Chapter 124 - The Architects of Khronos

Oliver

Month 3, Day 3, Wednesday 9:10 p.m.

Oliver sat in a dim, smoky bar that was becoming too familiar, drinking an amber-colored fruit juice that was almost as expensive as the liquor they sold while he waited for his meeting with Gilbratha’s premier information broker. The last few days had been less than pleasant, as he pried around the edges of the truth about Siobhan’s meeting with Grandmaster Kiernan’s people, and their perhaps not-so-sudden attack.

Kiernan’s faction didn’t take Oliver seriously, and the proof was that they hadn’t been cautious enough in their aggression. Oliver had been increasingly impressed with the utility of Lord Morrow’s little black book, and thinking of ways to create similar leverage for himself. That first meeting, when they had sent Tanya alone, with the phonograph, had given him the idea.

Oliver had hidden three of those same artifacts in the warehouse where they had met with the caged raven messenger, and after the meeting went so disastrously south, had been able to retrieve them, and their contents.

The captured conversation, while indistinct and marred with crackles and hisses in the sound which required Oliver to piece together the recording from each of the three phonographs, had been illuminating.

“They were prepared,” Kiernan had said, once the sounds of battle against the Verdant Stag guards had settled, “but not enough to overcome us. But you moved too soon. We could have gleaned more clues about her real motivations and plans.”

His female companion had replied, “She had no intention of negotiating with us. I think that was obvious.”

Someone else interjected, “Do you think she knows about our plans?”

“She is clever,” Kiernan admitted, “and I cannot figure out her game. But if she truly planned to go to the High Crown, why has she not done so already?”

Someone else laughed derisively. “Does she expect Lord Pendragon to first pay tribute to meet with her, I wonder?”

There was a pause, during which Oliver assumed looks were being traded, and then Kiernan continued. “What was this meeting really about, for her? If she knows of us, she must know the Architects of Khronos will not be thwarted by this setback she engineered. We will have what we need. Our hand will write the chronicle of history.”

As far as Oliver had been able to dig up the first time he’d heard of the Architects of Khronos, the name belonged to a Titan with some kind of destructive, time-based powers. Details were hard to assemble, as Khronos either went by various names, such as Hyperion, Cronus, and Mylinos, or he was often confused with several of his contemporaries whose powers encouraged similar interpretations. So many thousands of years later, it was difficult to uncover the truth. But Oliver didn’t need to be a history expert to understand the hubris and greed of the name they had given themselves.

On Sunday, just over a day and a half after they triggered the wards on the raven messenger’s cage, Grandmaster Kiernan—ostensibly the leader of this faction—had agreed to meet with Oliver, who had made his position and the trouble they’d caused for him clear. Kiernan had seemed deeply frustrated by the failure of negotiations with the Raven Queen, blaming his female subordinate for going against his orders. He’d even brought the woman along with a couple other of his subordinate, waving her forward after he dumped all the the fault on her shoulders.

She’d bowed at a ninety-degree angle before Oliver and apologized profusely for her incendiary actions, her cheeks red from the shame.

As if to try and patch over the damage, Kiernan had pressed forward with an attempt to deepen their relationship with the Verdant Stag, offering certain high-level magical favorites and submitting another extensive order for all the same things they’d been buying from the Morrows.

“Speaking of the Morrows,” Oliver had said, “As you know, the majority, especially in the higher echelons, were captured alive.”

Kiernan had smiled with soulless joviality. “Yes, we’ve heard about your little ‘trials’ and the coin you’ve been throwing around in the name of restitution. Perhaps not what I would have done, but an interesting choice that has certainly yielded results for your reputation.”

“Well, we are in the process of extracting everything of value from them, from assets to…knowledge. I do not believe in waste.” He had watched, and been satisfied to see the understanding in Kiernan’s eyes, and even more satisfied to see the tension that understanding caused. Oliver knew about the Architects of Khronos, as well as their treasonous activities and preparations. If they made an enemy him, there would be consequences.

“When I finish with them,” Oliver continued, “I will be passing those who have signed nonaggression vows along to the coppers, but I would like to assure you that their tongues will be sealed from particular topics that might affect our interests. Similar to one Tanya Canelo.”

This time, Kiernan didn’t flint at the proof of Oliver’s knowledge, but he was obviously uncomfortable. He took a few moments too long to respond, and a couple of Kiernan’s underlings shared a look behind his back that Oliver caught in his peripheral vision.

Kiernan cleared his throat. “I very much appreciate the…honor of a man who does not kill his enemies, but uses them. However, I would be much more comfortable if my people could assist in the sealing process. I’m sure you understand how much a man like me values his peace of mind.” He boomed out a sharp, jolly laugh. “Why, at my age, lost sleep leads to a man growing haggard and frail!”

Oliver agreed that they could help, if they wished, but Kiernan had more to say. “What of those who do not vow their harmlessness?” he asked. “I assume some of those in higher positions retain either loyalty or pride, despite your best efforts. And surely some you cannot trust, no matter what they vow?”

“Yes. And while I respect such willpower, they may not retain loyalty and pride in addition to their lives,” Oliver replied simply.

Kiernan coughed, bringing a fist to his mouth. “Hmm. Perhaps we could assist with those. Do not be too hasty to show away their lives before all avenues have been explored. I assure you, we have means that the average torturer cannot match.”

Oliver agreed to that as well, feeling that he was beginning to grasp the edges of their goals.

And so, after more planning and promises, the group from the Architects of Khronos had left his office, and Oliver dug into the work they had left for him, as unavoidable and unpleasant as a huge shit left in the middle of his bed.

He had told Kiernan, after the man continued to pry for information, that he planned to move the prisoners on the twenty-fifth of the month. He would be putting out false rumors of a plan to move them on the twentieth—bait to suss out any possible dissenters or enemies. But really, neither plans were legitimate. If things went well, he hoped to move the prisoners on the twelfth, well before the Architects of Khronos would be prepared to intervene.

It was his last test to see if their desire to cooperate was sincere.

And of course, almost immediately after returning to the University on Sunday afternoon, Grandmaster Kiernan had left again to meet with someone else. Oliver knew this—though not much more—because of his operatives within the University.

Oliver swirled the juice in his glass with a wry smile, taking an awkward sip through the piece of hollow rye grass the bartender had inserted when he saw Oliver’s mask. Perhaps “operatives” was too extreme a word. But he was slowly building a network of informants, made up mostly of student aides and upper-term students from common backgrounds. He was gathering promising young people in administrative or assistant positions that orbited the people he was really interested in, who needed sponsors to be able to continue their schooling.

Siobhan had been a wonderful lesson in the possible benefits of such an arrangement, though none of the people in this budding network brought anywhere near the same level of advantages or trouble that she did.

Oliver covered the cost of the minimum four classes for his handful of people, and would provide bonuses if they managed to send him any particularly juicy information. He was circumspect with his recruitment, but confident in the potential of such a network. It was obvious from how the faculty treated young Miss Canelo that they did not respect people like her, and due to that lack of respect would fail to be properly wary. People with power often dismissed the presence of “the help.”

And so, the scattered reports he’d gotten from his handful of usefully placed informants had led him to the Bitter Pheonix, with the cloying smoke in the air now filtered by the featureless mask of Lord Stag, and two of his most battle-capable enforcers sitting at a nearby table and watching for danger.

Before Oliver had finished the drink with a careful balancing act of prying only the bottom half of his mask away from his face while he sucked it through the grass tube, the doorman to the back room gave the bartender a nod.

Oliver moved through into the large room beyond the tavern, his bodyguards following closely behind. Oliver’s gaze scanned over those with the frenzied focus that signaled they were using quintessence of quicksilver, wondering how much of the information broker’s knowledge came from extrapolating particulars about his own clients. Perhaps some of these people were not addicts—or not just addicts—but working for the well-informed man.

And perhaps some of them would go to the rehabilitation center that Oliver had built from Lord Morrow’s former mansion in the city center, and get help. Oliver made a note to tell his one and only journalist, young Mr. Irving, to do an article about it. He couldn’t force anyone to admit themselves, but he could make sure they knew about the opportunity to take back control of their lives.

He passed through into the smokeless hallway beyond, and then into the information broker’s room, where a secretary used a device to scan Oliver for weapons, then waved him onward to where his enforcers could not follow.

The information broker’s bald head shone like a crystal ball in the light of the light crystal lamp on his desk, and he looked up with a smile from a desk even more cluttered than Oliver’s, taking off his thick spectacles. “Always good to see one of my favorite customers. I received your payment in advance. Eager, are we?”

“I think you can understand my concern.”

“Oh, well, indeed. You came to me for knowledge, and as always I can deliver. Though I cannot say for sure what the goal is, your suspicions of movement were correct. Someone who very much wishes to remain hidden has put out offers to hire some powerful mercenaries in the last few days. If you suspect them to be your enemies, now is the time to prepare.”

Author Note: This chapter hasn't had (even one) editing pass due to me not having time yet, so please excuse (and point out) errors.