Aethersmith (Book 2) (8 page)

“Fair answer. Sounds like a man who could use a new home,
somewhere folk respect that everyone’s got claws o’ their own. Where you think
he might head, in case someone wanted to see about offering him work?” Zell
asked.

“I doubt Kyrus has ever been outside Acardia before,”
Greuder said, then sighed. “If he has any sense in him, he should find a nice
quiet place to make himself a new home, and never be heard from again, at least
not as Kyrus Hinterdale. If he has somewhat less sense, he might have headed to
Golis; his mentor lives there now as scribe to King Gorden. I could see why he
might try to have him intervene with the king.

“Of course … if he has no sense at all,” Greuder amended,
looking away as if pondering, “he might sneak back to Scar Harbor to whisk away
his lady.”

“Your friend always been the sensible sort, would ya say?”
Zell asked, smiling amiably.

“Thoughtful, perhaps. Smart as a kick in the shin. But
sensible? Couldn’t rightly say.”

* * * * * * * *

Of course he drew the docks. It was the most dangerous
assignment of all the places they meant to ask around about Kyrus Hinterdale. Zell
looked toughest of all of them, and Rakashi was no clean-bladed virgin, but
Tanner had magic to fall back on if things turned that special reddish version
of “ugly.” He was no proper sorcerer like Soria, but he could manage to cast a
shielding spell in the morning—out loud, since he could not manage silently
like she could—and keep it going weakly as he went about the day. He would be
fine so long as he did not doze off or become too distracted by something and
let it lapse, and if he got into trouble, he could draw a bit of aether to
strengthen it.

Soria, that quick-talking horse merchant! She should be
the one down here badgering longshoremen
, Tanner groused internally. Anyone
could walk around the docks as they pleased and not worry too much. It was when
you started asking lots of questions that you had to watch for knives out of
the corner of your eye.
She wouldn’t even have to threaten or bribe ’em,
more than likely. Pretty thing like her can just lick her lips and sway her
backside, and this lot’d tell her anything and not know it.

Tanner caught himself, and tried to remember to leave
Soria’s backside out of his thoughts. Her little threats used to be cute when
she was a lass. He would comment on her womanly assets, or “accidentally” walk
in on her in the bath. He was getting the growing impression, though, that his
leash was being pulled taut and that the next thing he said that offended her
might be his last. That fellow in the bar had not been half so forward as
Tanner had been on more than one occasion and she nearly killed him. It was as
friendly a warning as he was likely to receive from her.

He eased himself into his task by making casual talk with a
few of the locals. They were a pathetic lot, and were more informed about
parochial matters than what transpired in the greater world around them,
despite working at one of the major entry points for foreigners visiting
Acardia. They had all heard of the trial of Kyrus the Witch, though, and one
even claimed to have been there, but none had heard of him since his escape
from jail. It seemed to be common wisdom down by the waterfront that Kyrus had
fallen in with the notorious pirate, Denrik Zayne. Zayne had escaped the New
Hope penal colony shortly before Kyrus Hinterdale’s trial, and was unaccounted for,
up to the point a navy ship was commandeered under bizarre circumstances. Folk
claimed that the witch had used magic to swing a gangplank about, knocking navy
sailors into the harbor as they fought to reclaim their vessel. Then one of the
ships nearby had been set ablaze, burning a fair bit of the piers with it.

Tanner was impressed. If half what the longshoremen told him
was true, then this Kyrus fellow was a true sorcerer. Soria knew her business
when it came to magic, but she trusted to her fists or daggers when trouble
came, not fire and telekinesis. It sort of raised the question of just how
Kyrus Hinterdale had gotten himself stuck in jail in the first place. He was
either new to sorcery—which would have made the feats described to Tanner all
the more impressive—or he had been trying to avoid confirming everyone’s
suspicions that he was a witch. Of course, it was also possible that the
longshoremen were having a lark with him, spouting fisherman’s tales when it
was nothing but a simple daring raid on an understaffed navy frigate.

Tanner finally found some more worldly sea-folk to talk to.
Many offered ill-mannered suggestions about his parentage, gender, looks, or
skin, but a few were willing to talk over free ale, which Tanner grudgingly
supplied. He had a better plan than asking about some accused witch whose fame
likely ended at the water’s edge. Instead he talked to them about the pirate.

“Ya. Zayne. I heared of him,” one thick-tongued mongrel
garbled in response to his query. The man chewed some pungent mash of roots
that bulged one side of his mouth. “He crew his new ship in Marker Point. I
think of going too, but … ahh … bad leg, see?” The man flexed one leg as if to
prove it gimpy, but Tanner could see nothing wrong with it.

Coward or liar, more like.
Tanner did not challenge
him, though.

“They say where he was headed from there?” Tanner asked.

“No’ tha I heared. Was a big powder ’splosion. Burned down
lotta houses. Lotta ships left afta that. Zayne ship left too. Nobody like to
stay and get blame, maybe,” the man said.

“How’d they know it was a gunpowder and not just a fire?”
Tanner asked. He had a hunch.

“There was a big
boom
. No lamp oil or cookin’ fire
make a boom when it burn,” the mongrel answered.

Maybe Marker’s Point ought to be the next place we look
,
Tanner thought. If he could burn down ships, maybe Kyrus Hinterdale could burn
down houses, too.
I’m startin’ to wonder if this fella is gonna be worth the
trouble he causes if we
do
convince him to join us. Winds, maybe we
don’t wanna take the chance of him not caring much for our offer.
Tanner
did not like the idea of fighting a real sorcerer.

* * * * * * * *

Why did I do this to myself?
Soria asked herself for
at least the dozenth time as she strolled across Scar Harbor with a tranquil, aloof
smile painted over her face.
I should have traded with Rakashi; he’s more
delicate with these sorts of things anyway.

“Soria Coinblade” had been left behind at The Little Manor,
and she had gone as “Darlah Silverweave” instead. Darlah was far from her
favorite persona, but it was one that seemed appropriate for the day. She wore
long, honey-blonde tresses, tumbling front and back of her shoulders in
ringlets, and had turned her eyes a striking blue. The curls were from a ratty
old wig she kept for long-haired disguises, magically tinted to whatever look
suited her purpose; it was a comfortable bit of her disguise, having had it for
years. The dress was less comfortable. Juliana was accustomed to dresses, but
they felt weird and awkward to Soria, Darlah, and any other names she cared to
take. Her muscular thighs rubbed together for lack of the proper undergarments
to accompany her attire—she was not a pack mule to be carrying all that fine
ladies would wear as she traveled. The warm spring breeze tickled the tops of
her bosoms, which were left open for the world to see in ways that armor never
would, nor her traveling gear.

There were times when Soria looked into a mirror before
going out in disguise, and could feel no connection to her reflection. Kji-Tala,
her southern Kheshi persona, had never seemed so alien to her as Darlah, whom
she had copied from a Hurlan nobleman’s daughter that she met once. Bright blue
eyes looked unreal to her. Dark, Kheshi eyes had looked at her most of her
life, and her own darkish green ones looked back at her often enough in
reflections. Her figure seemed foreign to her as well. Her muscled arms lay
hidden below a wispy layer of delicate pink fabric, and the lacings of her
dress pulled it tight at her waist, making her hips seem wide when she really
had very little of them to speak of. The low cut in the front, and some trick
in the making of expensive dresses made it appear she had the bust of a grown
woman, rather than a newly flowered maiden.

She had almost changed her mind before leaving The Little
Manor.
I lie better than any of them do. I can just say I got no useful
information, or make up some banal blather and take a strong liking to some
lead one of them turns up.
In the end, though, curiosity drove her out into
the streets dressed as a lady of wealth and style (the latter being more a hope
of hers, with little fashion sense of her own to count upon).

Soria purchased a parasol from a little boutique on her way.
With only a small handbag to carry, her hands itched for something to do, and
she knew it would not be ladylike, whatever her idle hands did while she lost
track of them. She was liable to end up cracking her knuckles or tugging at the
awkward-feeling bits of her dress, possibly something worse.

Doubts nagged at her as she crossed the city.
It does not
mean anything. I would bet heavy coin that Brannis did not even know of the
connection until just recently. Whatever his twin did, he did on his own. “What
works in one world, works in the other.”

She reminded herself of the Rules of the Twinborn, as taught
to her by Rakashi. She had known of Juliana since they were little girls
together, but if Brannis had just met his twin, it would take time for them to
learn from each other. Soria sat a horse better than any Kheshi-raised city
girl had a right to. Juliana would give a good accounting of herself in a
Takalish dagger fight, despite being a spoiled princess of a sorceress. If
someone were to shout “Juliana” across a crowded room, Soria’s head would turn.
It would only be a matter of time before Brannis and his twin shared the same
bond.

Soria kept on wrestling with her own thoughts, and decided
thrice to turn back, only to find that her legs had dutifully kept her on a
steady course as her mind had wandered halfway to Kadrin and back. She finally
arrived in front of a studio door. A painted sign above showed a brush and
palette, colorfully painted. The sign was not carved at all to stand against
weather and still proclaim its message as wind and rain faded and wore the
colors; it was a sign of a cheap sign.

Nothing to be done but to do it
, she told herself
firmly.

Soria knocked on the door. She heard muffled voices from
inside, followed by footsteps. If it were not already squished tight by her
dress, her stomach would have clenched with nerves.

“Good morning,” a comely young girl answered as she opened
the door.

Celia!
The thought struck Soria like an arrow to the
heart, but the sensation passed.
No, but close enough, I think.
Celia
Mistfield had been newly appointed as one of Juliana’s least favorite people,
ever since she had turned up after the Battle of Raynesdark and started trying
to woo Brannis away from her. The girl was built the same as Celia, at least:
middling height—certainly not so tall as Soria—but with an ample bosom and hips
that did not need a tailored dress to prove their presence. She had the same
dark hair and blue eyes, but Celia’s face was more angular. Celia's eyes were
also less bright and more cunning than those of the young painter who had just
greeted Soria.

“Good morning,” Soria returned in kind after a pause that
was just on the borderlands of awkwardness. “I understand that you are an
artist. You have been recommended,” Soria spoke airily, and with as Acardian an
accent as she could manage. Her brain was feeling just a touch fuzzy and she
hoped it was piloting its course well enough without both hands upon the wheel.

“Please, come in. I shall just be a short while longer. I
have a sitting this morning, but I can get you a chair if you don't mind
waiting.”

The artist—Soria knew her name was Abbiley Tillman, but
stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact—was saccharinely pleasant in her
manner. Her voice sang better in conversation than Soria or Juliana could
manage in song when truly trying. Soria tried hard not to hate her.

She followed the artist inside the studio, and took the
proffered seat once it had been dusted off. Soria folded up her parasol and set
it point down against the floor like a cane, holding it with both hands lest
her idle habits embarrass her. She made a concerted effort to unclench her jaw,
which she had not intended to clench in the first place, working it side to
side a bit when no one was looking in order to relax the muscles of her face.

The studio had one other occupant, a gentleman of perhaps
thirty years of age, dressed in his feasting-day finest. He was seated upon a
small wooden stool near the window, well illuminated by the morning sunshine.
He was a dashing fellow, with curling hair that hung to just below his jaw and
that framed a face with bright brown eyes and a determined nose. Halfway
between Soria and the gentleman was a canvas showing a striking likeness of
him, rendered in colored oils.

“Tomas Harwick, my lady. It is my pleasure,” the gentleman
introduced himself when he noticed Soria looking at him. He was smiling as he
said it, apparently taking her casual interest for less-than-casual interest,
or at least being in the habit of often thinking such, and reacting
flirtatiously by rote.

“Darlah,” Soria replied, startled from her mind’s wandering
to the point where she caught a bit of Kheshi in her own introduction.
Composing herself quickly, she tried again. “Darlah Silverweave.”

“Feel free to have a look around as you wait. If you like,
you might even assure Mr. Harwick that his portrait is nearly finished,”
Abbiley—the artist—said, not turning from the canvas to which she had returned
and resumed her work. “I have not let him see it yet. It is unseemly for a man
to see himself half-finished,” she jested, smiling.