by Tim Pratt
"Alaeron made a sort of bomb, right, only it looks pretty much like a jar with two chambers inside, and when he throws the jar at the feet of the League captains, it'll break and the two potions will mix together, and then...What you want to do is picture a sinkhole." Skiver waved his mug in a vague circle. "Only it's a sinkhole that opens up in the air, and then all the Technic League assholes fall inside it, and then the hole closes, and there's nothing left behind but their stink. Neatly done, eh?"
Alaeron had no idea how he'd go about making a bomb that would actually do that, though it wasn't a terrible description of what would happen if a wizard dropped one extradimensional space (say, a magically capacious bag that was bigger on the inside) into another (say, a portal to a pocket dimension). Alaeron briefly pondered the possibility of weaponizing such a combination, before deciding that some experiments were too dangerous even for him.
"Bold, very bold." Redfang nodded appreciatively. "Will this bomb destroy their devilish machines as well?"
"All in the vicinity," Skiver said. "For the rest, well, we'll see what can be done with fire and acid and such."
"You'll likely be killed by the League's guards, or their assassins, or those terrible metal men they dug up out of their double-damned silver mountain. But you'll be dying for a worthy cause, and what more can a man ask for?"
"Winning a worthy cause would be pretty nice," Skiver said. "That's what I'm hoping happens."
"We'll help send you on your way well provisioned," Redfang said. "You want to make a start tomorrow?"
"That would be—" Alaeron began, when a voice spoke sharply in his ear.
"Where are you now?" It was Zernebeth's voice—impatient, icy, and perpetually disappointed. (And why did Alaeron find that tone strangely arousing?)
Redfang and Skiver were looking at him curiously. Skiver elbowed the hunter and said, "He's gone off into one of his little mental diversions."
"Oh, sure, he had that way about him when last we met, mind always a thousand miles away." Redfang nodded, but he was looking at Alaeron with those sharp, hawklike eyes.
"Report!" Zernebeth barked. Alaeron could have excused himself and mumbled to Zernebeth in some more private corner of the town, but would a sudden departure draw more attention to his strange behavior?
"Iadenveigh seems to have prospered since I was here last," he said.
"Oh, you can't speak freely," Zernebeth said. "Hmm. Iadenveigh! What would possess you to go there?"
Alaeron lifted his mug, sloshing a bit of the untasted liquid across his knuckles in the process. "It's a pleasure to reunite with old friends."
"True friends are rare as honest traders," Redfang said, and Alaeron wondered if there was some subtle threat, warning, or indication of doubt there.
"Ha." Zernebeth snorted. "I wondered how you evaded the League operatives sent to retrieve you after my unfortunate demise. I see you made friends among the malcontents. I've often thought we should send a few of our fire-spitting technic spiders to cleanse the whole place, but it's useful to have the backward-looking superstitious fish-gutters and tree-fellers all more or less in one place. Fine. When do you depart for Starfall?"
"I think, yes, leaving in the morning, don't you, Skiver?"
Skiver held out his hand, which wobbled ever so slightly. "Once I'm clear of the hangover, certainly. How long is the journey?"
Redfang shrugged. "A hundred miles. I could walk it in four days, if I ever had cause to go near that godsforsaken city. You two...no offense, but you are city folk...I'd give it twelve days. Maybe two weeks."
"I don't suppose there are any horses to be had?" Alaeron said. "We can pay."
The hunter winced. "You'd have a hard time finding anyone willing to part with live horseflesh just at this particular moment. Old Skelton the hostler was digging a new well on his property, and he breached some kind of shell or pot or something, probably from the Rain of Stars. This horrible black smoke came pouring out—it flowed almost like water, and shimmered with all kinds of ugly rainbows. Whatever it was, it poisoned Skelton and every animal on his property. After that, the smoke flowed back into the hole, like an animal that had eaten its fill and returned to its den. So we filled the well with rocks and mud and one of the priests put a ward around it to keep whatever came out from ever slithering to the surface again." He sighed. "But we're awfully short on horses. Every once in a while a trader comes through on a circuit that includes Starfall, picks up pelts and sells salt and so forth, and you might be able to buy a space on a wagon, but I wouldn't expect anyone for another fortnight, and it'd be nearly as slow as walking anyway."
Skiver sighed. "So it goes. Shank's mare it is. Won't be the first walk we've ever taken together, eh, Alaeron?"
"I suppose not," he said.
"Walk for about twelve miles," Zernebeth said. "Due north, as straight as you can manage. You'll see a fortification, an old abandoned earthworks, the only thing that rises any distance up from the plain for miles. Whatever you do, don't try to explore the interior, don't even peek inside—just wait there, and I'll send someone to fetch you the rest of the way to Starfall."
"I'm sure we can make our way," Alaeron said. "I—"
A new figure entered the lodge. Tall and gray-beaded, he wore a leather cloak, well worn and trimmed with fur, with a cloak pin shaped like a bow crossed by an arrow. The crowd murmured hellos, and he nodded to everyone, pausing to lay hands on shoulders, bending in to talk.
"Who's the big man?" Skiver said.
"One of our priests, called Shadowstalker." Redfang lowered his voice. "He's an important man in the Banner of the Stag."
"I've been to a few stag parties," Skiver said. "But I'm guessing his organization's got a different focus?"
"It's a sort of...free-ranging independent militia," Alaeron said, sitting very still, painfully aware of the black box wrapped in cloth and hidden in his bag. "Worshipers of Erastil. They organize to protect remote villages and outposts from harm."
"The local group ranges around the River Kingdoms and occasionally into Brevoy," Redfang said. "I've run with them a time or two. They helped us drive back an attack by wildcats, all twisted by poison water into hulking monsters. Bandits don't trouble us much, either, not with the Banner of the Stag likely to ride along at any moment."
The priest approached the table. "Redfang. Who are your friends?"
"Alaeron and Skiver." Redfang rose and nodded to the man with respect. "Southrons, as you can tell from their dress, but Alaeron's an old enemy of the Technic League—you remember when the one called Gannix was killed some years back?"
"I was in Brevoy then." Shadowstalker smiled, showing a mouth full of brown stumps. Erastil apparently didn't care much about preserving the teeth of his worshipers. "But I heard tell, yes. He was foremost among the captains, and sent the League into quite a little war to see who'd take his place. I always prefer to have the Technic League captains killing each other—keeps them from paying attention to us. You were the one who eliminated Gannix, then?"
Alaeron nodded. "Don't let Redfang make it sound like a heroic act. I was lucky to escape with my life, and luckier still to deprive him of his."
"Alaeron and his friend are off to tweak the League's nose again," Redfang said.
"Are they now." The priest reached across the table and seized Alaeron's arm. "I'm a bit confused. Why were you with the Technic League in the first place? Because I heard the man who killed Gannix was a rogue apprentice. Is that true? Were you part of the League, southerner?"
Chapter Nine
Erastil's Blessing
That took a nasty turn, Skiver thought. He wondered how Alaeron would handle this. His friend often tried to talk his way out of even the most impossible situations, not because he was particularly silver-tongued, but because he confused making a logical and well-supported argument with winning a fight. In some cases, though—like on the North Wind, most recently—something more practical in the alchemist, or some part of him that grew weary of suffering
a world full of fools, would snap into action instead. Skiver figured the odds were nine in ten that Alaeron would attempt to defend himself with words, but there was always that tenth chance that he might hurl a bomb into the priest's face instead.
Alaeron opened his mouth to answer—as the odds had suggested—but the priest didn't give him a chance to speak. "If you were—ha!—in league with the League, I wonder, are you still a devotee of their poisonous philosophy, a dealer in twisted relics? Are you planning to buy your way back into their good graces with trinkets and trophies? Because one of the other fellows in the lodge overheard you make that very boast, and quietly sent for me."
"No, someone misunderstood," Redfang said. "He's going to trick the League—"
"You're a good man, Redfang, but I fear this silver-tongued southerner is trying to deceive you." Shadowstalker shook his head sadly. "You know the League tells lies the way birds fly. It's just their nature."
Alaeron tried to pull his arm away, but Shadowstalker growled and held on tighter.
Skiver glanced around the room. They were clearly the center of attention, now, every eye in the lodge on them. While Skiver was handy with a knife, he couldn't take on a score of heavily armed woodsmen all at once. (Now, if they were sleeping in camp some night, with just one or two sitting up watch, and Skiver could creep among their bedrolls at his leisure, that would change the percentages appreciably.)
It would have to be diplomacy, then.
"What would it take to convince you we're enemies of the League?" Skiver said.
Shadowstalker didn't take his eyes off the alchemist, but he answered. "A simple search of your possessions should be sufficient to prove Alaeron's innocence—or confirm his guilt. I have reliable information that he's carrying a Technic League artifact, doubtless something he stole, and he's returning it to buy his way back into the vile conclave's graces."
Oh ho, Skiver thought. Treachery already. That was quick. But, fortunately, not entirely unexpected. Alaeron began to speak, but Skiver shook his head imperceptibly.
"And what's this supposed to be?" he asked, in his broadest Andoren accent. "If my friend here had a mighty Technic League weapon, and was about to be caught, wouldn't he start laying waste to this whole lodge?"
"Erastil watches over us. He wouldn't allow any harm to come to us here."
Which translated, Skiver supposed, to, My informant told me the relic Alaeron's carrying isn't a weapon, so I'm not worried.
"I could choose to be offended," Skiver said. "But, in fact, I understand your suspicions. Alaeron's told me the horrors of the Technic League—that's why I'm here, to eliminate them—and with vipers like that nested just a short hundred miles away, I suppose I'd get a trifle nervous, too. There's nothing for it, Alaeron—you'll have to let this holy man go through your pack. I know you value your privacy, but it's the easiest way."
Alaeron silently widened his eyes, but Skiver gave him a smile that was—he hoped—reassuring.
"Redfang, if you'd be so kind?" Shadowstalker said.
The hunter rose, frowning, and muttered, "Sorry," to Alaeron. He picked up the heavy canvas pack as if it weighed nothing at all.
For once, there was no telltale clink of glass vials wrapped in cloth when Alaeron's pack moved. Apart from the bottles he had hidden away in his coat, the alchemist had put all his precious and fragile possessions into the room inside the black box, safe from the dangerous jostlings of the road. "Better let Alaeron disarm it first," Skiver said mildly, and Shadowstalker leaned back and frowned at the bag.
Alaeron managed not to sigh heavily, but he'd obviously been counting on the sleeping gas trap in the bag to solve this problem for him. Instead, at Skiver's nod, he tugged what appeared to be a loose thread dangling from the bottom of the pack. "It's safe now."
"You open it, then," Shadowstalker said. Obviously his informant hadn't mentioned booby traps. But of course not. He didn't know anything about Alaeron's tendency to secure his possessions against tampering—he only knew about the black box that must be inside the pack.
Alaeron unbuckled the straps on the bag and threw open the flap. Shadowstalker began pulling items out, grunting as he set them aside. A tin cup, plate, spoon, and fork. A few extra clothes, rolled up tightly, at least until the priest unfurled them to look for contraband. Wadded-up parchments and scrolls in tubes. A stoppered canteen. The sort of hideous food that traveled well and tasted bad. Essentially the same things Skiver had in his pack, scrolls aside—basic materials for a long journey.
Finally Shadowstalker's eyes lit up, and he drew out the thing at the bottom of the bag: a roughly spherical shape of bundled rags, a camp blanket wrapped around and around some small object. "The cube!" the priest said, standing and gesturing to the room. "Just as I suspected. A foul device of the Technic League! Something poisonous, best left buried deep in the earth, where it could do no harm. Who knows how many innocents this relic has killed? It's an affront to the natural world itself." As he spoke, he unwrapped the blanket, his hands moving deftly to pluck apart twists and snarls of fabric.
Skiver actually managed to suppress his smile when Shadowstalker at last threw open the blanket and revealed the object inside.
It was a cube, more or less. But it was no strange relic from the Rain of Stars. It was a block of dark brown, soft wood, hacked into a rough shape.
To his credit, Alaeron didn't even gape. He just looked sad, disappointed, and—this was a masterly touch—a trifle embarrassed for Shadowstalker. The priest stared down. "It's...just a piece of wood?" The crowd murmured.
"Alaeron likes to do a bit of carving when we're on the road," Skiver said. "Keeps his hands busy and his mind occupied. That's going to be—what was it, Alaeron?"
"A bear," Alaeron said. "I can see the shape, hidden in the wood. All I have to do is cut away everything that's not the bear, and—"
Shadowstalker took a hatchet from his belt and savagely hacked down at the wooden block, sending splinters flying, and making a split right down the middle of the cube. If he'd hoped to chip away an outer layer and reveal something nefarious inside, he was disappointed as the block fell apart into neat halves.
"Ah," Alaeron said. "Perhaps...two much smaller bears, then."
Shadowstalker reached down for Skiver's pack and tore it open, finding nothing much different from Alaeron's possessions, apart from a great many knives. "This...I was told..."
"You got some bad information," Redfang said. "It can happen to anyone. But I knew Alaeron, years ago. He killed a Technic League captain. How many men in this room can say that?"
No one answered. Shadowstalker ran a hand through his long, ragged gray mane. "I, ah...you have my deepest apologies." He looked at Skiver's eyes, though, and there was no apology in that gaze.
Go on, Skiver thought. Push it. Say we must have hidden the relic somewhere. Then I can ask where you got your information, and when you don't want to answer, I'll make a suggestion, and they'll see in your face that it's true. Or at least, you'll worry that they will.
"I'm sorry for harming your...wood." The priest half-bowed to Alaeron, the motion as stiff as new leather. "I wish you good luck on your journey. May Erastil's blessings be upon you."
"Ah, and upon you?" Alaeron said.
The priest shuffled off, muttering, and the rest of the lodge relaxed, and returned to the business of drinking the night away.
"Sorry for all that," Redfang said. "He means well, but when you've fought as long as he has, you see enemies everywhere."
"Oh, that's all right." Skiver stretched his arms out, pleased with himself. "We'll all be great friends in the end, I'm sure."
∗ ∗ ∗
Later that night, side by side on bedrolls in the back of Redfang's modest hut while their host snored away on a raised pallet stuffed with straw near the front, Alaeron said, "You stole the black box."
"I moved the black box, and replaced it with something of pretty much equal size, though of less miraculous properties.
Though, yes, I had to employ the tools of theft to do the moving. You used that same trap with the sleeping gas once when we were traveling in the south. You should know better than to repeat yourself like that. Anyway, the black box is safe, buried outside the town. We'll pass it on our way out, and dig it up, and it'll be back in your bag where it belongs."
"A sensible precaution. But I can't imagine how Shadowstalker knew we had a relic. He even knew it was a cube—"
Alaeron was brilliant about some things, and he understood the workings of everything from clocks to clockwork deathtraps, but if there was one sort of mechanism he consistently failed to understand, it was the human mind. "It was your Kellid friend, Zernebeth's other apprentice, the one who's all ghostlike and passes through walls and such. Char. You humiliated him, and threatened him, and he had a considerable head start on us, so it's no surprise he decided to cause a bit of trouble with the locals. Char's the only one who knows about the black box and bears you ill will, so he must have been the source."
Alaeron frowned. "You think Shadowstalker worked with a Technic League operative? His most hated enemies? The priest struck me as...rather more upright than that."
Skiver shrugged. "I doubt Shadowstalker was thrilled about the arrangement, and I'm sure he'd rather kill Char than collude with him, but he can't—the Kellid's a ghost, and no amount of swinging a hatchet at him would draw blood. I'm sure talking to Char made Shadowstalker's skin crawl, but he saw the chance to do some damage to the League, in the form of doing damage to you, and he took it. Once he had the knowledge that you were carrying a League device, he couldn't ignore it, even though he got his information from a poisonous source. After Shadowstalker confronted you and didn't find any evil relics in your pack, though, he couldn't push things too far—someone might ask him where he got his information, and he could hardly say he'd been tipped off by a member of the Technic League, without making himself seem guilty by association." Skiver yawned. "Of course, I could have concocted a thousand lies to cover up my source of information if I'd been in Shadowstalker's position, but priests of Erastil don't practice deception as much as some clerics do, so I figured he'd back down."