Aethersmith (Book 2) (21 page)

“What’s this for?” the man asked, narrowing his eyes and pocketing
the coin before any talk of returning it came up.

“A pittance for your time,” Rakashi answered. “Should you
know anything about where such cargoes might find themselves, I would be more
than generous.” He patted his coin purse, making sure that the heavy leather
pouch jingled loudly enough to convey just how much coin he was carrying.

“Well, there’s a dock—that I never have cause to frequent,
mind you—where I hear Zayne’s people have set up their operation. If it was
Captain Zayne’s ship that took your employer’s shipment, that might be a place
to find it. If not, it might be a good bet to find a replacement.

As they walked away ten thousand darshis poorer, Soria
muttered to Rakashi, “It’s a good thing we have plenty of coin.”

“We will not for long if we spend like this. But then again,
it is only coin and we may have more whenever we wish. If Kyrus Hinterdale
truly is your old lover from Kadrin, any impediment to our wealth ought to be
gone once we have his aid.”

Well,
Soria thought,
I still have to figure out
how to convince Brannis that bridgandry and mercenary work are respectable
occupations. One problem at a time, though.

* * * * * * * *

“What are you thinking, Tanner?” Zellisan sounded
exasperated as Tanner held the pistol up close to his eye, examining it as if
he possessed either a craftsman’s eye for workmanship or an artist’s
appreciation of fine detail.

“I always wanted one,” Tanner said. “I mean, I’m as good as
any fella you want to put against me when it comes to swords, but what good’s a
sword when some drunk whoreson with a pistol can put a lead ball through your
gut at twenty paces?”

“Thirty, I would say, with the one in your hand,” the
bespectacled pistolsmith corrected him. “Accurately, that is. The shot will go
much farther, but accuracy is the byword when it comes to pistols. You do not
want to miss your mark and have to clean and load it while some unruly
gentleman is rushing to stab you before you can do so.”

“Maybe I could buy myself two of them, then,” Tanner
reasoned. “Have the other ready if’n I happen not to hit the fella I was aimin’
at.”

“Many do, sir. I assure you, many do. Many dangerous men
carry a pistol tucked in their belt. Carrying two or more is a sure sign of
someone who intends to use one, though. Only a fool would trifle with such a
man.”

The pistolsmith no doubt smelled a sale that would let him
close up shop for a week, if only he could draw Tanner a picture of himself as
a man who commanded fear and respect.

“What if you can’t hit a ship at ten paces, let alone a
man?” Zellisan butted in, needling Tanner, who to the best of his knowledge had
never fired a pistol in his life.

“I realize you jest, sir, but if you mean to ask what does
one do if two shots is not enough?” The pistolsmith seemed to know his trade,
and the crafting of weapons was only the half of it. The rest was the art of
selling them once made. “At some point, only a very large man can keep putting
more pistols in his belt.” He paused to allow Tanner a brief chuckle in Zell’s
direction. “For a more refined marksman, I do have a special piece.”

The pistolsmith went to the back of his shop, and brought
back a small, polished mahogany case. Tanner and Zellisan both crowded around
to get a good look as the wiry little man opened the case. Inside was a queer-looking
pistol, which had a sort of thick wheel stuffed in just above the trigger. It
was smaller than the other pistols that the pistolsmith had shown them already,
with a thinner barrel and shorter handle—though the latter was of sleek,
polished ivory.

“Fancy handle but a bit of an ugly runt of a thing, ain’t
it?” Tanner commented to Zellisan.

“Yeah, what’s that bit there do?” Zell asked, pointing a
finger at the thick metal wheel at the trigger end of the barrel.

“This is an authentic piece from Cadmus Errol’s workshop,
made by the master’s own hand. He has made a dozen or so, though now I
understand his assistants have begun making more of them. You load this pistol
with six shots, and each time it fires, it brings a new shot into line with the
barrel.” The pistolsmith pulled a pin and the wheel twisted out away from the
rest of the weapon. With the flick of a thumb, the wheel spun effortlessly with
a reassuring whirring sound. With a snap of the wrist, the pistolsmith locked
the wheel back into place. He pushed and pulled to show that the wheel was once
more securely held, then pulled the pin again and showed inside it.

“It takes special shot that has a powder charge already
attached to it,” the little man said, then took a small, pointed metal shot out
of a different case stowed under the counter. It had a brass band around the
non-pointed end, and a flat back. “I know, it looks strange, but it will hit
what you aim at from fifty paces and you have six shots before needing to
reload.”

“Impressive,” Zellisan said, but he was more impressed by
seeing yet another of Cadmus Errol’s creations. Soria had told him of the alarm
system the Mad Tinker had set up in the museum in Golis, and any folk who had
traveled widely had seen one or more of his clock towers. It seemed that the
mechanical mastermind was delving into weapons as well.

“Ahh, I see your angle. You make coin sellin’ shot I gotta
buy from you,” Tanner hedged, trying to set himself up to negotiate a good
price. He wanted that pistol, and if he had to buy his ammunition from Marker’s
Point, so be it.

“Sadly, no. The master has his workshop churning them out
like horseshoes. I have crates of the things, ready to sell, and I am far from
the sole distributor of them.” The smith shook his head. “I suspect in five
years I will no longer be selling my own pistols anymore, just reselling the
ones that Errol’s workshop produces. Whatever it is you do for work, sir, pray
that Cadmus Errol does not take a fancy to trying it.”

An hour later, Tanner was walking at Zellisan’s side, a
Cadmus Errol pistol tucked in the front of his pants and a baldric laden with
pre-powdered shots slung crosswise across his body. Despite the magical shield
he cast each morning and the runed blade that bounced at his hip, sharp enough to
bite into stone, it was the pistol that had cost him two hundred thousand
eckles worth of trade bars—ten times what one of the ones made by the master’s
assistants would have lightened his purse by—that made him feel dangerous.

* * * * * * * *

“We are being followed,” Rakashi said, leaning close to
Soria as they walked, keeping his voice low so that they might not be
overheard.

“How many?” she asked. She knew better than to request any
more detail than that. Rakashi was watching behind them in the aether and his
vision was nowhere near keen enough to determine age or garb, or what they
carried.

“Two,” Rakashi replied without turning to look at her. “We
picked them up just after we left the warehouse.”

“Do you think that shipper sent them?” Soria wondered aloud,
turning down a side street to get away from the crowded main thoroughfare to
somewhere she might be able to look back and check out their pursuers.

“Stranger things have happened, surely,” Rakashi joked, “but
I think not. I believe we merely stopped there for long enough that whoever was
looking for us had time to find us.”

Soria saw a stack of crates that had been delivered to a
woodworker’s shop, and ducked behind them. She grabbed Rakashi roughly by the
arm, and dragged him behind cover as well. She crouched low and shifted her own
vision into the aether to watch the men through the wood of the crates. Luck
was with her, and the crates contained nothing with a Source of its own; no
chickens, fresh lobster, or potted herbs were left blocking the sight lines of
the narrow road in the aether.

As the two men neared, walking slowly and obviously wary of
their vanished prey, Soria allowed her vision to revert to the light as she
leapt from her concealment. Rakashi followed her lead, drawing his half-spear fluidly
as he took up a position behind her. It was not the most gentlemanly of
fighting arrangements, but he had learned through experience that being between
Soria and her enemies was hazardous. Soria grabbed the closer of the two by the
wrist, pulling and twisting to force him down and off his balance. She fell
with him and atop him, rolling across his back to launch a kick at the back of
his companion’s knees. The blow struck true, and both men were on the ground
before they could react to defend themselves. Soria continued her roll until
she had regained her feet, one pursuer still held in her wrist-lock. Rakashi
put the point of his half-spear to the base of the other man’s throat.

“Fine day for a walk, good sirs,” Soria greeted them sweetly
in Kheshi.

Given the men’s lightly bronzed skin, dark eyes, and dark
hair, it was an easy guess as to their homeland—the northern part of Khesh
where the native blood was mixed thickly with foreign. Neither of them had
reacted to the fight like a trained warrior, though both carried knives at
their belt. It was said that in Marker’s Point, even midwives carried a blade,
and that reputation was better deserved than most visitors realized. Still, a
knife could only do so much from its sheath. The two Kheshi snoops bore lazy
blades that had never left theirs to defend their owners.

“Please, do not kill me,” begged the one Rakashi held at
spear-point. “We mean no offense.”

“You were interested in Denrik Zayne. Our master, he, too,
is interested in Zayne. He would like to meet you and your friends,” said the
man whose arm Soria was wrenching.

“To what end?” Rakashi asked calmly, pulling the
half-spear’s point away from his captive’s throat just a finger’s breadth.

“Maybe to hire you,” was the reply.

Soria and Rakashi exchanged a glance. Soria shrugged.
Rakashi nodded. It was the best lead they were likely to find.

* * * * * * * *

“My thanks for sparing the lives of my servants. They are
both clumsy and unwise,” Parjek Ran-Haalamar greeted them that evening at his
tiny palace on the seaside of the island chain, facing the sunset. Few could
afford to excavate the rocky outer rim of the islands, giving such locales
instant prestige among the residents of the Point. Parjek bore no noble title,
for Khesh was miserly with such hereditary honors, having fewer noblemen than
Acardia despite fifty times the population of those northern traders.

“They made no move for their weapons. I had the luxury of
mercy.” Soria spoke for the group as the four of them stood before the Kheshi
shipping magnate. She looked curiously about the room as she spoke, admiring
the opulent imported marble stonework as it contrasted with traditional Kheshi
woven straw mats, which were sold in bulk in every market the Kheshi traded
with.

“Quite so,” Parjek agreed disinterestedly, giving the
impression that his interest in his men’s lives was feigned out of politeness.
“Now I understand that you have some sort of interest in a pirate named Denrik
Zayne?” He waved a hand dismissively at Soria to forestall the answer she was
about to give. “No, no, I know you do. I have an interest in him as well. I
have lost two ships to him now. This is most obviously not good for my
business. My customers expect their shipments to arrive. Storms may sink a
trader’s ships, and send the cargo to a soaking grave, but what can be done
about a storm, hey? You find good captains and hope they are better than the
storms they see. Ahh, but pirates? My customers do not like hearing that some
pirate now has their wares.”

“So you want us to hunt him down for you?” Soria asked,
raising an eyebrow. She had really hoped to find out about Brannis’s (or
Kyrus’s) whereabouts through more oblique methods rather than dealing with
Denrik Zayne directly. Aside from the very real possibility that he would recognize
her from their encounter at Raynesdark, he might very well be a threat in her
own world.

“No. I wish to bait a trap for him. I have another ship
setting sail, laden with valuable goods. Hmm, for the sake of discussion, let
us call them mangoes. I am too well known to ship my mangoes in complete
secrecy, so word escapes even before the ship leaves port. Pirates love
mangoes, because they are easy to carry, easy to sell, and quite valuable,”
Parjek explained.

“And when he attacks your ship, we catch him and kill him?
That about do it?” Tanner quipped.

Soria and Parjek both glared at him. Soria was supposedly
their leader, or she had told Parjek as much, at least. It undercut her
authority to have her underling interrupt the negotiation of the deal.

“That … roughly outlines the plan … yes,” Parjek continued.
“However, I need to know that I pay for good fighters. My coinblades must be
able to overpower the boarding party that Zayne sends aboard, and then to take
the fight to his own ship. You,” he said, looking at Soria, “who take
‘Coinblade’ as a surname even, I hope to see some evidence that you are worthy
of the name. By your dress and manner, you are Tezuan Sun trained. I have two
Tezuan bodyguards myself.”

And at the mention, two formidable-looking men stepped in
from a side room. They were both Kheshi, with close-cropped yellow hair and
muscular bare arms—pure-blooded southerners—exposed by the same design of armor
that Soria wore. Neither was as tall as she was, but they were more stocky of
build.

“Meet Jovin and Daar-Ben. They will be among those on the
bait ship with you, should you pass my test,” Parjek said.

“What test?” Soria asked, narrowing her eyes at the Kheshi
merchant prince.

“It is easy for a Kheshi lass to buy armor and call herself
a Tezuan Sun disciple,” Parjek answered, his hands worrying at one another
under her glare. “You need not win, of course, but you must convince Daar-Ben
that you really are Tezuan. No blades, no killing, this is merely to confirm
you are who you claim to be.”