“We are Olivers,” Oliver said simply in response. He didn’t elaborate, nor did he need to.
He shut his eyes after climbing into the barber’s chair, feeling the man’s oiled fingers massage his temples, savoring the scrape of the razor along the back of his neck as the man worked. When the soap came, the last few months washed away. It was only then, with the warm water worked into his scalp, did the last remaining traces of the northern cold leave him. The chill that had sunk down to his bones, and lodged itself there in the same way the ridger had followed him within the carriage.
His eyebrows scrunched together at the thought of the ridger, though the barber quickly worked out the tension in them with a steaming cloth. That ridger had been his ticket out of the outpost, yet also the greatest thorn in his side. Now, Oliver was free and his hands were washed of him. There was no reason a Keeper should be concerned with someone like that. No, his thoughts were better spent on more important things. He pushed the ridger from his mind; after all, he would never see him again. He’d certainly never seen any of the other supposed ridgers at the Keeper school.
When the barber finished and the tailor had clothed him, Oliver stared at his reflection in the polished mirror. He’d lost weight since departing, his cheekbone more prominent, his jaw more set. His eyes harder. He’d seen first hand the barbarians of the north, and he’d driven them to do his bidding. In the past, he would have wiped them out.
Now he knew they were too useful for that.
“No matter how dirty, wood still burns,” his father had once said to him, and Oliver now understood. They were a tool, so long as they were underfoot. So long as a steady hand kept them focused and they stayed in their place.
He combed his hair back and stood straight. He seemed taller now as well, and his spirit surged upward as he felt the kernels sewn into the lining of his shirt. Complimentary, of course—and they should be, considering how much he’d paid for that coat.
“On the Oliver family,” he said as he departed, and the tailor nodded.
“Of course. Always a pleasure to do business with you.”
Then Oliver made his way to the Tower. He left the carriage behind. He would send a servant to retrieve it later, but for now he wanted to be seen, wanted there to be stares following his strut through the streets. For there to be whispers that Martin Oliver, son of the late Lock of Heaven Six, had returned.
He entered the Tower unquestioned, though silence fell in his wake, and he took the lift up after consulting the knower, speaking a single name for her.
“A fee,” the knower demanded from within her glowing rune circle.
“I owe no fee for simple information, I’m a Keeper,” he said, looking toward the lifts.
“Not yet, you are not. You must be reinstated into the Tower. Do you forget your own strippage of station? I have it here,” the knower said, touching her head. “There is something I wish from you. Something I desire, that you alone know here. News.”
“And what is that?” Oliver demanded, shuddering as he felt her thoughts brushing against his own. He knew how she worked, that when he departed any memories of his that she held would be forgotten. But he still detested that, no matter how short of a time, someone could touch any of his thoughts.
“The Grinder,” breathed the knower. “I wish to remember that it has stopped turning. For this, I offer you three Tower questions.”
“Three questions?” Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. The knower was stingy with sharing her facts, and rarely would she give an unlimited question about the Tower. But three, three was nearly unheard of. “Deal.” Then he spoke a name, grimacing at the thought that he was spending a single question on something so trivial. But still, now that his name was on the streets, he would have to act quickly.
“First lift, a left at the fork, a right at the three way, fourth door down,” answered the knower, then she shut her eyes, savoring the knowledge from her transaction. Oliver had already forgotten her when he entered the lift, and he checked himself over before knocking on the door he sought.
For a moment no one answered, then there was the sound of a desk being cleared, followed by footsteps before the door opened inward, revealing a familiar face before him wrapped in blond hair, each strand cared for to allow none out of place, and a sundress so free of wrinkles he feared for any that might venture onto the fabric.
“Martin?” she said, taking a step back with surprise as he followed her through the door.
“Lucille!” he answered, beaming, taking his coat off and hanging it on a door hook. “I have returned! And you—you are just as beautiful as ever.”
“Already?” she blushed at his comment, then collected herself. “I thought you would be gone for years.”
“As did I, but the expedition went more smoothly than you could imagine. The trolls of the far west slain, two by my own hand! Oh, if you could see what I have seen, experienced what I have. There is so much to tell you of their culture, and foods, and the people! What I have learned!” He sat in a chair across from her, his face earnest. “But Lucille, have you missed me as I missed you?”
Lucille blinked, her hand reaching up to her cheek. She hadn’t seen Martin in two years, and even then he’d left in a flurry. They’d shared some moments together, even a brief kiss on Martin Oliver’s departing day. Her mother had been a large part of the arrangement—Oliver’s father had been the Lock of Heaven Six, and Lucille making friends with him would bring fortune upon the Falstors.
“Of course, of course! I could never forget you,” she said with a smile. And he pulled something out of his pocket, handing it to her across the table.
“A gift for you, then,” he said. “It’s not much, but it is from the people there—an award for us, for removing the trolls. Few of its kind exist. You see, it requires no kernel to work. A small wonder.”
He dropped a cylindrical wooden tube on the tabletop, one with a painted red rise runes around the exterior. When she touched it, Lucille could sense the small remnants of power within it, and when she squeezed it, a small jet of fire leapt out of the end.
“I’ll treasure it,” she said, and they broke into conversation. He told her of his adventures out west, and of the deeds he accomplished in quelling the trolls. She spoke of her recognition before the council a few months prior.
“I’m level three now,” he said when they finished, and he demonstrated in the air. Three lines trailed after his fingers, two of them familiar, and the third one new. “I accepted a stone aurel, received as a gift. A powerful one.”
His mind shot back to the Grinder, to the enormous piece of crystal that Draysky had pulled from its depths. He had hidden it and taken it back to his cabin, and he had used his precious few kernels to accept it, pleasantly surprised at the opportunity to rise to level three.
“A valuable one,” said Lucille, looking closely at the trace of earth left behind. “It looks pure, refined.”
“The population was quite grateful. A hundred deaths they said we prevented. An aurel is little in exchange for such service. I felt guilty taking that at all, but they insisted to show their gratitude. Though, of course, none could surpass the gift you made for me. It did save my life, you know. On more than one occasion. Quite ingenious.”
He pulled out his white velvet glove, setting it on the table between them, the runes glittering more than usual.
“Be careful with that around kernels,” Lucille warned. “It’s designed to soak up traces of heaven wherever it goes, and store it. For traveling without kernels, a wonderful advantage, though weak. In the Tower, too near a powerful kernel, it will do far more than pack a punch. Those runes would snap under a level three.”
“I intend to frame it,” he said. “For the memory, and to prevent any stains from marring your handiwork.”
An hour had passed before a second knock sounded at their door, and Lucille’s mother entered the room. Lucille subconsciously slid back a few inches in her chair, while Oliver rose in
greeting.
“Lady Falster,” he said, with a flourishing bow. “How pleasant it is to see you.”
“Junior Oliver,” she answered, with a cold smile. “And you as well. However so… sooner than anticipated that might be.”
“Our mission was completed faster than we had hoped,” he said, and she nodded.
“I can see that. Lucille, be a proper host and prepare us some tea.” She sat in Lucille’s empty chair, and a moment later another knock came at the door, a red-faced servant bursting in.
“Lady Falstor, I come with urgent news! I wouldn’t interrupt otherwise, and I beg your forgiveness,” she said, thrusting a rolled sheet of parchment at Lucille’s mother, who unfurled it and scanned the page. Her mouth grew in a tight line, and she dropped the parchment to the table.
“It seems a convict has escaped under the watch of my men. A Keeper was supposed to escort him, but neglected the duty,” she said as the teakettle started to scream. “We’ll need someone to hunt him back down. To return him to custody, immediately. Who better than someone who disposed of trolls so efficiently?”
“I haven’t even been back a day. I have business to attend to, and–” started Oliver, but Rhea Falstor cut him off.
“This is your business to attend to. Lucille, dearie, I’m afraid what I must discuss with Oliver is most confidential. Would you mind giving us the room?”
“Mother, this is my room, and I’m a Lock,” said Lucille.
“And are you questioning me, a council member?” her mother asked. Lucille flushed, then departed, closing the door softly. Lucille’s mother turned to Oliver, her voice low, and Oliver refused to let her see him flinch. For when her voice was low was when she was most dangerous.
“You were to remain at the outpost for at least another three years,” she hissed.
“Would you have me rot away there?” he retorted. “With no advancement? With no future?”
“A temporary sacrifice. The prodigal son cannot return unless he’s been noticed missing. We needed time to let things blow over, time for me to clean up the mess you left behind.”
“An opportunity presented itself, and I took it,” he answered.
“With a half cooked lie about trolls. Do you intend to falsify the news following at your heels? Fabricate some reports of a hero out west?”
“Who dares question the Olivers?” he asked, eyes glinting.
“The same who dared punish you in the first place, who demanded a dungeon when I secured you temporary exile to the outpost.” Then she pointed at the paper. “And now there’s this. One from the outpost, a ridger, who escaped right through our fingers.”
“A ridger?” he asked, and Oliver tensed, knowing the name before she said it.
“Yes. Some Draysky, the report says. Already drawing runes, from what I understand. Do you know just how dangerous that is?”
“I’ve dealt with him before, he’s just a ridger,” said Oliver. “So what if he doesn’t go to Keeper school? That’s not much to lose.”
“Are you daft? Did you leave your brain behind in the north? We don’t send them to school, we execute them.”
Oliver nearly dropped his tea in shock, looking back up at her.
“Execute?” he said. “That’s... I’d say that’s somewhat extreme.”
“Would you?” Lady Falstor demanded. “It’s because of your ignorance. Do you even know what those ridgers are? We keep it a secret, for good cause. If word got out, we’d have to burn the outpost immediately. We can’t afford to do that. After all, in that outpost, they are our most valuable resource.”
“I still think you’re overreacting,” he said, straightening his coat. “None of them could stand up to a Keeper.”
Well, almost none, he thought.
“They are weapons, you imbecile. Creatures pulled down from the heavens! Unpredictable, and exiled to contain their power. Docile, and without action, they are nothing. But trained, I hope you never experience the true terror of a ritebald harnessed.
“That’s why they are exiled. That’s why they mine crystal. The strongest among them cannot resist its taste, and untrained, the crystal destroys them far more effectively than anything we could do. A proper control, in case one tries to seek power.
“And that’s why you are going to set this right. Because in one night, you have created two problems for me. A ritebald on the loose and your early return. Eliminate the ritebald, and you solve both. Eliminate the ritebald, and you return a hero.”
She turned to leave, striding through the door and speaking over her shoulder.
“A hero fit to court my daughter’s hand.”
Chapter 50: Merrill
The underworld in Consuo valued one attribute above all else: talent.
A coin was only as valuable as the hand that stole it. A smuggler, as the goods he carried. And a liar, the webs of deceit he wove.
And a runeworker… Well, a runeworker was valued far above any of those, because a magician could do far more and was far more rare.
Merrill was no runeworker, otherwise she would have fared far better on her first night alone in the city. Instead, she’d found herself hidden away beneath the stoop of a bakery, clutching the contents of her apron close to her. Mercifully for the city, it had begun to rain in torrential sheets before dawn, stifling the fires down to smoldering piles. She hid her seeds and the hell's barb from moisture, sacrificing the warmth of her body to keep them dry, her feet hanging out from under the ledge and soaking from her toes to her calves.
It had been years, but she was no stranger to sleeping on the streets.
When morning came, Merrill crouched in the mist of dawn, stealing her way toward the city gates. As she approached, the streets turned from sparse to crowded, until they were packed so tightly that she could no longer move through them, a clamoring knot before the wall. Forty feet back, she raised herself on tiptoe, swatting away the hand of a passing child that tried to reach inside her coat pocket.
“What’s going on?” she asked the man next to her, who was taller by at least a head.
“They’ve locked us in,” he said, craning his neck. “And they’re searching everyone who is trying to leave. It’s moving, but slowly.”
“Searching for what?” she asked.
“Probably whatever did this mess,” he answered, waving a hand back toward the smoldering Consuo. “They can strip me down for all I care. I’m getting out of here.”
Merrill’s hand went to the lumps in her apron, each one flashing a mental image through her mind. The coins, which the Keepers would keep for themselves. Seeds, which they would confiscate if they recognized them and which would reveal her identity to them. Being searched was not an option.
She ducked away, redoubling her footsteps through the streets. Surely, there had to be another way out. That, or she could bide her time at an inn, wait until security died down around the exits and the Keepers returned to their inner circle.
A quarter mile back she had discovered such an inn and made a show of searching desperately for a coin at the counter before producing one of the many deep in her pockets. Already, the rooms were booked to near capacity. Several of the other inns nearby had burned down, and plenty were searching for a place to spend the night. But this inn was nicer than most, keeping the majority of those sent to the streets out, and she was able to book a room shared with the elderly former owner of a flower shop, now ash.
The woman’s eyes tried to pry as Merrill counted out her seeds, arranging them in boxes bought from the market and taking note of the exact amounts, but Merrill worked only under the cover of night at the end of the day. Almost too dark for her eyes, and certainly too dark for the older woman’s. The next day she returned to the gate, grimacing as she found the same result waiting, four Keepers standing guard over anyone exiting or entering. Again, she left, paying her fare for another night at the inn, keeping her seeds and coin stashed under the mattress.
The next day she checked the gat
es again, and yet again, they were guarded. That night, the elderly woman departed, her money gone, hoping to salvage what was left of her shop into a stall. On her way out, Merrill hugged the woman, then slipped two of her heaviest coins into her purse as she departed to uncertainty.
Double the fare, the innkeeper announced after the woman left, if Merrill were to keep her room to herself. Merrill grimaced as she handed over the money, though in reality she had enough in her pocket to stay at the inn as long as she desired. Surely, though, that would draw attention.
On the fourth day, as she stared at the Keepers guarding the gateway from a busy intersection, she felt a jostling at her elbow. This morning, she wore her apron, the boxes of seeds tucked into it, her pockets sewn closed to prevent pickpockets from trying their hand. Yet still, she felt the jostling, which reinforced her satisfaction at sealing the folds in fabric.
“Shall I poke at you all day for your attention, or do you deign yourself too lofty for an inconspicuous greeting?” wheezed a voice next to her.
Merrill jumped, turning to face the old man who had prodded her with his cane. He made no eye contact with her, instead tracking her gaze to the gate, and giving no indication that he had spoken.
“Are you talking to me?” she asked.
“Of course I’m talking to you. Would you prefer I shout to call your attention? Perhaps I will proclaim to the entire street you’ve been waiting to sneak past those Keepers?”
Merrill froze, chilled as her eyes narrowed on the old man. If he did such a thing, she could outrun him, or even silence him. But her time of negotiations under Fel stilled her, as she remembered his advice when dealing with the merchants.
There is always a better deal.
“What is it that you want?” she demanded, staring straight ahead to the gate.
“Only to help you,” said the old man. “You shan’t be making it past those Keepers alone, not as you are. I can assure you, I am not the only one to notice a pretty face returning every day to this intersection, one with longing eyes.”
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