City in the Sky (5 page)

“Thank you,” Ikeras replied, inclining his head and taking the sword. “The sword has great meaning to me. It was a gift from a friend, long ago.”

Erik nodded slowly. “What was the friend's name?” he asked, his voice distant.

Ikeras looked up at him sharply. “Karn
septi
Tarverro,” he said, his tone confused. “He gave the sword to me when he retired from the Wing-lancers. To be honest, I've never heard from him since.” The Aeraid paused and shrugged. “I often wonder where he ended up, but the sword is all I have to remember him by. Why do you ask?”

“I had to,” Erik said simply. “Once I saw the inscription, I had to
know
.” He took a deep breath and turned away from the Aeraid. “My family name is Tarverro, Milord Ikeras,” he continued softly. “Karn Tarverro was my father, and is nigh on twenty years dead.”

“
Aris
,” Ikeras swore softly. Erik felt the man's gaze on his back, and slowly turned back to face him. “Aye, I can see it now,” the Aeraid continued. “I thought it was only the Sky Blood I recognized, but it was him I saw in your face, wasn't it?”             

Erik nodded, saying nothing.

For a moment, the two men looked at each other in silence. Finally Ikeras spoke into the quiet. “If I may ask, how did he die?”

Erik inhaled sharply, but nodded. “There was a fire here, about twenty years ago,” he said quietly. “You can still see the marks on many of the buildings of the Row if you look. Our house was near the center of the Row. No one had a chance to warn my father what was happening before our house was up in flames.”

The smith stared at the walls, remembering not so much the fire itself but the nightmares of flame that had, long ago, haunted a young boy. “No-one knows what happened. All they know is that when they came searching, my mother and father were dead, and I was alive…” Erik trailed off.

He resumed after a moment’s breath. “It was impossible for me to be alive. The entire house had been destroyed around me, my parents were dead, and somehow I was alive. My grandfather took it as a miracle, but…” Erik trailed into silence finally. Reaching inside his tunic, he withdrew an amulet of crystal that hung around his neck.

Three crystals, all black, splayed out from a central bond to form a triangle which hung from a plain steel chain. There was no adornment anywhere on the amulet, but Erik heard Ikeras exhale sharply in recognition.

“My grandfather's only clue was that this was on me, and he'd once seen it on my father,” Erik finished quietly.

“Do you know what it is?” Ikeras asked.

“No. Some form of crystal magic, I think,” Erik replied.

“An incredibly powerful form of it,” Ikeras told him. “That's a protective amulet. It's Melder work, and difficult at that. It shields the wielder from harm –
any
harm.”

Erik was stunned. Air magic crystals came in two types: the single crystals charged by the Aligners, which could occasionally be found in human hands; and the intricate, multiple crystal arrays created by the Melder masters of the art. The latter were
never
found outside the lands of the races of the Sky Blood.

“It would have protected you from the fire,” Ikeras said softly. “But your father would have realized that it could
only
protect one person before dying, and was more likely to succeed in protecting you. He had to choose to save one of the three of you there, and chose his son.”

Erik focused on the wall, facing away from Ikeras, concealing his tears from the Aeraid. “I'd… suspected,” he said quietly. “I never expected to
know
.”

Ikeras's hand clamped onto Erik's shoulder. “It would be typical of the Karn I knew. He'd never choose his own life over those he cared for.
Never
. He chose to save you because you were his son and he loved you. There is no greater testimony to the man, and few greater for you, his son.”

Erik swallowed his tears and slowly raised his head. “You said you knew him, before he came here. What was he like?”

The Aeraid was silent for a moment, his eyes distant with memory. “He was a good man,” he said softly. “I know that seems like the sort of thing you'd say about anyone to their child, but in Karn's case it was his defining trait. He'd give you the shirt off his back and not think twice about it. He and I came from the same neighborhood, though he was much older than me. Even as a child, he protected those around him, and none of us who knew him were surprised when he joined the Regulars.

“When he became a Wing Lancer, everyone who knew him was so proud. It was his achievement that caused me to seek the Lancers,” Ikeras admitted. “I earned my wings shortly before he returned from his last campaign with the Lancers. He was wounded, and his Roc was dead.

“When a Lancer's Roc dies, they are offered the chance to leave the Lancers, no matter how much of their enlistment remains. Often it's just a formality, but Karn took it to return to a woman he'd met – your mother, I presume. His last act as a Wing Lancer was to deed me this sword,” Ikeras finished, running his hands along the sky steel blade.

“Thank you,” Erik replied after a moment, when it was clear Ikeras had finished. “I don't remember him – or my mother, for that matter – and I couldn't help but wonder.”

“He was a man that no one would ever regret having as a friend,” Ikeras told him quietly. “Or as a father.”

Ikeras laid a bag of coins on the table and picked up the sword. He belted the sword on and turned to look back at Erik. “You do realize that you have family in Newport, right?”

“I do?” Erik asked.

The Aeraid smiled. “Yes. You have a grandmother and an aunt. The Tarverro family is fallen from its heights, but they are still both wealthy and respected.”

Wealthy
and
respected
weren't words that described Erik's family in Vidran, except among and in comparison to the smith community. The words drove home to Erik, in a way he'd never even thought possible, just
how
much his father had given up to be with his mother.

“I haven't spoken with your aunt in years, but the
Septol
Tarverro would certainly welcome you to Newport with open arms if you wanted to come visit,” Ikeras said. “Or to stay, for that matter,” he continued, his voice soft but heavy with emotion Erik couldn’t begin to guess.

The young half-blood stared, unseeing, at the weapons and tools on the walls of the shop, product of his work here. Fine work, but not fine
enough
to convince a Guild obsessed with purity to let a half-breed into its ranks.

“I don't know,” he said quietly. No matter what his difficulties, Vidran was his
home
, and how could he just up and leave his grandfather like that?

“I didn't expect you to,” Ikeras accepted with a nod and a smile, “it was just a thought. But…” he paused for a moment, thinking. “We're leaving on a shipping run through Hellit. We'll be back in fifteen days. If you decide to come, meet me at the Iron Hammer then.”

“I will consider it,” Erik said softly.

“You do that,” Ikeras replied. “Aris keep you.”

With that, the Aeraid walked out of the shop.

The wind coming in off the Northern Sea had a chilly bite to it, portending the winter that would soon encase the city of Vidran in snow and ice. Erik sat on the edge of one of the city's inner walls, looking down upon the harbor. The harbor was sheltered from the cold, and the city's mages would keep it liquid even when ice began to seal the strait to the sea, but soon only the flying ships of the Aeradi would call here.

Erik's lips twisted. Vidran was a trading city, and only the Aeradi's ships and the Draconan's dragons kept it going through the winter – a fact many of the city's residents greatly resented. The city's wealth came from its trade with non-humans, but even so non-humans were unpopular.

Even they were more welcome than those bastard children born of a mix of races, Erik reflected. He didn't know how the other races felt about half-bloods, but the humans of Vidran regarded them as blasphemous insults against the will of the Gods.

It had been over a week since the Aeraid Ikeras had made his offer, and Erik still had not decided whether or not he would go. Whatever most of Vidran thought of him, he had friends and compatriots among the smiths. He had customers, work – a life. Vidran was his
home
, and he was unsure whether or not he should leave.

As he watched and argued with himself, the sun slowly sank beneath the waves on the horizon, lighting the sea with the red color of blood. With no real decision made, he stood and slowly descended to the streets below, headed back to Smith's Row and his home.

The streets were mostly empty of people as the dark fell. Few areas of Vidran were lit at night, even during the depth of winter when night was almost all the city saw. Once winter truly fell, the youth of Vidran would make their pocket money as lantern bearers, lighting people's way through the city. Despite the chill, however, it was only mid-autumn, and businesses closed with the sun.

Which meant when he entered the darkened street cutting across the edge of the Trade Quarter, he couldn't see anyone else. So when a shrill cry cut through the night, followed by the sound of several blows, there was no one else to intervene.

Erik cursed softly to himself, and threw his cloak back over his shoulder, freeing the sky steel smallsword he'd forged for Rade. His quick strides brought him to the edge of the alley the sounds came from, and he paused there, listening.

“
Hold
the pointy-eared bitch,” he heard a voice snarl. “Think ya can come flouncing through here, half-blood?” it continued, to someone else. “You must be looking for what your ma found – real men.” Several ugly chuckles ran under the voice.

“Well, you found 'em,” the speaker continued, “and you're going to get 'em right where your ma did.” As the voice finished, the sound of tearing cloth echoed through the alley, which was
more
than enough for Erik.

He drew the sword and stepped into the alleyway. In the dim starlight, it took the men in the alley a moment to realize he was there, and that same moment allowed him to assess the scene.

Six men, dock laborers from their clothes, had pinned a woman clad in a dark cloak to the ground. Her hood had been torn from her cloak, revealing long braids of hair tied back from a pair of long, delicately pointed, ears – the mark of a Duredine, rare even in Vidran.

The leader of the bravos had the front of her cloak in his hands, where he had just torn it open, revealing a brighter tunic underneath. The sudden glitter of starlight on steel had dragged his attention away from his victim.

“What the hell?” he demanded.

“Leave her be,” Erik said softly. His eyesight was better than theirs, and he knew it. Where he could make out most of the details, they would be able to see little more than a shadow with steel in his hand.

Unfortunately, however dark and forbidding he might have looked, there were six of them. The leader surged to his feet, a long dagger materializing out of nowhere.

“Skin the interfering bastard,” he hissed. “
Now
!”

As Erik began to slowly walk down the alley, approaching the thugs, five more knives appeared. None of them were that long, even with a smallsword he had ten inches of blade on any of them. Unfortunately, every single one of the humans was bigger than he was, and there were six of them.

The closest and biggest of the thugs grinned, crooked teeth flashing in the dim light, as he lunged forward. Erik's free hand shot out and grabbed the man's knife hand. For a moment, the two men shared a grip on the dagger's hilt, but then Erik brought his weapon into play.

The smallsword had no edge, but that didn't stop it neatly punching through to the back of the man's right leg as Erik dragged him in close. With an audible snap, the sky steel blade severed the man's hamstring. Using his grip on the man's hand as a pivot, Erik spun with him, sending the now-crippled man stumbling across the alley to crumple to the ground, out of the fight.

It was over so fast that the other five barely had time to realize anything was happening before the man was on the ground. As if the first thug’s fall was a signal, they all spread out and began to circle in on Erik, providing him with far too many targets to track at once.

At some unspoken signal, three of them rushed forwards, with the other two following behind, keeping half an eye on their original prey to be sure she didn't escape. Erik retreated, avoiding the slashing, thrusting knives as best he could.

It wasn't good enough. Fire scored along his collarbone as one of the thugs barely missed their slash at his neck. His cloak went fluttering to the ground. He almost tripped over the thing, over-balancing forward.

One of the thugs tried to take advantage of Erik's imbalance. The tip of the smallsword slammed into his chest, punching into flesh and bone. Erik used the impact to balance himself and then yanked his sword back. The thug dropped his dagger and retreated with his hands pressed to the bloody, but relatively minor, wound on his chest.