The Seekers
an excerpt

The gleam of a steel knife in the darkness confirmed her suspicions.

The question wasn’t a difficult one to answer: kill or be killed. It was one of the perennial questions of life. Questions with only one answer: questions which prompted decisions which cut, like a blade, through any loose threads which might have once held up a bridge one might no longer cross. Questions which left one no time to think; only to move: to act, so as to live.

She leapt to a side, turning her body so the dagger only caught the side of her open vest: she hardly felt any resistance as it tore a neat slit across it, so keen was its blade. The rush of wind which succeeded the slash was a chilling reminder of how close it’d been to actually wounding her: her skin seemed to tense against the deceptively gentle caress which threatened to numb her senses. She hadn’t expected any of this…

Then again, why shouldn’t she have? She barely had time to chastise herself as she dodged a second slash from her adversary: he was nimble, but not especially well-trained. Leaping back, she watched as his wild swing overbalanced him just a little: with the proper encouragement…

She unsheathed the slim knife she’d strapped against her thigh as she made to attack, herself: if she couldn’t take him out, she’d have no chance of getting any further with the mission. At the same time, she knew that any commotion would force her to retreat. Killing an agent was enough cause for her to have come in the first place, but she knew well enough that her client would not take the same view.

With trained dexterity, she brought the hilt of the knife crashing down into the nape of his neck, at the base of his skull: the concussion would probably last long enough for her to get in and out.

Probably, she reminded herself, but remember what happened the last time you relied on that word.

Cursing under her breath, she reached out to pull the man’s shirt up. She hesitated for a moment, not because she was conscious of the sexual implications, but because she couldn’t help but wonder if his House had warded him especially. Tentatively, she reached out to touch him: there were none of the familiar buzzing sensations which indicated House interference. Reassured, she lifted his shirt, tracing a line down his vertebrae with a single finger. It was a nice back, she thought as she lifted the dagger again.

She found the bone she wanted: it collapsed without too much of an effort. The man would never walk again. If it was any consolation, though, his back still looked quite as nice as before.

***

Of course the other Houses would have sent their own agents, she reminded herself angrily: she should have realized long ago that any important job would always be fraught with competition: not the friendly contests like the ones at Yul’cet or the Dawn-Waking Festival: they’d greet you with smiles, just the same, but they’d be just as likely to cut you a new one in your neck.

That’s how it is, she half-thought amusedly, we bare our teeth in a smile like those damned Varos do in a snarl.

The corridor was silent, now, and given her heightened senses, that was saying something. That other had only been able to sneak up on her because of House interference: Shadow Walking was an ability she’d never dared underestimate: even if she’d managed to sense the interference before he’d managed to kill her, her own reflexes had barely saved her from the first attack. She was uncomfortably aware of the torn vest slung about her shoulders like so many strips of cloth: Krarthos’ bile, she’d spent gala on the outfit when she could’ve just as easily stolen it: she’d meant it as a reward for herself. And now it was ruined.

Just as well, a small voice within her spoke up, red never was your colour.

Sighing inwardly – even the slightest sound she made would have betrayed her – she continued her navigation of the maze of corridors with renewed vigour: the fact that an untrained agent had managed to get so close was enough of a warning for her to want to stay on her toes; initiates were rarely sent alone.

She rounded another corner at a pace which seemed less like running or walking than gliding: her eyes roved from one shadow to the next, trying to discern any suspicious figure from the darkness which was broken only by the moonlight which filtered through the narrow slits which passed for windows in this fortress.

For years, Vis’faren had been little more than another odd ruin: one of those immense buildings that looked intriguing from afar, but were little more than crumbling stones when examined closely. There were no treasures, ancient writings, not even a Welcome to our Happy Home sticker: it was popularly referred to as Efis’faren – “wasted journey”, in the ancient tongue. Its proper name had known no true significance, even if it was the only confirmed fact about the construct.

Until now, she reflected.

It had been day when the immense ziggurat had begun glowing, but it still shone noticeably: rough, worn rock had never been too reflective a surface. The glow brought with it a metamorphosis: as though it were a giant puzzle box, the great slabs of stone had begun sliding away. Its unnatural movement was made all the more surreal by the silence which had accompanied the shifting of its massive walls.

There had been no sound, no vibrations and not even the slightest impression made in the ground under it when the transformation had finally come to a halt. What there were, though, were rumours: countless multitudes of words perpetuated by the presence of the ubiquitous street-ears and the many coin-purses behind them. Books of history were consulted, to peer into the ruin’s obscure past; books of prophecy were consulted, to understand what this portended for the future. Both were singularly unhelpful: the building had always been there: a relic of the Age of Mysteries, and an enigma that none could – or would – unravel.

The possibilities, of course, had not been lost to the Houses: a whole new series of passages had been revealed: passages which had never been explored; which had, to all appearances, never been walked in by any man… but then they must have, or who’d have built it?

But there were others besides the Houses: relic collectors or the curious rich; people who would take just as keen an interest in the possibilities… and greater interest in their lives. House agents were merciless; the reputations of House Nycta and Sanctus struck as much fear into the people as their actual deeds: Nycta was the Shadow and Sanctus the Divine, but both were as efficient at killing, and as apt at covering their tracks. To that purpose, Thieves were hired – they were no organization, but a collective name for the mercenaries which were treated as dregs which left a singular, distasteful aftertaste in the cup of tea that was society. If the tales were to be believed, the Thieves would sell your soul for a mug of ale, and then sell their own for a refill. It was thus that whenever the upper castes required their services, the irony would not be lost on them. While they were by no means organized, the seedy taverns were headquarters enough for the most of them: job notices were pinned to boards behind the counter, while a few of the more experienced Thieves would be affiliated to one tavern or the other. The income the rich provided them was fortunate, though: the taverns had yet to declare souls an acceptable form of payment.

Thieves and agents, she thought to herself, a fine complement this evening.

If it was any consolation, she had a good idea of what she was looking for: a plain, wooden door with a strange insignia cut into it – an insignia which would match the one stitched into the handkerchief he’d given her. She supposed he’d sent a runner ahead of her the previous day: the ruins had already been open three days, but the first few nights were always for reconnaissance: checking for wards, mapping the floors and discovering possible hidden chambers always took time. That things were heating up so fast was another sign that the ruins held items of considerable interest.

Not that that was any of her concern.

She removed the ragged piece of cloth from where she’d tucked it into her top, examining the door in front of her as she did: a circle with seven lines radiating from it, the tips of which ended about the two ovals on either side of the diagram, and a diamond which bordered the circle. She frowned for a moment, and then turned the cloth at a right angle. It was the right door, then.

It was perfectly nondescript, built into the side of the wall in a recess deep enough so the shadows hid it from view. It was perfectly unnoticeable: which was probably its single weakness – anyone would have been struck by its singular ordinariness: in such a place of mystery, there was little chance it would have been overlooked.

But its peace had been undisturbed: the ring which served as the handle for the door was coated with a layer of dust thick enough to match the condition of everything else in the place. The untouched cobwebs, the absolute stasis of the place hinted that this door had never been approached, let alone opened.

She would change that.

… Vis’faren…

Lost in a moment’s contemplation, she felt a slight amusement touch her. For years, it had been ignored by all, but now they had become its namesake.

“The Seekers,” she whispered, “and that’s all we are.”