Dreamwielder

by Garrett Calcaterra

  The people in the streets scurried out of his way, recognizing him as a houndkeeper, and he reached Castle Pyrthin without a single person hailing him or barring his way. He was immediately granted entry and audience with the King. Once inside King Casstian’s study, Natarios unbuttoned his cloak to let the warmth from the fire seep into his bones.

  “To what do I owe this displeasure?” King Casstian asked, taking a seat in the larger of the two chairs beside the fireplace.

  Natarios smiled thinly and sat down in the smaller chair across from him. “There’s a sorceress about it seems. The hound detected her a few days past, and Wulfram thinks she may be heading here, to Kal Pyrthin. The Emperor has decreed that a reward of one hundred crowns be offered to the person who turns her in.”

  King Casstian sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, these methods don’t work. The only thing you get when you offer a bounty is a bunch of paranoid people and fearmongering. If I offer a reward of a hundred crowns, common folk will be turning in their neighbors because they heard a strange noise in the night. Ruffians will be bringing me the heads of every spinster and crone this side of the highlands, demanding reward for killing some innocent old woman. It’s madness.”

  “It’s the decree of the Emperor,” Natarios remarked. In actuality, the decree came from Wulfram, but it amounted to the same thing.

  “It’s madness,” Casstian said again.

  “I’ll do you a kindness and not mention to Wulfram you said that. You know as well as I do that the Emperor wants what’s best for all. We can’t have a sorceress running loose in the city.”

  “I don’t need any favors from you, houndkeeper. You’re a blight on my kingdom. What do I care if a sorceress is running about as long as she keeps her business to herself? This reward you want me to offer will do nothing but cause panic. My soldiers will be running around on wild goose chases for weeks, chasing nothing when they should be standing ready to protect Pyrthinia from pirates or an attack from the Old World. You want to put my vassals in harm’s way. I’ll not allow it.”

  Natarios wrinkled his nose and scratched at the mat of hair beneath his hood. Even when he was trying to be cordial, Casstian showed him nothing but disdain. “I didn’t come here to ask your permission,” Natarios said, continuing on quickly before the King protested, “and you needn’t worry about distracting your troops—my men will handle all investigations. Anyone with information about the sorceress is to come to my tower.”

  King Casstian narrowed his eyes. “That’s beyond your realm of jurisdiction, houndkeeper. The Emperor and I clearly came to an agreement that you had no authority to carry out investigations, try criminals, or punish them. I have it in the Emperor’s own writing that—”

  “The scenario has changed,” Natarios interrupted. He stood up, hoping to give the impression he was unconcerned and aloof of the King’s protest. “I’m not asking your permission,” Natarios continued, “I’m merely here to inform you of what I’ll be doing. As a courtesy. If you take issue with the Emperor’s decree, you can discuss it with Wulfram when he returns from Valaróz within the week.”

  With that, Natarios turned and hurried out of the study. Casstian wordlessly watched him leave, then turned to glare into the fireplace. For over thirty years he had been fending off the Emperor to maintain control of Pyrthinia, but he was slowly losing, he knew. Every day it was something—some new decree that left Casstian powerless to protect his people. He sighed deeply. It was a helpless feeling, and each day more so. There had been a time when he contemplated standing up to the Emperor, but he’d foolishly thought he could persuade the Emperor to see his way with reason, or if nothing else, he could keep Pyrthinia isolated and out of harm’s way if he stayed quiet and didn’t draw attention to Pyrthinia. It was clear now he had been wrong. Casstian had known for a long time but was reticent to admit it to himself. He had been whittled down to nearly nothing—a figurehead. That’s all he was, and the little resistance he had posed over the years had been in vain. It had already cost him the life of one of his sons, his other son was in the lions’ den, and now, he feared, the Emperor was after his daughter.

  9

  A Voice in the Dark

  Caile downed his third ale and called for a round of spiced grain spirits from the tavern keeper. At his side, Meinrad tried to follow suit but spilled most of the ale down his chin. Meinrad was Caile’s officially appointed liaison to Col Sargoth, but Caile hadn’t been fooled for a moment by the title. Meinrad was the Emperor’s agent. Whenever Caile wasn’t attending court sessions pertaining to Pyrthinian trade matters, it was Meinrad’s task to watch over Caile; Caile literally could not go anywhere beyond his private chambers in the keep without him. More importantly to Caile’s mind, Meinrad had also been Cargan’s liaison and witnessed Cargan’s death at a tavern several blocks east of where the two of them now sat drinking. Caile had been in Col Sargoth for nearly a week now and had learned little more than that from Meinrad. The man was taciturn and rigid, but Caile had been showering him with praise and mock adoration for days, pretending to be a spoiled prince looking for nothing more than debauchery and easy thrills. The ruse seemed to be working, and each day Meinrad let his guard down a little more. It had taken a good amount of pleading and prodding to get Meinrad to escort him out of Lightbringer’s Keep and to a tavern, but Caile had won out in the end, and here they were, mingling in the noisy tavern like any other city folk. While the mood on the streets of Col Sargoth by day was somber, the people inside the dim, low-roofed tavern seemed to be having no shortage of merriment and mirth.

  The tavern keeper slammed down two pewter glasses filled with pungent grain spirit onto the table in front of Caile and his liaison. Caile clinked his glass against Meinrad’s and lifted it to his lips, silently thanking Don Bricio for the only useful skill the usurper ever taught him: how to hold his liquor. Bricio had migrated from the Old World and brought with him the technique for distilling fire nectar when he was given the throne in Sol Valaróz. The fire nectar was potent and lived up to its name. Learn to drink and enjoy it now when you’re young and impervious to hangovers, and as you grow older your body will have learnt how to handle it, Caile remembered Bricio saying during one of the many occasions they sat drinking from crystal goblets on the royal veranda overlooking the Sol Sea. Those were the times Caile would pick up on Bricio’s dirty little secrets about how the people of Valaróz were kept in line, during the hour or so when the sun set, before Bricio would stagger away to bed one of the women in his harem.

  Meinrad couldn’t hold his liquor nearly as well as Bricio. He was big, even for a Sargothian, and several years older than Caile, but drinking spirits clearly wasn’t in his repertoire. He slammed the pewter glass back into his mouth and tilted his head back, sloshing most of the grain spirit up his nose. He sputtered and coughed, and Caile slapped him heartily on the back.

  “Easy now. No need to show off by drinking it through your nose.”

  “I’m alright,” Meinrad wheezed.

  “I take it you and my big brother didn’t drink much over the years?”

  “He never drank. Said it rotted the mind.”

  Caile shrugged, projecting an air of indifference. “He always was a bit stuffy from what I remember. But he still dragged you into the city, yes? What was it for if not ale and spirits? Women?”

  “I wish,” Meinrad replied, slumping forward onto the bench.

  Caile grinned. “A bit of a bird dog yourself, eh, Meinrad?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I wish Cargan was after women instead of… instead of…” Meinrad slurred to a stop realizing he was saying too much.

  Caile leaned in closer. “You can tell me, friend. I’ll not speak a word of it. I like it here in Col Sargoth. As far as I’m concerned, my brother dying was the best thing to ever happen to me.”

  Meinrad tried to look Caile in the eyes, but his own pupils wandered involuntarily, making it impossible for him to focus. “Let�
�s just say—let’s just say he was seeking out people who dislike the Emperor. I wasn’t sure why at first… hoped it was ‘cause he wanted to turn them in, but no…”

  “Treachery, then,” Caile remarked. He desperately wanted to know how Cargan had died—he suspected it was Meinrad or one of the Emperor’s other agents who had killed him, not drunkards—but he dared not pry further, and instead waved the tavern keeper back over.

  “No, no more,” Meinrad protested when the tavern keeper refilled their pewter glasses.

  “One more,” Caile insisted, shoving one glass into Meinrad’s meaty fist and raising up the other. “For my brother, the traitor, and to his well-deserved death.”

  Caile watched Meinrad’s reaction to his words as he drained his glass. The Sargothian seemed dispassionate one way or the other and merely lifted his glass to his lips. He drank about half of it before choking and lurching to his feet.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  Caile jumped up and took his liaison’s arm. “Easy now. I’ll help you outside.” He guided Meinrad clear of their bench and tossed a few coins onto the table to pay for their drinks, then led the way out the back door. Outside, a cool ocean breeze blew through the alleyway. The rear of the tavern was comprised of a decrepit stable—little more than a lean-to with a water trough, some moldering straw, and a few posts for patrons to tie up their horses. There wasn’t a single horse there. From what Caile had seen, no one used horses in this city except for travelers and the Emperor’s cavalrymen. The city folk seemed content to get by on foot or to take the steam-propelled rickshaws and wagons that clogged the nighttime streets.

  Meinrad grasped one of the stable tie-posts and retched violently.

  “That’s right, get it out,” Caile encouraged him, and when Meinrad was done he led him to the horse trough. “Some water will make you feel better. Drink up.”

  Meinrad leaned forward to do as he was told but slipped on the vomit-soaked ground and toppled head first into the trough. Caile grabbed the Sargothian by the waist to keep him from tumbling fully in, and the scent of stagnant water and filth washed over Caile, almost making him gag. It occurred to him that he could easily let Meinrad drown in the acrid water, but he brushed the thought aside and merely let Meinrad thrash about and make bubbles for a few more seconds before pulling him back out. Meinrad gasped, choked, then retched again. Caile led him farther into the stable away from the trough and guided him to lie down in a patch of straw. The big man didn’t protest, and the moment his head touched the ground, he passed out.

  “That was easy,” Caile muttered, surprised by the opportunity now afforded to him. He had only intended to loosen Meinrad’s tongue, but Meinrad was likely to be out cold for several hours or more, and that meant Caile could do as he pleased with no one the wiser. Without a second thought, he hurried out of the stable.

  Once clear of the alleyway and on a main street, the sea breeze was much stronger. The air smelled of salt and the fisheries near the wharves, but it was more pleasant than the smell of tar and smoke that choked the streets by day. No wonder there are more people on the streets at night, Caile mused. The streets were indeed filled with more people than anytime he’d seen before. The scene was far from cheerful, however. Apart from those who’d been enjoying the taverns, most of the city folk scurried about silently and swiftly beneath the yellow-hued light emanating from the street lamps.

  “Turnips?” a peddler woman asked, holding up a basket full of her produce for him to peruse.

  “Thank you, no,” Caile replied. “If you had kabobs or something better suited to ale and spirits…”

  The woman waved her hand at him dismissively and shoved her basket toward another passerby. Caile shrugged and walked farther down the street to hail the driver of a steam-powered rickshaw. “To The Thirsty Whale,” he said, handing the driver a coin and sitting down on the small bench at the front of the contraption. The driver pulled a lever, and the entire rickshaw shuddered and jerked forward. It crept down the street, wheezing like a bellows and slowly building momentum. Caile could feel the heat at his back from the boiler, and more than once he twisted his head backward to examine the steel contraption and watch the piston-driven crank thrust up and down spasmodically to rotate the massive flywheel. When they finally came to a stop in front of The Thirsty Whale, Caile decided it was an altogether disappointing experience. He’d expected something more, something faster, something powerful, something to make all the noise and smoke worthwhile.

  The rickshaw was the least of his concerns right now though, he reminded himself. This was where his brother had been killed.

  He stepped inside the tavern and glanced about. It was largely the same as the tavern he’d just left. It was comprised of a low-ceilinged, rectangular room furnished with square tables and squat benches. The tavern keeper’s alcove was partitioned off at the back wall, and along the wall to Caile’s far left was a huge fireplace, though there was no fire burning this early into autumn. Most of the tables were occupied with small groups of patrons, but there were several empty tables. Caile sat at one and caught the tavern keeper’s attention and hollered for an ale. When the tavern keeper came with his ale, Caile opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it and merely paid for the drink. He knew an opportunity such as this was not likely to come his way again—to be here without Meinrad—but he didn’t want to be overzealous and get himself killed. The truth of the matter was he really had no idea how Cargan died. He suspected Meinrad, but it could just as easily have been a random drunkard, or it could have been another agent of the Emperor’s lurking about in the tavern. I wish Lorentz were here, Caile thought. He’d know what to do. But Lorentz and the rest of Caile’s men were on lockdown in their barracks every night, and most of the days for that matter, by the Emperor’s decree. Caile pushed the thought aside. Lorentz would probably just tell me to forget about the whole business, anyway.

  Caile gulped down the head and first several inches off the top of his ale, contemplating. The tavern keeper would have likely witnessed Cargan’s death, but he was also sober and probably a suspicious man. In Caile’s experience, tavern keepers were an unreliable lot; they were too worried about keeping their doors open and making money and would rat out their own family at the first sign of trouble. Caile needed to find a regular patron, he decided, one who was good and drunk and wouldn’t remember him or suspect anything when Caile started asking questions.

  His decision made, Caile glanced up from his ale intent on scoping out a good candidate only to see that someone had sat across from him at his table.

  “Tsk, tsk, Prince Caile,” the man said. “It’s not nice to get your liaison sickly drunk and then abandon him in a back alley.”

  Caile curbed his surprise and regarded the man silently. The man looked completely ordinary. He wore gray breeches and a dark tunic like nearly everyone else in Col Sargoth, and like most men in the city, he had short hair and a close-cropped beard. He didn’t appear to be armed. There was little point in denying being Prince Caile Delios, Caile decided. Clearly the man had been following him. Caile had done nothing to reveal his identity, and he was wearing clothing nearly as nondescript as what the man across from him wore. The question was whether this man was one the Emperor’s agents.

  “You’re more resourceful than your brother was,” the man said when it was clear Caile did not plan on replying. “Cargan was a bit too direct in his attempts to contact us.”

  “And you are who exactly?”

  The man ignored him and hailed the tavern keeper: “Two spirits and two more ales.”

  The man paid for the drinks when the tavern keeper came, then held up his glass of spiced grain spirit. “May the Emperor drown in his own privy,” he said loud enough for only Caile to hear. Caile said nothing but raised his glass, and the two of them drank. The man sucked his cheeks in afterward then took a sip from his ale.

  “Call me Stephen.”

  “What do you want from me, Stephe
n?” Caile asked.

  “That depends on what you want from me and my comrades.”

  “Did you kill my brother?”

  If Caile’s bluntness caught the man off guard, he didn’t show it. “In a sense, yes, but it was by necessity.”

  “Necessity?”

  “Stay calm,” Stephen said, and Caile realized he’d nearly shouted his question.

  “What do you mean it was necessity?”

  “Your brother came to us, but his liaison and the Emperor had grown suspicious. There were men following him the night he died. He was too sure of himself and was on the verge of giving away our identity—our whole organization. We killed him, pretending to be drunkards, but it was only to save the organization. The Emperor would have surely killed him if we hadn’t, and the rest of us would’ve died with him. What we did was for the greater good of the organization.”