Aethersmith (Book 2) (6 page)

“Better, once it has been watered in blood,” suggested
Frenna, Jinzan’s first wife, though not his eldest. He had wedded her as a
barely flowered girl, taking her into his protection after her parents died in
the war. She had been heir to a large fortune and lands—on which they were now
gathered—and the arrangement had been largely political. In no rush for heirs
of his own, Jinzan had waited years before consummating their vows, leaving her
in the hands of tutors, and eventually Nakah’s care, before finally making a
proper wife of her. He kept largely away from her in the meantime, not wishing
to form too strongly the image of his wife as a child. She was a bitter one,
though, Frenna was. Any mention of Kadrin reminded her of her slaughtered
parents—it was, sadly, something she had in common with her husband.

“It will be better once the harmless, beleaguered peasants
realize they have been freed from the yoke of the Imperial Circle and the noble
houses,” Jinzan corrected. Jinzan had lived in Kadris as a youth while training
as a sorcerer. Possibly the most valuable lesson he had learned in his time
there was that peasants were all largely alike. They worked, they fell in love,
they raised families, and they died. If left undisturbed, they would do the
same under any ruler who wished to claim dominion over their homes, in any part
of the world where crops could push their way up through the soil or fish could
be wrested from the sea.

“To the sword with all of them, then?” Varduk asked, goading
Jinzan just a bit.

“By and large, I suppose. Most are too invested in the
current system to embrace real change that would not have them pulling the
puppet strings from safe in their fortresses. A few might see reason and join
in truth, and not just say the words to keep their neck employed holding head
to shoulders.”

“What of the warlock?” Varduk asked. “Is that staff of yours
enough?”

“The Staff of Gehlen is our best answer to that threat, yes.
I suspect we will have a game of Guards and Cutthroats on our hands, and I do
not know yet who will be who. Certainly it ought to be enough to overmaster any
of the rest of their sorcerers, but I will always refrain from making
assumptions where it relates to Rashan Solaran. One day, I think, fate will
pair us across a battlefield and the river of history will be diverted to a new
path.” The warlock was a problem to be sure, but the staff ought to help with
that. Jinzan was more worried about Kyrus Hinterdale and his counterpart. He
knew of cannons as well, and might think of other inventions to bring to Kadrin
from the other world.

He is too clever by far. Cannons were the best weapon I
could think to bring, but that does not mean he will not match me. Who can say
what pieces of Tellurak I might find cropping up among the Kadrins?

“Councilor Jinzan,” one of the young pages of the estate
interrupted the conversation apologetically. “There is a goblin to see you. He
seemed polite enough, so I allowed him in to wait in the front sitting parlor.”

“Hmm?” Jinzan disengaged his mind from the philosophical,
and re-emerged in a more suspicious state. “Did the goblin give a name?”
Goblins were not unheard of in Megrenn, and Zorren had a few small goblin
enclaves. Jinzan suspected that any goblin calling on him personally was not
local.

“Gut me if I know, sir,” the page answered. “He understands
Megrenn just fine, but I could not say he speaks it. He had a go of it, but it
sounded like someone was hurtin’ him, so I begged him to stop. If he had a name
somewheres in there, I sure did not catch it.”

Jinzan smiled at the irreverent page. Among his own people,
it felt good to hear honesty for a change. He heard so little of it outside
Megrenn borders. He suspected he would hear little from his new guest as well,
given his recent experiences with the goblin folk.

* * * * * * * *

“You?” Jinzan’s first word of shock greeted his guest.

Unafraid of assassins or other treachery, Jinzan had
shortened the rest of his evening with his wives and guests, and gone to see
the goblin visitor. He was a wizened little creature with grey-green skin and
thin grey hair, sitting in a human-sized chair with his feet dangling halfway
to the floor. He peered up at Jinzan through a thick pair of spectacles.

[Ha-ha, Sorcerer, I see life among your own kind treats you
well. That is good,] K’k’rt greeted his one-time ally.

Jinzan understood goblin-speech perfectly well, and did not
ever remember hearing the goblin butcher his own language. Until shortly ago,
he had not known whether this goblin understood Megrenn or not. During his time
among their people, Jinzan had spoken the more widely understood Kadrin dialect
of human.

[I could not help but hear the sound of one of my cannons
earlier today,] K’k’rt said. [It is good to hear that at least one was saved.]

K’k’rt was the goblin tinker responsible for converting
Jinzan’s sketches of an Acardian-style cannon into the working devices that had
been used in the Battle of Raynesdark. Though the cannons had been successful,
and Jinzan had escaped with the Staff of Gehlen, the rest of the battle had
gone far beyond poorly for the goblin side.

“I did not know that any of your people survived the
battle,” was all Jinzan could think to reply. With the death of their dragon
goddess, there was little hope for the goblins when faced with the demon the
Kadrins had dredged up from somewhere in their history books. Rashan Solaran,
by all accounts, had massacred the lot of them.

[Ha-ha, I do not hear any joy in your voice at finding that
I am alive. How unsurprising. Still, I think you will be happy to see me before
long,] K’k’rt said.

“Why would that be?” Jinzan asked, not bothering to dispute
the goblin’s suggestion that he was indifferent to K’k’rt’s survival. The tinker
was useful, but could be grating at times, with his flippant and condescending
attitude; he was also too observant and too often correct, traits that annoyed
Jinzan in others.

[I hear you need to make cannons,] K’k’rt answered, smiling
a wide toothy smile. [I could probably be of some help.]

* * * * * * * *

While the rest of the children had been out playing, one of
Jinzan’s brood had slipped away unnoticed. Anzik Fehr was an odd boy who never
fit in well with the other children. Many children learned to dislike sport, or
their studies, or any subject they began to find tedious or difficult. Anzik
disliked everything.

He did not throw tantrums or pout. He did not cause trouble.
He did … not. He did
lots
of not. Anzik looked at things, and seemed to
think a great deal, but by and large did nothing. Sometimes he would refuse to
take his lessons, only to be found later to be engrossed in the same book that
his tutors had tried to get him to read. On the occasions he could be drawn
into conversation, he seemed remarkably bright, as if all that he had appeared
to ignore had been absorbed and tucked away in his mind.

Despite being just shy of eleven springtimes old, he would
sometimes be found playing with blocks meant for children young enough to still
soil themselves. He would ignore all attempts to persuade him to more
appropriate activities, not even looking at those who spoke to him. Calls to
mealtime might well have been spoken to the stones of the wall.

But magic was somewhat different. Anzik did magic. No one
seemed to approve when he did, though. Jinzan had discovered when Anzik was
very young that his son saw the aether all the time. It was a debilitating
thing to a young child, seeing always what most folk cannot see at all. It must
have been like living in another world from everyone else. But the time he
spent looking there had given him insight, and made magic easy for him. While
there seemed to be no malice behind it, his workings in the aether always
seemed to cause mischief.

The worst was when one of the Fehr dogs died. Distant as he
was with people, Anzik seemed almost on the level of the dog when they were
together. The dog was old but playful, and it reacted simply to Anzik’s
commands in a way that people never did. He had been despondent when the dog
had died. Days later, he seemed happy again. His mother Frenna had been
relieved, but Jinzan had been suspicious. They had found the dog stationed out
near the kennels, awaiting commands, animated from the dead by Anzik’s magic.
He had fixed his broken pet and been so proud. It crushed his spirit anew when
Jinzan had destroyed it as an abomination, much more so than the beating and
reprimands that had followed.

Thus it was no surprise that none of the other children had
wished to play with him or even gave him a thought as they played. The
governess who was looking after the children that night usually paid him little
mind; none of his worst offenses had occurred during her watch.

Anzik had unrestricted access to the house, especially since
he could see his way through most of his father’s wards. Since Jinzan had
returned, he had been watching for an opportunity to slip away for an extended
time. He looked up at the Staff of Gehlen, warded away in a glass case, and
smiled.

It looks so wonderful.

Chapter 5 - Sizing Up Foes

Dogger’s Shack was among the worst ale-halls in Scar Harbor,
and the owner, Dogger, liked it that way. The age-greyed wood of the walls and
floors only got washed enough to get the occasional splatter of blood off, but
the tables and chairs were always near to new, though of the cheapest make that
could be found. Fights were regular to the point of almost being expected on a
busy night, and the furnishings took a beating or were used in dealing one out.
It was a place where a man with one eye and a few rotten teeth could go to
drink with his social inferiors. The regulars ran the name of the place
together as Doggershack, and could tell anyone who did not belong when they
used two words to name it.

Foreigners were not unheard of in Doggershack, being right
near the water where newcomers first set foot in Acardia after getting off the
boat that brought them. Some stumbled in by mischance, often to their dismay.
Others sought it out with purpose for the same two reasons the locals did: it
was a place where ruffians might still find welcome and piss-poor ale still got
a man drunk.

The door was jammed open with a bit of driftwood to keep the
stink of the place manageable and let out the heat from hot, sweating patrons
on a warm late afternoon. Folk came and went all day, so it took something more
than passingly unusual to draw attention. The lot that entered that day
qualified.

They were preceded by a woman, Kheshi by her look, with a
short mop of yellow hair and a few tiny braids hanging to one side. Her eyes
were so deep a blue that they looked nearly black; they flitted back and forth
as she swept the room appraisingly before passing the threshold. She was tall,
comely despite her stern look, with youthful, pale skin—probably even had all
her teeth—and thin limbs. Her most womanly features were obscured by her
leather armor, close fitted, but still vague enough to leave hungry eyes
guessing at the shape beneath, and the loose black tunic thrown over it only
made things harder on the lecherous eyes sizing her up like the day’s catch.
The armor was Kheshi styled, with a steel neck guard running from collarbone to
collarbone with the front left open. Her arms were left bare. They bore no
scars despite being left exposed by her armor, which might be taken as a sign
of being untested in battle, if not for the tattoos.

Kheshi warriors of a certain mind-set had tiny circles along
their upper arms. Each circle represented a coin left on the body of a slain
enemy, ostensibly to pay whoever found the body for the trouble of disposing of
it. It was not a tradition among soldiers, who might leave a wounded foe and
never know his fate, or who might range about the field of battle for half a
day, killing and avoiding death’s pursuit. Of old, it was the sign of an
assassin, so that none might mistake the crime for an accident or a fit of
anger or passion. In more modern times, mercenaries wore the marks as a sign of
prowess, some in the old way of the assassins who might even leave coins as
tradition would dictate, while others would brazenly take on far more than they
had ever killed. To wear Kheshi armor open-sleeved with dozens of the markings
showing was a braggart’s boast without even having to speak a word.

Gazes followed gazes, and men looked to see what had captured
their drinking companions’ attention. Nudges and low, ribald comments alerted
the rest until nearly the whole of Doggershack was watching her. Having deemed
the place suitable by whatever low standard she must have had, she turned her
head to look back at her companions, and gave a sideways nod inside to beckon
them.

First in behind the Kheshi girl was a tall, wiry Acardian
with a sword at his hip. He had a face that looked permanently punched, with a
large brow, flat nose, and a large chin like a small child’s knee jutting below
his mouth. He had a mean glint in his eyes and a languid ease to his
movements—the sort that blustering youths try to imitate when they want to look
tougher than they are.

Right behind him was a black-skinned Takalish warrior. He
wore a patch over one eye, and had a scar running down the jaw on the other
side, partly obscured by his beard. There was light aplenty in the taproom,
otherwise his features would have been difficult to discern, with the
black-on-black contrast of his skin, eye patch, and beard. The white of his one
good eye shone starkly against the brownish green of the rest. If the men in
Doggershack that night did not know that his long twin braids dangling down
over his grey-trimmed burgundy tunic marked him as a warrior, the Takalish
half-spear sheathed on his back made it obvious. The Takalish had decided that
the bits of swords nearest the cross-guard were not worth the trouble of
sharpening. Instead they decided to shorten the blade and lengthen the grip. The
weapon was lighter than a greatsword, but with just as much reach, and their
warriors had learned to use the lengthened handle to grasp the half-spear at
different points to change the weapon’s reach, striking force, and blocking
ability. It was no weapon for a novice.

The last to enter was a hulking bear of a man. Not much
taller than the Kheshi girl, he might have outweighed her thrice over. His
greasy black hair and beard were wild and unkempt, obscuring much of his ruddy
red face and making his wide blue eyes seem a bit unnerving; he had the look of
a madman, and it was a convincing enough act to cause wariness, even if it
turned out he was feigning. He wore a voluminous tarp of a sweat-soaked blue
woolen tunic over a shirt of chain that looked to be custom-sized to his
massive gut. He kept two swords at his hip: one looked expensive, with a
jeweled pommel and cross-guard, while the other was shorter and more
utilitarian.

The quartet was obviously well off by their gear and the
jingle in purses as they walked in. Doggershack was a rough establishment,
where a lot of bad things could happen to folk who walked about with too much
coin on their person. However, being a rough establishment, it contained a lot
of men who knew the difference between snagging an easy mark and getting run
through trying to rob a coinblade.

The Kheshi girl headed straight for the bar, while the
others bullied free a spot from a couple of dockhands who were not making full
use of a table that sat four. The crowd parted for her, at least enough so that
she might try to shoulder her way past those in her path, rather than confront
them. There was no shortage of foul-smelling drunkards that would not mind even
so little attention from her.

“I am looking for a man,” she told the barkeep after sizing
up none other than Dogger himself, working at the taps. She spoke Acardian
well, but there was enough of a Kheshi accent that it made her sound exotic,
with the drawn-out vowels and lyrical intonation.

A small chorus of volunteers spoke up immediately, vouching
for their own manhood and offering credentials. One was even so bold as to take
her by the arm and run a thumb along her kill-marking tattoos. “Pretty thing
like you ought—”

The rest of the man’s insights and advice were lost to the
world as the Kheshi girl reached across, and grabbed his wrist. At the same
time, she lifted her foot and gave a sharp heel kick into the offender’s knee.
As the knee buckled with a sickening crunch, the wretch screamed. The girl
twisted his wrist until she was free of his grasp, and then used her newly
freed arm to push him solidly to the ground, flipping him over the leg that had
just kicked him. The lecher hit headfirst and lay there moaning until she
twisted again, breaking his arm and setting him off screaming again. She let
his arm fall limp and stomped down on his head, silencing him. Whether he was
unconscious or dead, none could tell.

“Sorry … reflex,” the girl—Soria—said to Dogger.

“Some o’ you lot, drag this feller outta here! If’n he’s
breathin’, leave ’im out back. If’n he ain’t, pitch him inna tha harbor. I’ll
gut any of ya’s with a ladle if I get any truncheon sniffin’ round here after
’im,” Dogger ordered. Anyone who hung around Doggershack got used to it after a
while. Dogger could not go two breaths without making some sort of threat.

Soria herself had never been to Scar Harbor before—possibly
as a babe when she was too young to remember—but she puzzled out that
“truncheon” must have been the local slang for the city guards.

“You look like you gots some coin. You better after that
little stunt. Oughtta push those two pretty little ears o’ yours t’gether fer
that,” Dogger said.

“As I was saying, I am looking for a man. His name is Kyrus.
I heard he lived here in Scar Harbor,” Soria said, ignoring the colorful image
Dogger had just sketched out for her of her head squeezed flat until her ears
touched.

“Ne’er met ’im. Set o’ cannonballs danglin’ from his yardarm
fer sure, tho’. Nickin’ off with the
Harbinger
like ’e did. Filleted
his-self two truncheons was watchin’ o’er him in the pokey, burnt down a ship
and half the docks. Folks says ’e’s a witch,” Dogger spat. “I ain’t fer knowin’
spit about that. What I know’s that fella you floor-stomped owed me fer thirty
eckles in drinks and ain’t paid up. I’m fer thinkin’ you owe fer that.”

“If you can’t rein in your patrons, that hardly seems my
problem. If he hadn’t paid, you should have had someone search his pockets
before dumping him in the Katamic,” Soria shot back.

“Din’t think of it at the time. I’s more feared o’ bringing
truncheons inna the place about it than I was o’ pickin’ the pockets of some
rough salt with his lamp blown out by a Kheshi bint with a leakin’ spigot. I
oughtta knock yer skull in and pass yous round like a hat at a jugglin’ show to
take up a collection,” Dogger said.

Soria could not help herself, and laughed at the absurd
thought.

“You’re thinkin’ this is a lark, eh Miss Mercenary
Arm-twister? This lot’s like fam’ly: they’d gut and clean ya if’n I says some
Kheshi quick-hand was stiffin’ me on a tab,” Dogger said.

“I do. And I doubt it.”

Dogger offered a rueful smile. “Heh, you might be right at
that,” he said and chuckled, taking a liking to a lass who could weather his
worst storm and laugh about it.

* * * * * * * *

“The barkeep’s a useless blowhard, but he knew where the
witch worked. Apparently it turned into a bit of a gawk-spot, and everyone in
town knows about it,” Soria explained to her companions as she joined them at
the table. She took the ale they had procured for her, and took a deep swig;
arguing was thirsty work.

“It’s somethin’, at least,” Zell said, then shrugged. “I was
hoping for something more to go on than a building. Someone to talk to and
question, that sort o’ thing.”

“Scar Harbor is big enough. There will be plenty of people
to talk to. Someone will know him better than the barkeep at the first place we
tried,” said Rakashi, nursing his own ale. The Takalish was used to much
stronger (and more flavorful) liquors, and he only pestered his ale to keep up
appearances.

“Gotta say, Soria, the Kheshi look suits you better than
Acardian,” Tanner said as he looked her over playfully.

“Keep mentioning that every time and I’ll need to start
putting another little circle tattoo on,” Soria said. She had been fending off
halfhearted advances from Tanner since she had known him. It had disgusted her
when she was a girl of fifteen and he was eight years her senior. Now it was
just annoying. The jest had teeth, though; magical disguise or not, the count
of circles on her arm was correct as best she remembered it.

“Ha! Get an eyeful,” Zell said, then gave Soria a gentle
backhand slap in the shoulder to get her attention. She broke her glare at
Tanner and looked where Zell’s attention had fallen.

Nailed on one wall of Doggershack were a number of sketches.
There was writing below each, but across the taproom, it was too small to read,
and the sketches too indistinct to identify anyone by them. Without saying a
word, Soria stood and crossed the taproom. After the incident at the bar, no
one got in her way.

They were bounty postings. She scanned through the pictures
until she found the one she knew had to be there. Her heart quickened in her
chest when she looked at it. The text below read:
Kyrus Hinterdale—Wanted
for witchcraft, murder, and piracy. 300,000 eckles for his return.

The words may have said it was Kyrus Hinterdale, but when
she saw the crude picture, Soria muttered under her breath, “I found you,
Brannis.”

* * * * * * * *

Soria had appropriated the sketch of Brannis (or Kyrus, as
she would now have to struggle to remember), and shown it to the others. She
had told none of the others of her suspicions that the reported sorcerer found
in Scar Harbor had been Brannis Solaran back in Kadrin. She wanted to surprise
everyone—and to make sure she was right. The picture had set her mind at ease
on the last count, at least. Though the artwork was unimpressive, and it had
been reproduced on a printing press, it was clearly him.

The four of them—Soria, Zellisan, Rakashi, and Tanner—had taken
up rooms at a much nicer inn far from the dock district. Noblemen’s estates
might overlook the sea, but the closer you got to a working port, the seedier
and more dangerous the accommodations became. For all their dangerous looks,
Soria and her companions had the coin to spend on comfort and enjoyed using it.

Safely in her own room, she allowed her appearance to shift
back to normal. Gone were the blonde hair and too-blue eyes. The skin on her
arms returned to its smooth, unmarred state, with no tattoos and a shade darker
than she had made it—a subtlety no doubt lost on the ruffians at the dock and
the rubes in the city. Soria prided herself on thoroughness in her disguises,
though, and took care in case one among the unwashed pack was worldly enough to
tell northern Kheshi from southern.