by J C Kang
The man’s eyes looked like the Blue Moon at its widest opposition, though not nearly as beautiful. “Your legend precedes you, Signore Larusso. Very well. I am Phobos Bovyanthas—”
“Purveyor of ancient art,” Cassius said. The name was well known among the Signores, who paid exorbitant amounts for artifacts from the Sundered Empire. All but him turned a blind eye to the fact the Teleri acquired them through plunder and conquest.
“Your reputation for Divining proceeds you.” Phobos thumped his chest and bowed his head. “I am honored to make your acquaintance. I need to know exactly when the Intimidator comes into port. I will pay a thousand drakas.”
Stroking his beard to its tip, Cassius feigned disinterest, even if the generous offer was ten times his normal fee—enough to buy noodles every meal for the rest of his life. Still, it hardly constituted a fortune, let alone worth the risk of death. Unless there was more to the story, something worth coaxing out. “You can find this information out from the Serikothi trade office. Their birds might not fly as fast as the Gods’ Whispers, but the information comes much cheaper.” Both in money and the cost on Cassius’ soul for gleaning Divine secrets.
Phobos shrugged. “Our mutual friend tells us the Intimidator will carry an Aksumi Mystic and an apprentice, and my country wishes to reach them first.”
By mutual friend, he undoubtedly meant the Pirate Queen. “What do Bovyans need with Mystics? Your people hate magic.”
The Bovyan’s face flushed like one of the orc gods’ fabled flaming chariots. “And yet I am here, meeting with you. The new First Consul is unorthodox in his ways, and his strategies are bearing fruit.”
“Very well, a thousand drakas.” Cassius withdrew a brocade pouch from his belt. Taking a deep breath, he drew on the Gods’ Whispers, reached into the pouch, and cast fine white sand onto the table. His limbs grew heavy and his vision faded, longer this time. True Divining once a day was taxing enough. Twice, in the span of a few minutes, and an unprecedented four times in a day…
Phobos’ face scrunched up as if he’d sucked Fortuna’s tits and found her luck sour.
The grains of sand would look like a scattered mess to the Bovyan, but to Cassius, the picture was clear. The Hunter pursued Ocean under the Sun. Cassius took out his dwarf scope and measured the distance between shapes.
“The Intimidator will make it here tomorrow, just before the Iridescent Moon’s fourth waning crescent.”
Phobos whistled. “That is fast.”
Cassius shrugged. “Two great naval powers are racing. The Intimidator is being pursued by the Indomitable.”
Misha appeared at the table, plate in hand. Her mouth rounded like the sun.
“I’m sorry about the mess.” Cassius grinned. “My guest will pay for any trouble.”
Her eyes fell on the Bovyan. Lips trembling, she set the bowl down and took a step back.
Of course. The warlike Bovyan were feared, especially by women, who were treated like breeding stock in the Teleri homeland. So disgusting! Cassius made a show of tipping a hat, an apology. “My guest was just leaving.”
Misha dipped into a quick curtsey and fled back to the kitchens.
“I don’t think I will be welcome back here if you extend your stay.” Cassius motioned to the door.
Frowning, Phobos stood and set a very heavy bag of coins beside the dish. “Signore Larusso. Thank you for your information.” With both hands on the table, he leaned over, a monumental task given his height. He lowered his voice. “I know the Great Cassius Larusso hears the Gods’ Whispers, but in my humble line of work, I often glean important news from idle chatter. I know of something that might be concerning to you.”
Cassius favored the art dealer with an arched eyebrow. All information came at a cost, and no doubt this Phobos wanted something in return. Of course, it wasn’t part of his soul, as the gods demanded from those who eavesdropped on their muted murmurs. He feigned nonchalance, as if anything Phobos would say was already known.
The brute leaned in further. “The crime families are uniting, and plan to take over the city.”
Cassius supported a snort. That was hard to believe. The crime families couldn’t agree on a time to meet for tea, let alone coordinate an attack on the Signores’ interests. Not to mention, such hostilities would be bad for business. Cassius’ eyes shifted to the scattered sand and splattered water patterns on the table.
Nothing implied that the—wait, there it was, the Betrayer hiding in the corner, watching over the pyramid. Blood drained from Cassius’ head. He looked up. “They want the pyramid.”
“You live up to your reputation.” Phobos bowed his head. “I hear they plan to steal its Dragonstone, and sell it to the Orc King.”
Cassius kept himself from sucking in a sharp breath. Supposedly, only the orc gods or a dragon could dislodge a Dragonstone from any of the nine pyramids around the world. His own ancestor had helped vanquish the former from the world a millennium before, and the only surviving dragon seemed content with the one he’d stolen from another pyramid thirty-odd years ago. “They can’t be so foolish as to bring doom on all of us.”
“Why take a chance?” Phobos shrugged. “I understand it is your family’s Divine mandate to protect the pyramid. What is the legend? Something about the return of the orc gods on their flaming chariots?”
The flippant tone made Cassius’ skin crawl. The Bovyan race hadn’t even existed when the orcs enslaved humanity, so this lout wouldn’t understand. “Go on.”
“I’d like to propose an exchange of favors. Our mutual friend tells us that you have skills besides Divining, and those have made you quite wealthy. It is those that we need.”
Curse the Pirate Queen for revealing too much. Phobos had known all along. Still, Cassius kept his face impassive. “Tell me, then.”
“When the Intimidator docks, I will send the Aksumi to you. They seek the location of a missing master from their Order of Mystics. We need you to convince the Aksumi woman to stay here for three days. We will retrieve her from your villa then.”
It was almost too easy, besides the expense and boredom of having to host some wizened old matron for a few days. Still, it was always best to drive the most advantageous deal possible. “That would be an exceedingly difficult task, what with the Aksumi’s xenophobia.”
“In return, my country will eradicate the Mafia presence in your fine city within three days. And give you credit, of course.”
Fortuna’s quim! For an unparalleled Diviner, there sure were a lot of surprises for one day. His carefully-crafted mask of nonchalance must’ve slipped, given that his mouth was hanging wide enough for the entire noodle dish to fit.
Thoughts zipped through his mind like a shower of shooting stars as he balanced out costs and benefits. Costs were a trifle, really; but was the purported benefit even possible? The Signores had tried to defeat the Mafia for decades before giving up and tolerating their presence. With no crime families, the Signores would rule unquestioned. And, of course, the pyramid would be safe, keeping the orc gods at bay.
Where was the wealth, at the risk of death, that the earlier Divination suggested? For once in his life, he couldn’t find words.
“It looks like even the famous Cassius Larusso can be surprised.” If the Bovyan’s smile could get any wider, it might stretch across the Shallowsea. “Please consider our generous offer. If your Divination is correct, the Aksumi will be arriving tomorrow.” Pounding his fist against his chest, Phobos turned and left.
Cassius started to brush the sand back into his pouch, when the outline of the spilled wine changed as it seeped into the wood. Now, Love dueled with Fortune. He chuckled. There was nothing more useless than love. More than useless. A weakness, which a conniving woman could exploit to suck a man’s bank account and soul dry. That had to be the risk the earlier Divination foretold.
Chapter 2:
Failure’s Reward
Flames danced in Brehane’s hand, but their heat wasn’t wh
at made her palm glisten with sweat. She swallowed hard. This was her last chance to pass. Her last chance to restore the honor of her father’s shamed tribe.
Outside the crystal powder encircling the Pyromancer’s dueling ring, her classmates whispered among themselves.
“Traitorous Biomancer.”
“We’ll finally be rid of her.”
Not today, they wouldn’t. In the tests for the other schools of magic, she’d already outwitted, outlasted, or overpowered the best candidates they could throw at her. With her free hand, Brehane clasped the crystal hanging from her neck. Cool and reassuring, the hard edges dug into her fingers. Breathe, breathe. She locked her gaze on her opponent.
Of course the testing committee would choose Brehane’s own maternal cousin, heir apparent to the Pyromancy clan, for the final trial. Makeda stood at the other end of the ring, her frumpy training suit making her look like a hippo. It belied her deadly skill, and only a fool would mistake her nonchalant stance for laziness.
Brehane took a deep breath, sensing the Resonance of the Universe. This was the chance to validate the choice she’d made long ago. Every nerve ending tingled. Each second stretched into eternity, each heartbeat a slow thrum in her ears. Any moment now…
The Pyromancer matriarch brought her hand down in a sharp cutting motion.
Brehane hurled the flames at Makeda.
Barking out guttural words of magic, Makeda waved her hand. The air crackled as bright flakes of fire dispersed around her fireshield. Her curling lip bared her teeth. She pointed and grunted.
A fire bolt sped toward Brehane.
She spat out the syllables, coaxing the Resonance. The hissing flames froze inches from her chest. With a sharp exhale, she repelled it. The vitality in her limbs guttered. She locked her knees against their desire to fold, and focused past the blurring edges of her vision.
Growling out more sounds, Makeda swept a blazing hand into the path of the dart, absorbing it. She ran forward and extended her flaming palm.
An illegal spell for a candidate challenge! The Resonance buzzed loudly in Brehane’s core. Makeda was drawing on power far beyond the parameters of the test. Brehane choked out a fireshield, which hissed around her. It wouldn’t be enough, not against the amount of power Makeda was channeling.
Grunting more sounds, Brehane invoked a Hydromancy spell to fortify her fireshield. Humidity condensed and froze in a thin layer on her training suit, just before the flaming hand pressed into her shoulder. Steam rose, hissing from where the heat seared through the ice layer, the fire ward, and the bulky, flame-resistant cloth.
Shoulder burning, Brehane stumbled back two steps, her knee sinking to the hard-packed dirt.
Along the edge of the arena floor, fellow candidates applauded.
The master swept a black flag at her. “Brehane is disqualified for tainting her Pyromancy with Hydromancy.”
Hunching over, fighting for breath, Brehane looked up to the master and pointed at Makeda. “She used a spell forbidden in tests, and drew on too much energy.”
“Dirty Biomancer,” Makeda hissed. She rolled her eyes, even as she straightened from the strain of magic use. The heavy practice robes made her look pudgy, like the pig she was. “Always blaming other people or your own failings. I had to use more power because I knew you were going to steal my energy for the spell.”
As if such Biomancy still existed, beyond theoretical descriptions in texts. That ugly assama always played tricks like this, trying to sabotage Brehane’s chances. She stiffened. “Master—”
“Enough.” The Pyromancer matriarch slammed her palm down on the stone podium. “Candidate Brehane: you never know when an opponent will try to trick you.”
Of course the master would side with her niece, even when she cheated. Brehane’s shoulders slumped. She’d never had a chance. There was no way the university would accept a candidate from the Biomancers, even three centuries after the ban.
Makeda leaned in and whispered, “If only you’d chosen our clan—the clan of your mother, foolish though she was—over a pack of traitors. Go back to infusing light baubles.”
Perhaps keeping city streets lit was all Brehane could do, now that her dreams of restoring the Biomancers were dead. Struggling to her feet, she clasped her crystal.
Makeda’s eyes locked on the heirloom, passed down from the First Mystic. Her lips pursed. Even though the mother Brehane had never met had once been heir apparent to the Pyromancers, the stain of her forbidden love ran through her veins.
The master waved her hand. “Candidate Brehane, the High Conclave convenes at noon. You will present yourself before us.”
Brehane looked northwest toward the Iridescent Moon, never moving from its spot in the heavens. It waned past its fourth crescent, indicating less than two hours until noon. Her heart sank. She’d been so close. Against all odds, she’d mastered the basics of the other eleven schools. Despite the obstacles they’d put in her way and the talented candidates she’d faced, she’d passed all the tests.
Save for this one.
It was all for naught. She hung her head.
No promotion to Initiate. She’d never restore her tribe’s honor. She snuck a glance at Makeda.
Their gazes met. Her cousin’s smile transformed into an ugly curl of her lip. Assama, she mouthed.
Ugly pig, indeed. Brehane snorted. They both looked the part, with sweat matting their hair. She’d feel less so once she changed out of the bulky Pyromancy training robe, even if that wouldn’t strip away the weight of failure. She bowed her head to the master and pushed her way through the chattering candidates, who now crowded around her cousin.
Past the arena’s stone columns, Geomanced to look like pillars of flame, Brehane trudged along the inner ring road. It circled around the vaulting bundle of hexagonal basalt columns of the university’s central pyramid, and passed through each school’s district. The Biomancy section stood at almost the opposite end, delaying the inevitable breaking of bad news.
No, this wouldn’t be the end. Maybe there was still a chance to plead her case. The clan deserved it. Pulse thumping, Brehane hastened her stride. No walls demarcated the boundaries between districts. The only way to tell was the change in architecture as she crossed avenues, which radiated from the pyramid like wheel spokes: the myriad shapes, colors, and materials of the Transmutation School. The circular stone and blocky steel domes of the Divination School. The brown rock and earth formations of the Geomancy school. The crystalline blocks of the Artificer School.
These, along with the classrooms and dormitories of the university’s other schools in the opposite direction, had all been created by the First Mystic’s magic. At last, Brehane reached the Biomancy district. The First Mystic had used Biomancy to create the buildings, fusing together bones from the orcs who’d enslaved humanity in ancient times. Now, the district was almost completely abandoned. Besides her house, only the classroom had any use—once a year, the clan matriarch would teach a single, basic cantrip, and then lecture the candidates on how Biomancy was once practiced—before the Great Betrayal and purging of all the spellbooks.
Brehane sighed. One day, she’d become clan matriarch. If she failed to convince the Conclave to pass her, she’d only be allowed to return to the university once a year to teach history and that simple spell. Her grander dreams, of restoring their honor and reinvigorating the district, would be dead.
Outside her home, she bowed in turn to the two people sweeping the road. The first, an old warrior from her clan, wore a loincloth on this hot spring day. He wiped sweat from the dark skin of his brow, and acknowledged her by placing fingers over his heart, then his lips.
“I…I failed,” she said.
He flashed a toothy smile. “You tried your best, Mistress Brehane.”
The second person, silent as always, bowed. Build hidden by a bulky, roughspun robe, Kirala could’ve been male or female. Nobody knew, but the students, teachers, and elders politely referred to her as
she. Only the pointed ears, protruding from behind an expressionless metal mask, and the large violet eyes revealed her elf heritage. That, and the rumors that she had worked at the university for hundreds of years—an advanced age for even an elf, yet she had lustrous golden hair tied back into a ponytail.
As always, Brehane studied Kirala. Why she didn’t live among her reclusive kinswomen in their secluded mountain realms was the subject of wild speculation. Some guessed she’d been exiled for some crime, while others assumed she must be so ugly, she was ashamed to live among the rest of her beautiful people.
As was often the case when Kirala was around, the Resonance shifted. She withdrew a small, black leather-bound book from a pocket that should’ve been too narrow to hold it, and proffered it in two hands.
Brehane flashed a smile. “Another?”
With a nod, Kirala grunted. Brehane received the tome and pressed it to her forehead in thanks. She looked down and read the title, emblazoned in gold Aksumi script. Dragonstones. One of her fascinations. She flipped through the pages. All blank, like every other book Kirala had given her. Despite the eccentricity of the gift, no other student had received attention from the enigmatic elf, so perhaps it was an honor of sorts.
Kirala pointed at the book, which vibrated in Brehane’s hands.
Affording her a polite nod, Brehane opened the door to her house and trudged in. She peeled off the bulky fire suit and tossed it on her pallet. Dragonstones, she added to her small library of arcane knowledge, wedging it between several of the other blank books Kirala had given her over the years. Martial Magic of Paladins. Artistic Magic of Cathay. Estomari Divining. Arkothi Demon Draining. All hinted at an aspect of magic distantly related to her own people’s Mysticism. Brehane had once hoped to rediscover Biomancy through them, only to find them all blank. She might soon have to pack them up and move back home.