyes wide with astonishment. It was clear that she was the last person in the world he had ever expected to find on his doorstep. At last he whispered hoarsely, “Mes Lessing.” He was dressed in a loose white shirt and crumpled pants, and had obviously just rolled out of bed. His golden-brown hair was tangled about his head, his eyes faintly bloodshot. He blinked heavily and drew in a deep breath; he was clearly struggling to compose himself. “I didn’t... I’m sorry ... I thought it was breakfast.”