Dross (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 2)

by Caleb Wachter

  “If I was a bird, this would be a perfect place to take wing,” he said, recalling his dreams in which he had, indeed, flown as a bird, “but no matter how potent our shared blood might be, I can’t fly.”

  “Indeed,” she nodded as she waved her hand at the seemingly empty center of the tower’s flat, stone roof, “but I can temporarily grant you that very ability.”

  Quickly shimmering into existence where she had waved her hand was something the likes of which Randall had never seen. He took an instinctive step back before realizing it was not alive, and then he leaned forward with bewilderment as he examined what was obviously a conveyance of some kind.

  It looked like nothing so much as a long, slender bird measuring twenty feet or so in length and about four feet in height. Its skin was glossy and jet-black, and it sported a pair of wings and what could charitably be called a tail at what was obviously the rear of the bizarre looking construction.

  “What is it?” he breathed in wonderment.

  “They are called Black Ships,” she explained, “and only a few are known to exist in this entire world. They are coveted by the powerful and utilized by the clever. Under the cover of night they are completely undetectable—even via means familiar to those who share our peculiar gifts,” she said pointedly. “Between a single dusk and dawn this ship can carry you from Greystone to Three Rivers, though your return will need to be made via more mundane means since this vessel’s assignment will take it far from these lands for quite some time after your arrival in Three Rivers.”

  Randall remembered something Phinjo had said when bantering with the Federation ambassador. “Wait…you’re going to send him to Fissalia, aren’t you?”

  For the briefest instant, unvarnished approval was evident on her doll-like features. But even as that moment passed and her face resumed its placid, diplomatic mask she inclined her head fractionally, “You may yet be of greater use to us than our skeptics believed possible. But further inquiry into that matter would be best conducted after you return.”

  “I thought you said I should steer clear of Greystone for a while?” he asked warily.

  “You should,” she said firmly, “but your return journey should first take you to your barony, where I will forward these documents,” she gestured to the first pile of papers, “once the wind brings word of your establishment there.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with all of these withdrawals?” he asked, waving the bank notes.

  “Secure them, preferably at your new barony,” she shrugged, “but until they can be reclaimed by our agents and distributed where they are needed, they are entrusted to your safekeeping. I fear I cannot adequately impress upon you the magnitude of this task or the importance of those accounts’ contents. If an account is inaccessible for any reason whatsoever, do not dally or contend with the bankers. Too much is already in motion, and your retrieval of these articles is something of a bonus in the Nation’s view—a bonus that, if completed, I can assure you will curry favors which may well prove decisive for both our interests in the months to come.”

  She waved her hand and the Black Ship shimmered once again, this time disappearing where it had previously appeared.

  “Ok,” he said with growing confidence, “I think I can do this.”

  “Good,” she nodded. “Then go take your meal with your friends, memorize those lists, and be ready to depart here at dusk.”

  “You know about my lunch down in the Gate District?” he asked, more surprised at not having expected as much than to hear her say in no uncertain terms that she had been watching his activities of the previous day.

  “I would not be very good at my job if I did not keep my eyes open,” she said in a clearly scolding tone. “Now, if you do not mind, I must attend to other duties.”

  After she had departed via the stairwell, Randall looked out over the city of Greystone for a long while. He hoped Dan’Moread would recover soon, more for her sake than his own. Where they were about to go, he would need to do his utmost to keep them out of the type of trouble which had originally brought them together.

  Because no matter how good Dani was at fighting, there was an endless supply of enemies lurking within Three Rivers’ walls.

  “’Tis good to see you, Randall,” Drexil slapped him on the shoulder for the fourth time since the quartet had set off toward Yorys’ declared destination: a small smokehouse and grill patronized by in-the-know locals who had a taste for exotically-flavored meats and cheeses. “You were missed on the road after ye left.”

  “I missed you, as well,” Randall said with genuine feeling.

  “Still holdin’ that lead arm lower than I taught you?” the burly warrior asked conspiratorially.

  “Probably,” Randall sighed, drawing a good-natured slap to the back as the full-bearded Drexil issued a hearty belly laugh.

  “How did you all meet?” Yorys asked, grinning as an unexpected camaraderie seemed to fill the air as they walked.

  “Ah,” Drexil grunted, “well, see, the Baron here—“

  “Drexil!” Randall blurted in horror, wondering how in the Lady’s name the half-drunken warrior had learned of his investiture that morning.

  “’Tis nothin’ to be ashamed of, Randall,” Drexil mussed his hair, “forsooth, t’was a fine disguise!”

  “Come meet my lord Marion von Pendergast, Baron of the Eastern Hills!” Eckol cried in mock solemnity, reminding Randall of his blessedly short-lived career as an actor who thought himself capable of saving lives with what was certainly a cringe-worthy performance. “And it wasn’t just the name—with all that smudgy face paint on you even looked like you’d leapt straight off the pages of a storybook!”

  “Hey,” Randall protested, “my makeup job wasn’t that bad.”

  “This sounds like a story worth hearing!” Yorys’ grin only broadened.

  “Would that we could retell it as deftly as young Charles did,” Eckol said wistfully. “That boy had his entire village wrapped ‘round his little finger when he spun the tale as only a future bard can.”

  “I just wish the ol’ Baron here would make up his mind regardin’ his aptitude for swordplay,” Drexil chuckled. “One day he’s cuttin’ down Fleshmongers with reckless abandon, and the next sees him barely able to keep his feet beneath him during a light sparring session.”

  “Consistency was never my strongest suit,” Randall muttered, looking at Dan’Moread’s hilt and doing his best to conceal his anxiety.

  “Aye, aye,” Drexil waved a hand dismissively as they came to the smokehouse and grill, “keep yer secrets—the best always do,” he added with a wink.

  The quartet laughed together in a moment of masculine merriment the likes of which Randall had never really experienced. But even as they sampled the grill’s fare, his thoughts were never far from Dan’Moread, Ellie, Yordan, and even Lorie back in Three Rivers.

  Chapter XII: Cover of Night

  Dusk, 1-2-6-659

  After the sun finally went dark overhead, Randall climbed the stairs and emerged on the roof of the tower as ready as he would ever be to make the journey to Three Rivers.

  “Who’s this?” he asked after seeing Phinjo standing next to a half-elf somewhere between fifth and seventh generations removed from his Ghaevlian progenitor. He was dressed in an all-black, form-fitting garment that fit his body like a glove—which Randall immediately thought of as a ‘bodyglove’—and had eyes as sharp as any hawk’s.

  “His name is Assan,” she replied, “he, too, once called Three Rivers home and he, too, now wishes to play a part in the events to come. His original assignment was to make the contacts and withdrawals itemized in the lists which I trust you have already memorized, but since you have undertaken that particular set of tasks he is free to pursue other matters of importance to the Nation and her allies. He will pilot the Black Ship and drop you close enough to Three Rivers that you can take a riverboat to the docks, arriving before dawn breaks. Can you navigate the security at
the port without officially declaring your presence?”

  Randall was less than totally confident that he could slip into the city as easily as he had slipped out, but he nodded anyway since he knew that his friends’ lives very likely depended on it, “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Good,” Phinjo nodded, gesturing to the Black Ship—the side of which seemed to split apart, revealing a pair of declined seats, one in front of the other, within the bird-like vehicle’s tubular midsection, “then you should embark without further delay.”

  Randall handed her the papers detailing the contacts and the bank records, “I think I’ve got them.”

  “You ‘think’ or you are confident?” she asked without moving to accept the documents.

  “I’m confident,” he assured her.

  “And what of your…friend?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Dan’Moread’s hilt.

  “Still out of touch,” he shook his head, “but this is important; I’ve got it.”

  She nodded fractionally, extending a delicate hand to accept the trio of papers. No sooner had they touched her fingers than they went up in a short-lived display of greenish-white pyrotechnics, after which Phinjo mimed the dusting of her hands against each other, “Conduct our business first, then see to your personal matters, but whatever you do you must depart the city before dusk of this Wandering’s third day.”

  “That’s just two days—” Randall objected.

  “Which is one day more than the Nation’s business requires,” she interrupted firmly. “Assuming that your loved ones mean as much to you as your comportment suggests, I have no doubt that you will impress upon them the import of your visit—and that you will do so without revealing anything which might compromise the Nation’s interests in the process.”

  In her own way, Randall knew that Phinjo was extending a significant amount of support for his purely personal matters. It would have certainly been easier simply to have Assan conduct the Nation’s business, but she was entrusting Randall with those responsibilities instead. Her doing so probably meant that she was attempting to help him make contact with his friends in Three Rivers without tipping off whoever else was involved in the Ghaevlian Nation’s ultra-secret war effort—an effort which, if it was indeed still a secret, would soon be known from one corner of the world to another.

  “I appreciate this,” Randall said seriously.

  “I know you do,” Phinjo gestured to the Black Ship, “and I know you will reciprocate however you are able, after you are able. But right now time is of the essence.”

  “I understand,” he nodded, moving toward the glossy, black, bird-like craft.

  “You sit in back,” Assan said, speaking with the accent used by the Kheifs who ruled Three Rivers before the Federation took over five years earlier.

  “Ok,” Randall nodded, carefully sliding into the hard, form-fitting chair which was made of a lightweight yet hard material unlike anything he had ever touched. It was almost like the lightest wood, but it was clearly far stronger than that as it did not deflect or twist as he settled into it.

  “To restore the land,” Assan said, placing his hand over his heart and bowing to Phinjo.

  “To restore the land,” she repeated, and with that the young half-elf took his seat in the front of the Black Ship and the upraised section of the craft’s side slowly lowered until it appeared to fuse with the lower edge which Randall had climbed over in order to enter the craft.

  Randall could see nothing and hear nothing, but he felt the unmistakable sensation of movement—upward movement—before a sudden sensation not unlike being crushed into his seat pressed down on him with such tremendous force that he could barely move his limbs in protest.

  “What’s happening?” he asked nervously.

  “We are flying,” Assan replied.

  Randall? he unexpectedly heard Dan’Moread’s voice in his head. It was faint, but unmistakable as she asked, What happened?

  “Thank the Lady you’re ok,” Randall sighed in relief as the suffocating pressure driving him into his seat seemed to vanish altogether. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Why would I not be ok?” Assan asked irritably from the front of the compartment.

  I…my memory is weak, Randall, she said slowly. I recall dueling the Jarl, and there seemed something not quite familiar about it, but…I believe you call it ‘déjà vu’?

  “Really?” Randall whispered. “I didn’t know you ever got that.”

  Neither did I, she assured him.

  “Do you think you ever fought the Jarl, or maybe someone else, in that room before?” he asked under his breath.

  No…at least not that I can remember, she said confidently as her voice grew steadily louder in his head. Will the Jarl recover?

  “Phinjo says he will,” Randall nodded. “But you did cut his leg off below the knee.”

  He deserved it, she sniffed. You are not built to withstand punches or kicks from a man as stout as him. One does not treat friends that way.

  “I don’t think he’s ever going to be our friend,” Randall whispered, “but I do think he’s going to be our ally.”

  That is one distinction for which I have never cared, she said tightly.

  “You and me both,” he agreed.

  If I must deduce the answer for myself, she said with mild irritation, then I surmise that Phinjo granted you the use of her Black Ship so that you might carry out her business in Three Rivers, during which time you were subtly instructed to look to the well-being of your friends who live there.

  “How do you know about the Black Ships?” Randall asked, his voice rising in surprise.

  “I was instructed in their use by a former colleague at the Towers Grey,” Assan replied, clearly hearing him due to his briefly raised voice.

  Assan? Dan’Moread said in surprise before her tone turned sour. I should have guessed as much.

  “Wait…you know him?” Randall whispered, careful to keep his voice down.

  He and Tavleros were close, Dan’Moread replied, and there was something in her tone that made Randall decide against continued inquiry on the subject.

  “So…are you better?” he asked under his breath.

  I do not feel any prolonged ill effects, she said. I think I can perform my duties if needed.

  “Just the same, I think it’s better if this next bit is left up to me,” he said.

  You think me ill-suited to subterfuge and stealth? she challenged.

  “I think you should never remove a fly from a friend’s forehead with a hatchet,” he riposted, “especially when you’ve got a perfectly useful rag nearby.”

  You are not a rag, Randall, she said seriously. You are my friend, and I do not bestow that title lightly—and never upon people who deserve comparisons to discarded bits of cloth best employed by soaking up unwanted bodily fluids.

  “I, uh…” he rubbed his neck sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to suggest your best purpose is chopping wood.”

  I know what I am, Randall, she said matter-of-factly. One cannot be insulted or threatened by the truth after she has learned to accept it. Besides, from my perspective being compared to a device whose sole purpose is to cleave inferior objects in twain is both the truth and a compliment.

  “Kind of like the word ‘pointy’?” he asked, recalling the time when she had joked about that very epithet.

  Precisely, she agreed. Never be ashamed of who or what you are, Randall. Learn to accept yourself, for all your various strengths and weaknesses, and you will be of greater value to both yourself and those who rely on you. Self-loathing must be reserved for when you do not try to apply your own particular gifts to the fullest while doing your utmost to minimize the power which your flaws exert over your life.

  There, sandwiched between the harsh criticisms and good-natured ribbings he had come to expect only from Ellie and Yordan, was a pearl of advice so apt and needed in that particular moment that Randall came to a realization regarding his growi
ng relationship with Dan’Moread. “You’re a true friend, Dani,” he whispered, unthinkingly using the endearing nickname and expecting a rebuke—a rebuke which, oddly, never came.

  Likewise, Randall, she said, after which they settled in for the night-long trip to Three Rivers.

  First Bell (Three Hours Before Dawn) 2-2-6-659

  “Hold the rails,” Assan instructed several long, monotonous hours later.

  Randall had already identified the pair of obvious handholds located to either side of his body, and after gripping one in each hand he asked, “What is this fo—“

  With enough force to cause his head to snap forward sharply enough to create stars in his vision, Randall’s body was lurched forward with such intensity that he worried he might lose his grip on the handholds.

  But he somehow managed to hold on, and after a lengthy and terrifying interval the struggle against the unseen force was over and Randall found himself guardedly optimistic that they had reached their destination.

  Sure enough, the same panel of the Black Ship’s tapered, quasi-cylindrical body lifted just as it had done prior to his boarding the sleek craft. Randall’s eyes quickly adjusted to the light of the quickly-departing Wanderer overhead, and he saw that they had landed on the bank of the Snake River—the same river up which he had fled during his first flight from Three Rivers.

  “We are here,” Assan said unceremoniously before adding, “get out.”

  Randall took little issue with the other man’s curtness since all he had wanted to do since entering the accursed Black Ship was to exit as fast as possible. The feeling of his shoes pressing down into the thick, boggy river grass was a welcome one, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of taking those shoes off so he could feel the individual blades of grass between his toes.