by J. S. Morin
The guards at the gate were smitten with her. They stumbled over their own tongues before letting her pass without learning either her name or her purpose. She felt no guilt for bewitching their wits; she considered it a courtesy that she even allowed them to see her. The encounter with the enchanting stranger would be the talk of taverns for months, and the story would serve as fair repayment for their dereliction.
The guards at the palace door were the formal sort. They carried swords at their belts instead of the smoke-powder cannons carried by the soldiers at the gate, and their uniforms were starched until they could be used as cutting boards. Both were fine specimens of the old Kheshi bloodline, tall, broad-shouldered, square of jaw. Despite the fresh-shaven faces and a sniff of perfume to the air around them, they were the sort who had earned their positions by military prowess.
“State your business,” the leftmost guard said.
Illiardra noticed his gaze drifting down her, and lifted it with a finger beneath his chin. “I am here to speak with your emperor.”
The guard flinched away from her touch, which he seemed not to have minded until she spoke. “We have no emperor, who are you?”
“Empress?” Illiardra realized she might have done well to have researched the empire before visiting its ruler. It just seemed that she had the right to speak with whomever she chose.
“You should go.”
Illiardra smiled, and the guard’s stoic demeanor softened. “State your business.” He was suddenly oblivious to having spoken to her just a moment before.
A harp appeared from nothingness, tucking itself beneath Illiardra’s arm. “I am a musician, here to play at court.”
“I’m terribly sorry, miss,” the guard said. “You should enter through the servants’ tunnels, around the north side of the palace. This is for official guests and dignitaries.”
“Thank you so much,” she replied. “If you would be so good as to escort me in?”
“Of course,” the guard replied. His companion moved from a flanking position to a central one behind them, as if nothing was amiss. Illiardra could have been a princess or a warlord for all either of the guards cared at that moment. In truth, she was far greater than they could imagine. It was only fitting that she be treated accordingly, even if they didn’t know better.
The halls had been redecorated since her last visit. She supposed that it had been over a hundred years since her last visit, so it stood to reason. Here or there she noted a painting or a vase that looked familiar, but everything had been repainted, reupholstered, and refurnished in the interim. The eyes of palace staff members were drawn to her; she had always had that effect on mortals, she found. They were just perceptive enough creatures to note that there was something extraordinary about her, but not enough that they could put words to how they knew, or what in particular caught in their minds.
The imperial audience chamber was so much like the one in Kadris, seat of the Kadrin Empire of Veydrus, she knew that some architect in bygone days had been twinborn. There was no other explanation for the similarities in style and adornment. The vaulted ceiling, the placement of the support pillars, even the number and width of steps up to the dais upon which the throne sat, all were identical.
Illiardra slipped away from her befuddled escort, and allowed him to return to his duties with a hazy recollection of having performed some needed task. With no introduction, she started to play her harp. There had been no plan in her mind when she had conjured it, but now that she had the instrument in her hands, she felt the need to sing.
“Who are you, and—” a royal advisor of some sort managed to spew before his jaw went slack, and his eyes glazed over. Illiardra was kalanoi by birth, a spirit of the forests, fey and magical by nature. Her words held the court in thrall. The song told the Kheshis of their own ancestors, of times long past and heroes and villains whose legends had faded into myth before being forgotten entirely by mortals.
That evening would prove to be one that none of the court could recall. They would remember the songs, and the emotions they stirred, taking with them a feeling of being a part of something greater. It was a legacy that they deserved, to know who they are by who they had been. Her stories told of strange creatures that had once shared the world with humans, and over whom humanity had failed.
There was one name that she made sure she left them. Neither subtle hint nor vague allusion would hide the name of Tallax from them—the man who had won Tellurak for humanity, and left the world to search out others. His was a myth while he was still a man, and an unbelievable fiction since his passing. Illiardra knew Tallax, and this fact of knowing she instilled in the Kheshis.
“This place makes Korr look primitive,” Juliana whispered as she leaned across the table. She sat across from Kyrus, each with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of pastries in front of them. The seats of their booth were covered in a shining red material that was neither leather nor fabric. The table had a painted pattern trapped beneath a layer of some clear substance that wasn’t glass. In fact, nearly everything seemed not to be made of what it first appeared to be. The restaurant around them was packed with people, many of them vying for spots near the window that took up an entire wall. From their booth, the two of them could see the efficient core of government workers, fighting back a tide of chaos. Red and blue lights flashed atop self-propelled metal carriages, disgorging more uniformed officers to keep the crowds at bay.
Their arrival had garnered some attention.
“Hey, how was I supposed to know they’d have machines that could detect a transference spell?” Kyrus asked. “At least they can’t seem to use them to find us. If they could, they’d be in here already, instead of sending people into the lobby of that massive inn.”
The buildings were something that Kyrus could just not get over. The Tower of Contemplation in Kadris had been eleven stories tall. The inn they had arrived at was thirty-five stories, and there were buildings in every direction that dwarfed it. Not only that, but it seemed to be built entirely of metal and glass, without even the simplest of magics for protection. There was nothing but clever architecture holding it up, which he couldn’t say for the Tower of Contemplation.
A woman in an apron stopped by their table, carrying a glass carafe filled with coffee. She babbled a question in the local language, and Kyrus answered her with nonsensical noises. She never heard a word of it, assuming he had just confirmed that he did indeed want his cup refilled.
“I had hoped they’d speak arcane at least,” Kyrus said as the woman left.
“Well, maybe some do, but I’d stick to Kadrin until we decide who to talk to,” Juliana replied.
Kyrus chuckled. “You actually sound worried. What are they going to do to us? Lock us up as madmen? I’d like to see them try.”
“I wouldn’t,” Juliana replied. “This place would seem a whole lot safer if half the truncheons in the world hadn’t just shown up to figure out what happened when we arrived.”
“I get the feeling that this city could take in the population of Kadris and just call it a festival day. Look at the size of everything. And are you looking at the skies? I’ve seen three airships go by flying faster than a pistol shot, and twice the size of anything Korr ever put aloft.”
“All the more reason to be careful.”
Kyrus waved her worries aside and took a sip of his coffee. It was a strange flavor, but not a bad one. He was willing to have a try at developing a taste for it. “I think it’s a people like this that wrote those books. Rudimentary understanding of magic at best. They can tap into the aether, but they use machines to do it. I don’t think they can hurt us.”
“I’m counting on you, Mr. I’m-Not-Tallax. If these people turn against us, you’re dealing with them.”
“I haven’t figured a way to tell for certain, but I’m guessing that you’ve got a stronger Source bottled up inside you than all but a few of those demons in Podawei Wood. You’ll be fine.”
Juliana
pursed her lips. “You sure about that?”
“Nope,” Kyrus replied with a grin. “But we won’t let that keep us from enjoying ourselves here for a few days.”
“A few days?” Juliana asked. “After the trip we just took to get here?”
“Hey, it was me doing the hard part finding our way. And yes, for now just a short visit. Until the war of three worlds is ended, I need to make sure none of the others do too much harm.”
“What do you think they’re up to?” Juliana took a sip of her coffee.
Kyrus shrugged and reached for a cinnamon pastry. “Most of them are probably sitting around that far-seeing pond, watching like it’s a theater show. A few of the brave ones might be sneaking around in mortal form, trying not to reveal themselves.”
Chapter 8
“If you find yourself in a world with class five technology or better, just find paid lodgings.” –Traveler’s Companion: Finding or Building Shelter
Harwick’s manor home was tucked away behind evergreen shrubs and a wrought iron fence with stone pillars. For a man of his prominence it was quaint, not even a quarter the size of the Errol home on Tinker’s Island. The gate stood closed, manned by a pair of sleepy guards keeping one another awake with idle chatter. They defended a well-liked and respected man of modest outward means, a public servant who held a reputation as a man who looked out for the people. Their job was mostly for form’s sake.
On that night, they had no way of knowing that they allowed an intruder past them without the faintest hope of stopping her. Had Rynn stopped by the gate, a brief exchange would have resulted in her being allowed entry, but she was a busy woman, and even a brief exchange was more time than she was willing to fritter away. She had scanned the whole structure before departing. There was a guest bedroom and two smaller, lived-in rooms that appeared to be servants’ quarters, but that night all were vacant. The only one at home was Dunston Harwick, expert translator of Veydran texts. He sat by a cold fireplace, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. He didn’t perk up at the presence of the viewframe until it opened.
“Hello there,” Harwick greeted her, raising his glass. “You must be Madlin Errol. Haven’t seen you since … oh you were probably seven or eight years old, tagging along after your father at the clock tower.”
“You must be Dunston Harwick, the man who’s going to tell me what these books say,” Rynn replied. She saw no reason to get into the nitpicking details of her identity. The man had been twinborn, and was likely one of the ones who conflated twins.
“So what’s that place?” he asked, gesturing with his half-full glass. “Doesn’t look like where your father took me last night.”
“We keep our operation dispersed. Our enemies have the same devices, and if they discover the location of one, it’s as good as wiped out. We can’t keep all our key personnel together. That’s my airship through there.” She turned to the world-hole. “It’s all clear. Come on through.”
Sosha stepped into view, arms piled with books. “This is my friend Sosha,” Rynn said as Sosha set the stack of books down on a decorative table, gently shoving aside a vase.
“Charmed,” Harwick said, leaning forward to bow in lieu of standing. He narrowed one eye at her. “Takalish … maybe a bit of Kheshi blood.”
Sosha shrank back. “How could you tell?”
Harwick shrugged. “Simple observation, applies to years of experience. Your skin isn’t dark enough for you to be pureblooded Takalish. Cheekbones were my best guess at the Kheshi in you. Now, how about we have a look at those books?”
Rynn took the first book from the pile and handed it to Harwick, who held it at arm’s length until he fished a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket. “What’s the title?” she asked.
Harwick chuckled. “Is this a jest? It says Traveler’s Companion – Basic Survival. Is this what Cadmus Errol thinks will win him a war?”
“Try another,” Rynn said, picking the next book from the stack.
“Traveler’s Companion—I suspect it is the name of the series—Finding or Building Shelter.”
“Wait, this one I know is important.” Rynn dug through the pile and handed Harwick the book that had given birth to the world-rippers.
“Transport Gate,” said Harwick. “Now that one sounds a little more promising.”
“It ought to,” Rynn replied. “That’s what we used to cobble the world-rippers together.”
Harwick leafed through the pages. “I may have judged prematurely. Maybe those first two books are rubbish, but this one … they’re written as if they expect a traveler between worlds to end up stranded. This one is to try to find a way off-world. It advises that it may not be possible with local resources—top marks to your father, then—but that the machine it describes ought to get you back to your own world—which presumably is neither yours nor mine.”
“Presumably. Point being though, you can read this.”
Harwick flourished a languid hand. “As if it were Acardian. But I find it strange it you had to go to such troubles to find someone who could read arcane text. Any Academy student could manage it.”
“Let’s just say that you came recommended, and we’ve had worries about who to trust with it,” Rynn replied.
“Oh?” Harwick asked. “Who sent you my way? I’ve been dreadfully out of touch since my network of twinborn was dashed against the rocks. I’d almost managed to convince myself that Veydrus was some vivid dream.”
“She said her name was Juliana,” Rynn replied. “I assume you know her.”
“Know her? She was married off to my nephew. Clever girl, not much of a lady, but willing to roll up her sleeves and put a blade in someone. She was a coinblade on this side. Temper like a volcano. So yes, I know her.”
“Well, she’s the one who said you could help us,” Rynn replied. “I’m sure you’re still willing.”
“Hah! If Juliana is still around and watching me like a vulture, I’d best help you … if I know what’s good for me,” Harwick said. “I used to have some leverage with her in Kadrin, me being part of the Inner Circle and all, but now I’m just an old, old sorcerer, too feeble to be putting myself between her and what she wants. Have you, perhaps, heard anything about Kyrus?”
“Who’s Kyrus?”
Harwick shrugged. “No relation in this world, but his twin was another nephew of mine in Veydrus. Might have liked to know how the boy was doing. If Juliana was around, I suspected he might be as well.”
“Juliana mentioned a husband.”
Harwick sniffed. “Figures. The two of them weren’t likely to part short of death.”
“How long is it going to take you to translate these?” Sosha asked. “It looks like an awful lot of work.”
“Oh, a few days, I imagine. I fully intend to cheat.”
“Cheat?” Rynn asked.
Harwick lifted a finger and beckoned. Another book from the pile rose of its own accord and drifted into Harwick’s waiting hand. “It’s one of the benefits of sorcery.”
Madlin sat at the desk of her goblin-run prison, scribbling humdrum Korrish conveniences across a sheet of shoddy vellum. She had started them with basic tool-making, which would make subsequent work easier. Ratchets, wood screws, hand-cranked drills, and toggle pliers all scattered about the surface on their own sheets. Her current page contained her best recollection of Jamile’s surgical tools; it seemed like years since she had drawn those for her machinists to fabricate, but the shapes and functions came easily from hand to paper with little thought.
In the privacy of her own head, Madlin worked out more complex details. Rynn had made a promise, and Madlin had the time to keep it properly. In her head she altered the concept to use a modified Yokker A-179 liftwing to suit Anzik’s needs. It was a dual-wing design, and the upper and lower wing attachment points would give the hull the stability it needed to bolt to the side of one of the primitive Megrenn sailing ships. It would take two of them at a minimum to get an airship moving under the powe
r of the little liftwings, and the speed would be nothing like what the Yokker A-179 could manage on its own, but it could outrun the wind. That was something that the Megrenn airships couldn’t do except for short bursts aided by magic.
The best part about using the Yokker A-179 was that they were no longer seen as fit for military use. The design was a failed attempt to build an armored liftwing. They were bulky and sluggish to turn, and the guns they carried had to be lightweight to compensate. It had never been good enough for Ruttania or Grangia to have a bunch of airborne bricks plinking shots off one another’s hulls. Ever since the introduction of the Yokker D-19, the A-179s had been relegated to civilian uses, where sturdiness and reliability were valued over the ability to take armaments aloft. For Madlin’s purposes, civilians were easier to rob.
Rynn had her hands full, so Madlin was glad to have found a raw ship hull that was easily obtained. Someone else could plan the raid to boost a few. Hayfield could handle something so straightforward. The former crashballer would just need a few soldiers for crowd control as the civilian aerodrome staff scattered. The rest of the squad could be mechanics, disassembling the wings to fit the lift-wings through a world-hole. After the disaster of their only prior liftwing heist, Madlin had resolved not to try to fly stolen airships to the Jennai; there was simply too much risk involved. One day, she would work out the parameters for upscaled viewframes, and bring liftwings through intact. In the meantime, the heist might be a perfect opportunity to get a certain someone a bit of practical experience with little risk.
Kupe, you can finally get on a heist that’s more than just filling up the larders. Madlin chuckled, drawing the attention of both her guards. One chittered to the other in their own language, and jerked on her chain. Her mood soured in an instant, and she had to fight back the urge to yank the offending guard from his feet. Of course, the other could still use the chain to shock her, and no one would be happy in the end. She sighed and turned her attention back to the page, trying to ignore the two goblins.