Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  Sieur Haye nodded a smile. “Welcome.” His clothes were nondescript, neither rich nor ragged; his face was round and curls black. Nothing about him stood out, and yet...Sulwyn couldn’t place his accent. Neither aristocratic, nor Northern, nor Gramaryan. And Sulwyn knew most.

  “Orville’s from Aadi.”

  Aadi? Sulwyn stared. Was that possible?

  But, yes...perhaps that was the difference. His lips were just a little wider than most men’s, his eyes a shade smaller. “How did you even get here from Aadi? The cliffs at Cataract Crag are unscalable.”

  “And yet,” Finn pointed out, “Shangril trades with Aadi. Someone scaled those cliffs.”

  But, this man? This...wedge of cheese?

  “Sieur,” Orville said. “People journey—of—Aadi. Hard. Rare. Is done.”

  By Kanden, the man could hardly speak the language.

  “He came up the pulleys,” Finn grinned. “Like a side of pork.”

  “They’re for cargo, not people.”

  Orville spread his hands. Clearly, he was here.

  “I’m sorry, Sieur,” Sulwyn insisted, “but what interest would a man from Aadi have in the affairs of Shangril?”

  “Oh, he lives here now,” Finn interrupted.

  Stranger and stranger.

  “These pieces?” Finn indicated a series of cylinders and odd-shaped cast iron parts on a bench. “We’re creating a machine of war.”

  A machine...of war? “That’s pretty vague.”

  “Your country different—of—mine,” Orville Haye said. “We have—thing—you do not.”

  “Be specific.”

  The Aadian put his back to the crate and folded his hands across his belly. “We have—” He gestured. “Machine. Made of better—” He looked at Sulwyn and pointed to a sword.

  “Steel.”

  “Steel. Thank you. I give one—small one—toy—to pulley man. Paying for journey.”

  “Toy?”

  “Very good toy. You not have.” Orville Haye looked helplessly at him.

  The man’s language made him seem simple, but Sulwyn suspected he was not. A toy that could bribe the pulley man to bring him up the unscalable cliffs made no sense, but Sulwyn didn’t press the point. “But what interest do you have in our politics?”

  “Nothing.” The fat man tilted his head. “And all thing.”

  Sulwyn watched him struggle for words, wondering if he was going to continue.

  “I not go back to Aadi. Finn say, I am stay. I work with you—give my knowing.” He leaned over and whispered. “You is—are—good. Shangril king not good.”

  Donnell rounded the corner of the smithy carrying two sloshing tankards, with a fragrant loaf under one arm.

  “Ah. Food,” Orville observed. The Aadian broke the loaf in half and appropriated a tankard, leaving the rest on the granite slab beside Sulwyn. “Donnell and me. Go to creek. You—” He indicated to Sulwyn and Finn. “Talk.” He nodded reassuringly to Sulwyn and went with the apprentice down the hill.

  “What are you and Orville Haye up to?” Sulwyn whispered, taking the tankard Finn offered him.

  “I told you. A war machine, like they have in Aadi. It’s like a battering ram, only better. Orville made the plans and he’s showing me how to build it.”

  Finn dropped a heavy purse beside Sulwyn and, tearing off a hunk of bread, sat on the crate.

  Sulwyn opened the purse strings and poured coins into his palm. “Gold?” The coins were like none he had ever seen before. “This is a fortune.”

  “Traders in Pagoras don’t want to see trade with Aadi hurt by the unrest caused by King Artem’s politics.” Finn washed the bread back with ale. “Shangril has things—gems, yak wool, furs—things people can’t get in the valley of Aadi because it’s too hot. And they’ll pay for them, but not if war interrupts the flow of goods. Trade is good. War is bad.”

  Sulwyn held up the purse questioningly.

  “They collected money to help us resolve the situation. Just be careful. Bands of ruffians on the roads will kill you just for food these days.”

  Sulwyn took the remaining heel of bread. “Dwyn can use it. King Artem is taxing any petty aristocrat, any guildsman, any merchant who opposes him, just to be sure they have no funds to raise an army.”

  “And is that working for him?” Finn smirked.

  “The opposite. It makes them angrier.” Sulwyn washed down the last of the bread. “Though after the king of Midell was beheaded this spring, and with the uncertain outcome in Orumon, they’re nervous.” He shrugged. “Plenty of them are betting on the Delarcan army. They won’t commit.”

  “There’s still plenty as would fight for us.” Finn finished the ale.

  Sulwyn shook his head. “We’re better off using peaceful means.”

  “One swift blow, Sulwyn. Then, peace. The kings have their countries back. The people have their Gods. The merchants have their trade.”

  “And Artem?”

  “King of Arcan, like he was before. Or, better, lop off his head and let the Gods choose a successor.”

  “Lop off his head? How? He’s crushed the prayer stones and killed the magiels of all the Great Houses. No one’s strong enough to oppose him. The Ruby would defeat us at every turn.”

  “Artem won’t take the Ruby or his magiel from the siege at Archwood. He needs them there or Talanda Falkyn will use the Amber to break the siege. His hands are tied. If we take Holderford—or any city—while Artem’s busy, we’d be fighting a battle with no prayer stone on either side,” Finn reasoned. “Sulwyn, you have to convince those men, the ones who are holding back. Talk and diplomacy are getting us nowhere. We have weapons. We need to fight.”

  Sulwyn shook his head. “Dwyn’s our king.”

  “Then tell him. And tell him we need a magiel. Magic on our side will be indispensable.”

  “Indispensible? Magiels don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Talanda Falkyn’s daughters would.” Finn rolled his eyes at his surprise. “Come on, Sulwyn. You know we met them in Spruce Falls. Colm wanted to keep them, but you spirited them away in your cart after that fuss with the guard who lost his tongue.”

  Sulwyn’s pulse sped. “What makes you think they were Talanda’s daughters?”

  “Colm figured it out. They are, aren’t they?”

  Sulwyn brought his breath under control, but he spoke in a tight voice. “Who else knows?”

  “No one. Colm only suspected, and I didn’t know for sure.”

  “They’re marked, Finn. Artem would have them hunted down. Don’t you dare breathe this to a soul.”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. But he returned Sulwyn’s stare with one of his own. “You still know where they are, though,” he alleged. “They’re too valuable to us—and to Artem—for you to have just lost track of them.”

  “No.”

  “Sulwyn?”

  “I said, no. We’re not putting them on the front lines of any battle.”

  Finn whistled. “That’s pretty strong. Are there personal feelings—”

  “No!” Sulwyn shot him a look.

  Finn angered. “Are you having a love affair?”

  Sulwyn clapped the tankard on the crate and rose to his feet.

  “I’ve guessed it, haven’t I? Two for two.” He placed his foot on the crate Sulwyn had vacated, cutting off his exit. “Listen, Sulwyn, this war is bigger than your—”

  “They are too young.”

  “But not too young for you to bed? Which one, Sulwyn?”

  Anger surged up his neck, and it was all Sulwyn could do to breathe. Hold himself rigid.

  Finn stood as well. “I like you. I do. But the needs of the people of this country are more important than the lives of three girls.”

  Sulwyn chewed on nothing, inarticulate.

  “Magiels of the House of the Amber,” he went on. “Now that Kraae is dead, the most powerful magiels in Shangril. Even with no prayer stone, think of what those three can do.”


  “Untrained. Untested. Artem will eat them for breakfast.”

  “Sulwyn.” Finn lowered his voice. “It’s not up to you. To say yes, or no. It’s up to Dwyn.”

  Sulwyn caught his eye. “No, Finn.” His head shook slowly from side to side. “It’s up to them.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The day was utterly calm, and the shutters on both sides of the garret stood open to a mild blue sky. Beneath the pleasant warmth, a tang of autumn’s chill sharpened the air as Meg sewed, and enticing aromas rose from the bakery below. In Elsen, bread was leavened with yeast and it smelled, and tasted, like food for the Gods.

  Meg liked this airy attic. Kyaju had blessed them here. But, so had they put down roots in Silvermeadow and Grassy Bluff. There was no telling when they’d be forced from this snug home, only that they would be. And, though the village of Wildbrook was quiet enough, its people tended to be royalists, supporters of Artem, whom they called the High King of Shangril. Their friendliness barely veiled a suspicion of anyone from “away” and Meg knew their flight would come immediately if a careless word were dropped in the wrong conversation. Some villagers crossed the street to avoid their erratic complexions, and Meg did not go out unhooded. She hoped they could last the winter.

  Janat put the broom in its place and slid onto the chair across the table from her. “Read to me?” She held their book up invitingly.

  “Who’ll finish this chemise for the glass blower’s daughter?”

  “I will.” Janat held her hand out.

  Meg let out a breath of mock exasperation and gave her the sewing. “Very well. But I’ve read the first chapter so many times, I can recite it.” The only other book they owned was one they’d made themselves, writing out the more complex spells they’d learned.

  “The part when the One God blesses the first king, then.” Janat said, looking out the open window to the street below.

  Meg observed that her sister looked more and more frequently for his return. She scanned the pages.

  “Wait—no! Before that. When the One God meets his second mortal mistress.” She smiled at the thought as she poked her needle into the chemise. “Rennika always liked that story.”

  Gods. It had been high summer when they’d last seen her. Meg wondered what Rennika’s home was like, how she was doing. Fall came earlier to Gramarye than it did here in the valley.

  Janat reached a hand across the table and took hers. “Meg, I miss her.”

  Meg missed her, too. For a moment, there was no sound but the chatter of the women at the well, down the road, and in the distance, the clop of hooves.

  Meg released Janat’s hands and found the place in the book. “The One God came upon a maiden at the well,” she began. “The worldling’s name was Kyaju, and she—”

  “Meg.” Janat sprang up on her chair, leaning out the window, eyes bright with delight. “Sulwyn!” She leaned further out. “Yes! Sulwyn’s here!”

  Sulwyn—

  “Look at this place!” Janat cried. “Meg, the sewing! I’ll—” She cast around, scooping a scatter of blankets onto the pallets.

  Meg shoved the book into the trunk and gathered the fabric and thread.

  “Cut the rind from the cheese and slice it onto a plate. He’ll be hungry.” Janat patted her hair into place and went to the window, again, her cheeks pink. Her face fell. “Oh.”

  Meg peered over her shoulder. Below, by the curve in the road, Sulwyn hobbled up the street, deep in conversation with three men. One was Colm, Sulwyn’s cousin, another she recognized as the smith they’d met so long ago in Spruce Falls, and the third one Meg didn’t know, but he was an odd-looking man. Fat around the middle, with a pudgy face. Meg wouldn’t have been able to avert her eyes from staring at the stranger, if Sulwyn hadn’t been in the group.

  Janat’s eyes brightened, the way a jay’s eyes did, brisk and brittle. “He’s brought company. We’ll cut some sausage. I’ll have to find a chetram to take to the baker.” She bustled to the sideboard. “I wonder if they’ll stay over.” She laughed nervously. “Of course they’ll stay over.”

  A wave of anger unexpectedly washed through Meg at Janat’s nervousness, and all at once she wanted to be anywhere but this small attic when Sulwyn came through the door. “Give me your chetram,” she said to Janat as evenly as she could. “I’ll go to the baker’s.”

  The sausage turned out to be unnecessary, as one of the men carried a joint of salt pork, which set Meg’s mouth watering. One of the others brought a small keg of beer. When the men, laughing and joking, climbed the stairs to the garret, Meg looked away as Sulwyn gave Janat a big grin and an even bigger kiss. Janat seemed at once pleased and embarrassed, and pulled away, scolding him for the traveler’s stains on his clothes. Appropriating the pork, she sent the men to put their feet up and stay out of her way as she rummaged for carrots and butter and crocks of pickled beets.

  Meg went to the baker’s, then flitted about the table, laying forks and filling the men’s mugs with beer. Then she filled her own mug with beer and, scurrying out to the woodpile, brought in a stump to sit at the edge of the men’s conversation. Finn brought out a bottle of thick clear liquid, the licorice liqueur that Meg and Janat had once tasted in Midell, saying it was time for the evening to start. Meg preferred the beer, but Janat took a small quantity, sitting by Sulwyn’s side among the men. The men made faces when they tried it, but by the end of the evening, the bottle was empty.

  Dinner was hearty—richer and more generous than many Meg could remember—and the drink and conversation lasted well into the night. Mostly it was the men who talked, their voices growing louder as the evening wore on. Some petition with a royal clerk had been surprisingly successful, Meg gathered, and the men replayed each part many times, with great animation, changing the particulars as they reminded one another of the details.

  Meg joined in the debate, asking about King Artem’s siege at Archwood and whether this realm or that one sided with Artem or with the uprisers. She argued, establishing and defending her position. Sometimes the men—usually Sulwyn—conceded a point, but more often they argued back or pointed out a complexity or contradiction that Meg had missed. Usually, they laughed or dismissed her, but Meg only argued harder.

  And Meg noticed that as Sulwyn leaned forward, Janat sat back, watching and listening, silent, rising to refill portions on the large central platter or refill her glass of beer. Her sister’s eyes grew blacker as the evening wore on, but Sulwyn did not notice, or take her part, as he did Meg’s. But that was none of Meg’s business. Sulwyn laughed and argued with her and the men as though Janat was not at the table. As though she was the servant she pretended to be.

  “And, we finally have support from Storm River,” Sulwyn repeated, pushing his fork back. He hunkered down into his chair, his lame leg extended, a mug of beer in his lap. “They’ll uphold a cessation of violence if we call one.”

  “That sounds like good news,” Janat put in uncertainly.

  “Why?” Meg asked, and Janat shot her a look of contempt. “Why call a truce?”

  “And Zellora and Ubica,” Finn said loudly, the beer getting the better of him. “Dwyn convinced the petty lords and guildsmen of both towns to throw in with us.”

  “We’ve been petitioning King Artem.” Sulwyn turned to Meg. “Beorn and a dozen others met with his chancellor, and they’ve negotiated an audience between Dwyn and Artem. If we can vouch for all the uprising factions.”

  “On neutral ground,” Colm added.

  “And can you?” she asked. “Vouch for all of them?”

  “If the high king meets our six stipulations.” Finn grinned, his face flushed. “We’ll work like dogs getting a letter from every militia and activist this war has spawned.” He raised his glass and with a ring of cheers, the men toasted.

  Janat cleared the platter from the table. “What’s to stop Artem’s men from dishonoring the rules of parley?”

  Like the trap Janat had walked into in Spruce Falls.
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br />   “We’ll have men there.” Finn walked a trifle unsteadily to the cask and refilled his tankard. “We have weapons. Our troops have been training.”

  Janat eyed him and returned to the sideboard with the forks and napery.

  “‘The spirit does not die with the man,’” Meg quoted.

  Colm shot her a look of respect. “Eric Stewart,” he murmured, taking the last morsel of bread. “I didn’t know you read banned works of political philosophy.”

  Sulwyn gave her a lopsided smile and she warmed. “A book Sulwyn lent me.”

  Janat stoked the fire. “But ‘the man’ is still dead.”

  “Also, now that Colm is with us, Orville and I want to show you something.” Finn gestured broadly to the quiet, odd-looking man. “Orville?”

  Orville, the round fellow with small, twinkling eyes, gave a short nod. He beckoned Meg. “Bring water. Hot.” His words sounded strange, like the first time she’d heard the low speech, but different.

  Curious, she brought him a dipperful of water from the cauldron and found he’d placed a tiny machine on the table between the pickles and the butter where all the men could see. He filled the machine’s copper vessel with the water, and brought glowing coals from the fire to burn in a box at the bottom.

  At first, nothing happened. The copper vessel began to hum and shiver, and steam rose from its spout, nothing Meg hadn’t seen daily in the kettle. Then, a delicate upper structure began to turn. A tiny hammer struck little bells, chiming a short, exotic tune.

  The machine was a wonder. A miracle.

  “This is what he paid the pulley man. One like it,” Finn said, swigging his beer, “for bringing him up the cliffs from Aadi.”

  Colm whistled. “Pulley man probably sold it for a small fortune.”

  “It’s a marvel,” Sulwyn said, lowering his mug, “but it’s not a weapon.”

  “Not this one.” Finn pushed his empty plate aside. “But Orville has the plans. And, we’ve made a test explosive. It works.”

  The fat man nodded. “You see, now? Is easier to show than to tell. But principle is same.” He struggled for a moment with words. “People of Aadi trade fruit, music, spice, silk,” Sieur Haye said. “Never secret.” He nodded at the toy. “Steam. Has power.”