by Rich Wulf
Seren nodded.
“I reiterate the seriousness of this,” he said. “I am about to share perhaps more than Tristam’s arrangement requires because I feel sympathy, if not responsibility, for your friend’s death—but do not mistake sympathy for forgiveness or trust. You stole from me, Seren, and I do not abide thieves. However, I am not a monster, so I will offer you answers to lessen your pain. But realize that what I say to you will be entirely useless to you.”
“Useless?”
“Because the answers will have no true use to you,” he said. “If you betray my confidence, few will believe an insignificant thief. Those who might believe you would likely kill you, suspecting you know more than you do. You seem relatively intelligent, thus I am certain you will remain silent to avoid dangerous scrutiny. But if you do not, your death will trouble me little. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Seren said.
“Then I will tell you what I can,” Dalan said. “I am currently engaged in a project that has consumed a great deal of my time for the past two years. I have certain competitors in this endeavor, and as much as I despise to admit it, this is not a race I am currently winning. Further, these competitors do not share my regard for law, honor, or human mercy. Various clues, not to mention their previous owners, have vanished or perished before I had a chance to investigate. I have long feared that my competitors might seek to derail my own meager progress, so I set this book aside as a trap. Though it greatly resembles other significant pieces of research written by its author, it is, as you know, not genuine. Tristam placed certain enchantments upon this volume that would allow him to follow it if it was stolen, as long as it remained within a certain range.”
“So that was why he interfered when the Watch stopped me,” Seren said. “He didn’t want me to get caught.”
“Not before we found out who you were working for,” Dalan answered with a small smile. “Unfortunately your escape from the Watch was a bit more dramatic than Tristam expected. It took him some time to untangle himself and, by the time he was able to triangulate the book’s location again, the inn was already surrounded by Marth’s henchmen. Being the impulsive individual he is, Tristam resolved to fight his way to rescue you rather than waiting to summon help. Omax is a more practical soul, but his single fault is that he invariably follows Tristam’s lead. Thus they became embroiled in the conflict before they realized how hopelessly outnumbered they were. You have already noted that I do not hesitate to condemn you for your previous actions, but neither will I balk at praising you for a job well done. I thank you for saving their lives. Tristam and Omax have many flaws, but their services are irreplaceable. I have precious few trustworthy allies.
“I know the feeling,” Seren said.
“Imagine my surprise,” Dalan said dryly. “Unfortunately, Tristam’s foolishness lost us much and gained little.” He sighed. “Other than your confirmation that this Captain Marth uses magic, happens to be a changeling, and bears a connection to the fallen nation of Cyre, we still know nothing about our enemy’s true identity. Knowing a changeling’s name means very little. They collect names as other men might collect interesting coins. They often hide behind other identities, live lives as humans or elves so that others will not distrust them for what they are. What truly bothers me is not his identity, but his efficiency. How does he learn so much while we learn so little? How can he command so many minions yet leave no trail?”
“It may not mean much,” Seren said, “but he tried to recruit me.”
Dalan’s eyebrows raised. “Recruit you?”
“He offered to spare my life if I joined him,” she said. “He thought I was an orphan of war.”
“Very interesting,” Dalan said. “The import is unclear, but interesting nonetheless.”
“So what comes next?” Seren asked.
Dalan scowled. “I suspect after this failed theft, Marth will make a more dramatic and violent move against me,” he said. “I have already gathered what I need so that I can leave Wroat, but I regret the damage he will do in my wake.”
“What does he want?” Seren asked. “What’s so important that it’s worth killing for? What’s so important that you would gamble with people’s lives?”
“I am no gambler, Seren,” Dalan said, looking at her intently. “A gambler is a man who risks what otherwise would not be lost. I gamble nothing, for many lives are already at risk.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Fools always believe a simple answer will wipe trouble away,” Dalan said with a sneer. “Simple answers are the opiate of simple minds; I prefer things complex. But so be it, Miss Morisse. Let the burden of enlightenment be on your head. My uncle Ashrem d’Cannith was a brilliant scholar, but his primary area of expertise was artifice—magical engineering. Though I doubt you would have heard of him, you know his symbol already.” Dalan gestured at the crest on the book she had stolen. She realized many more of the books in this room bore the same crest.
“Ashrem made his career in the Last War,” Dalan continued, “fashioning all manner of devices. His skill and innovation are unsurpassed even to this day. You now sit in an example of his brilliance. This airship is one of three he once possessed, and it features many of his own innovations. It was his genius that helped bring about the warforged, as well as countless other creations. Sadly my uncle’s political acumen did not match his ingenuity, and thus he made his share of enemies in our house. These enemies turned their ire to me when he passed; a rather dubious inheritance. That, and this, of course …”
Dalan took a scrap of paper from his desk, rolled it into a tube, and held it over the small candle on his desk. Seren watched as it burned into ashes on his desk. Dalan concentrated a moment and, with a wave of his hand, rendered the page whole and undamaged again.
“Impressive,” she said.
“A dragonmark trick,” he said. “Those who bear the Mark of Making can repair what has been destroyed, but such tricks are the extent of my magical talents. My uncle was a true genius. My minor talents are quite literally nothing compared to his, and to those of many others in my house. My lack of magical talent, combined with the political situation he left behind, made progress in my house difficult for me. The most I could manage was to maintain my position as guildmaster here, though such a prestigious title amounted ultimately to a clerk’s duties. I was to be discarded and forgotten in Wroat.”
“The city has a way of collecting unwanted things,” Seren said.
“Indeed. A few years ago, while sorting through my inheritance, I discovered a passage in one of my uncle’s journals. It made veiled references to other unfinished works, hidden works, in particular an artifact he called the Legacy. It is my belief that the Legacy would have been the most fantastic of my uncle’s creations. It is my duty to reclaim it in his name, and to do so before men like Marth can do the same.”
“How noble,” Seren said. “I’m sure the possibility that you’d win back your House’s favor never entered your mind.”
Dalan smiled. “Naturally my motivations are complex. I hardly find that unusual. A soldier may fight with all his strength and win a battle—in the end justice prevails and the king reigns for another day. Does it matter in the end that, during the battle, the soldier only wished to survive? I think we all do noble things for selfish reasons. I often find that only those who think they are truly selfless—those who act on behalf of abstract ideals or beliefs with no thought for the moment—are those who generally bring the most harm. They lose sight of what truly matters. In any case, I can assure you that my modest political aspirations are far more innocent than whatever this Captain Marth’s intent may be for my uncle’s work. All of Ashrem d’Cannith’s closest colleagues and students have either perished or vanished since his death. Don’t you find that unusual?”
“What does the Legacy do?” Seren asked.
“What indeed?” Dalan said. “I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics, but suffice it to say it is inc
redibly powerful.”
“As a weapon?” she asked.
Dalan paused. “All things can be used as weapons,” he said in a subdued tone. “My uncle would not wish his discoveries to be used in such a way. He was a man of peace.”
“Then maybe your Legacy is better off undiscovered,” Seren answered.
“A conclusion I have not dismissed,” Dalan said, “but knowledge is not a thing that can be caged or extinguished. Whatever the truth of my uncle’s discovery, one day it will be found, by Marth or others like him. It falls to me to ensure that it is discovered by those who will use the knowledge responsibly.”
“And you believe House Cannith will use it responsibly,” Seren said.
“In fact I do,” he said, his tone mildly offended. “Do not misunderstand me, Seren. I comprehend the mercantile motivations that drive my house. I understand them better than most. The lure of wealth and power are strong, and to be certain many Canniths would be seduced by the notion of exploiting my uncle’s work. Yet remember that we have been the custodians of magical knowledge for over three millennia. If there are any with whom my uncle’s secrets can be trusted, then who else but his own house?”
“Then why didn’t he leave the knowledge to you, as he left his ship?” she asked.
Dalan did not answer immediately. “To be honest, I do not know,” he said in a sober voice. “The answer to that question is one of many mysteries he left behind.” He drummed his fingers on the desk for a long moment, then looked at her with a frown. “If there is nothing else, Miss Morisse, then I believe our business is concluded.” He reached into his pocket, scattering a few gold coins on the table. “Take this for your trouble, and take my advice as well. Leave Wroat and do not involve yourself in this further. I can handle it from here.”
Seren looked at the coins as they shone in the lamplight. It was more money than she had seen in some time, but she made no move to reach for them.
“I want to help,” she said.
“You?” Dalan retorted. “Why?”
“Because you need help,” she said. “You already trusted me enough to tell me what you’re after.”
“I told you very little.” Dalan laughed. “I told you enough to satiate my own meager guilt over your friend’s death, and no more. I do not need you, Seren Morisse. Return to your filthy hovel. I wish you a long, prosperous life of digging through other people’s pockets. When you meet your final knife in the dark, may you bleed out painlessly.”
“Marth killed my friend; I want to help stop him,” Seren answered, her voice growing heated from Dalan’s insults. “Maybe you can’t trust me, but you know I have nowhere else to go. You admitted you need allies. What do you have to lose?”
“This ship operates with a surprisingly small crew,” Dalan said, “so I do not require another deckhand. What use would I have with a thief?”
“Well,” Seren said, “you claim that you’ve studied some of the same clues as Marth, but that he learns more than you do?”
Dalan nodded. “I possess many copies of my uncle’s works, but I believe there is a code, a pattern that I do not yet understand. Marth must have broken this cipher already. It seems he is much more skilled in his craft than Tristam.”
“Or he has resources you don’t know about,” Seren said. “Marth knew the journal was worthless when he studied it with this.” She reached into her dress and took out a purple frosted lens, setting it on Dalan’s desk with a clink.
Dalan d’Cannith’s eyes widened as he picked up the glass and looked into its depths. “Interesting,” he said. “Where did you find this?”
“I took it from Marth’s pocket before I ran away,” she said. She plucked it from Dalan’s fingers and returned it to her pocket. “But you obviously don’t have any use for a thief.” She smiled at him primly.
A wide, dangerous grin spread across Dalan d’Cannith’s features. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Seren Morisse,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “There may be room for you on Karia Naille after all.” He sniffed the air tentatively. Seren detected the faint aroma of cooking—Gerith’s, probably. “You may remain among us, for the time being. Now let us discuss the details of your employment over lunch.”
Captain Marth stood in the middle of Dalan d’Cannith’s study, his expression one of disappointment and irritation. He ran one hand along a nearby shelf as he examined the titles of the books.
“Captain,” called one of his guards from the doorway.
Marth looked up, his hood falling back upon his shoulders. He wore his natural face again, smooth and white except for the unsightly pink burns that crawled across his cheek.
“Speak,” he commanded, beckoning to the guard.
“We discovered very little of interest in the rest of the house, Captain,” the guard reported. “Only a few guild logs detailing Cannith operations in the city. Many items were hastily removed, including much of the clothing in Master d’Cannith’s wardrobe and the food in his larder. Even the servant’s quarters are empty.”
Marth nodded. The servants would know nothing. Dalan would have already fled. While Dalan obviously bore interest in his uncle’s work, the guildmaster had discovered nothing of true value. It came as no surprise. The Canniths were meddlers by nature, but ultimately harmless. They never understood Ashrem’s work. Marth’s fingers rested for a moment on the binding of one of many volumes bearing the House Cannith gorgon seal, and he remembered.
He had stood in a house much like this one, the modestly appointed home of a wealthy noble. The smell of smoke hung in the air, along with the shrieks of terrified children and servants. The fires blazed all around him, but Marth cared little. He wore the face of a Cyran soldier as he advanced on his former commanding officer, sword in one hand and wand in the other. Bright red blood shone on the steel blade.
“Cargul, what is the meaning of this?” Lieutenant Keiran demanded. Sweat and soot streaked the old soldier’s face. He held his broadsword unsteadily in one hand, the other hand pressed up against his bleeding side as he backed fearfully away, trying to distance himself from both his attacker and the fires.
“I’m not Sergeant Cargul,” Marth corrected. His face became smooth and gray. He was younger in those days, his natural face unscarred. “You remember me, sir.” It was not a question, only a statement awaiting confirmation.
“You.” Keiran hissed. “The changeling spy! By Khyber, if you’ve harmed my wife …”
“She is safe, sir,” Marth answered calmly. “I showed your family greater mercy than you offered mine.”
Keiran sneered and charged Marth with his sword held high. The changeling pointed his amethyst wand at the floor, summoning a wall of green fire between them.
“Face me without your magic, changeling!” Keiran demanded. “Face me with your sword, coward!”
“This is not a matter of courage, nor a demonstration of strength,” Marth said. “This is revenge. Burn, as they did.”
Green fire blazed within the purple crystal again, and the room filled with intense heat. Lieutenant Kieran screamed, vanishing within the blaze. Marth stood where he was, unharmed by the smoke and fire, and listened until the screams faded. Then, slowly, he made his way through the burning house and outside again. Huddled men and women gathered on the grass outside. Their clothing was seared and blackened with soot. They held their children close as they watched Marth with undisguised terror. He ignored them, walking past the crowd to the one man who stood apart from the rest. Marth looked up, his soot-blackened face marked now by trails of tears.
“You didn’t stop me, Ashrem,” Marth said to the old man.
Ashrem d’Cannith looked back sadly. The old man’s crystal blue eyes reflected only sympathy. “Perhaps I did not want to,” he whispered. “But it ends now, Marth.”
“What happens now?” the changeling asked.
“Come with me, and face justice for what you have done,” Ashrem said.
“Justice?” Marth repeated with a bitte
r laugh.
“If you come with me, I will stand by you, and defend you to the last,” Ashrem said. “If you refuse, you will be hunted. I cannot stop them, Marth, not after what you have done.”
“Why not just kill me, Ashrem?” Marth asked, dropping his sword and wand in the grass. “Why not end it here? I have my vengeance. I have nothing left and would rather die at your hands than a stranger’s.”
“I have hope for you, Marth,” Ashrem said. “You are a good man, no matter what this war has forced you to become. The world is not done with you yet.”
“You were right, d’Cannith,” Marth whispered, returning to the present.
The changeling hurled the books from the shelf with a savage sweep of his arm. Reaching into one of the many pouches at his belt, he drew out a handful of pink crystalline powder and sifted it over the fallen books. He clapped the remaining dust from his gloved hands and reached into another pouch, drawing out another handful of chalky black dust. The chemical burned his skin as it mixed with the remaining pink residue, even through his silken gloves. Marth stood where he was for a long moment and studied the scattered volumes, offering no reaction even when a robed figure entered the room behind him.
“I have dispatched several of the men to determine where Dalan d’Cannith has fled,” the newcomer said. He was a small, portly man garbed in flowing silken garments of burnished copper. His head was shaved in the manner of a monk, and he wore a long beard woven into a thin braid. “Doubtless he has covered his trail well, but someone might have seen something.” He looked at Marth’s hand, still holding the corrosive powder over the books. “Why do you hesitate?” he asked.
“Destroying knowledge does not sit well with me, Brother Zamiel,” Marth said. With a sigh, he scattered the black dust over the scattered books. Where it touched the pink powder, paper, leather, and even the wooden floor began to smoke.
“An admirable sentiment, but a necessary evil,” Zamiel answered. “Dalan d’Cannith is an enemy. We do not have the time to search his home properly, thus we must destroy whatever he might still hide here. We cannot afford to leave him any advantage, any security.”