by J. S. Morin
The boy sorcerer’s eyes glazed over and a madman’s gleam crept into them. His grin gave the old daruu a chill. “Excellent. Please … lead the way.” Danilaesis stepped around the table and stood at the opening of the world-hole, sweeping an arm toward the controls beyond as if he were bellboy at the entrance of a hotel.
Kezudkan looked to the successor and the Pillar of Runes for guidance. He was leery of the boy sorcerer, and better understood the unease of the humans in the room prior to the boy’s arrival. But the Pillar’s eyes were unreadable, and the successor only gave a barely perceptible nod. With a twitch of a smile, Kezudkan stepped through into a different part of Veydrus—the daruu kingdom. Danilaesis followed on the daruu’s heels.
“Much better,” said Danilaesis, and with the flick of a finger, the sound from the Veydran council chamber ceased. “I don’t need the rest of them. They can work out any deal they like with my grandfather. What do you want?”
“I … I …” Kezudkan looked through the viewframe, watching astonishment and outrage war on the faces in the room. He was in no position to bargain, and his cane seemed a paltry weapon compared to the sword slung across the boy sorcerer’s back. At the control console, Gederon was a useless, gaping statue.
“Let’s try this over,” said Danilaesis. “My name is Danilaesis Solaran, and yours is Kezudkan something-or-other. You killed a man named Erefan.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Except you didn’t,” Danilaesis continued. He leaned forward, bringing his face level with Kezudkan’s. “You killed his twin brother. They were in league together, but you killed the wrong one if you wanted revenge.”
“What are you talking about?” Kezudkan asked, shuffling back a step. “Erefan had no brother.”
“How would you know? You just owned him like a dog,” said Danilaesis. “And don’t you go getting any ideas that you’re better than a human, because you’re not. I’ve met Erefan. I stayed at his house. He tried to have me killed, and I barely escaped with my life. They betrayed me, and Erefan betrayed you. Now … can you think of anything you might want?”
“How about proof of your claims, for a start?”
Danilaesis took hold of Kezudkan by the collar and brought his face so close that Kezudkan could smell the alcohol. It seemed the Korrish vice took hold of Veydran humans just as well. “Proof? Do I look like the sort who dreams up lies to cover my motives? Those rebel humans from your world conspired with my enemies in this one. His daughter sold me into a trap to them. I have blood humming in my ears, a hunger for their deaths gnawing its way out of my guts. Do you even have a heart in that stony body of yours?” Danilaesis poked him in the chest. It was oddly incongruous, but the finger was soft and frail, which made the sorcerer’s threats tarnish. I could break him in two. The thought came unbidden, some primordial pride as old as stone itself. “You should be half mad with rage at the idea that he’s still alive. And you want proof?”
“Of course I want proof,” Kezudkan replied. “I saw the man die. I outwitted him, he fell in my trap, and now he’s dead.”
“It’s just like Erefan said,” Danilaesis replied. “You’re a blind idiot. He played you a fiddler’s tune to get the world-ripper plans, and he just sang a song with you over his own grave. I bet he has a melody composed for the day he turns you into gravel. So let me ask you just one … last … time: what is it you want?”
“I want Erefan dead,” Kezudkan replied. It was the answer the boy sorcerer wanted; that much was plain. Yet at the same time, it was true. Doubt had crept in. If what the boy said was true, he had been cheated of his revenge, and more importantly Erefan was still out there somewhere scheming against him.
“Then I think we have the foundation of a working relationship here,” Danilaesis replied, an easy grin replacing the manic look. “I need three things from you: time to use this machine, instruction in its workings, and access to the books that you built it from.”
Kezudkan looked away quickly—probably too quickly, he realized. He was caught. “I haven’t even shown them to my own people yet.”
“They’re not your people,” Danilaesis said. “They’re just using you, same as me. The Korrish are your own kind, same as the Kadrins are mine. For my part, I can get you a good start on finding Erefan. I know where to look. What good is a nice comfy stone roof over your head and people who act nice to your face, when it can all be gone in an instant when Erefan opens a hole into your bedroom with a coil gun in his hand?”
Paranoia. Revenge. Suspicion. Down that path lay madness, Kezudkan knew. Yet in that moment he saw the easy trap and stepped in willingly. “Fine,” he replied. “You win. You help me put an end to Erefan and you’ll have what you wish. Confound it, I won’t sleep worth salt until this is settled, now that you’ve dredged it up again.”
“I’ll have those books before we go back. We can detour with the machine to a little spot for safekeeping.”
“Can you even read them?” Kezudkan asked.
“Better than I read your language, stone man.”
“Anyone need a drink?” General Varnus asked. The question landed with a thud in the middle of the room. No one bothered to translate it for the daruu. It had been nearly half an hour since the world-hole had closed. The arguments that had followed in the immediate aftermath had cooled to mere simmering glares across the table. Axterion had not expected Danilaesis to do it. That mistake was on him. The boy was becoming too unstable to account for his actions. It should have been a joyful occasion, giving Danilaesis the weapon he needed against Megrenn. It ought to have occurred to him that the boy wouldn’t wait for diplomacy to put that weapon in his hands in due course.
“They’ll be back any time now,” Axterion said to Zepdaan, the Pillar of Runes, and waited as the daruu translated the assurance in a dull monotone, not even looking at his companions. The daruu sorcerer watched him with a stillness befitting his heritage of stone. Zepdaan had a Source in him—that was certain. Most of the daruu were stout of Source, but few boasted such a formidable presence in the aether. If things went cowflop in the ensuing hours, Axterion was not looking forward to confronting the daruu. It wasn’t that the High Sorcerer was timid, or uncertain of his own powers, but daruu thought differently, and were hardy as bears. Hardier, in fact, since a wounded bear might bleed to death. Daruu blood mortared a wound in seconds. It was one of the recent facts he had unearthed regarding the hermit race. The visitors from beneath the Cloud Wall Mountains had not divulged the peculiarities of their anatomy, but Axterion had dug among the libraries’ vaults until he had found every scrap of information the Kadrin Empire had amassed on the creatures.
A tentative knock might as well have been a smith’s hammer striking the door. A messenger poked his head into the room and beckoned to Axterion. “Excuse me a moment,” the old sorcerer said as he rose.
“What is it?” Axterion asked as soon as the door latched shut behind him.
The messenger beckoned further, and Axterion followed him a short way down the hall. If they were not out of earshot of the meeting room before, they certainly were now. “I bring news from Empress Celia.”
“You great buffoon,” said Axterion. “I was the one who sent you to her, remember? Of course you bring news from Empress Celia.”
The messenger took the verbal abuse in good humor. “She has given you leave to do what you must about the Danilaesis situation.”
“You’ve shot two arrows into the hay bale,” Axterion replied. “How about planting one in the target?”
“If you judge the daruu alliance to be a better choice for the empire than Warlock Danilaesis, you may take any measure you see fit to preserve that alliance.”
“That’s better. Pleasantly blunt,” said Axterion with an insincere smile. “Empress Celia just gave me permission to murder my grandson. How wonderful. I’d like you to take a message back to her.”
“Of course, High Sorcerer,” the messenger said, bowing. “What message?” He look
ed up attentively.
“Go to the third floor sitting room, the one with the sunset view of the courtyard. There’s a bookshelf, and on the second shelf from the top, third from the left, you’ll find a book. Bring that book to Empress Celia, and tell her I suggest she read it well.”
The messenger’s brow crinkled, and he looked at Axterion with a question in his eyes. After a moment’s restraint, the question slipped loose. “What book might that be? I … would not want to send the wrong message.”
“It’s titled Procedures and Protocols of Imperial Succession. It’s not a long book, so she can probably have a go at it in one sitting. I’ve fairly well memorized it … you can mention that to her as well,” Axterion said.
“That’s the message you wish to send?” the messenger asked. He backed a step away. “Please, High Sorcerer. She’ll kill me.”
Axterion sniffed. “Look who’s got a mighty opinion of himself. What would killing you accomplish? Now get out of here, and bring the empress that book. Maybe next time she’ll keep her schemes locked in the dark recess of her mind where she’s banished her heart.”
The messenger bowed as he backed away, then scurried out of sight. There were lessons there, if you looked for them. The killing of a messenger was one of the first signs of a failing leader. Rashan was mad as monkeys, but he never fell so low as to take out his rage on an undeserving minion.
“It’s the boy,” Axterion muttered. There was no one in the hall to hear him. “He’s got them all on edge. Rashan might not have killed messengers, but Danilaesis just might.” Whenever Danilaesis returned, there was going to be a reckoning. If Axterion couldn’t get through to the boy, then perhaps he knew someone who could.
Chapter 15
“The simplest way to find civilization is to follow running water. Do not attempt solar or astral navigation without localized charts.” – Traveler’s Companion: Intra-World Navigation
Under the shade of an enormous canvas tent, Stalyart ran his hand along the ship’s railing. He felt the spots where the polish had worn through and bare wood lay exposed. Holes marked spots where the cleats had been removed; not all of them were gone, but the ship had so little rigging remaining that there was no longer any call for them. It was unnerving, like seeing a noble lady dressed like a dockside whore, baring too much skin. But it was a ship, and a ship unlike any he had ever sailed. While the sails had been stripped from it, the ship had gained two metallic wings, each fitted with a curious contraption. A spokeless wagon wheel arrangement of paddles faced forward from the mid-point of each wing. He had been forewarned, and knew that those were the wind-makers, the machines that would push the ship through the sky.
“Master Anzik, I must renew my protest,” a voice behind him said. “This man has no idea what he’s doing aboard an airship. At least Captain Illzarl has flown a wind-riding airship. He’s clearly the better choice, even if we accept the commission of this … person.” Stalyart ignored the speaker and continued his examination of the ship. It was no prize as a sailing vessel—fifteen winters old at the very least, and had been given only moderate maintenance. The wood was in need of polish, the hull in need of paint. It was best the sails were gone, for he could only imagine fraying and worn patches to match the rest of the vessel’s threadbare state.
“Captain Stalyart was a friend of my father,” said Anzik. “Councilor Fehr trusted this man with his life, and he is a better captain than any we have. As for Illzarl, the qualification you tout is merely the skill to crash softly and survive to be given another ship.”
“Why has he not come forward before now?” the naysaying voice asked. “If he was an agent of Jinzan Fehr, where has he been all this time?” The voice rose and threatened to become shrill at any moment. Stalyart sauntered over to study the curious cannon that was mounted at the ship’s fore. All steel, and a better alloy than he was accustomed to seeing. It looked like a swordsmith’s craftsmanship, but on a piece of ordinance the size of which he had never seen.
“Captain Stalyart is no agent, Admiral” said Anzik. “He was a friend of my father.”
“Where was this friend in the last Kadrin War?” the voice persisted. “I don’t recall seeing his name on the—”
“I was a nuisance to Kadrin ships on the eastern coastline of the empire,” said Stalyart. “I did small things, at the request of my friend Jinzan.”
“Small things?” the admiral asked. He directed the question at Anzik. Stalyart was beginning to feel the part of a parrot, a mere talking distraction unworthy of the conversation. Of course, Stalyart was not a man to be put off by a difficult officer. “This is the man you want taking command of our new flagship?”
“These small things did not include sinking ships, but I am familiar with the process,” Stalyart replied, continuing to inspect the Korrish cannon. It was wrapped in copper cord, which according to Anzik meant that it did not require powder. He looked forward to trying it. It was beyond unpuzzling right then, but he continued to give the gun the utmost scrutiny so as to avoid giving the petulant admiral the respect of his full attention. “They did include sneaking my ship into Kadris harbor in wartime, to move Megrenn agents into or out of the city. When the attempt was made on Rashan Solaran’s life, it was I who delivered the assassins. When your spies were discovered, it was me they ran to for escape. When my friend Jinzan asked for my help, he asked only for these small things. He felt badly asking more, because as a very young man I helped deliver stripecats from Safschan during the Freedom War. I sneaked past a great many Kadrin ships during the blockade, a task that many lesser captains failed. I think maybe you would not have nice uniforms now, and a fleet under your own command, had the Megrenn rebels not possessed stripecat cavalry during the rebellion. It is an interesting question though, don’t you think?”
“So,” said the admiral, the bluster and fire gone out of him, replaced with a teeth-gritting coldness. “We become a navy of smugglers and spies?”
“We become a navy that doesn’t get shot down every third time aloft,” Anzik countered. “Captain Stalyart knows how to stalk ships, whether to avoid them or attack. Your navy has never adapted to the Kadrin dominance of the skies. You ruled the seas, and grew soft on tactics; you don’t know how to deal with a superior foe.”
“But Lord Anzik, if this ship lives up to all your claims, we’re now the superior force,” the admiral protested, gesticulating with his hands. Anzik remained impassive. For all the young sorcerer’s skills, Stalyart thought it was his calmness that was his greatest asset. “I’ve a dozen men sharpening their harpoons to get this command. How am I going to explain this … transient to them?”
“However you like,” Anzik replied. “You’re their admiral. If this proves too difficult a task, I would assume that there are a dozen men sharpening their harpoons to get your position.”
“As you wish, Lord Anzik,” the admiral replied without once parting his teeth. He retreated with a bow and headed off in the direction of his own ship, which lay at dry anchor just along the beach.
The two airships were nowhere near Megrenn territory, on a tiny island just large enough to hold them both. The Korrish work crews—and Anzik himself—had met the ship there via world-ripper, the most singular device Stalyart had ever witnessed.
“He won’t be any trouble,” Anzik said. “We’ll get more ships refitted, and his captains will get some of them. But I won’t waste any more time with those dry, crusted minds while I have so few Korrish airships. You’ve always been my father’s best man. Now, you’re going to be mine.”
“I will serve, of course,” Stalyart said with the pantomimed tip of a hat he wasn’t wearing. “But I am, as always, my own man.”
“I’ve made the arrangements,” said Anzik. “Rynn will retrieve me any moment, and I’ll send Jadon along as your new ship’s sorcerer in time for a sunset departure. Oh, and have you decided on a name for it? I’d like to have it for reports.”
“I think I will call her the Mirro
r’s Trick,” Stalyart replied. It seemed fitting to follow Denrik Zayne’s tradition and give his vessel a name with a double meaning. It seemed even more fitting for a vessel of Stalyart’s to have a triple meaning.
In the hold of the False Profit, Tanner and Jadon sat side by side at a table that more commonly saw games of Crackle than quiet talks. As Tanner sat pondering, he traced a spot where someone had carved a name into the surface with a knife: Crawe. He didn’t know any Crawe aboard, but it was a secondhand ship, and the table had probably come with it.
“If you’re having second thoughts, you need to tell me,” said Jadon. The boy was Anzik with shorter hair and skin that had seen the outdoors three hundred sixty days a year. “I’d rather have help, but I can do this myself if I have to.”
“You sure Madlin’s gonna be ready to snatch us up in that machine of hers?” Tanner asked. He pulled a knife from his boot and began scratching at the table.
“She’s got someone watching us right now,” Jadon assured him. “You’ve held your grudge long enough. You can finally bring yourself closure on that portion of your life. You can start over with Madlin’s people. They need men with fighting experience. She’s got incentive to help us.”
Tanner sighed. He’d been dry for two days, waiting for word on Jadon’s plan. Those two days had done more to tell him he needed a drink than any two he could recall. Rum and whiskey had an amazing power to make days slide by half-noticed—even ale could manage the trick, if there was enough of it. “Blade’s not as quick as it used to be, but it’s quick enough. Are you sure you’re ready to go through with this?”
Jadon nodded. “I can’t remain, nor can I let this go on in my absence. My circumstances have been tolerable only through increasing self-deception.”