Goldenfire

by A. F. E. Smith

  Reaching the pumping station through the maze of streets wasn’t as easy as it had looked, but finally Penn arrived outside it. Sure enough, there was a shrine a little way down from the workers’ entrance: a simple recess in the wall, like a doorway leading nowhere, with a cushion on the floor and a light curtain to draw between the supplicant and the street. The walls were decorated with fragments of coloured glass, and at the back of the shrine was a smaller alcove that held nothing more than a mirror attached to the wall. Air meditations tended to concentrate on the regulation of breathing rather than any external aids.

  Entering the shrine, Penn closed the curtain behind him. Then he knelt down and tried to focus. This is the most important task you’ll ever complete. Your family is relying on you. Just suffer these stupid people for as long as it takes. Yet other thoughts kept creeping in, despite how he tried to banish them. It’s going to be hard. You’ll probably fail. And worst of all, Are you sure it’s the right thing to do?

  After a while, the last question began to drown out all the others – Great, now even Air has deserted me – and so with a muttered curse he left the shrine again. He found a man waiting outside: rather scruffily dressed in a sort of patched-up robe, unshaven, and with a blue smear of dye in the centre of his forehead.

  ‘Sorry,’ Penn mumbled. ‘Did you want to –?’

  The stranger smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’m only ’ere to tend the shrine.’

  ‘That’s a job?’ Oh, come on, Penn, you could at least try and restrict your rudeness to people who deserve it. ‘I mean … I didn’t realise anyone tended them.’

  ‘Keeps ’em nice. I don’t get paid for it, of course, but I earn enough of a livin’ in stories and advice.’ He grinned. ‘For the weighty matters, ask a sixth-ring priestess, but if you’ve a small question or just want to hear a fable, the priests of the lower rings are ’appy to oblige.’

  ‘Oh.’ Penn wasn’t sure what else to say. He nodded and made as if to depart, but the self-styled priest stopped him.

  ‘So? You want some advice? If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you seem like a lad with somethin’ on his mind.’

  ‘No, I … no. Thank you.’ What would it be like, to unburden himself to this stranger? Penn found the very prospect of it terrifying. Not so much the part where he revealed his purpose in coming to Arkannen – that could only be a relief, given how it burned inside him – but the possibility that he might be talked out of it as a result. With another nod, he turned and hurried away.

  ‘Then ’ere’s somethin’ for you free of charge!’ the man called after him. ‘Which is crueller, wind or steel?’

  That was close enough to Penn’s earlier thoughts to give him pause. He pivoted slowly on his heel, and the priest raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Ah, that caught you, didn’t it? And no doubt you’d say steel.’ He barely waited for Penn’s confused nod before shaking his head. ‘But you’d be wrong. Cold steel cuts with intent, for the sake of justice. But a cold wind cuts innocent and guilty alike, because it doesn’t know how to differentiate between them.’

  Ice and shattered steel – but his usual oath was too apposite to be comfortable. Not knowing how to respond, Penn turned back around and kept walking, ignoring the man’s calls: That spoke to you, boy, didn’t it? That spoke to you! If you want more advice, you know where to find me.

  It was just a coincidence, he told himself as he hopped on the tram that would take him round to the Gate of Flame. The sort of general platitude that the priest might offer to anyone. Yet the words buzzed at the insides of his ears, like bees trapped in his head, all the way back to the fifth ring.

  It was only when he reached the barracks that he realised his entire coin-purse was missing, and by that time he was too despondent to care.

  SIX

  Miles was still asleep when Bryan got up. Nothing out of the ordinary there: it was barely light outside, and an academic’s schedule was very different from that of a fifth-ring weaponmaster. Bryan tried to move quietly, but it was one thing for a man of his size to be light on his feet in the wide-open space of a duelling ground, and quite another to creep about in a warp-floored bedroom barely big enough to contain a closet as well as a bed.

  ‘You are doing that on purpose,’ Miles mumbled without opening his eyes, the third time a particularly loud creak cut through the early-morning hush – which, for Arkannen, meant a background hum as opposed to the midday roar. Bryan rocked from foot to foot, eliciting another groan from the protesting floorboard, and grinned.

  ‘It wouldn’t be disturbing if you were already up, Milo.’

  ‘Some of us live life at a more civilised pace.’ Miles kept his eyes closed, but now a smile touched his face too. The faint twang of his accent still lingered, even after several years at the city university. It was what had first attracted Bryan to him – that voice, across a crowded street, even before he saw the face behind it.

  ‘True, if by civilised you mean lazy.’ Bryan turned to fetch a belt from the drawer, only to be hit squarely in the head with a cushion. He spun back round, but Miles didn’t appear to have moved from his previous position. Bryan’s return throw sent the cushion sailing over Miles’s head to hit the wall on the far side of the bed.

  ‘Lazy or not, I am a better shot than you,’ Miles murmured.

  ‘You just keep thinking that.’ Bryan crossed to the bed and brushed a kiss across Miles’s lips. ‘See you tonight.’

  He popped into their tiny galley kitchen to grab a sweet roll, before letting himself out of the apartment and beginning the short walk from the Ametrine Quarter to the fifth ring. Miles would get up around second bell and eat a leisurely breakfast before strolling down to the university. By the time he started his teaching day, Bryan would have been out on the practice ground long enough to need a break. And by the time Bryan arrived home, aching and weary, his throat sore from the constant volume he needed to penetrate the cotton-stuffed ears of whichever youths he’d been training, Miles would have been back for at least a half-bell.

  Of course, that also meant there’d be a meal ready on the table – and it seemed alchemy worked in the kitchen as well as in the laboratory, because the meals more than made up for the disparity in their working days. In fact, on the odd occasion when Miles became so caught up in his research that he only stumbled back in the pre-dawn chill of the following day, Bryan found himself staring into his larder with the vague helplessness of a stranger in a new city. Apparently a lifetime of fending for himself meant nothing compared to the eighteen months or so that he and Miles had been living together. In fact, recently, when Miles had left Arkannen for a week – as he did on a semi-regular basis, to visit his family back in Parovia – Bryan had lived almost entirely on street vendors’ fare. Not, of course, that he’d ever tell Miles that.

  He passed through the Gate of Steel with a hand lifted in greeting to the watchmen, and headed for the training hall. The sign-up sheet was due to come down this morning, which meant he and the other weaponmasters would spend the rest of the day sorting out groups, schedules and rotas. Exactly the kind of day he detested, but it was necessary for the smooth running of the fifth ring. Bryan suspected that none of the young people who grew up with a romantic dream of being trained by the legendary weaponmasters of Arkannen’s fifth ring realised quite how much tedious paperwork was involved behind the scenes. And the other weaponmasters had it worse than he did. At least he got to work with Captain Caraway and the recruits who wanted to join the Helm, which meant that if any of them weren’t up to standard he could simply send them off to basic training. The rest of the weaponmasters would have to deal with a far wider spectrum of trainee: from those who were already skilled and simply sought the prestige that fifth-ring training would confer, to the usual contingent of youngsters from wealthy families who were determined to buy what nature hadn’t seen fit to give them.

  Admittedly, the latter group wouldn’t get very far. Everyone who came to the fifth ring went t
hrough a testing process, and only those who had the aptitude for it were allowed to stay. That was how the fifth ring both paid for itself and maintained its reputation. Every warrior who trained there, whether he became a Helmsman or a sellsword or a bodyguard, sacrificed a proportion of his wage to the weaponmasters in return for his past training. And that was why the weaponmasters admitted only those they thought would be able to pay their debt.

  The list on the door of the training hall was full, which was good, but Bryan spared it no more than a brief glance. He had a few outstanding tasks of his own, and with the rest of his day already spoken for, this was the sole opportunity he’d have to complete them. Yet when he stepped into his small office just inside the hall, he found Tomas Caraway waiting for him. The grave expression on the lad’s face told Bryan without the need for further words that his unfinished tasks were going to remain that way, but he offered a cheerful greeting all the same.

  ‘Morning, Caraway. You ready for tomorrow?’

  The captain gave him a distracted nod. ‘But I need to talk to you. Is now a good time?’

  ‘No worse than most,’ Bryan said drily.

  ‘I thought, since the sign-up period is over …’

  ‘Paperwork, boyo. Mountains of bloody paperwork. But I’m not so enamoured of it that it can’t wait.’

  ‘The truth is, I need your help,’ Caraway said. ‘There’s been a threat made against Ayla’s life, and I don’t trust myself to think of everything.’

  No wonder he was worried. An assassination threat was serious business – assuming it was genuine. ‘Reliable source?’

  Caraway contrived to look both embarrassed and defiant. ‘Naeve Sorrow sent me a letter.’

  ‘What, the Naeve Sorrow? Darkhaven’s most wanted?’ Bryan snorted. ‘I wouldn’t set much store by anything she has to say.’

  ‘I don’t have any reason to doubt her information,’ Caraway said. ‘And I’ve been implementing all the security measures I can think of, but …’ He hesitated, then asked rather diffidently, ‘Can you grill me? Only I’m sure I’ve forgotten something.’

  Bryan looked at him and wondered, as he did from time to time, why the lad had so little sense of his own worth. It would be a different matter if he had no skill in weaponry, but he’d killed Owen Travers – a highly competent swordsman at the peak of his game – with only a broken blade and his own two hands. And that was after years of dulling his wits with alcohol. Since then he’d got back into a proper training regime, and Bryan would be surprised if his better existed anywhere in Arkannen. Bryan himself could stand up against him on the duelling floor, but only because his superior size and weight made up for his relative age and lack of agility.

  And yet, even now, Caraway lacked confidence in his own judgement. Bryan would have thought that fulfilling a Helmsman’s duty against overwhelming odds, three years ago, was enough to bolster it – particularly since he’d then been unofficially elected as Captain of the Helm by the very men who had previously denigrated him. He performed the role with a quiet proficiency that made him both respected and liked. Yet still, always, he was unsure of himself.

  It was the same when it came to Ayla Nightshade. On the few occasions that Bryan had seen her with Caraway, it had been pretty damn clear that she loved him – so why Caraway didn’t take the necessary steps to formalise their relationship into marriage was a mystery. Of course, there was her bloodline to contend with; Bryan had always viewed Nightshades as a force of nature, to be deferred to rather than reasoned with. But for all her status and her unpredictable power, Ayla’s feelings for Caraway had remained constant for three years. And yet he didn’t think he was good enough for her.

  Really, the question was whether the lad would ever prove himself to his own satisfaction. He’d grown used to fighting the world’s opinions; yet now, the only opinion he was struggling against was his own.

  ‘All right,’ Bryan said. ‘Tell me what you’ve done.’

  ‘We were due to hire a few servants, a second nurse for Marlon, and some temporary workers to carry out repairs on the tower – but that’s all cancelled now. No-one new will be allowed into Darkhaven until this is over.’

  ‘So you’ve closed the gates,’ Bryan said. ‘What else?’

  ‘The Helm are on double patrol. Ayla is guarded at all times. It means she can’t go flying, which she isn’t very happy about –’ a rueful smile – ‘but she understands.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘I suppose the next step is to consider it from the assassin’s point of view. He comes to Darkhaven, thinking to enter by deception or by stealth, but there’s no way in. So what does he do?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions,’ Bryan reminded him. ‘You tell me.’

  Caraway shook his head helplessly. ‘I don’t know. Finds another way in somehow. Finds a hole. But if I knew what it was, I’d already have filled it. How can I guard against something I can’t predict?’

  They were silent for a time. Then Bryan sighed.

  ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘assassins are wily bastards. Stands to reason you need another wily bastard to catch one. And let’s be honest, Breakblade –’ he gave Caraway a knowing look – ‘neither of us are that. I’m just an old soldier, and you, Captain, are almost painfully straightforward. Beats me how you’ve survived as long as you have.’

  Caraway looked as if he wanted to object to that, but after a moment he admitted, ‘I’ve written back to Sorrow, requesting her aid.’

  ‘Really?’ That did surprise Bryan, and he didn’t mind showing it. Caraway raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise at Bryan’s surprise.

  ‘You wanted wily. She’s about as wily as they get.’

  Bryan regarded him doubtfully. ‘You sure this isn’t her way of messing with you, boyo? Delayed revenge?’

  Caraway’s glance was swift but stricken. He hadn’t thought of that at all. Straightforward. Bryan suppressed a sigh.

  ‘Or worse,’ he said, ‘she’s the assassin. Warns you so you’ll trust her, then claims she has some piece of vital evidence she needs to show you in person …’

  ‘No.’ This time there was no uncertainty. Bryan shrugged.

  ‘Why not? She’s a sellsword, ain’t she? And the Kardise would pay damn well for Lady Ayla’s head.’

  ‘She made no attempt to be conciliatory in her letter,’ Caraway said. ‘In fact, she went out of her way to be rude. And besides …’ The hint of a smile touched his face. ‘She’s set herself up as Corus’s protector, and she’s in love with his mother. That ties her to the Nightshade line whether she likes it or not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have spies of my own.’ His expression turned serious and a little shamefaced. ‘I know where Corus is, Art. I’ve known for months. I’ve just been trying to work out the best way to get to him before –’

  ‘Before you tell Ayla.’

  Caraway nodded. ‘If she finds out I know where he is, she’ll want to send people straight over there to get him. It could be disastrous.’

  Bryan didn’t reply to that, because the lad was right – though he didn’t want to speculate on what Ayla would say about it when she found out. Instead, belatedly putting two and two together, he asked, ‘The boy’s in Sol Kardis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dangerous.’

  ‘Even more so, now,’ Caraway agreed. ‘Yet even harder to get him out without tipping off the Kardise or giving them an excuse for war.’ Reflectively, he added, ‘But Sorrow isn’t stupid. She’ll be aware of the danger. It’s entirely possible she may end up being the one to bring him back, just as she was the one to take him in the first place.’

  Bryan didn’t say anything to that either. He would usually consider relying on a sellsword, and particularly Naeve Sorrow, the hope of a fool. Yet Caraway seemed very certain about it, and whatever else Caraway was, he was no fool. Bryan was well aware of that.

  ‘Right,’ he said instead. ‘I’m going to take a look at t
he sign-up sheet. Find out how many clumsy oafs we’ll be dealing with this assessment period.’

  Caraway nodded. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask your advice on that. Because it occurred to me … well, it’s another way in, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, assessment?’

  ‘Yes. I thought if the assassin couldn’t get into Darkhaven straight away, he might play the long game and sign up for training. Because everyone knows that after the first seven weeks, I take the group who’ve been picked for Helm training up to the tower. Ayla even comes out to meet them! So maybe, if the assassin is patient …’

  Bryan considered that, and gave him a respectful nod. ‘You’re right – it’s one of the few holes left open. Though it would be a damn difficult balancing act to pull off. A competent assassin should have the skills to get himself selected for further training, but he must know we’d be watching.’

  ‘It would be difficult,’ Caraway agreed. ‘But just to be safe … do you think I should cancel that part of the process this year?’

  ‘Unless you want to use it as a trap,’ Bryan suggested.

  ‘Risky.’

  ‘Might work, though.’

  ‘It might.’ Caraway sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll make that decision when I come to it. There are far worse possibilities. I mean, if we’re going to talk about playing the long game … I only found out about the assassination a few days ago, but they could have been planning it far longer. The required knowledge has been in the world for three years, after all.’ He met Bryan’s gaze, brown eyes troubled. ‘What if the assassin was put in place well before now? He gets close to us, gains our trust, awaits the signal to act …’