by Rich Wulf
The sooner they were gone from here, the better.
“It has been some time since I have visited a leader of my House,” Dalan mused, joining Seren at the railing. He held the same thick ledger he had been carrying so often of late, toying idly with a stick of charcoal as he sketched on a page. “I doubt Zorlan will be eager to see me. He was good friends with my uncle, until the end.”
“I’m guessing Zorlan was one of the ones who didn’t approve when Ashrem acquired a taste for peace?” Zed asked.
“Certain words were exchanged between Zorlan and my uncle on several occasions,” Dalan replied. “Suffice it to say that the Baron’s disrespect encouraged me to throw my support behind his rival, Merrix. I may not have agreed with my uncle’s philosophies, but neither will I endure slander heaped upon him.”
“I hesitate to posit such an uncomfortable question, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said from the helm, “but what if Zorlan is in league with Marth? The changeling’s ship is crippled just as ours was. If Marth is forced to seek repairs and Zorlan is his ally, Korth will probably be his destination as well.”
“I haven’t ruled out the possibility,” Dalan said, eyeing the city below thoughtfully. He clapped the book shut and tucked the charcoal into his pocket. “Yet I think it is unlikely. Zorlan is not the sort of man to consort with mercenaries—he has plenty of his own loyal troops. Further, Zorlan lost all respect for my uncle’s work when Ashrem turned his attention away from armaments of war. As I said, he was quite vocal in his denouncements. I think Zorlan would be too proud to use the Legacy to secure his own bid for power. Using one of Ashrem’s inventions to secure his bid for power would be too much like admitting he was wrong. He would be more likely to destroy the Legacy altogether, if he knew about it.”
“So what do we expect to find here, Master d’Cannith?” Pherris asked.
“Clarity, Captain Gerriman,” Dalan answered. “Now take us down.”
Karia Naille soared downward, weaving between the heavy structures of Korth toward the sky towers near the river bank. A pot-bellied dock officer waddled across the bridge to inspect their vessel. Dalan took the man aside and, after a few quiet moments of discourse, pressed a small pouch into the man’s hand with a grin. The officer glanced over the ship a final time, smiling eagerly, and disappeared back into the tower.
“Docking fees, so to speak,” Dalan said. “I have tipped the man to be incurious.” Dalan glanced over the crew with a smug grin. “You are all free to do as you like. I have no idea how long we will remain here. At least long enough to conduct our repairs. Our next destination still waits for us to find it. Omax, if you would be so kind, I would appreciate your attendance as I go to meet with the would-be master of my House. We must hurry.”
The warforged looked over sharply from his daydreaming. Seren noticed that Omax seemed distracted of late. The injuries he had sustained on the Moon still scarred his metal chest.
The warforged inclined his head. “Do you expect danger, Dalan?” he asked coolly.
“Not from the Baron himself,” he said. “If Zorlan had hostile intents, there is little we could do, save flee. His resources and manpower dwarf nations. However, I do not believe he is our true rival.”
Omax’s eyes flickered. “Then who?” he asked evenly.
“I do not know,” Dalan said. “Thus we must hurry, so he will make a mistake and reveal himself.’
“I’m going too,” Tristam said, stepping onto the deck. His reading spectacles were still perched on the bridge of his nose. He snatched them away absently and tucked them into his coat. “I want to hear this.”
“You are required here, Tristam,” Dalan said, his voice edged with impatience. “Only you can direct the ship’s repairs.”
“And we can’t repair the ship without proper materials,” Tristam said. “I gave Gerith the list. He’ll gather them while we meet with the Baron. By the time he returns, we’ll be done.”
The halfling had been chewing absently on an apple. He looked up happily at the sound of his name, flashing the hastily written list he clutched in one hand.
Dalan’s gaze rested heavily on Gerith, then returned to Tristam again. “I do not have the energy to argue, Tristam,” he said with a sigh. “Accompany me if you must.”
“And Seren, too,” Tristam said.
“Khyber, why don’t we all go?” Dalan snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ll bring the dog too. Aeven can come. We’ll make a holiday of it.”
Tristam’s face darkened.
“It’s fine,” Dalan amended, interrupting before Tristam could utter his angry reply. “Bring her. Follow me.”
Dalan crossed the bridge and entered the tower, shrugging into his hood to ward off the misty rain. Omax, Tristam, and Seren followed, descending the stairs and stepping out onto the road. Dalan was waiting, looking back with a curious glint in his eye.
“If you would accompany me,” he said, hurrying down the road once he saw they were following, “I must ask that you abide by my conditions.”
“What conditions?” Seren asked suspiciously.
“First, do not speak unless someone asks you a question,” Dalan said. “Answer with yes or no, if possible. If more information is needed, answer with as few words as you can muster.”
“What?” Tristam said. “You want us to shut up?”
“A focused front is required for all negotiations,” Seren said. “Jamus always taught me that.”
“Ha.” Dalan said smirked. “And who do you think taught him that? Me.”
“So we pretend to agree,” Tristam said. “Even if we don’t, just so that we are not divided further.”
“Precisely,” Dalan said. He glanced up and down the street, searching for an available coach. “I trust your expertise in matters of magic. You must trust me in matters of politics. The most basic tenet of politics is not to speak needlessly around men who hear more than you mean to say. Any arguments can be reserved for a later time, in private.”
“That makes a great deal of sense,” Tristam grudgingly admitted.
“My second condition,” Dalan said, “is that you listen carefully to me. If I use the name ‘Old Ash’ in reference to my uncle, that is a signal. I will not say it by accident, for I never called my uncle by that ridiculous nickname.”
“Signal for what?” Seren asked.
“To argue against me on whatever topic we happen to be discussing,” he said. “I’m certain none of you will find that too onerous a task.”
“Why?” Tristam asked. “What’s the point of that?”
“A focused front is a significant strength,” Dalan said, “but sometimes it is useful to appear weak. It can lead the opponent into overconfidence.”
“I think I’m thankful my mind isn’t as tangled as yours, Dalan,” Tristam said.
Dalan ignored the comment. “Just remember. Such trickery is generally unnecessary, but I prefer to lay contingencies in place.”
They hurried through the labyrinthine streets of Korth. The path was busy and more than one stranger studied them as they walked past. Seren felt strangely ill at ease. She peered about as she walked, her instincts screaming that something was amiss. She searched as cautiously as possible, hood shading her eyes so that her search would not be obvious. One hand rested unconsciously on her dagger’s hilt. She was uncertain what she was seeking—only that it was there.
Tristam noticed her unease and looked around urgently. “Something wrong, Seren?” he asked.
Then the warning faded as quickly as it had come. Seren furrowed her brow in confusion and shook her head. “No,” she said. “It was nothing.”
Dalan finished his negotiations with a coachman and climbed aboard the vehicle, curtly gesturing for the others to follow. The coachman gave Omax a wary sneer as the warforged lumbered aboard, but said nothing.
“To the d’Cannith estates, at all possible speed,” Dalan said as he sat back.
The driver nodded and drove the horses t
o a gallop with a crack of his whip. The vehicle rode smoothly through the grim capital, moving toward the busy streets of the Commerce Ward. The busy mumble of shouting merchants swallowed the silence. The air was filled with the rich scent of cooked bread and sweet spiced meats. The coach rumbled to a halt before a large estate near the center of the ward. Above the heavy steel gates was emblazoned the gorgon seal of House Cannith. Dalan pushed his cloak back over one shoulder, and now wore the same Cannith crest openly on his blue robe. The guild master steadied the small, square cap on his head and advanced toward the gates.
“I am Master Dalan Cannith, on urgent business from the City of Wroat,” Dalan announced. “I wish to see Baron Zorlan at once.
The guards looked at each other uncertainly.
“Do you have identification, friend?” one asked.
“Would you prefer to see my papers or would this suffice?” Dalan asked. He drew up his loose right sleeve, displaying the twisted dragonmark pattern that covered his right shoulder.
“We will announce your arrival at once, Master d’Cannith,” one of the guards said, quickly opening the gates.
An elderly servant in slate black livery was already approaching. He greeted them with a bow.
“Master d’Cannith, you are expected,” the man said.
“Indeed,” Dalan replied.
“The Baron is currently occupied,” the servant said. “However his representative, Gavus Frauk, will attend you until he becomes available.”
The guards quickly returned to their posts, gratefully resuming their uninteresting duties.
“My business is only with Zorlan,” Dalan said sharply.
“Understood,” the servant said in a mild, disinterested voice. “If you are too impatient to conduct an appointment through proper channels, you are free to depart and await the Baron’s convenience in a local inn. We shall gladly dispatch a messenger to notify you when he is available. It may be days, I fear. This is a busy time.”
Dalan gave a tight, joyless smile. “I apologize,” he said. “I am too impatient to renew the bonds of family. I have been away from my kinsmen for a long time. I only assumed Zorlan would be eager to pay hospitality to his cousin, who served him during the War. Is this not so?”
“I am certain he will be pleased to meet with you,” the servant replied with an equally thin smile. “But you visit us unannounced. The Baron is in the midst of an important meeting with several international clients. Should I interrupt and request that your arrival take precedence over the business of House Cannith?”
Dalan chuckled. “Of course not,” he said. “Sometimes I overestimate my importance. A few small successes can leave even the most undeserving man to feel he is a master of the house.” Dalan looked around the small courtyard idly. “Incidentally, Baron Merrix sends Zorlan his regards.”
The servant studied Dalan blandly, ignoring the veiled barb. “Master Gavus awaits,” he said. “If you are ready.”
“That will be fine,” Dalan said.
The servant bowed perfunctorily. “Follow me.”
He led them into the estate, turning down a side hallway and leading them down the stairs. The interior of the building was as austere and dark as the outside, sparing little effort for decoration. The faint rhythm of a ringing anvil resounded elsewhere in the building, mixing discordantly with the voices of unseen chanters. The air smelled electric, alive. Magic lived here and was given form by the hands of artificers and magewrights. Tall statues lined the walls at intervals. Seren paused to study the plaques mounted beside a few. They were representations of former patriarchs of the guild or master artificers who had invented one legendary creation or another.
As they continued deeper, the busy sounds of the House of Making grew more subdued. The servant finally led them to a heavy door framed by shining magical stones in wire sconces. He spoke a word and gestured at the door, causing it to swing open. A small library waited within. A semicircle of bookcases surrounded a small group of stuffed velvet chairs. A single statue stood at the rear of the chamber, depicting an elderly artificer wielding a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. A thin little man in pale white robes reclined in the chair beside the statue, peering up at them through his spectacles as they entered. His wispy hair was streaked with gray, and his face was lined with age. The room was strangely silent.
“Master Dalan d’Cannith of Wroat,” the man said in a bored voice. “Finally you arrive. I am Gavus Frauk, one of the senior magewrights of the household. I would be pleased to keep you company until the Baron can make time to speak with you.”
Dalan gave a short bow. Gavus offered a vague nod in reply. The servant slipped out and closed the door behind them.
“These are my associates,” Dalan said, gesturing behind him as he sat in a chair across from Gavus. “Tristam Xain, Seren Morisse, and Omax.”
“Tristam Xain,” Gavus said, looking at Tristam intently. “I know that name. You were one of Ashrem d’Cannith’s students.”
Tristam paused halfway into another chair. “You’ve heard of me?” he asked, surprised.
“I am a great admirer of your late mentor’s work,” he said, gesturing at the statue behind him. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Dalan looked up at the statue blandly. “Is that meant to be my uncle?” he asked. “It’s a poor likeness of Ashrem. Too much chin. Eyes are too narrow. He would never wear a robe with sleeves that loose. They would drag in the ink and chemicals while he worked. Had this sculptor ever seen my uncle?”
Gavus’ smile froze. “I was the sculptor,” he said. “In point of fact, I knew Ashrem, and I think it is a good likeness.”
“Ah,” Dalan said. “Well, art is art, and there is no truth in art, is there? There is only what one likes and what one does not. Eye of the beholder and whatnot.”
“A rather coarse and uncultured belief,” Gavus said tersely. “That which has value is obvious to all those with a mind keen enough to perceive it.”
“How did you know my uncle?” Dalan asked, changing the subject.
“Ashrem was a student of diverse schools of artifice and magic,” Gavus said. “When he wished to know more about the nature of constructs, he came to me. I maintained correspondence with him, albeit irregularly, until his death. I considered him a friend.”
“Constructs?” Seren said. “Did you build warforged?” Omax looked up curiously.
“No,” Gavus said, looking at Omax with obvious unease. “I have fashioned parts that were used to construct warforged, but never participated directly in their animation. My expertise lies in the field of golemcraft.”
“Mindless constructs,” Dalan said.
“Quite,” Gavus said. “The results are inflexible but more reliable, in my humble opinion. Warforged have a penchant for stubborn individuality. Golems do as they are told.” He smiled briefly.
“And warforged think for themselves,” Seren said.
“Not an altogether positive trait, for a weapon,” Gavus said.
“A charming outlook,” Dalan said.
“Do not misjudge me,” Gavus said. “I am sure your Omax is a courageous fellow, but my goal has ever been to create tools—not life. The creation of the warforged was a grave, arrogant error. They are distinctly inferior to true golems, sacrificing power and durability for the same intelligence that only makes them so difficult to control. Their freedom to act without direction is more a burden than anything else. They are no better than the men they were built to replace. Their existence complicates an already complex world, but what is done is done. They are here now, inferior creations they may be, and we must make room for them, yes?” He looked at Omax brightly.
The warforged stared back without a sound.
“But I babble too much,” Gavus said with a light chuckle. “Tell me more of yourself, Master Dalan. I heard you were dead, and by all accounts, Tristam Xain is your killer.”
“Dead?” Dalan said, sounding impressed. “I have never been dead before. How
exciting! I never saw it coming. Well executed, Master Xain. You are a man of unexpectedly cold blood.”
“You find this humorous?” Gavus asked archly. “You are a guild master of House Cannith, a dragonmarked heir, no less. I do not think you should take such news so lightly.”
“Why should such obvious fabrications concern me?” Dalan asked. “Such clumsy lies cannot harm me. They only fool those beneath concern. After all, my own house was clearly so certain I had survived that the Baron dispatched a tribe of halfling barbarians to collect me and return me safely home. Incidentally, Chief Rossa recently died at the hands of Cyran mercenaries. The Baron will need to find a new representative to monitor the house’s interests on the plains. I recommend Koranth. He seems an able fellow.”
A nervous flicker passed behind Gavus’s eyes. Tristam glanced past the magewright, studying the statue behind him. “I would not know anything about such things,” Gavus said.
“Of course not,” Dalan replied. “And though circumstances separated me from my earnest halfling guardians, I hurried here forthwith to thank the Baron for his kindness. Do you have any estimate when he will be free to attend me?”
“I cannot say,” Gavus said mildly.
“Just as well,” Dalan said. “I saw many interesting sights upon my journey and am eager to share them with a kinsman. The halflings are such a fascinating people. Their customs are an intriguing mixture of superstition, family loyalty, and pragmatic cunning. One, in particular, may interest you. Are you familiar with the hmael?”