Miranda punched his thigh. “Then we have to make sure we’re prepared. What can we do? What do you need? What can I do?”
Caldan sensed her frustration. She felt useless. Her talent for merchanting and trading wouldn’t be much use. But she could still help. “I don’t know how long Quiss will take to find Amerdan. But there’s a project I’ve started I want to finish. Another automaton. And I also have something I want to test. There’s a blacksmith’s near the closest gate, and I think it has all that I need. I’m only short a few raw materials.”
“Tonight,” Miranda said. “You want to get started tonight.”
She was always quick to understand. “Yes.”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”
“There’s a clockmaker; I’ll tell you where she is. She has materials and parts she made for me. Would you be able to fetch them while I organize the forge? You’ll have to wake her up.”
“That I can do.”
“The blacksmith’s will be closed for the night, but there’ll be someone there. Apprentices and workers. I’ll persuade someone to let me in. You can meet me there.”
“Do we . . . have to go right now?”
Caldan stirred. She was so warm . . . He stroked her hair. “In a little while.”
Letting out a deep breath, Miranda sank farther into his embrace. She cleared her throat and turned so she could look at him. Her eyes were so dark, they were like black pools, staring at him seriously, yet one corner of her mouth tugged upward impiously. “Caldan,” she whispered.
He tried to speak; words caught in his throat. He was still stroking her hair, didn’t want to stop.
Miranda reached out and clasped the back of his head. She pulled his lips to hers.
CALDAN HAMMERED ON the blacksmith’s door. He stepped back, glancing up and down the deserted street. It was after midnight, but the main thoroughfare close by was still bustling. An image of Miranda flooded his vision, her naked body glistening with sweat . . . He shook his head and hammered on the door again.
Metal scraped on metal as the door opened to reveal a young boy, eyes half-closed and blinking. Caldan shoved a silver ducat in front of him and they widened.
“I need some time at the forge. I was supposed to come during the day, but I was delayed. I want to do my work now.”
The boy swallowed and glanced behind him. He turned back to Caldan and nodded, taking the coin. “All right. It’s another two silvers for the space.”
“Done. I’ll pay when I’m finished.”
The door opened wider, and the boy nodded. Caldan walked past him and into a packed-earth courtyard. Around the outside, what was probably originally a warehouse had been repurposed to house a dozen enclosures, each with its own anvil and forge equipment. The centermost room contained a long bank of glowing coals. Behind one stone wall, he could see the top of a waterwheel revolving. In front of the wall was a massive hammer, powered by the wheel. It was used for forging large pieces and cutting long ingots into smaller, workable sections.
He brought out a sorcerous crafted globe and placed it high up, where it would illuminate one of the enclosures. He turned to find the boy behind him, staring.
“I take it the forges are banked. Could you heat one up, hot enough for smelting?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy stumbled off, half-asleep still but slowly waking up.
First, Caldan had to smith-craft an item to aid with his sorcery. Scribing runes and patterns into metal was hard work, and time consuming, and ink was temporary, so it was his least-favored option. He had an idea, though. He could use it to speed up the engraving process, if he had a crafting that could help. It would have to be subtle and under fine control, but he should be able to do it. The important parts of the construct still needed to be smith-crafted, cast using sorcery to maintain the links and his well’s power flowing through them while they solidified. But the less important parts could be merely engraved, and for a construct of this size, if he didn’t shorten the process, it could take weeks.
By the time he’d organized the workspace how he liked and the boy confirmed one of the forges was fired up, there was another pounding on the blacksmith’s door. Caldan rushed over and let Miranda inside.
She dumped two sacks onto the packed earth with a clank and rubbed her wrists.
“You didn’t tell me they’d be so heavy!”
“Ah, sorry.” For some reason, Caldan couldn’t meet her eye. Even fully dressed as she was, she distracted him. He was glad for the heat of the place—it might help him explain his flushed appearance.
“What is all this for?” asked Miranda. “I’ve seen your beetle; it’s wonderful! But these plates of metal, I can’t think what you’d do with them.”
Caldan opened the sacks and began pulling out metal parts. Carefully, he ordered them across a workbench. Smaller, easier ones first, ending with the larger sections.
“My beetle is adequate,” he explained. “It does what I want. But it doesn’t have . . . menace. It’s more of a curiosity. I want to create something that’ll give people pause. And hopefully, a lot of confrontations can be avoided that way.”
“But the warlocks will know what it is and how it works. So it’ll be useless in case . . .”
Caldan knew why she trailed off. The warlocks were out for Caldan’s blood. And there was no way he could avoid them forever, even with Felice and Quiss on his side. Miranda feared they’d attack him, and rightly so. But if he could make them pause . . .
“It’s hard to judge other sorcerers’ strength, or what they can do. Some sorcerers can sense another’s well, but that still doesn’t tell the whole story. It also depends on natural talents and the craftings they have, but . . . Like I said, if this works, it’ll give even the warlocks pause. They’ll see me, able to generate a powerful shield and control this construct. They’ll know I’m not to be trifled with.”
“I still don’t understand. Couldn’t they do the same thing? Won’t you be revealing too much to them?”
“Strings,” said Caldan. “Or threads.”
“What about them . . . ?”
“Right—sorry. It’s all about numbers. One of the tests to become a journeyman sorcerer is to be able to split your well into two strings. It means you can activate more powerful craftings. Masters can split their wells further, into three or more. The more strings you can control, the more powerful craftings you can use. But for each string you hold on to, maintaining control is harder. It’s like splitting your mind into separate sections and having to focus on each one at the same time.”
“So . . . you’re telling me that if you’re shielded, and controlling this new construct, a sorcerer will know you’re the equivalent of a master?”
Caldan grinned. “Better. I can already do what few sorcerers can: maintain a powerful shield. The one I first used, when we fled Anasoma, that was a toy compared to what I can generate now. But on top of that, I can split my well further. The beetle takes another three to five strings. This construct will take . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. A few more at least.”
“Four strings, eight strings. There’s not much of a difference.”
“Ah, but there is! The more you hold, the slipperier each one becomes.” Caldan took out a flat square of brass.
“So how many can you hold?”
“It . . . depends. I’ve managed more than eight, but I was under stress, not thinking about what I was doing. Just . . . doing it.” Caldan spread his hands, unsure how to explain.
Miranda levered herself up onto a nearby table, her eyes glittering in Caldan’s sorcerous light. “When you practice something,” she said, “eventually, it becomes second nature. Like sword fighting. Blade masters are often unaware of reacting to threats. They just . . . move. It must be similar.”
“Yes. That makes sense. But innate skill comes into it. Each section must work together to create something greater than the parts.”
“As with sword fighting, so too w
ith sorcery and your Touched gifts. If you can combine them, you’ll be . . . the greatest sorcerer since the Shattering.”
Caldan froze. What was it Devenish had said? You’ll be greater than you can imagine. When all he meant was that Caldan would be a powerful tool for the warlock to use. Miranda’s words echoed Devenish’s, and they sent a chill deep inside his bones, even though he knew she couldn’t possibly mean the same thing. For an instant, it seemed he was alone in a freezing wasteland, with no shelter, nowhere to run.
“And that means they’ll never stop coming after me.”
Miranda fixed him with a pity-filled gaze. She bit her bottom lip and turned her head away. Her hair slid across her face as she looked at the ground between them.
“There’s a story I know,” she said. “About a merchant who made some bad decisions. Very bad. He owed a lot of people a great many ducats. Some banks, some quite nasty moneylenders. One day, his house burned down, and they found his charred body inside. Luckily, his wife and daughter were staying at a friend’s that night.”
Caldan nodded, half listening. He laid out crafting sketches he’d penned earlier: runes and patterns to enable him to create a destructive sorcerous crafting. Not to kill, but to engrave metal.
“They knew it was him,” continued Miranda, “because of the corpse. He’d taken to wearing a particular set of jewelry the last few months before the fire. Quite unique.”
Caldan grunted. “Sounds like he should have sold it to pay some of his debts.” He began inking his design on the brass plate.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I can’t remember what it was—a medallion and something else. Anyway, they found a body burned beyond recognition, which they identified as the merchant’s from the jewelry he was wearing. So the people he owed ducats to were disappointed. Perhaps they’d been the ones to kill him. But that would make for bad business. If you’re dead, you can’t pay back what you owe. Better to leave the debtor alive. The man’s wife and daughter had nothing. The wife was forced to work . . . to do things she never thought she’d lower herself to do. All in order to feed her daughter. But that’s slightly off story.”
Caldan paused in his work. “I think I know how this ends. They found the man alive and well? Living somewhere else under another name?”
Miranda shook her head, leaning forward on her perch. “The moneylenders didn’t. Once the daughter was older, she linked a few pieces of information together: stories from her mother, details of what businesses the father had interests in, who his friends and acquaintances were, where he would be . . . most comfortable, if he had to flee. You see, she was angry. A bitter, angry girl.”
“So you’re saying I should do something similar? Flee, but fake my own death.” It made a good deal of sense. The only flaw in the idea was that he had nothing he could leave behind. His trinket ring was too valuable . . . Caldan glanced up at Miranda. She regarded him with hooded eyes.
He found his fingers had moved to turn the ring, and he stopped them. She shouldn’t be asking this of him. It was one of only two links to his parents. To Caldan’s past. But what had knowing more about his past delivered to him? The more he knew about himself, the less he wanted to. Then again, the metal ring was of far more value to him than just as a trinket. For Caldan, as a Touched, it functioned to enhance his abilities and mitigate their consequences. Without it, his body would degrade much more swiftly. Caldan returned to his scribing. “It’s . . . I’ll consider it” was all he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miranda nod.
“That’s all I ask.”
The trouble was, it was an excellent idea. And the sacrifice of his ring would make his death all the more believable. If they could escape unseen. They’d have to travel somewhere far away. There were many details that would need to be worked out.
There was also the fact that he didn’t want to run. It was selfish, he knew—running might keep Miranda safer—but something told him he was needed in this. That he couldn’t take the coward’s way out.
“So what happened to the man and his daughter?” asked Caldan.
Miranda laughed feebly, causing Caldan to look up at her.
“She found him in another city. Living in a nice house, with another wife. Not a care in the world.” She lowered her head. Her hair fell to cover her face. “She killed him. Took what she could easily sell. And went back to her mother.”
Caldan heard the pain in her voice, felt her distress from where he sat. He lowered his pen and moved to comfort her. She trembled against him, letting out the occasional sob. Eventually she pushed him away and wiped her tears with the back of a hand. She smiled weakly, trying hard to show she was strong.
“Ancestors . . .” breathed Caldan.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t the best time to tell that story.” Miranda sighed. “I’ve never told anyone before, even my mother. All she knew was that I made some ducats somehow and we had a better life. She no longer had to debase herself. She didn’t ask me how. She was almost beyond caring then. Now you know my darkest secret. What must you think of me?”
Caldan wrapped his arms around her, ignoring her protests. When she realized he wouldn’t be deterred, she relaxed. “We all have to make hard decisions sometimes. I’m just glad you came through unscathed.”
Miranda kept her head buried in his chest. “I wouldn’t say that. But I’m learning to forget.”
“And your mother?”
“She . . . died, later. I think she wanted to for a long time, but couldn’t because of me. Once she knew we had enough ducats to survive . . . she just sort of, let go. She wasn’t well.”
They held each other in silence for a while, until Miranda moved away. “Enough,” she said firmly. “You’ve work to do.”
Reluctantly, Caldan left her and returned to his crafting. When he looked at her, he saw anguish and guilt. A child, alone and mistreated. A mother and daughter squashed between starvation and an abusive world.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Caldan said. There were things in his past he needed to explain to her as well. They hadn’t had enough time together. Maybe they never would.
“Perhaps,” Miranda said with a sad smile.
And all Caldan could do was nod. He wouldn’t push her to reopen old wounds. “As you wish.”
They needed to be done with all this. To leave it all behind.
Amerdan, Kelhak, warlocks, Caldan recited. The path he had to take to finally be free. To rid himself of what he was becoming. All he had to do was defeat a being Gazija had failed to. One that had the warlocks and the emperor quailing in their boots.
No problem.
He returned to his work, and in a few minutes was finished. A crude crafting, he’d admit. But its only purpose was to assist him in crafting another construct. Caldan began assembling the parts, clicking rods into slots, fastening sections together with joints and screws. It was like a jigsaw. A rough one, but the clockmaker’s craft had done wonders with the idea and refinements. Once it was assembled, Caldan sat back and surveyed the creature. He would have liked to give it wings as he had his beetle, but it weighed far too much. Before him was another doglike automaton, similar to the one he’d destroyed beneath Anasoma. But this one was far more complex. Not thin and spindly, the internal skeleton was covered with a protective shell. Lying in a jumble, unable to move, it still rose two feet above the workbench. It was beautiful, except for one thing:
Its surface was unblemished. Unmarked by the runes and patterns that would bring it to life.
Caldan stopped and checked on Miranda, who hadn’t made a sound so far. She smiled and waved at him to continue.
“I’m enjoying watching you,” she said with a smirk. “Forget I’m here and do your crafting.”
He smiled back, his joy at both her words and his work genuine.
He turned to the brass plate and took it in his hands, opening his well and linking to the object. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, he poured his power through i
ts pathways and patterns. He started with a basic design: a linking rune.
Sparks flew and metal shrieked, similar to the grinding wheel when it was scouring a blade. The scent of lemons filled the air. He stopped, checking the results both physically and with his sorcerous sense. The pattern was perfect. A fingernail-deep engraving embedded in the metal. The link felt strong, though it led nowhere.
For now.
Buoyed by his success, Caldan continued as quickly as he dared. The night was waning, and he’d lost a lot of time with everything that had happened. He needed to be finished and gone before the sun rose. This was draining, and he didn’t want to be caught away from the safety of Quiss’s ship, possibly unable to defend himself.
It took an hour, but at the end, even Caldan had to stare in wonder. The metal was not bright, but of a dull gray sheen. Fine dark lines flowed over the surface, occasionally sprouting into complex runic patterns, like flowers blooming from a vine. He ran a hand over it. It was hot to the touch, but cooling rapidly in the night air. The seams were still there, but as he’d been crafting the metal, he’d shaped them, so the articulations were less obvious. What resulted were almost unnoticeable joints. The wolf—for that was how Caldan thought of it—had two star sapphires implanted in its head for eyes—keys to its design, but also for the sorcerer who controlled it to see through. Quiss had given them to Caldan without blinking when he’d inquired if the sorcerer had any gems he could use.
“It looks like a suit of armor for a wolf,” said Miranda. “It’s a remarkable creation.”
He could hear awe in her voice, and he flushed at her praise.
“Is it like your paper birds?” she continued. “And your beetle? It can move on its own like the others, can’t it?”
“It is . . . more,” whispered Caldan. “What I’ve learned from Quiss, seen him do . . . it has virtues I never dreamed of when I was at the monastery. And with the number of linking runes I’ve used, hardly anyone will be able to take control of it.”
“The strings again?”
“Yes,” replied Caldan with a smile. “There’s a book in the monastery’s library, Devices and Mechanisms, filled with schematics and illustrations supposedly from before the Shattering. I thought it was mostly fanciful invention. But I loved reading it, looking at the diagrams. I now think it wasn’t too far off the mark. The author must know more than he revealed. I should find him.”
A Shattered Empire Page 34