He actually enjoyed the quiet walk across the city of Guntur himself. It turned out that men important enough to rate bodyguards were seldom alone. In fact, over the last few months Gutch’s rapidly expanding household had collected not just bodyguards, but also a personal secretary, four slaves, a chef, a food taster to make sure nobody tried to poison him, he’d had affairs with two different mistresses, was working on a possible third, and he’d even purchased some racing horses, as well as a couple of supposedly well-trained war dogs to watch out for assassins, though mostly those beasts just sat around, eating huge quantities of his food and leaving even bigger piles of dung upon his expensive rugs.
So it turned out that the life of a rich man was seldom a lonely one. Yet for this particular meeting, Gutch had decided to come alone. As far as his household was concerned, his money had been earned through proper legal channels…not illegal magic smuggling. That sort of distasteful business was frowned upon by all right-thinking sorts, and also Inquisitors who in his experience were all very angry all the time.
He had sold enough demon in the underground markets of Kharsawan to stimulate the entire economy. It wasn’t like he needed more money, but Gutch had to admit that the message he’d received had made him rather curious.
Very few people knew that he had been an associate of Ashok Vadal. Most of those were off being fanatical rebellious criminal types, and not inclined to blackmail someone they considered an associate. Or they were murderous magical assassins, and if Sikasso’s bunch found him…well, that lot would be far more inclined to saw his head off in revenge than to try and extort banknotes from him.
So it was curiosity mostly that had brought Gutch to this factory on the outskirts of the worker district late that night. The note had not mentioned blackmail specifically—only an unspecified opportunity—but for what reason other than blackmail would someone tell him that they knew his real name, that he had ridden with the Sons of the Black Sword, that he still had time to serve for a prison sentence in Great House Vadal, and that they wished to have a clandestine meeting to discuss such things?
Now normally, that sort of message meant it was time to run, but the other downside of being a man of wealth and status was that he had accumulated a lot of stuff and simply didn’t want to leave it all behind. He still had sacks full of banknotes ready in case he needed to flee in case of emergency, but Gutch was enjoying his newfound luxury, and frankly didn’t really want to start over again somewhere else. So he’d brought some bribery money, and also his decorative walking stick—which actually had a steel rod for a core—just in case he needed to bludgeon someone to death.
The factory was small, but still open even at this late hour. Workers were coming and going. Curious, if the blackmailer intended for this meeting to remain a secret. The sign said that their business was toolmaking.
A well-dressed woman met him at the entrance. She was probably around forty years old, but still rather easy on the eyes for a woman of such advanced age, and rather well kept up, in fine silks, makeup, and fashionably styled hair. Gutch reflexively smiled. Even with multiple mistresses half this woman’s age, Gutch was by nature a charmer.
Apparently, so was she. “I was told to expect a man of magnificent height and proud girth, so this must be Gutch, forge master smith of Vadal City.”
“Forge Master Gutch is an artisan of some fame.” He looked around to make sure no one else was close enough to hear them over the banging and rattling coming from inside the factory. “I would never dare claim such honors. I am merely Vinod, a humble merchant, who recently moved to these Kharsawan lands to purchase a vineyard.”
She laughed as if all that was a very funny joke. Then she beckoned him to come through the doorway. As she did so, he noticed for the first time the precious jewel on her sash denoting her office. She was a banker…the highest possible status of the worker caste. Everybody needed notes. Capitol bankers were the ones who printed them and loaned them out to the great houses, making hers a very important office indeed. Bankers had more money than most judges—a fact which certainly pissed off the first caste—surely one of them wouldn’t need to blackmail the likes of him.
Also, she had magic on her person. A great deal of it too. Gutch had always had a gift for sensing such things. This was real, irreplaceable black steel too, not the more common but inferior demon.
“I am intrigued,” Gutch said aloud.
“I knew you would be. That’s why I left you that cryptic message. Now come along, time is short. Hurry, hurry.”
Curious, Gutch followed her into the factory, where a crew of eight men were sitting at workbenches, using hand files to shape small metal parts. That old familiar stink—metal, fire, and oil—struck his nostrils and brought joy to his heart. That was the smell of creation.
“You are an interesting man, Gutch. I keep my eye on interesting people. However, you didn’t come to my attention for a very long time because you weren’t part of the prediction. I knew others had a part to play, each one vital, like the little parts in these machines. You, being an anomaly, weren’t interesting to me until you fell in with the warrior Jagdish.”
He had absolutely no idea what the attractive banker was blathering on about. “You know Jagdish?”
“We have never met, but I still follow the progress of all the interesting people. Jagdish is a mighty phontho now.”
“Really?” Gutch laughed. It was amazing the man was still alive! “That madman pulled it off then. Good for him!”
“Oh yes. He has a very important part to play in what’s coming, a very important part indeed. As do you, I belatedly realized. As does everyone who has come into contact with Ashok Vadal in fact.”
“Well, me and the Black Heart aren’t exactly chums…More temporary business associates of convenience.”
“No matter. Ashok is a vortex of instability. He is the avalanche. He is the flood, the tornado, and the wildfire. Which is why you must help him once more.”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on now. I’ve experienced plenty of fiery floods and whatnot already. I’m a man of leisure and prosperity now, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“You say that, but you don’t mean it.” She just shook her head and grinned. “Ah, silly Gutch. You’d grow bored just lying about, and deep down you know it. There’s work for you to do. Every part of the great machine needs to fit together in order to function.”
He thought she might be touched in the head. “What machine are you talking about?”
“The greatest one of all. I am but an engineer. My duty is to make things work, because if our plan doesn’t, then one of our competitors’ plans will. To the fanatics, I have to appeal to their faith. To the warriors, their pride. But for you, a man of business, I can be direct. How would you like to become the wealthiest man in Lok?”
He laughed. “Who wouldn’t?”
“A great many people actually. As I was trying to explain, every piece has unique motivations, and I must know them so I can coax them into place. You are the consummate example of the worker caste, seeking perfection in his craft, and of course, a corresponding reward. So I can just pay you.”
“Wait…You’re serious?”
They’d been walking through the workshop the whole time and had reached the back wall. Without explanation, she reached up and pulled down hard on one protruding brick. There was a creak of hinges as a secret door opened. It had been rather well concealed, even to his experienced eye. The odd banker shoved it back, revealing a hidden storage room.
Gutch gasped when he saw the contents. “Saltwater, woman!”
There were racks and racks of Fortress rods, wood and steel, dozens of the deadly things. With a shock, he looked back at the workbenches, and realized that the pieces they were filing to fit were parts for the weapons. They were building them here. In Lok. On the mainland.
“There’s a great upheaval coming, Gutch, the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since the days of Ramrowan. You were
a smuggler, which means you know the underworld and its trade. You understand how to move illicit goods from one place to another. But more importantly you were a forge master. Most people don’t realize what that means, but I do. You’re a maker, a builder, but more importantly, you’re a leader who can teach others to build things. I have plans, simplified for ease of manufacture. I have banknotes to speed things along. Now I require someone who can expand this operation.”
His mind was still reeling at the sheer, brazen, out-of-her-bleeding-mind, audacious illegality of the whole thing. It took him a moment to catch up with the madwoman’s words. “Expand? Where?”
“Everywhere, Gutch. I’ve already started, but there is still so much work to do.”
“Who in the oceans are you?”
“A good question. You may call me Mother Dawn.”
Chapter 45
The warrior Bharatas rode Khurdan all the way across Akershan to the great house in MaDharvo. He was thin and malnourished. His injuries had not become infected, but they were healing slowly, and he still suffered from a near-constant headache.
At least the pain and hunger helped distract him from the grief, because it was easy for his thoughts to turn back to how his parents and sisters had all been killed during the occupation of Chakma, put to the sword for not bowing to a religious fanatic. Their fate left him sad, but also proud, because he came from a stubborn line.
Bharatas had nowhere else to go. His defeated paltan had ceased to exist. The phontho he had been obligated to bodyguard had been taken as a hostage, and then killed himself in shame after being released. So south he had rode.
The entire long journey he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t seeing large numbers of troops moving north to annihilate the rebels once and for all, but the plains seemed empty. It should have been obvious by now that things were not going well in the northern provinces. Surely someone else must have delivered the report to their Thakoor by now. Their bearer should have been dispatched to defeat Ashok Vadal at least.
As a warrior without obligation, he hoped to come across a unit that he could offer his services to. He had been defeated and his unit disgraced, but he was still a superb horseman, and better with a sword than almost anyone in his house. Warriors from the southern barracks would need someone to guide them in the north, and no one knew the land between Chakma and the Dharvan Bench better than he did.
It wasn’t until he reached the outskirts of the MaDharvo that he found out why the army wasn’t marching. The guards at the checkpoint were glad to share the grim rumor that their bearer had been accidentally kicked in the head by his horse…a very ignominious fate in a land of riders. Supposedly, he had been lying unconscious in his chambers, wasting away all summer.
The Thakoor couldn’t just have the man suffocated or starved, because their ancestor blade might take offense at such a dishonorable end for its bearer and shatter itself. So the house slaves were keeping him alive. Rather than mobilize to fight the rebels, the phonthos and every high-status warrior of the southern garrisons were waiting for their bearer to perish. If they were off campaigning against rebels they wouldn’t be around to try and pick up the sword. Glory in battle was one thing, but there was no glory higher, or status greater, than becoming a bearer.
As he was told this news, a terrible black fury descended upon Bharatas. His family had been butchered by fanatics. The northern garrisons had been decimated by poison, ambush, and Fortress weapons, yet were still being expected to massacre all their casteless. All while these warriors, his supposed brothers, were sitting here fat and comfortable, waiting around for a man in a coma to slowly perish, just for the one in a thousand chance his sword might pick one of them to wield it.
His rage made the pain in his skull grow even worse. That throbbing curse was a constant reminder that Ashok Vadal had defeated him and left him to die on the plains. Ashok Vadal was the reason his unit had been destroyed, and the reason his family had been butchered by criminals. And Ashok Vadal was still alive because Bharatas’ house was diseased with greed and cowardice.
A man in a coma could live for years. The northern provinces did not have years.
He didn’t even have a family left to bring shame to, so his decision was an easy one to make. He lied his way into the great house’s walls, saying that he had an important message from his phontho for the Thakoor’s ears only. No one here knew of his old master’s suicide, and Bharatas still had his traveling papers and password, so they let him in.
Once inside the walls, Bharatas took Khurdan to the stables. Even the city folk of MaDharvo hadn’t forgotten the old ways, so their steeds came first. He was fine with dying, but he wanted to make sure his loyal companion would be cared for after he was executed. As a warhorse she was certain to go to a new home. She was far more valuable than he was…All Bharatas had left to live for was revenge and his horse, so once he was certain Khurdan would be fine, he entered the great house.
It wouldn’t do for a messenger to go before the Thakoor smelling of weeks of travel, so he was taken to the baths. As soon as the servants took their eyes off him, Bharatas snuck out. In a quiet corridor he grabbed a house slave, and by knife point, demanded to be guided to the bearer’s chambers.
There were two warriors posted on the bedroom door. It wouldn’t have mattered if there were a hundred, he still would have went for it. He shoved the slave girl into the guards and attacked in a berserk rage. With surprise and fury on his side, he quickly dropped both guards, but it made a lot of noise. There wouldn’t be much time before a horde of warriors descended on this place.
Once inside the bearer’s bedroom, with strength born of desperation he shoved a heavy wardrobe in front of the door to buy some time.
The bearer must have been a proud warrior once, but he had shrunk to nothing since his injury. It was more skeleton than man lying in the bed before him, but his chest was still rising and falling, and upon it rested the sheathed form of Akerselem. Bharatas had never seen the famous sword in person before, but every warrior in their house knew of its legend.
It was said that a dishonorable death would cause an ancestor blade to shatter, but it could not be honorable for a warrior to rot, helpless like this. Bharatas was terrified that the constant pain in his head was making him do something stupid, but he couldn’t turn back now. Seizing an ancestor blade in an honorable duel was one thing. There was nothing honorable about this. It was like putting down a horse with a broken leg.
The guards began smashing the door open.
It was said that when a warrior took up an unclaimed ancestor blade, it measured their worth. If the sword found them lacking, it would cause the warrior to cut themselves. The more displeased the sword was, the more damage it inflicted. It wasn’t unusual for dozens of warriors to die or dismember themselves before an ancestor blade chose its next bearer.
He reached for the sword, and then hesitated. “Mighty Akerselem, I am Bharatas, son of Arun. I know I’m not worthy to be your bearer. I have been defeated in battle. I have not kept my obligations. The man I was supposed to protect cut his own throat because of my failure. I expect you to kill me for daring to pick you up, and that is all I deserve. Please do not break, for you are wasted here guarding this husk of a man. I attempt to draw you in order to force my brothers to act. Your people in the north are in danger. A rogue bearer named Ashok Vadal has brought blood and terror to our lands, and only you can defeat him.”
Splinters flew as a war hammer knocked a hole through the door. Warriors shouted for him to stop.
“If you do not slay me here and now, then I vow that I will use you to kill Ashok Vadal.”
Bharatas seized Akerselem.
It found him worthy.
Chapter 46
The Chief Judge was still a powerful orator when he put his mind to it.
“This trial for the so-called Great Extermination has proven a failure. Every good thing Arbiter Artya assured this chamber would happen has not happened. Ins
tead it has been a curse upon our people. Respect for the Law has not increased. It has declined. The rebellion was not destroyed. It has grown. Thousands of disobedient casteless were killed, but their foolish ways have spread to millions in the lands of every other house, including those which had no issues with their non-people before. Casteless, usually dull minded and manageable, have turned into desperate, wild beasts once they believed they were cornered. For even the most docile of animals will struggle once they realize they’ve been led into the slaughterhouse.”
The chamber was quiet for once. No one dared interrupt or jeer. He rarely spoke, and because of that rarity, his words were powerful. Tonight, the Chief Judge had called them to account.
“The earlier studies saying the casteless would be easily culled in a single season have proven overly optimistic. This endeavor has cost us greatly, in notes, and in lives. Some here have argued that we are now committed to this Great Extermination, that we must finish what we have started. I would respond that when a man has departed on a journey, when he realizes that he has climbed up the wrong hill, he turns back, and rights his course. He does not continue blundering in the wrong direction to the incorrect destination out of stubbornness.
“Do not let pride chain you to your previous mistakes. Do not let your disgust of the unclean animals who live beneath our society blind you. Search your hearts and you will see that I am right. Voting to return to the correct path does not make you weak. It does not make you a casteless lover as some here have vilely insinuated. As many of you know I have a beautiful garden in this city. I do not like weeds, but when I find one I do not burn the entire garden down! No. I have my servants carefully remove the bad plants to protect the fruit and flowers. I do not like moles and pests, but when they nibble at my cabbage I do not have my servants dig up everything and salt the ground. I let loose a cat. And anyone who insinuated the master of that garden was a lover of weeds and vermin would be immediately dismissed by all right-thinking men as a hyperbolic imbecile.”
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