A Shattered Empire

by Mitchell Hogan

  Finally, he still had to figure out what to do about Devenish, who would almost certainly come looking for him, seeing how Kristof had never returned and Gazija was very much alive.

  Well—there was no putting things off. Better to face what was to come.

  Quiss had sent someone to retrieve his belongings from his lodging in Riversedge yesterday, and Caldan grabbed the satchel. Nothing was missing, though the Bleeder Mahsonn’s craftings were virtually useless to him, as was the trinket ring he’d found hidden in Joachim’s residence. He made his way along narrow passageways, carefully retracing his steps from last night when Miranda had been carried to their cabin. Eventually he found his way onto the deck.

  Apart from the sailors, there were a number of slender men and women about, dressed in a motley assortment of clothes. A short woman wore a mismatched yellow skirt and red shirt and examined what looked to be a dried lizard on a stick. Another man, dressed in brown woolen trousers and coat, stared at the sun, passing his hand back and forth across his eyes, shading them for a moment each time. Caldan decided against approaching the odd ones and headed for the gunwale. He stared into the murky river.

  There was something about the woman and man . . . Caldan extended his senses and pulled back in shock. They were both sorcerers—he could feel their undisguised power—but . . . they had no wells. Impossible was Caldan’s first thought, but he couldn’t discount what he’d just felt. Quiss had a well; Caldan had sensed it before . . . or had he? Perhaps that was also a disguise. With the evidence right before him, though, how could he sense that they were sorcerers? And then something Kristof said came back to him:

  Gazija and his ilk are an abomination. I can see they are, as I know you can. They’re not natural.

  Which meant Kristof had been able to see their denseness, too.

  Caldan had always thought the way Quiss and the others appeared denser was somehow sorcerous in nature, but . . . there was another possibility that was starting to feel truer and truer: that the way he saw them was one of the abilities his Touched blood bequeathed to him.

  “Caldan? Caldan, there you are.”

  Quiss hurried over to him. “I was trying to find out where you were.” He took Caldan by the arm and led him away. “I went to see you and check on Miranda, and I discovered you’d gone. Come. Follow me belowdecks. There’s someone I want you to meet. We’ve some questions for you. And a proposal.”

  Intrigued, though reluctant to leave the fresh air on deck, Caldan accompanied Quiss, and they once more entered the muggy gloom of the ship. Having been on only one other ship before, the Loretta, he could at least determine that they were heading for the captain’s cabin situated at the rear. But somehow, Caldan suspected they wouldn’t be meeting the captain.

  They reached a varnished oak door, and Quiss stopped, knocking gently on the wood. Without waiting for a response, he entered, gesturing for Caldan to follow him inside.

  The cabin was furnished much as Captain Charlotte’s had been, with a desk full of maps held down with odds and ends, bound chests along one wall, and a luxurious bunk twice the width of the one he’d spent the night in. Wide windows let in copious amounts of light, and sitting in a chair in the sunlight was the sorcerer Gazija. The room had a sickly sweet scent, which Caldan traced to incense burning on a shelf.

  This close, Gazija looked even more wizened than he had on the wharf the other day. Pale, liver-spotted hands held a piece of paper, and sunken eyes squinted at the writing. His skin was so thin it was translucent, and Caldan could make out the veins underneath.

  Gazija turned to meet his gaze. Caldan found himself squirming and resisted the urge to leave, forcing himself to remain still. It was as if Gazija weighed every action he’d taken in his life with one look.

  And found him wanting.

  He tore his eyes away, and Gazija grunted.

  “So this is the same man?” the old sorcerer asked Quiss, unimpressed.

  “Yes. His crafting—”

  Gazija cut Quiss off with a sharp gesture. “I’ll ask the questions, and find out for myself.” He folded the letter and placed it on the desk, then tapped his fingers on the paper, as if still considering its contents.

  Caldan brought his eyes back up to old man’s, not quite sure what to make of him. Gazija had used sorcery to drain the heat out of the very air, a display of power unheard of since the Shattering. Then he’d bested Devenish in some sort of coercive sorcery duel. More than bested; he’d made the warlock look like a child in comparison. No mean feat, and a deliberate one at that.

  “What do you want?” Caldan asked hesitantly. “And why?”

  Gazija barked a laugh. “No thanks for saving your fair maiden?”

  Blood rushed to Caldan’s face, and he looked down and away. “I meant no offense. I’m truly grateful. Without Quiss and Adrienne . . . I fear Miranda wouldn’t have recovered.”

  “She wouldn’t have, if you’d let the warlocks try to heal her,” Gazija said. “They would have messed her up worse than they already did. But you did what was right for her. And that’s my first question for you. Why?”

  Caldan felt heat rise to his face and was suddenly self-conscious. “You mean, do I love her?”

  “Ha! No. I’ve no interest in that. Why didn’t you trust the warlocks to heal her?”

  “I did ask them—or one of them. A warlock named Joachim. He was one of the most powerful sorcerers I’d ever met . . . and he clearly wasn’t able to help her. I was still planning on asking other warlocks because I had no choice. But—”

  “But what? Because you clearly lost faith in your own people?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re part of them, aren’t you? Bound to them somehow?”

  “No. I was an apprentice in the Protectors. Nothing more. For now.”

  “For now,” echoed Gazija. “What are you to the warlocks, then?”

  Caldan’s thoughts returned to the bone ring. He had to keep his cards close to his chest. Although these people had healed Miranda, he wasn’t about to trust them with all his secrets just yet. He had to be sure they wouldn’t attempt to use him as well. “My parents, and possibly my grandparents, were linked to them. They left the emperor’s service, though, and I was hoping to figure out why. As you can see, I have some sorcerous talent, and the warlocks want to keep me around, especially after I proved myself a few times against the jukari. I’m a tool to them, nothing more.”

  Nothing but a tool . . . and blood. While Caldan might be useful to Gazija, there was no telling how they would react to his being Touched.

  “And so we begin to find the truth,” Gazija said. “Quiss here tells me you have a bug you crafted. Do you have it here?”

  “It’s a beetle. And I do,” said Caldan, reaching into his pocket.

  He brought out his smith-crafted beetle and held it up between thumb and index finger. Gazija opened his hand, and Caldan passed him the crafting. If this was all they wanted in return for saving Miranda, then they could take it, with his blessing.

  The old sorcerer ran his fingers over the rune-covered carapace and grunted. “A hard ink of some sort,” he remarked. “Not the best method, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Caldan nodded. “It was all I had time for, and under the circumstances, I think I did quite well.” For some reason, he felt the need to defend himself. Almost as if the old man were another master in the Sorcerers’ Guild, and he was applying to become an apprentice. As the thought crossed his mind, Caldan realized that, while they weren’t interviewing him for a position, they were very interested in his automaton, and he could also learn a great deal from them—if they were willing.

  Gazija’s expression turned to puzzlement. He poked at the beetle with a finger and lifted up one of the wings. “The metal parts—legs and wings—they can already move on their own, can’t they? They just . . . don’t have anything powering them yet.”

  “Until a sorcerer links with the beetle and operates the parts,
no.”

  “So you’ve fused a mechanical creation with sorcery. In quite an ingenious way, I would add.” Gazija glanced at Quiss. “And one we hadn’t considered.”

  Caldan didn’t sense anything, but the runes covering his beetle flashed, and it turned a quarter of a circle on Gazija’s palm, gears and mechanisms whirring. Its wings flapped, once, twice, three times.

  Gazija brought a hand to his lips and coughed until his frame shook with the effort. Quiss took a step toward the old man, then stopped, as if he thought whatever help he could offer would be rejected.

  Once the coughing ceased, Gazija closed his eyes for a few moments before passing a trembling hand over his face.

  “Gazija . . .” began Quiss.

  “Not now!” barked Gazija.

  His outburst brought on a fresh wave of coughing. Quiss moved to a side table and brought a mug to Gazija, who managed a few sips in between coughs until they calmed down. When they did, Gazija pushed Quiss away.

  “Stop fussing over me. I’ll be fine.”

  Veins throbbed in Quiss’s neck, and his fists clenched. Eventually he nodded. “As you wish.”

  Gazija settled back in his chair. “So, Caldan, what does this bug of yours do?”

  “Beetle,” Caldan corrected again. “It’s a simple design, so I guess the answer to your question is—not much. A sorcerer can see through its eyes, hear through the runes on the side.”

  “Yes, yes. Three of these . . . strings, as you call them, for the legs, sight, and hearing. And another two for the wings and a rather primitive shield. But what can you do with it?”

  Caldan shrugged. “Scout an advance position? Watch your back? Spy, if the construct was small enough. I was going to test more options with others I craft in the future. I was able to use this one against the jukari and vormag, though. To drop sorcerous crafted globes near them and . . . overload the craftings.”

  Gazija grunted disapprovingly and shook his head. “Crude. But effective against those who aren’t proficient in sorcery.”

  Caldan gave a slight smile. “Like I said, I have some ideas that I’ll be exploring in the future.”

  Gazija gave him a strange look, then cackled. “I’d wager you do. You’re a canny one. You saw the warlocks in action, then, against the Indryallan sorcerer? They must have been surprised.”

  There was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone that struck Caldan the wrong way. “You shouldn’t sound pleased about it. Hundreds of people died.”

  “Oh, I know that, young man. But the warlocks were walking around with their eyes closed, as was your emperor. Now their eyes are wide open to the threat they face . . . and yet they aren’t. They are still too sure of themselves. Secure in the power they’ve held for centuries.”

  Quiss’s feet shuffled nervously beside him, and the hairs on the back of Caldan’s neck stood on end. Gazija was too pleased with what had happened. And then he and the mercenary companies he controlled had arrived, just in time to turn the tide against the jukari and vormag.

  Like Devenish had said, suspiciously good timing.

  Careful, Caldan admonished himself. Don’t jump at shadows. But they wouldn’t be the first to use such a ruthless strategy. The book Betrayers and Betrayals by Caedmin Martorel was full of detailed instances of misleading and dishonesty across the ages. And many a Dominion game played with four or more players was won by the person with the greatest talent for deception.

  He didn’t think Gazija was such a pitiless man, someone who would sacrifice others to achieve his goals. But he couldn’t ignore coincidences, either.

  Caldan kept his face purposefully blank. If they wanted his beetle, they could have it. A few gold ducats’ worth of materials was a small price to pay to see Miranda whole again.

  And then maybe he could be done with these strange people forever.

  “There are two more linking runes,” Caldan said, breaking the silence that had formed. “I was going to add other functions, once I was able to hold that many strings.”

  Gazija gave him a penetrating stare. “Such as? Destructive or coercive sorcery, no doubt.”

  “No. Perhaps a mechanism of some sort, so it could move on its own without having to be constantly controlled. If I had time to experiment, I think I’d be able to craft one that could perform small tasks on its own.”

  “No doubt that’s possible. But it’s the potential for other things that interests us.”

  Other things? wondered Caldan. “Like what?”

  Gazija waved away his question. “Nothing to concern you. But these runes, they’re far too fragile. And so are the bug’s wings and legs. And its body. It’s hollow.”

  “The clockmaker I bought the parts from was used to making birds and other animals that moved on their own, using purely mechanical means, though. Most of the parts for the beetle were scavenged from other projects. They don’t waste materials, if they can help it. And if I had time, I’d use a different method for the shaping runes. Etching or casting, probably. Filigree would be too fiddly.”

  “The runes are useless. One scratch or a chip, and the pattern would be broken.”

  Caldan bit back his frustration, seeing how he had just answered that. “Yes. But as I said, it was all I could do at the time. It’s only an experiment.”

  Gazija nodded, almost as if he expected Caldan’s response. “You have another in your satchel.”

  The flat confidence in Gazija’s voice made it certain he knew. Maybe Quiss had searched his bag before turning it over. But for some reason, he felt like the old man had probably sensed the linking runes when he’d toyed with Caldan’s beetle. Caldan knew, having seen Gazija’s power on display, such a talent would be nothing to him.

  Caldan placed his satchel on the floor. He reached into it and drew out his man-shaped metal doll. It was as tall as the length from his elbow to his wrist. Like the beetle, its brass surface was covered with hardened ink runes. Two tiny garnet eyes stood out from an otherwise featureless face.

  “I didn’t have much of a plan for this crafting,” explained Caldan. “I kept adding linking runes. It just felt right. It can’t fly like my beetle, obviously, but you can see and hear through it. It does have a better shield, too; one with multiple linking runes and anchors. The truth is . . . I’m not sure where I was going with all of these. They’re more of a hobby than anything. I started out with paper folded into the shape I wanted, and then progressed to harder materials.”

  “Give it to me. Please.”

  Gazija held the beetle out, and Caldan swapped it for the small figure.

  “Ten linking runes?” queried Gazija, raising an eyebrow. “How many can you handle now?”

  Caldan kept his eyes on the beetle in his hand. “I’m not sure. When I’m relaxed and in control, maybe six. But . . .” he trailed off.

  “But under pressure, a lot more,” finished Gazija.

  “When I don’t think about them, it just happens. Outside Riversedge, with the jukari, I must have held on to ten at once. I didn’t have time to think. I had to act, or I’d most likely be dead.”

  Gazija grunted.

  “What do you think?” Quiss said, startling Caldan. He’d been so quiet, Caldan had almost forgotten he was there.

  “It might work,” replied Gazija. “But it would be a harsh existence.”

  Quiss wrung his hands together and shook his head. “We’ll do what you want us to—”

  “Some will,” interrupted Gazija sadly. “Not all. As you well know.”

  Caldan looked from one man to the other, not understanding what they were discussing. There were tantalizing hints in what they’d said, but he couldn’t quite see the pattern and reason out what was going on. He needed information. Without more clues, he was walking blind.

  He had the sinking feeling that they wanted more from him than his crafting as payment for healing Miranda. He cleared his throat, and both sorcerers looked at him. Trying to look casual but feeling far from it, he wandered
across the room and gazed out the window. His hands shook, and he clasped them together.

  His eyes flicked to Gazija. Old and frail. Weakening with every day.

  Were they only power-hungry sorcerers? The warlocks kept themselves hale and long-lived by drinking blood from the Touched; could these sorcerers be trying to make themselves immortal, too?

  He’d stumbled into a mire, and one that might well suck him down to his death.

  Don’t be so morbid, he chastised himself. You’ve found ways out of much more dire situations.

  Maybe not much more. But even if they want both craftings, what does it matter? They can do whatever they want with them after Miranda and I are gone.

  “I’m grateful for what you’ve done for Miranda.” He turned to face the two sorcerers. “I hope this crafting is enough thanks.”

  “It’s a start,” Gazija said. “But don’t sell yourself—or the assets you possess—so short.”

  My trinkets? Does he know about the bone ring as well?

  Does he know about my blood?

  Gazija held up the figure, and the metallic legs and arms waved around. “This crafting is a beginning . . . I’ll take this one, for now. But we also need your expertise. Show Quiss here how the crafting and the mechanical parts function together. He could figure it out on his own, but it will save time if you show him. And put him in touch with this clockmaker you mentioned.”

  “You’re going to make more automatons? Why? For what purpose?”

  “That’s not for you to know. But remember, you owe us. You’re bound to us now, and—”

  So no—they do not trust me. Why, then, should I trust them?

  “No,” Caldan said firmly. “I’m tired of being pushed around, as if I were a piece on a Dominion board. I’m not bound. To you, or to anyone. I won’t do anything I disagree with. Handing over my automaton repays the debt I owe you for healing Miranda, agreed?”

  Gazija frowned, then glanced at Quiss. “Agreed,” he said eventually. “But you’re on the run from the warlocks now. You’ll need our protection. You can’t possibly go back, and even if you return to Riversedge, they’ll likely hunt you down.”