by Devin Hanson
“You know me as Alexi Fontaine. This is not my name, but it will do for now. I belong to the Fraternity Sicaria.”
Milkin blinked, surprised. “You are a Sicarius? Why do you tell us this?”
“It would appear I am stuck in this city with you. As such, it is traditional for the Sicaria to offer their services to those in charge.”
Kilpatri was nodding, and Milkin decided to drop it. He had never heard of such a thing, but it wouldn’t be the first time some obscure Guild tradition was unknown to him. “Very well. I don’t suppose you could go out there and kill Priah for us?” Milkin said it half jokingly, half serious.
“It is unlikely I would be afforded the chance to get close, at least for a few weeks,” Alexi said dryly. “Besides. As much as Trent has violated the terms of his oath to the Guild, assassination right now would almost certainly provoke an official military retaliation from Salia which would be… bad. For Andronath and for the Guild. It is always wise to consider the ramifications of assassination before carrying it out.” Alexi paused, cleared his throat again. “That said, it is only a matter of time before Priah’s actions catch up with him.”
Milkin nodded, unsure how to respond to that. Kilpatri spoke, “Very well. Thank you for your offer, Mr. Fontaine. If your assistance is needed, we will bring it to your attention.”
“I will be of service when you need me,” Alexi said with a little bow. “In the meantime, I have other duties to carry out. Good day.”
Milkin let out a sigh after the unassuming assassin had left the courtyard. “A curious man,” he observed. “Did you know who he was?”
“No, I thought you had invited him to the blood taking,” Kilpatri shook his head. “He worries me.”
“He’s on our side,” Milkin pointed out.
“He has ‘duties’ in the Academy? What does that mean? I hope he isn’t planning on killing anyone.”
“Sean, he’s a Sicarius. It is what they do. There are several hundred people closed up in the Academy right now, and we can only trust a handful of them for certain. In all my time, I have never heard of a Sicarius assassinating someone by mistake.”
“It is true,” Kilpatri sighed. “But still, he makes me uneasy.”
Milkin started his climb up the stairs to the Oratory early, knowing his knees wouldn’t be able to carry him up the winding staircase easily or quickly. The afternoon had been spent in debate about what course of action they would take.
A solid percentage protested that the Guild was not an army, and should not react violently to the Priah show of force. Another group argued that the Guild should recant Priah’s expulsion. And another that they should march on the Salian soldiers and show them what it meant to be an alchemist.
Of course, there wasn’t any single solution that made everyone happy. Surrender was not an option, as admitting Trent back into the Guild would effectively destroy it. The faction pushing for that grew sullen as people shouted them down, decrying Trent as a fool and a criminal.
Direct combat against the Salian troops was unpalatable to most of the professors present, though Milkin knew the younger students and journeymen would likely take up arms if asked. But they were kids, burn it; they couldn’t support sending them out to fight and die!
The pacifists argued against any action but failed to offer a solution of their own. The Academy was only a small part of Andronath and the whole city was being blockaded. Maybe the citizens should take up arms to protect their city?
Milkin was a traditionalist. The city of Andronath was a city-state because the Guild was a military promise that couldn’t be ignored. Yes, the citizens should step up, but they should do so with the aid and support of the Guild. Slowly, he argued the point, gathering people who saw it his way and managed to convince a solid majority that it was their only option.
Kilpatri saw it his way too, and the professor had a lot more pull than Milkin did. In the end, after hours of debate, there was a hard kernel of pacifists who refused to take up arms and another who saw the whole situation as a disgraceful lapse of the Guild’s honor and were sympathetic to Trent Priah. Milkin was disappointed in the first group but argued that there was a place for pacifists, even in war. On the other hand, he was disgusted with the second group. No doubt they would be slipping out of the Academy come nightfall to abandon the Guild and join forces with Trent.
After the heated debate settled out and actual constructive planning began, Milkin let Kilpatri take the lead. The man was a natural leader, charismatic and respectable. The only thing Milkin could do now was muddy the waters.
Besides, Milkin knew nothing about waging war. His skills were in runes, which were notoriously slow to create and not at all useful in a combat situation. Sure, his knowledge made his alchemy more efficient when he did use it, but he was no young man to stand on the front lines and trade fire with an enemy.
There were members of the Guild who were trained in and had practice with using alchemy in combat. Jules, for one, and that Sicarius, Fontaine, for another. But what they really needed was a commander, someone who could guide the overall effort and coordinate tactical actions. The closest they had was Kilpatri, who had taken an interest in historical recounting of alchemical battles in the past, but he was lacking practical experience. Reading only got you so far.
Eventually, the meeting adjourned with Kilpatri being elected as General of the Guild. The decision had taken the gathered Guild leaders and professors nearly five hours to reach, a feat Milkin saw as nigh miraculous. That so many strong-willed people could come to even a majority vote so quickly showed how desperate they truly were.
Milkin paused for breath at a landing, leaning on his cane and cursing his knees. This was no time to have his body start failing on him. If only he was ten years younger. His heart thudded in his chest and a spike a pain shot down his arm. Irritably he rubbed his shoulder until the pain faded away. Climbing these stairs put strain on muscles that saw little other use. All that cane work supporting his weight up each step made his shoulder sore, though the pain was something new. Maybe he pulled a muscle or something.
Presently, his heartbeat back down to something approaching normalcy and his shaky legs refreshed, he finished climbing the stairs. The Oratory was nearing its capacity by the time Milkin pushed open the doors and stumped into the room. Like when the committee had revealed its findings regarding Trent Priah and Andrew Condign, the stage was set up with tables and chairs. This time, though, the stage was full of furniture, tables and chairs in rows, with a podium set up in the center.
Merin Tithy, a portly woman in her middle years who still managed to be spry despite her weight, stood up when Milkin entered and waved him over. Merin was one of the investigatory committee who had gone to give Andrew his test. She had voted in recognition of Andrew as a Speaker, but Milkin had never had much cause to spend time with her. She wasn’t a professor, but was on the Guild council and had been for years.
“Thanks for saving me a seat,” Milkin said as he eased himself into the chair. The hard wooden seat was uncomfortable, but the relief of sitting down far outweighed the discomfort.
“I wish the Speaker was here,” Merin said, brushing some of her ludicrously curly hair back away from her face. She wore her hair in a bun out of necessity, it being the only way she could enforce some semblance of order on her hair, but springy strands broke free of their constraints and wafted about her face anyway.
“Why? Andrew doesn’t have any knowledge of warfare.”
“There are those who view alchemical skill as right to lead,” she said darkly, her normally cherubic face twisted into a scowl. “The Speaker would set them to rights in a hurry.”
“As opposed to Trent?” Milkin hazarded a guess. He really had no idea what Merin was talking about.
“Trent has power,” she affirmed. “More, supposedly, than he did a few days ago. Gave a demonstration, I heard. Impressed some of these idiots. They think that gives him the right to form his own
Guild or something.”
Milkin scanned the crowd and spotted the group Merin was referring to. It wasn’t hard. Where the majority of the people in the audience seats were lively and excited, exchanging theories and ideas at a mad rate, perhaps a quarter of them were dour, frowning to each other and sitting clustered together in a knot. “Them?” he asked, nodding his head toward the group.
“Yep,” Merin said. “Them.”
Milkin shifted in his seat and sighed. “They’re not going to like what’s coming, then.”
“Malcontents,” she shrugged. “If it wasn’t Trent, there would be something else that would spur them to disagreement.”
He wanted to ask her what she meant, but Jacob Hobbarth, Master of the Guild, was making his way to the podium. It was a rare thing to see him out and about. He hadn’t taken a direct hand in Guild affairs for years, preferring to leave the day-to-day management to his appointed council. Evidently, the imminent destruction of the Guild and Andronath warranted putting a pause to his research and giving a pep talk.
The audience fell silent and the last few late arrivals hustled to find seats. Master Hobbarth cleared his throat a few times, the alchemical amplification built into the podium making his phlegmy coughs come through loud and clear.
“The Alchemists Guild,” he finally said, his voice rough and crackling from lack of use, “has come to a point in its history that is unprecedented. For the first time in written history, we have a Dragon Speaker among us.
“This should be cause for celebration, but instead we find the Guild to be beset from within. An outcast has dared bring threat of arms to our city. The power of the Guild is fractured with dissent.” The old Master gazed around the audience, his rheumy eyes imploring. “Consider the words of the Council and know they have the best interest of the Guild and our fair city in their minds and in their hearts.”
Master Hobbarth looked around, his short speech complete, but uncertain as to what to do next. A young woman approached quickly and led him back to his seat. Milkin sighed. Compared to the doddering old Guild Master, Trent Priah would look pretty impressive from a pure power standpoint.
Kilpatri took the Master’s place at the podium. The professor was getting on in years, approaching sixty, if Milkin remember correctly, but his back was straight, his eyes were sharp and piercing, and he had a reputation for being one of the most skilled alchemists alive.
“Good evening,” Kilpatri said. His voice was strong and sure, the limpid tones of an accomplished alchemist. “Thank you, Master Hobbarth.” Kilpatri paused for the light patter of polite applause before diving into the meat of his speech.
“The Council was closeted for much of the afternoon, debating the course of action the Guild would take in the coming days. As Master Hobbarth said, we are beset by Trent Priah and his Salian mercenaries. He claims insult to his good name and retribution for so-called crimes against him.
“I will not debate the point: our laws are quite clear. They are the laws that he swore to abide by when he became an alchemist, and all decisions leading to his expulsion were made with due consideration. We will not recant our edict against him. Trent Priah is Ranno Kossar. Even if he were not, his actions of the last few days would be cause for his removal from this Guild.
“Trent Priah and his army have stated their intention to blockade this city, starve out the Academy and the residents of Andronath, halt our trade and bring ruin upon the Alchemists Guild and our fair city.
“We are at war! It has been many years since the Guild has found itself threatened by military might, and we are ill-prepared for it. But we are alchemists! We are the Guild that has held power for two thousand years. We will not allow Trent to wage war against us without response.
“Do not be mistaken. Trent acts on his own, without the blessings of Salia. He may have hired mercenaries to reinforce his family’s men-at-arms, but it is not Salia we fight against, only a petty noble with delusions of honor.
“The Council has decided. We will fight back against the threat at our walls and aid the citizens of Andronath with the might of our alchemy. You all will have a role to play in the coming days as we strive to free our city of the invaders.
“Not everyone is comfortable using alchemy in war; this is understood and we will not demand it of you. But there is more to war than fighting, and everyone will participate in one way or another. This is what your Guild requires of you.”
Kilpatri paused to take a sip of water and someone in the audience shouted, “What if we think the Guild is an archaic institution with meaningless laws?”
Milkin didn’t even have to look to know the shout came from somewhere within the knot of malcontents.
Kilpatri nodded as if he had expected the question. “If you were a reasonable man, I would refer you to our histories that clearly show why the laws exist. But since you have read those histories, no doubt, I would instead point out that Trent Priah is threatening an entire city with slow death by starvation to sooth his wounded pride. Is that the kind of man you want to follow?”
“The Guild has always taught that might makes right,” the spokesperson returned. Now that Milkin was looking for the speaker, he picked out Bircham Lameda as the one doing the talking. “Lord Priah has shown that he is the one with the might. Any true alchemist would see that! This Guild is led by a decrepit old man without the wits to light a candle. I say it is time for this Guild to be disbanded and reformed anew, under the leadership of Lord Priah!”
“Why are you still here, then?” Kilpatri asked. “Do you hope to twist the minds of more people with your poison words?”
“I speak the truth,” Bircham shouted back, “which is more than this so-called Council has done.” He pushed his way to his feet. “We’re done with this farce. This Guild is no more!” He stormed from the Oratory and his sullen knot of followers streamed out after him.
The audience that remained looked after them in shock. Nobody tried to stop them, nobody got up to join them.
“Is it safe to let them leave?” Merin whispered to Milkin.
“We prepared for it. The vaults and Archives are shielded and none of them can overcome my Tan,” Milkin whispered back, a tight grin on his lips. “I’m not the Master Runesmith for nothing. Besides, there are Sicaria in the Academy. They would be wise to leave quietly.”
Merin’s eyes widened and she nodded.
Kilpatri rapped the podium, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “Don’t be disheartened. Their public renouncement of the Guild was intended to throw doubt into our minds. We are stronger than that, and we will prevail! Though the days ahead may be hard, remember who you are and what the Guild means to the world. We are more than the petty arrogance of one minor lord. We are the Alchemists Guild! And we will triumph!”
Chapter 22
To Save a City
Andrew clung to Avandakossi as she wheeled over the Palace of a Thousand Arches. The ruby light of Maeis set the rose marble aglow and refracted off the gentle waves of the Silent Sea far below. The whole scene seemed impossible, an excerpt of a dream.
A galloping horse, seen for a fraction of a second through the maze of arches, caught Andrew’s eye and snapped him back to reality. He leaned forward, but Ava had seen the same thing and was already diving toward the palace.
The outer reaches of the palace was a tangle of soaring buttresses, all interwoven and tangled. There was no way Ava’s wingspan would allow her to fly within. Andrew tightened his grip and squinted his eyes against the gale of Ava’s dive, but the dragon seemed to come to the same conclusion and snapped her wings wide, turning the dive into a soaring turn that crushed Andrew down into Ava’s neck.
“They’re running for the city,” Andrew shouted over the howl of the wind.
“Then we must cut them off.” Ava’s voice came through clearly to Andrew’s mind, though her vocalizations were lost in the wind.
The dragon soared up high and Andrew got a good look at the palace from above
, saw how the roads split and wove among the arches and funneled down to the pair of towering bridges that swung down in graceful curves to bury themselves within the sandstone city at the base of the promontory.
“There, the bridges!”
Andrew hung on as once again Ava dipped into a dive. As they grew closer to the bridge, Andrew made out a cluster of horses galloping toward the bridges, ten to fifteen of them; it was hard to get an exact count as they kept disappearing behind marble columns.
The bridge was approaching, far too fast for Ava to stop. At the last moment, the dragon snapped her wings wide and crashed onto the bridge. Lamp posts, stone stanchions and finely carved statuary lining the sides of the bridge were crushed and scattered in a broad swath as Ava dug in her claws and brought herself to a halt.
At the head of the bridge, Andrew saw the cluster of mounted men skid to a stop, sparks flying from the horses’ shoes as they scrabbled for purchase. Ava roared, a thunderous bellow that echoed among the arches, and the horses panicked, rearing and throwing a few of their riders before bolting back into the tangled safety of the palace.
The Incantors were fleeing. Andrew watched them retreat with a growing sense of dread. The palace was enormous. There were millions of places to hide and it would take an army to search the palace. Abruptly, Andrew knew what he had to do, and he already had the stanzas worked out in his mind.
He fumbled the scale he was using earlier from his belt pouch and clutched it in one hand. Andrew concentrated for a moment before he began to sing. He sang of stone and fire, of gravel, pebbles, boulders and crags. He sang of the strength of stone, of the seams and voids and cracks.
As if from a distance, he heard a song rise to match his own and realized that Avandakossi was singing with him. She sang in harmony, her notes pure and clean, and Andrew felt the power of the Rune Song surge within him. Still Andrew built the Song, feeding vitae from the scale clutched in his hand into the words and stanzas. Ava sang with him, breaking off into counterpoint and adding complexity to the song far beyond what Andrew could have done on his own. She was adding to what Andrew was sculpting, reinforcing it and refining it.