Shards

by James Duvall

  The dawning of the age of bridgers marked the beginning of a period of frantic exploration as powerful kings no longer trapped behind their shardwalls sought out their ancestral territories and fought to bring them back under control.

  From Shardwalls, A History

  Nothnor's streets had the familiar feel of a city far-flung from any major center of commerce. Nearly every corner had a few people on it, mostly humans, but it lacked the claustrophobic crush of big cities like Cahen. The streets were still busy, it was simply the sort of busy where every man walking down the street had a broad view of the businesses on either side and was not staring directly into the back of another man's hat, simultaneously attempting to not be dragged under the flow of traffic and avoiding hands eager to empty one's pockets. Aebyn's presence had a further widening effect on the sidewalk. Everyone that saw the gryphon gave him a wide berth. They did not seem afraid, Timothy noted, simply unwilling to require the gryphon to push past them.

  “They think you're a bridger,” Christopher commented, amusement in his voice. As though such a thing could ever be said of Timothy Binks.

  “Because of him?” Timothy asked, gesturing to the lighthound dutifully following at his side.

  “Wouldn't you?” Christopher observed. “The hotel is just ahead.”

  Timothy shrugged, but he knew this time Christopher had him. This perspective threw a new light on the small clusters of businessmen and tradesmen that broke apart to let not Aebyn, but Timothy himself pass through uninhibited. The spectacle of it all left Timothy feeling rather naked. He had no doubt that every set of eyes they passed rested upon him or the creature that followed close behind.

  The Admiral's Inn, located near the skyport, was a venerable old building that looked to be at least a century old. It stood three stories high with white stone pillars framing the steps up to the lobby where a busboy was quick to take Christopher's luggage from the two Stormbreaker crewmen that had been recruited to haul it to the old hotel. A cast iron chandelier hung in the lobby. Some time ago, the candles had been replaced by rare chips of brightstone that shone with steady white light. Similar stones had been ensconced above the reception desk, drawing attention to the well-polished candlesticks and portraits of the king and a man whom Timothy could only guess was the hotel's owner and manager. Upon seeing Timothy and Christopher enter, one of the men behind the desk hurried away and returned with the man in the second painting, retrieving him from a jovial conversation with a local businessmen, whom tipped his hat politely on the way out of the door.

  “Welcome, welcome,” the manager said, removing his hat and bowing graciously before his guests. “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of your company before, sir.”

  “I am Christopher Trammel, and this is my associate, Mr. Timothy Binks. We are traveling on business from Cahen.”

  “Wonderful then! It is rare that vessels from the capitol find their way so far from home,” the manager went on. “If you are not otherwise occupied I would extend an invitation to dine with us this evening, so that I might hear the latest news.”

  “Of course,” Christopher said. He offered his papers to the clerk and soon was signing the hotel's guest log.

  “I'm afraid we do not have any proper facilities for your gryphon,” the manager said, looking thoughtful. “I am sure something can be improvised however.”

  “Oh that's not at all necessary,” Timothy said, waving off the idea. “I will be staying with the ship. Someone's got to mind the crew.”

  “Of course, sir,” the manager said, with obvious disappointment in his voice. Timothy had no doubt that the man was estimating how full the hotel's dining room might be if it got out that a bridger from the capitol was supping there.

  “If it isn't too much trouble, I would join you and Christopher for dinner,” Timothy offered. The man brightened immediately.

  “Of course!”

  So it was settled. Once the manager had gone, Christopher turned his attention back to Timothy.

  "It is imperative to maintain the proper appearance, lest we draw unwanted attention," Christopher said in terse, hushed tones. "If you do not wish to be separated from your new pet, you may stay on the ship, but I must insist that you go and buy yourself a new suit of clothes. Something nice, with a bit of flash to it. Remember, we are here to investigate new business opportunities and try to open up a channel of trade with the dwarves."

  After leaving the Admiral's Inn, Timothy stopped first at a tailor to be fitted for a new coat. He selected one that looked to be on the cheaper end of what Christopher was likely to find acceptable, but still nice enough to pass muster. His shirt had become threadbare in several places so he added two new shirts and a pair of trousers to the order. The tailor promised to have the order ready by the following evening.

  Next was the print shop, which had a strong, dank smell of oiled metal and ink. A sign advertised mail delivery service for a small fee. Rates were posted for most of the nearby shards and a few important cities much further out. Letters to the capitol came at a premium. Part of the counter had been dedicated to use as a postal counter, with a small array of mailboxes mounted on the back wall. Here Timothy renewed his supply of ink and purchased what passed for a map of the island.

  "Going on an expedition?" the postmaster asked. He was getting on in years. His hair had thinned so much down the middle of his head that Timothy could almost see through to the man's scalp, but his handshake was still strong.

  Timothy folded the map up and slid it into the inner pocket of his coat. "We're looking to make contact with the dwarves. My business partner thinks it might be profitable to open a line of trade with them directly. I'm not as confident, but it's worth a look."

  The postmaster leaned back and looked up at the ceiling as he thought it over. He shrugged helplessly. "Never been down there myself. They're pleasant enough when they come to town. I've seen my lot of 'em. Coming in for mail to other dwarven kingdoms. They write in the strangest little letters."

  He produced one of them, sliding the sealed envelope across the smooth counter to where Timothy could get a look at it. The few letters he recognized spelled out the name of the dwarven realm that ought to receive the letter, and the rest was in an unfamiliar script comprised of runes made of sharp edges, as though the letters were more typically hewn into a stone slab than printed with quill and ink.

  "I haven't the slightest what it says," the postmaster said, putting it back into his bin. He seemed to think of something and turned back to Timothy apologetically. "Not that I'd be reading other people's private correspondence, naturally," he said with his hands up and waving.

  "Of course," Timothy said without judgment or predication.

  By the time the rest of the errands were finished, Timothy had acquired a small bundle of goods and the sun had sunk beneath the thickest part of the shardwall, beginning an early dusk stained with a soft medley of purple and blue light. As was his custom, he stopped in at a pub near the skyport to get the lay of the land and sample the local beer. The bartender served him a dwarven brew, brought up from the local valley. It had a thick, rich flavor and left his throat burning a little from the alcohol.

  "Straight from Dandallen's forge," the bartender said, grinning. Timothy considered himself fortunate to have found it so close to the source. Anywhere else and the bartender would likely have watered it down and, given the potency, most of their regulars would be unlikely to know the difference.

  Back on the street the sun had entered the twilight hour, when the sun had fallen fully behind the shardwall but not yet beyond the horizon of the world. For the duration, Nothnor would be bathed in a deep purple light, and the base of the shardwall gleamed as though caught up in a conflagration of violet flames. In the failing light, he threaded the streets back toward the skyport.

  Timothy had scarcely rounded the corner of the pub and traversed the boundary of its shadow, when footsteps rushed up behind him. He turned too late and the man caught
him from behind, trapping his right arm against his side and clamping a hand over his mouth. Timothy struggled, stamping on his assailant's foot as he was dragged into the alley. He stopped when he felt the cold sharpness of a dagger's edge pressed against the side of his throat.

  "You will tell me where you have stabled the gryphon," the attacker demanded.

  "What gryphon?" Timothy asked, smart enough to keep his voice quiet beneath the threat of the dagger. He never stopped shifting his weight subtly. It kept the mugger distracted but did not directly threaten him, which might encourage a more violent means of interrogation. Aebyn had returned to the ship some time back, as he was drawing more attention than Timothy wanted when trying to get a simple drink at the end of a long day.

  "My gryphon!" the man hissed. "I know you still have him, and stop that squirming!"

  The man flew into another tirade, delivering a steady stream of threats and colorful insults. This time he became so involved in decrying Timothy's name that he began to wave the dagger around in animated fashion, trusting his hostage to remain so enamored with his words as to not seize the opportunity. He was wrong.

  Timothy threw all of his weight into twisting away, bringing an elbow up into the man's chest as he seized the dagger-hand and tore at his captor's fingers to free the blade. The blade came out and clattered to the ground as the man staggered back, disarmed. Timothy snatched the dagger up and turned it slowly in his hand, getting the feel of it as he faced his enemy.

  “Go,” Timothy ordered hoarsely, pointing the dagger's tip at him. The blade gleamed silver in the moonlight. “Now.”

  To Timothy's surprise, the mugger did not turn and run. Instead he simply lifted his hand and stretched it toward him. Red light glimmered across his fingertips. Timothy's eyes shot wide open. He had scant seconds to react as a fireball sparked to life and then bore down on him with the unforgiving fury of a comet crashing down. Life and death stood inches apart as Timothy slipped by the fireball and charged up the alley. Cast in concealment, another fireball burned straight through the man's cloak and nearly caught Timothy full in the chest as he closed the distance. Timothy twisted out of the way and spun through, jamming the dagger into the man's side, burying it in flesh up to the crossguard.

  Shocked, the mugger staggered back, pulling the blood-slicked hilt from Timothy's hand. He looked down at the wound with a deathly pale face and pulled the weapon from his side. His hand trembled as he held up the dripping blade. It tumbled from his fingertips and clattered on the cobblestones. Even in the dark of the alley, Timothy could make out the spreading stain beneath the man's shoulder.

  The mugger clutched at his wound, blood seeping out between his fingertips as he limped toward the street. Timothy debated briefly whether to stop him, but the decision was rendered obsolete as the wounded man stumbled and slumped against the wall, sinking all the way to the ground with a quiet groan. He died a minute later with wide-eyed Timothy looking on at him, incredulous.

  "For a gryphon!" Timothy pleaded with a man who could utter no defense. "You were going to kill me for a gryphon?!"

  Timothy's shoulder began to ache. He leaned against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. He tried to cool his spinning head by turning his temple against the cold stone wall. His coat smelled of ashes, and his shirt felt thin across his chest. The fireball's closeness had scorched the fabric and as he brushed at it, the outer layer flecked away and left a sooty residue on his fingertips. To his relief, both fireballs had smouldered away to nothing on the empty street, a faint trace of smoke memorializing them.

  A moment passed as he caught his breath. He didn't have long, he was sure. Someone would have seen the fires. He knelt over the man, searching for whatever trinket had produced the flames. His trouser pockets were empty. Jacket pockets had papers. A blood-soaked letter went quickly into Timothy's own pockets.

  Who was he? How did he know about Aebyn? He wasn't one of the crew of the Wild Hawk. Had one of them told someone that Aebyn had stayed behind? Timothy fished a set of papers out of the other jacket pocket. The man's name was written neatly across an envelope bearing the king's seal: Samuel Raimes.

  The gravity of the situation washed over Timothy like a heavy rain, dragging him to his knees over the dead man's cooling body.

  "Night Warden preserve me..." Timothy whispered to the dark night sky. He had killed a bridger.

  * * *

  "You knifed a bridger? Are you out of your mind?!" Christopher asked for a second time. The first had come out much louder, prompting Timothy to hush his friend and look anxiously toward the door. Even in the captain's quarters there was no promise that voices might not carry out onto the deck and theirs was a business in which loyalty came by pay, and the royal police force paid well for murderers of bridgers. It was a matter of time before Fletcher Street arrived.

  "It's just like I told you. He had me at knife point, wanted to know where Aebyn was, and when I got away he tried to kill me with a fireball."

  "You should not have had a bridger's gryphon in the first place," Christopher scolded. He took to pacing back and forth across the very short distance that his quarters afforded him.

  "How was I supposed to know he was the bridger?" Timothy asked.

  Christopher seized up and wheeled around, red-faced and furious. "For one, he was looking for his gryphon! Gryphon, what do you have to say about this?

  Aebyn, who had been largely silent since Timothy's return to the ship, looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at since the argument began. He had said little more than "Oh," and "I understand," when Timothy explained what had happened, concluding with the death of Samuel Raimes. He had taken on a pensive look, which he had not shed until Christopher addressed him directly. His eyes lit up, shining with that soft blue light Timothy had grown accustomed to seeing in them.

  “I am a lighthound,” he announced with pride. “I belong to no man, bridger or otherwise. Samuel Raimes deserted his post. I will not shed tears for him.”

  Christopher dragged his hand down his face and groaned at the ceiling. “How many other bridgers know you were coming this way?”

  Timothy shook his head in disbelief. The instruments of his fate all began to fall into place. Raimes had abandoned the crew of the Wild Hawk in their hour of need and his gryphon had stayed at post. Shame and desperation had brought him to the alleyway in Nothnor, where his body lay cooling in the crisp night air. The presence of such a rare creature among the Stormbreaker's ranks made it an easy vessel to track down.

  "A bridger," Christopher repeated numbly. "We're as good as hanged!"

  This brought alarm to Aebyn's eyes. "Hanged? Why would Timothy be hanged? Raimes attacked him! He must protect himself. Surely the royal police will understand. We should take the case directly to Fletcher Street!"

  Timothy reached down and rubbed between Aebyn's ears. "I am afraid they may not believe my word over a bridger's corpse," he confessed.

  "Maybe the Night Warden will drag him away?" Aebyn suggested, eyes bright. He seemed to believe it might really happen. Were things really that bad? Was his best hope that the mythical guardian of lost souls might come and drag away the corpse of a dead nobleman?

  Christopher plucked his hat from the hook and jammed it onto his head.

  "No," he said. "No, we are not trusting in the Seven to hide a body for us. Timothy, lets go. Gryphon, stay here. We're going to bury Samuel Raimes."

  In the darkest hours of the night, Christopher and Timothy returned to the tavern to retrieve Raimes' body. Timothy had dragged him behind a stack of empty wine crates where he might not be found and left him in as dignified a manner as he could think during the panicked moments before he fled to the safe harbor of the Stormbreaker. Raimes was where he had left him, lying in repose behind the crates. His face had gone pale in the interim and his scowl had gone, replaced with the placid indifference of death.

  "Keep watch on the road," Christopher said, kneeling over Raimes' corpse.
>
  Timothy went to the edge of the alleyway and looked up and down the darkened street while Christopher set to work on the body, checking the dead man's pockets and removing his rings and boots. Together they wrapped him in sailcloth and bore him out of the city under cover of a moonless night. A thicket of trees served as the final resting place of Sir Samuel Raimes.

  By morning, Timothy's bones ached with the pervasive exhaustion of a sleepless night made all the worse by the hard labor of digging a grave with a single shovel. Taking turns to rest and keep watch, the two had barely finished the deed as the sun came up. Timothy's shirt was still stained with grime, dirt, and sweat as he lumbered halfheartedly up the gangplank onto the Stormbreaker's deck, and withdrew to his quarters beneath the forecastle to change clothes and clean up the last traces of his encounter with the bridger.

  "Did he suffer long...?" Aebyn asked quietly when Timothy was cleaned and dressed.

  Immediately Timothy stopped buttoning his shirt and looked into the gryphon's eyes for some sign of what he might be feeling. The creature's fixed beak could not carry a smile or a frown, but his emotions were plainly visible in the posture of his ears and eyes. Regret stooped his posture til his face pointed toward the floor; Worry kept his head in motion, anxious and unresting; Lastly sorrow brought its sad sheen to his youthful eyes.

  "No, Not long at all," Timothy said, stroking Aebyn's neck with a still-trembling hand. "Otherwise I would have gone to fetch a surgeon."

  For a moment he thought to speak some words of comfort to Aebyn, but felt they would only ring hollow. Samuel Raimes had demonstrated himself to be of the worst sort of character. Timothy was sorry for the pain the brigand's death had brought to Aebyn and it struck him as perverse that he was both Aebyn's caretaker and now the killer of one he clearly still held some feeling of affection or loyalty to, despite his sins.

  Graciously, Aebyn did not pursue the matter further and simply nodded before returning to the foot of the bed where he sat in quiet thought with his head hanging a little, waiting for Timothy to finish readying himself to meet with Christopher.