Sourcethief (Book 3)

by J. S. Morin

  "Boy for the staff."

  "Well about time he started being reasonable. From what I have gathered though, Anzik Fehr is none too eager to return home. Still I think it best that the boy be returned, and now we do not have to defy Rashan to give him back."

  "Well, now that you mention Rashan," Tanner said, pausing as he watched for Kyrus’s reaction. He received none. "Captain Zayne had an idea how you might be able to get rid of Rashan."

  "Did he now?" Kyrus asked. "I suppose that his advice is just his contribution to me fulfilling his original terms."

  "Not quite. He wants peace, his son, and a dead warlock, but he wants the boy back bad enough that he'll wait on Rashan's head a while." Tanner watched Kyrus, the sorcerer's eyes twitching about though his face remained a mask. He saw Kyrus's breath quicken. It was the sort of thing a swordsman looked for in an opponent, but it seemed the same tricks worked for sorcerers as well—at least new ones.

  "Will he give up the staff first?" Kyrus asked.

  "Before he gets the boy back?"

  "Forget the boy. Yes, of course he gets his son in the bargain. Will he give up the staff without having evidence of Rashan's death?"

  Tanner swallowed. He did not care to hear how close Kyrus sounded to actual treason. The soldier in him hard a hard time hearing someone plot the death of a superior.

  "He wants you to meet someone. A demon," Tanner said.

  "What demon?" Kyrus's eyes narrowed as they fixed on Tanner's. There was no escape in them.

  "Azzat. Everyone said there was some demon king beneath the place, running things from the belly of the world. Well, it's true enough. His name is Xizix. I guess he's expecting you."

  * * * * * * * *

  There was a chair in Kyrus's office. It was neither beloved nor particularly comfortable, but Kyrus found himself in it often. He had dragged it away from his desk to face the large window that overlooked Kalak Square and much of Kadris. His office was high enough that he could see above the shops and homes and warehouses to get a clear view of the palace. Through the leaded glass he could hear muffled music from the streets below. Founding Day had arrived, despite the myriad distractions that had caused him to forget its approach.

  Kyrus looked down at the black flecks of fresh ink that stained his fingers. He rubbed his fingers together, watching the ink smear across his skin. When was I last this careless with ink? He had penned two missives in haste, his plans coalescing faster than he could convey.

  The first was a special set of orders for the captain of the Black Gull. He would be taking on two passengers and would receive further orders from them once the Black Gull was airborne and well away from Kadris.

  The second was to the home of Faolen Sarmon. The timing would be sensitive, but Founding Day was as good a chance as any to ensure that Faolen would be away. Kyrus shook his head. Much as he would have wanted time to plan the endeavor in detail, the opportunity to deflect attention from his own involvement was too great to pass up.

  The door opened and closed behind him. Kyrus had been preoccupied and had not reactivated his wards. He closed his eyes and took a silent breath to steel himself.

  "Kyrus, there you are," Celia called from across the room. Kyrus gritted his teeth. His back was turned to her, so he had a moment to compose himself.

  "I am thinking. And stop calling me that, even when we are alone."

  "We are alone though. What’s wrong?" Celia came around his chair and positioned herself between him and the window. "Everyone is off preparing for the feasts, yet here you sit brooding."

  "I am not brooding. I said I was thinking." Kyrus forced himself to smile up at her. "Is it Caladris looking for me, or just you?"

  "Neither. Rashan arrived back just a short while ago. He had been expecting to find you at the palace. He sent me to look for you but I didn't have to; I knew you would be right here. You are too predictable," Celia said, smiling down at him. She grabbed hold of the arms of Kyrus's chair as she leaned in to kiss him.

  Predictable? Kyrus had a fleeting moment of panic as the thought occurred that perhaps he was. She is playing at being Abbiley's twin. I am playing at believing her. What if Caladris told her I know? Was that a subtle hint? He kissed her back, trying to divorce the act from the knowledge of who he was kissing.

  "Brannis," Celia said, making a point of using his Kadrin name, "what's wrong? You seem distracted."

  "Am I so predictable?" Kyrus asked. It was the first evasion that came to mind.

  "Well maybe not in all your tactical plotting," Celia said, giving a nod at the aetherial map of Koriah that Kyrus kept. "But when it comes to everything else, I would say so. It's alright though, darling, I find it adorable." She placed a hand on his cheek as she smiled down at him. 'Darling' indeed. Caladris is still coaching her to talk like Abbiley does to Tomas.

  Kyrus pushed her hand away and stood, forcing her to stumble back a step.

  "If we are expected at the palace, then ..." Kyrus said, trailing off as he got a view of the streets below.

  "Yes, quite a crowd," Celia said, taking him by the arm and looking out at the view. "It took twice as long as usual to make my way from the palace."

  "I have no patience for that today."

  "I'm sure for you they will clear a path—"

  "They will not have to."

  Celia let out a gasp and clutched tightly to Kyrus as they both rose from the ground. The chair that Kyrus had been using drifted out of their way as they floated into the middle of the room.

  "Kyrus ... Brannis! What are you doing?"

  It took effort with Celia shrieking in his ear, but Kyrus drew carefully and cleared his mind of everything but thoughts of the transference spell. A sphere of aether surrounded them, just barely clearing their toes and heads, and disturbed neither the structure nor the furniture of Kyrus's office.

  A blink later they were in Kyrus's bedchambers in the palace.

  "Where are—" Celia began, but stopped as she realized the answer to her half-formed question. She pushed herself away from Kyrus, shoving him hard with both hands. "How dare you do that! You, you ..."

  "I saved us pushing our way through half the population of Kadris to get here. We would have been late for the feasting."

  "You still had no right to do that without at least telling me first." Celia crossed her arms, her face set into a very professional-looking huff.

  "Really? I thought I had been given all sorts of leeway. You wrote the decree to that effect yourself," Kyrus said. A smirk crossed his face.

  "You did that on purpose." Realization dawned and Celia's expression hardened. She was pretty when angry but looked less like Abbiley, who Kyrus could not recall having ever seen frown. It made riling her all the more worthwhile.

  Kyrus said nothing in reply, but let a knowing grin act as his answer. He held it in place as Celia waited in vain for a proper answer. At length she grew impatient and her glance wandered around the room.

  "The door is warded," Celia said.

  "I left it that way this morning."

  "You know ... Rashan wouldn't expect us to be back so soon," Celia said, licking her lips. Kyrus shook his head.

  "There is no way he missed noticing my transference spell. He definitely knows we are here and is probably wondering what the delay is." Kyrus gave Celia a stern look.

  "I'd hate to make him doubt himself," Celia said. She turned fully to face Kyrus, locking her gaze on his own. Well, she knows she has to keep hold of my leash. I would wager half the empire's treasury that she is fuming behind that smile.

  "Frankly, I enjoy making him wrong," Kyrus said. He released the door wards and strode past Celia into the hall.

  * * * * * * * *

  "Well these seem to be authentic. I must say though, this is rather irregular."

  "Yeah, it's irregular. That's why it's coming right from the top. Sir Brannis is all sorts of irregular," Tanner told the old woman at the Sarmon home.

  "Of course, of course, please
come in," Faolen's housekeeper bid him. She was of an old mold; subservient by habit, she would not meet his eyes.

  "Where is the boy?" Tanner asked. He looked about the stark entryway. It was clean, elegant. From it, he could see into the adjoining sitting room and a small dining room at the end of the hall. Everything was spotless and neatly arranged. There was no indication of any sort of boy living there; at least not any sort of boy Tanner was familiar with.

  "Oh, I shall have to go up and fetch him for you. He never comes when called."

  "I'll come with you," Tanner declared. He wanted to see the boy firsthand, before the old woman got to him and made him presentable.

  The housemaid was slow up the stairs, allowing Tanner to catch up easily. At the second floor landing, she turned down a short hallway and knocked on a door.

  "Master Anzik, we have company. I am opening the door," the housemaid called.

  She entered the room ahead of Tanner, who looked over her stooped shoulder. It was a quaint little bedroom, done up in frills and lace, upholstered in pale blues and whites. A table and chair had been set beneath a window. Atop the table was a heavy tome, spread wide with its place-marking ribbon dangling over the edge. Lying next to it was a pile of others much like it. Atop the chair was a twig of a boy, feet dangling just above the floor, eyes flying like kites above the pages, seemingly unable to break free.

  "Anzik, this is Lieutenant Tanner."

  "Hello, Anzik. Nice to meet you," Tanner said.

  "Anzik, say hello to Lieutenant Tanner," the housemaid prompted.

  "Hello," Anzik said dutifully, never flinching from his reading. He turned a page, the most movement Tanner had seen from him.

  "Is he always like this?" Tanner asked the housemaid.

  "Mostly, yes. He comes down for meals when he gets hungry, but won't touch a thing I bring up. He only started answering in Kadrin in the past tenday or so. I had a twist of a time with him speaking that Megrenn gibberish at me ... pardon my saying so, Lieutenant. It's just ... he's a trying boy. I don't mislike him, mind you, but the way he is, he wears you down day after day."

  "Will he come along willingly, you think?" Tanner asked.

  "No way to know unless you try, Lieutenant. Never any way to tell with Master Anzik."

  Tanner crossed the room, treading lightly on the heavy rug. He felt a fool being so careful not to disturb a boy who barely reacted to being addressed directly, but some cautious part of him could not forget the stories of the killings Anzik Fehr had committed in Zorren before his rescue (or kidnapping, depending on who you asked). He peered over the boy's shoulder to see what he was reading.

  "Seram’s Children’s Stories, huh?" Tanner asked, though the answer was apparent. "My granddad read me those when I was your age."

  There was no response from Anzik.

  "Would you like to go on an airship? You'll have the best view of the Founding Day show. There will be lights up in the sky, and pictures like paintings."

  Anzik turned his head to look at Tanner. "I like airships."

  "You can bring your books if you like. Pack up," Tanner said. To his surprise, Anzik began to comply without a word of either protest or acknowledgment.

  "You know you can tell no one," Tanner said to the housemaid. "Faolen will be told personally by Sir Brannis."

  "Lieutenant, this is important business and none of my own. I won't remember a bit of it once you're out the door. Wouldn't want to, either. Messy business, rather keep myself clear of it."

  Kyrus had assured him that there were charms on Faolen’s servants to prevent them from revealing secrets, but he was not sure he could trust that with his own hide at stake. Alterations to Kyrus's plan had flitted about his head on the way over. Running the old housemaid through would ensure her silence and make it look like a nefarious plot—which was perhaps a bit too close to the truth. He had wondered whether he could convince the boy to rip the maid's Source out, if he was even able to without the Staff of Gehlen. That would make it look like the boy had run away, which would suit him well enough.

  Tanner looked at the old woman as Anzik shoved book after book into a pack. He knew he would have to carry the weight of every book the boy took. He could deal with that. He was not sure he could bear the weight on his conscience of harming the kindly old housemaid.

  "I'm sorry, but I never quite got your name," Tanner said to her.

  "My name is Mannia Dawnlark, Lieutenant," she replied. "So few visitors bother to ask it." I didn't want to know it, in case I had to kill you.

  "Nice to meet you," Tanner said. "It is rather a shame you won't remember."

  "A mixed shame to be sure, for I know you fancy folk are up to things I want no part of. Best of luck, and take good care of that boy."

  "Come along, Anzik," Tanner called across the room. The slip of a boy dragged a bulging pack across the floor. Tanner scooped it up with a grunt and threw it over his shoulder. "Let's be off."

  * * * * * * * *

  Servants wandered the terrace carrying steaming platters piled with haunches of lamb, pork and turkey. The palace grounds were intended to give a prime view of the Founding Day display. Anyone welcome at the palace tried to make his way there, despite the crowding. It was perhaps the only occasion where one could be wedged between a member of the Inner Circle and some royal cousin with neither of them calling for guardsmen to haul away the offender.

  "I've never had the chance to see the pageant from here before," Celia said. She leaned against the railing of the terrace, a small haunch of lamb clutched in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other, tucked in against Kyrus's side. Kyrus had one arm wrapped around her and a turkey leg in his free hand. A stern look from Rashan, who stood at Kyrus’s other side, had forestalled a tankard of his own.

  "I cannot remember the last time I was home for Founding Day," Kyrus said. "Four springtimes at the least, perhaps five. I wonder if the illusions look much different in the aether."

  "I would stick to watching in the light," Rashan said, taking a swallow from his own tankard. "The sorcerers controlling the show do not make them look like anything special in the aether. It ruins the effect same as watching the hands of the puppeteer."

  "I suppose I would have ruined it for everyone anyway, if it did look better in the aether."

  "It looks a bit better now, actually. Who taught you life extension?"

  "Caladris. He said he got sick of looking at my Source. It has yet to weaken my draw, but he seemed happy enough to see me dimmed a bit."

  Rashan snorted. "You'll live to twelve hundred by the look of you now." Rashan raised his tankard again and muttered "dimmed a bit" to its contents.

  Conversations halted mid-course as drums sounded, heralding the beginning of the show. The beat was a rousing march, echoed by troupes of drummers scattered throughout Kadris. Every eye turned upward to the cloudless twilight sky.

  A brace of trumpets heralded the traditional charge that began the Founding Day pageant. The drums changed from a march to a rolling gallop as soldiers the size of palace towers emerged from the indifferent nothingness to break into a run, weapons bared, Kadrin pennants streaming out behind them. The folk of Kadris cheered as the skies above came alive.

  From the opposite end of the city, soldiers of similar proportion but different garb emerged onto the battlefield. Instead of Kadrin reds and golds, they came in blues, oranges and greens, the motley raiment worn by the scattered nations of the Megrenn Alliance.

  The Kadrin force prevailed in convincing fashion and the pageant moved along to another battle. The scenes played out in succession, a non sequitur history of the Kadrin Empire, mostly of famous battles that even peasants could identify by the races and colors of the opponents from previous Founding Days, even if they could put no names to them. The pageant changed from springtime to springtime, but some scenes were too popular to cut. “The Great Ogre-Slayer” was a favorite. Everyone loved the nameless hero who took on dozens of ogres singlehandedly. “The Fligh
t of the Goblins” garnered uproarious laughter as Kadrin soldiers chased swarms of the tiny, house-sized creatures in circuits about the city, slowly running them down and slaughtering them amid pratfalls punctuated by gongs, trumpet flares, and whistles.

  Kyrus knew it all for what it was: a carefully choreographed team of sorcerers and musicians working together to put on a play of monumental scale. He smiled in spite of himself. He knew from Brannis what to expect, but the whimsy and wonder of it—bloody overtones and all—evoked memories of the street-corner puppet shows of Scar Harbor. They had always played at the autumn markets where his family had sold carts of freshly harvested vegetables.

  "Oh my ..." Celia said. Kyrus was reminded that she was still there, huddled against him for warmth. He followed her gaze and caught himself before crying out.

  "I guess this bit is supposed to be the Battle of Raynesdark," Kryus said. Goblins were swarming up a hill that seemed to extend above the palace, bringing them directly overhead. Up on the ghostly, illusory walls, Kadrin soldiers swept the smaller creatures aside. "I wonder if they have me up there on the walls."

  "I doubt it. Too much effort and too few would appreciate it," Rashan answered. "Founding Day is about the empire, not heroes."

  "What about the Ogre-Slayer, he—"

  "Just shut up and watch, Brannis." Rashan took his own advice and turned his attention skyward once more. A crash of gongs rang out and the walls of Raynesdark exploded. There was a gasp from the peasants throughout the city, followed by more cheering as plumes of smoke rose toward the stars and blocked out the view.

  Horns blared, deeper and angrier than trumpets—a whole chorus of them. Screams of delight followed when a dragon appeared from the parting smoke, a sight new and thrilling to the peasant crowd. Flashing scales and fangs the size of trees plummeted from the heavens in a dive toward the palace spectators who were poised above the false Raynesdark walls.

  Kyrus felt a sharp tug at his Source as ale spilled everywhere. Rashan's hands shot up at the dragon, lancing at the false beast with forks of lightning.