A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  He held the beetle between index finger and thumb and placed it on his stool. Accessing his well, he linked to the legs and wings, with another string for the eyes. Three should be enough. Runes flashed, then subsided to a muted glow.

  “Lochner,” said Gorton suddenly.

  Melker grunted in agreement. He rubbed his chin. “Could be. That was a long time ago, though.”

  “Who’s Lochner?” asked Caldan. “Did he also experiment with automatons?”

  “He did. Years ago. A sorcerer who came to the warlocks hoping to be admitted. He stayed with us for a while, smith-crafting different items in hopes of proving his theories. In the end, it didn’t amount to much.” Melker went silent.

  But Caldan could tell a lot was being left unsaid—the story just didn’t feel right. He decided to push the issue. “Why do you both remember him, if he wasn’t someone of note?”

  The two warlocks exchanged glances.

  Melker cleared his throat, then spoke. “Lochner grew increasingly frantic when his progress stalled. He felt he was close to making a breakthrough and refused to sleep until he did. One night, he was working alone on a crafting much like yours, except his was a rodent. In the morning, a servant found his door locked from within, and he didn’t respond to knocking or requests to let anyone in. Eventually, the servant left to find a warlock, and when she arrived, she used sorcery to open the lock. Inside, Lochner was found sitting in his favorite chair in front of a cold fireplace. His automaton was clutched in both hands, but he was dead. Not a mark on him. And he was only twenty-seven years old. We were never able to find out how he died. He’s one of the reasons experimenting with automatons is considered . . . perilous. They may not be related to what happened to him, but in the absence of anything else to go on, it’s the most likely theory.”

  “But his crafting couldn’t have killed him. I mean, it wasn’t damaged, was it?”

  Gorton shook his head. “No. I saw it. It was intact and showed no signs of having failed. I still remember the ruby eyes he used. Gave me the creeps. Like it was looking at me.”

  The warlocks had obviously turned Lochner’s death into a cautionary tale of the dangers of sorcery, and tinkering with forces you weren’t sure of. Which I get . . . except that, without experimentation, how is progress to be made?

  Unless, of course, the warlocks weren’t interested in progress.

  Seeing how secretive they could be about the powers they were allowed to use and those that were forbidden to others, it wasn’t the craziest theory he’d come up with.

  At Caldan’s urging, the beetle turned, skittering on its legs. Another thought from him, and its wings buzzed and it rose into the air. He sent it in a wide circle around them, enjoying the look of wonder on Gorton’s face.

  Just then, Gorton stood abruptly, gazing back down the trodden path away from Devenish’s tent. When he did, Caldan sensed Melker open his well. A moment later, Gorton did the same. Not knowing what had been observed, Caldan made his automaton hover above them and reached for his shield crafting—then knew he’d made a mistake. He couldn’t split his well into more strings, or the warlocks would know he’d lied to them. He cursed under his breath.

  Coming toward them was a group of around twenty people. Most looked to be hard-bitten soldiers wearing motley gear and mismatched weapons. Among them were the denser-men, Gazija and his companions.

  They trampled past Caldan and the warlocks with barely a glance in their direction, no doubt having gotten accustomed to being stared at as they made their way through the emperor’s army from the wharves to the warlocks’ location. Caldan watched their backs as they were ushered inside Devenish’s tent by two blond women—warlocks, by their dress—who were positioned outside. He turned back to Melker and Gorton, intending to ask them if they knew much about the mercenaries. But they were glaring at Quiss, who stood not ten paces away. The banker must have been trailing the group, otherwise Caldan would have seen him break off.

  “Forgive me,” Quiss said in his curious melodic accent. “I don’t mean to intrude—”

  “And yet here you are,” growled Melker.

  Quiss ignored the warlock and looked at Caldan. “I believe we’ve met.”

  Both warlocks turned suspicious eyes on Caldan. This was the last thing he needed. “Head Trader Quiss, isn’t it? You did some business with my friend Miranda.”

  “Ah yes, so I did. How is she? Well, I hope. She has a fine business sense.”

  Caldan’s reply stuck in his throat. “She’s . . . not well,” he finished lamely. “An accident.” Was this a chance to find out more about these odd sorcerers? If they had far greater skill with coercive sorcery than Devenish and the warlocks, then why not?

  “Oh dear,” said Quiss. “She’s not a sorcerer, though, so . . . was she hurt in the fighting?”

  “No. It was before that, when we were escaping from Anasoma. She wasn’t physically hurt; coercive sorcery damaged her mind. I came here looking for a way to heal her.”

  Quiss’s eyes narrowed, and he gave Caldan a thoughtful look. He nodded slightly. “That’s a shame. I’m sure the warlocks will try something.” His tone left Caldan in no doubt he thought they wouldn’t succeed.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your master?” interrupted Melker.

  Quiss turned to the warlock, smiling. “He’s the First Deliverer, not our master. And yes, I should accompany him. But I couldn’t help but notice this fabulous creation.” Quiss gestured to Caldan’s beetle automaton. “I’ve never seen the like before. It’s a hybrid, isn’t it? Of sorcery and what?”

  “And clockwork mechanisms.” Caldan shrugged, unsure of what to say. He didn’t want the warlocks to associate him with these newcomers, but he was also proud of his automaton. “It’s something I’ve been tinkering with. Not much use, really.”

  “It flew. It can move on its own.”

  So Quiss hadn’t been trailing the others. He couldn’t have been, if he’d seen the beetle fly. He must have come from a different direction.

  “It can, but you need to be able to control a few strings to make it function properly.”

  Quiss frowned. “What do you mean by strings?”

  An odd question coming from him, thought Caldan. Then again, he’d only assumed Quiss was a sorcerer after Gazija’s display.

  Caldan quested his senses out and found that Quiss did indeed have a well, but where most others he’d felt were rough, torn, this one was perfectly smooth and gaping wide. It felt natural, right, somehow. His own well felt malformed in comparison. Then, in an instant, Quiss’s well changed, folding in on itself until it disappeared. He’d allowed Caldan a glimpse of his true well before disguising it, as Simmon had his.

  Caldan looked at Quiss in surprise, but the sorcerer merely bent over for a closer examination of his beetle.

  “Strings?” Quiss prompted.

  “If he doesn’t know, don’t say another word,” warned Gorton.

  “He has to know,” said Melker. And then to Quiss, “Stop playing games.”

  The look Quiss gave the two warlocks was filled with pity. “Strings. Threads. Strands. Filaments. Whatever you call them, if you’re still using them in your sorcery, then you’ve a long way to go.”

  “Pfft,” scoffed Melker, glaring at Quiss. “There is no other way. You’re just trying to get into our heads.”

  Quiss shrugged nonchalantly. “Think what you like.” He turned to Caldan. “Come see me when you can. I’d like to hear more about what ails Miranda. I liked her, and I’ll do what I can to help her. Which is far more than these warlocks can do.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Melker. “A fool who doesn’t know sorcery uses strings?” But underneath his words, Caldan sensed something. There was a quaver in the warlock’s voice. Fear. The display of sorcery on the wharf had shaken him, seeing his leader’s power so easily dealt with. Perhaps it had never happened before. After all, the warlocks were at the pinnacle of power, as far as Caldan knew. Certainly as far
as they knew.

  No wonder they were so disturbed. In a few moments, their entire dominance had been shaken, and reverberations from the meeting would likely be felt for years to come. As someone whose world had been turned upside down many times, Caldan could imagine what was going through all their minds meeting Gazija and these strange, dense men.

  Quiss took a few steps back over the rough ground, inclining his head to each of them in turn. “I must be going, or I’ll miss the meeting.” He regarded Caldan evenly. “I’ll see what I can do for Miranda.”

  Skirting their fire in an arc, Quiss walked up to Devenish’s tent to be ushered inside.

  “Don’t listen to him, Caldan. Full of lies and misdirection, that one was.”

  Caldan agreed with Melker out loud, but he wasn’t so sure. Master Annelie hadn’t been able to heal Miranda, and she’d been hesitant to confirm that anyone else could. It wouldn’t hurt to see what the denser-men were able to do, if they were willing.

  Would it?

  The only problem was, what would they ask in return?

  And will I be able to pay their price?

  CHAPTER 4

  Aidan lounged in a faded red armchair with padding erupting from several holes in the middle of patches of frayed material. A warm fire crackled nearby, and he’d placed a jug of spiced wine next to it to heat. His arm was tightly bound in a sling against his chest. The physikers had taken their sweet time seeing to it. After they’d set the arm, they’d tried to give him more oil of the poppy, but he’d had enough of dulled senses for the time being.

  Riversedge was almost in chaos. From what he’d heard, the jukari horde hadn’t even reached the city when the emperor’s forces had been butchered. With only a fraction of that army remaining, Aidan doubted the vormag would hesitate. They would set the jukari on the remnants and use their foul sorcery to destroy what they could.

  He reached across and poured himself a mug of the wine, sipping at it without noticing the taste.

  Across the room from him, Vasile was fast asleep in his own dilapidated armchair. The magistrate’s arm was in worse shape than Aidan’s, and they’d almost amputated the limb. As bad a break as we’ve ever seen, one of the physikers had said. Only Aidan interceding on Vasile’s behalf had stopped them. Eventually, they’d agreed there was a slight chance the arm could be saved.

  It hadn’t been easy for Aidan to find Vasile, but his writ from the emperor opened doors and mouths that would normally have remained closed to him. He’d found the magistrate being tended to by the physikers seconded to Riversedge’s Quivers. Aidan had followed the trail cel Rau had left and barged his way into the Quivers’ main barracks, disappointed at finding only Vasile, but at the same time relieved the magistrate had made it to safety.

  Word of his writ had spread throughout the Quivers, and soon he’d been summoned to a meeting with Riversedge’s commander, a man by the name of Cilliers. From what Aidan could tell, Commander Cilliers hadn’t left his “strategy room” to observe the jukari forces, let alone address the Quivers holding the walls.

  He snorted in disgust at the thought of meeting the man, and Vasile stirred, disturbed by the noise.

  Aidan sipped at his wine and realized the cup was empty. He began to refill it, paused, then continued to pour.

  Vasile shifted and opened one eye. It was a few moments before he seemed able to focus his gaze on Aidan. He ran his tongue over parched lips and cleared his throat.

  “I . . . don’t suppose that’s . . . water?”

  “There’s some next to you. The physikers said you’d wake soon. I don’t think you’ll want to move just yet. You need time to adjust.” Aidan slurped a mouthful from his cup and set it down. With a groan, he levered himself to his feet and shuffled over to Vasile. He reached down and handed a jug filled with water to the magistrate. There was a hollow reed poking out the top, which Vasile looked askance at.

  “Use it,” said Aidan. “The physikers keep them for patients who have limited use of their arms and hands.”

  Vasile sucked water through the reed while Aidan restrained himself from asking the hundred questions he had tumbling around in his mind.

  Vasile drained more than half the jug before pushing the reed out with his tongue and turning his head away. “Thank you,” he said.

  Aidan set the water down and returned to his chair. “Tell me what happened to you, cel Rau, and Chalayan at the bridge. And what happened after.”

  Vasile screwed his face up in a grimace. He looked sicker than before, if that were possible.

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  “There are many things I don’t like in this world, bad news among them. But I’ve heard enough terrible things not to balk at hearing any now. I need to know what’s going on.”

  Vasile nodded. “Cel Rau . . . killed Chalayan. Right after the sorcery on the bridge. He—we—thought you were dead. How is it you’re alive?”

  “All in good time, Vasile. Tell me of Chalayan’s death, and what came after.”

  Swallowing, Vasile nodded again.

  CHAPTER 5

  Amerdan’s father, now probably no more than a skeleton in a shallow grave behind their childhood home, had always said to him, “Look after your sisters, boy. You’re the eldest, and stronger than them. It’s up to you to make sure they come to no harm.”

  The fool of a farmer hadn’t realized there were different types of strength. That which was visible, and that which was hidden. But his words stayed with Amerdan to this very day. He had been young when he realized the talents you were born with didn’t really matter. It was what you became that determined your strength. Your power. And there were many ways to change what you were. His great misfortune—the imprisonment of him and his sisters for experiments—had eventually turned to fortune when he’d stumbled onto one of the more potent ways to alter what a person was, to change one’s limits. Or perhaps it wasn’t luck, but meant to be.

  Was I chosen? Did the ancestors reach through the veil separating life from death to influence my fate?

  He supposed it was possible. How else could you explain what had happened to him? And he was fine with that. What bothered him was the question of whether he had been selected before or after his sisters were abused and slaughtered.

  Amerdan ground his teeth, shuddering at the thought. If their deaths had been essential to his . . . becoming, then someone would still have to pay. Whoever, or whatever, had chosen him would have to be punished.

  And if I have to exact revenge on a capricious god, then I need to become powerful enough to do so.

  Dotty knew this. He didn’t know how his sisters had transferred their awareness into the rag doll, for she hardly ever spoke. He only knew he was glad of their comforting presence, and the knowledge that they hadn’t left him alone in the dungeon with the sorcerer.

  A shadow moved in the corridor ahead of him, flickering in the light cast by a lone oil lantern. An unwelcome visitor, and one who might come to regret his intrusion.

  Amerdan ducked down a side passage and flattened himself against the stone wall. He knew he could kill or disable anyone who found him, but it was necessary to remain unnoticed, at least for the time being. Riversedge was a dangerous place for him now, but this building was close to the wall, and he could easily leave the city whenever he wanted. For now, he needed to wait and see if he could find Caldan again. Although he felt a certain kinship with the man, he would need his talent for sorcery, along with, eventually, his well.

  And that meant avoiding anyone who came down to the third basement level. Hardly anyone found themselves here, but there was the occasional interloper into his new domain, for the most part easily avoided.

  He hated waiting. But wait he had to, if he was to take possession of his prize. Caldan first, then he should look toward the Mahruse emperor and the other sorcerers who’d come against Bells—the warlocks. There was much he could absorb from them all.

  But if they found hi
m before he was skilled enough, then all his plans would unravel.

  Footsteps in the distance became louder as the person approached, then stopped. Keys rattled, and a lock clicked. Hinges screeched in protest as a door opened. There wasn’t much stored down here, and the rooms Amerdan had investigated contained mostly dust and long-dead spiders. Usually, the only things moving around were the rats. The moldy rugs and forgotten tapestries fallen from walls made for comfortable nests, and the rodents could forage above for food.

  This place made his skin crawl, and he desperately wanted to wash.

  Amerdan shifted his focus internally, using his senses to touch the spaces Bells had opened in his mind. Wells, she called them. One was smaller than the other and felt coarser somehow, as if a carpenter had bored two holes in a piece of wood and filed and sanded only one of them.

  But it was to the new well his attention shifted. Bells had given him one last gift as she died. He couldn’t usually tell what talents his trinket would transfer to him, and he was often surprised—and delighted—at what transpired. Randomness was to be avoided, but sometimes . . . it was sweeter when he discovered an ability he’d never had, rather than just had one enhanced.

  The sorcerer’s apprentice in Anasoma was an example. Reading was something Amerdan had never had the advantage of learning. Yet after he’d absorbed the apprentice, he just . . . knew. Knew without learning. With the experiments he’d conducted over the years, he thought he’d found out everything there was to know about his trinket, but it always seemed to surprise him. It certainly had when Bells told him he could be a sorcerer.

  Extending his senses, he scratched at the blocked well. Bells’s well. It hadn’t been there before, and now it was.

  Amerdan frowned with annoyance. His scratching had the same effect as someone using a fingernail to try to break through a wall. Try as he might, he couldn’t find any purchase, any crack with which to force a breach.