Sourcethief (Book 3)

by J. S. Morin

  "Well ... I think it just may be that you caught someone at long last," Rashan said.

  "About time," Axterion said. He had been gesturing with his pipe as a prop but stuffed it back between his teeth and gave a curt nod.

  "Now what was it that you and Brannis spent all day at?" Rashan asked, shifting topics on him.

  "Boy has himself all puzzled up over that demon—that other demon, that is. Not generally one to get fussed up over trifles, but I think this one worried him a bit. He'd gone asking about getting that volcano-plugging staff back, thinking the Megrenn who took it might be hiding out in quaint, friendly little Azzat. Instead, this old friend of yours goes on an hours-long tirade about you, the other immortals, gets the old gods mixed in—mind you, did any of them immortals mention meeting them? Anyway, he tried to remember as much of it verbatim as he could."

  "Did anything come of it? Could you infer anything from what Brannis told you?" Rashan asked. The demon was leaning forward in his seat.

  "A few things. First off, this Xizix chap is mad as monkeys, as they say. I wouldn't trust him to cook my dawn feast, let alone find important magical artifacts. He is also a liar, which I am beginning to think might be the defining characteristic of a demon—no offense, but you tell unseasoned truth roughly once per summer snowfall. The bit about how you got thrown out of the immortals' little village was entertaining but I can't say I can put much stock in it. It certainly sounds like something you would do, but that's the mark of a good liar. I imagine a few thousand winters' practice is enough to make anyone a good liar if they try."

  "What version did he tell?" Rashan asked, reclining in his seat with a narrowing gaze. If it was supposed to have been an intimidating look, Rashan was going to have to stop looking like a schoolboy from the Academy. Axterion had taught there, and sixteen-winter boys had given him such gazes that they might have hurled fire, gazes not so unlike the demon's. It was hard to take him seriously.

  "Something about an immortal that disappeared. You and it had a dispute and it told this Xizix that if it went missing, you would be the reason. Just seemed too dratted convenient that only Xizix got the message," Axterion said. Brannis's idea of light truth is a load of fun. It's just like spitting cherry seeds out of the truth and sweeping them under the rugs so the servants don't see you doing it.

  "It was his word against mine so all they could justify was a temporary parole—banishment, so to speak. I still have not worked out whether Xizix killed him and hid the body or if Bvatrain—the one who went missing—just decided to play hide-from-his-lordship until they executed me for his 'murder.’"

  "Nah. My wager is still on you having killed the poor demon," Axterion said. The two eldest sorcerers in the empire shared a chuckle.

  Chapter 16 - A Longer Perspective

  The shallow pond lay so still that the night sky was painted across its surface. A careful observer could make out constellations younger than several of those gathered by the water's edge. Creatures of fantastical variety were among their number, most resembling humans but with odd stylistic choices in their appearances: impossible physiques, brilliant hair and eye colors, flesh and clothing adornments that defied nature. All stood waiting in a silence that, if not companionable, was at least familiar to them all. Patience comes easily to the immortal demons of Veydrus.

  The pond graced the center of a clearing surrounded by elder pines tall enough to brush the clouds—when clouds were allowed in the immortals' glade. Which of them had done it, no one had asked, but while storm clouds gathered above them and swelled with rain, the skies were clear beyond the guardian pines.

  Heads turned in unison at a ripple in the deep aether. Such a subtle hint might have passed unnoticed elsewhere—even among the great Kadrin sorcerers, the Ghelkans, and the goblins—but not in present company. A sphere of aether appeared in the air above the pond. When it vanished, a gray hulking creature hung in mid-air with leathery wings spread wide. It crashed into the pond, which was only knee deep to the creature, the mirror-like perfection of its surface ruined as steam rose around the demon.

  "You did that intentionally," Illiardra spoke up. She was wearing a green gown just a shade darker than her hair. The delicate horns that framed her face contrasted the twisted tangle that sprouted from Xizix's skull. "You press your welcome even upon your arrival."

  "It is water, nothing more. It falls from the sky when you allow it," Xizix chided. A fog rose around him as he reached the grass around the pond. "But there, there now, I can play nice." With the wave of a clawed hand, Xizix condensed the mist into droplets and flung them back into the pond.

  "What is it you wished to discuss with us that was so important?" asked an immortal named Uok wearing golden robes. "Why call for this gathering?"

  "It seems we have someone who wants to hunt demons," Xizix replied. He swept his gaze around the assembled immortals. Three dozen had awaited his arrival.

  "What?"

  "We'll put a stop to that!"

  "Will mortals never learn?"

  There were few things that riled the pacifists and the philosophers among them, but someone seeking to end their eternity was an exception. Xizix threw back his head and laughed.

  "You mean to sow discord?" Illiardra scolded him. She had kept silent, waiting for the loudest immortals to vent their anger before speaking on their behalf. "You must be speaking of the Acardian you met with. I do not watch your realm but his movements are too disruptive to ignore."

  "Indeed. He seeks your lover's head," Xizix replied, ignoring the rest. "I might be inclined to aid him but for my agreement with Rashan. I want no part of that one's ire." Xizix paused a moment, put a hand to his chin and gazed up to the stars. "Either of theirs, for that matter. I would prefer that they leave me and my children alone."

  "Why come here at all then?" an angry voice called from somewhere in the middle of the group.

  "Why? To warn you," Xizix said. "He is trying to piece together a weakness of Rashan’s, and seems intent on discovering how he obtained immortality."

  "He knows about the gate?" Uok asked.

  "He knows enough to discover it, I believe," Xizix replied. "He has found a journal that Rashan wrote toward the end of his mortality, and it seems our friend was incautious about his metaphors. I believe Rashan may have left the key lying in a book, obscured under piles of gibberish and bad poetry. The Acardian is a scholar at heart, he will not let the puzzle lie now that he knows it for what it is."

  "We all feel the shudders in the aether whenever he uses his transferences. What was it like being near to him?" another immortal asked. "Is he like the peacemaker? You were still alive back then, were you not?"

  Xizix curled his lip. "No. This one is strong but I have seen stronger Sources in dragons. The Acardian is a threat to any of us, not all of us."

  "Why worry then? It seems no harm will come in letting him do as he will," Illiardra argued. "He sought you out for advice and ... you withheld it?" Xizix nodded in the affirmative. "I see no threat to any but Rashan, and I think we can all agree that any enmity he draws is well-deserved. I have done more than my part to convict him of his crimes in the past. Let this mortal give him sport. He could do us all a favor and rid us of a true threat."

  Xizix, whose attention had seemed to wander, turned his fiery gaze on Illiardra once more. "I see now ... It was you, wasn't it? You were the one who made sure this Acardian got his hands on Rashan's journal." It seemed Illiardra was going to answer his accusation but he waved away her reply. "Do not bother denying it. I see now. You are as besotted with vengeance as he is. Beget mortals at your peril," he warned the assembly. "Look what it has done to noble Illiardra, resorting to taking a mortal sorcerer as her hidden blade."

  "You are one to lay accusations," Illiardra shot back. "I saw the assassins you sent to kill Rashan in Kadris. Those daggers were your own work, not even a copy."

  "I have my agreement with Rashan and I know its limits. I merely lent knowledge to those wi
th a common grudge against him. Those spells I showed them, the daggers, all were in purely theoretical context. All action and motivation was by their own independent will. Besides, the penalty for slaying an immortal is death. Those daggers would have taken the wielder's Source as fuel for the magic that would have killed Rashan."

  "I cannot abide any of this," Uok interrupted. "Illiardra, what did that journal contain? What information did you place before this mortal from the other side of the gate?"

  "Two books I left for him to be given. The first was the journal that Xizix spoke of. It was disguised as prophecy and written in the prophetic forms. I ... I would surmise that Rashan was embarrassed by recording his private thoughts and so did not write them plainly. The journal was the venting of his bile upon paper. I wanted Brannis Solaran's twin to understand the depths of Rashan's madness and the malice that underlay it. The other book was The Peace of Tallax, which I am sure you all have read. What better deterrent to a course beyond his station than that?"

  "You fool!" Xizix thundered. The glade drained of aether almost instantly as dozens of immortals drew in every last wisp, prepared in case Xizix became violent. "You obviously did not read that journal well enough, because the single passage he quoted to me hinted that Rashan had nearly pieced together the secret by the time he wrote it. This boy may be no Tallax, but that does not mean we should have him running amok for eternity."

  "What harm is there, really?" the young girl asked. "He opposes Rashan, and you said yourself he was scholarly. I find no fault with the former and much hope in the latter."

  "Xizix, you yourself seemed quite the risk as a mortal and you were given a chance to prove yourself. Why would this Acardian be any different?" Uok asked. There were murmured discussions among the other immortals, but most seemed content to keep their opinions private.

  "There is no evidence that he is even seeking immortality for himself," Illiardra argued. "Thus far it would seem he is only seeking a weakness in Rashan to exploit."

  Someone spoke the words "good luck" just loud enough to be heard by all.

  "Illiardra, you were pureborn. You never felt the gnawing hunger of the Source-rend," Xizix said. "He knows that immortality is possible. He knows that Rashan found his way between worlds—he confided this to me as well—he found out from the other side. He will have hundreds of winters for that knowledge to gnaw at him as his body grows weak and rots around him. Even if he has no thought to pursue immortality now, the seed is there."

  "What does he know of Rashan's passage through the gate?" Illiardra asked. Her voice was quiet, betraying concern for the first time.

  "Some underling of Rashan's old twin reported on a meeting between the two of them. He figured out from a written account that it was the Veydran twin and not some relative whose description matched," Xizix said. "You have merely given him more to poke and to prod. He seems no fool. I say we wait to see if Rashan kills him, then destroy him ourselves. We rid ourselves of one malcontent, and head off the coming of our next overlord."

  "Tallax never ruled us ... and you said yourself that Brannis's twin was no equal to him," Illiardra argued. "He has heard the name enough times by now, I am sure, to read the book before acting. If Tallax's tale does not dissuade him, then he will not be deterred."

  "Oh yes, poor Tallax," Xizix said in sing-song. "Only lived ten mortal lifetimes before going mad and destroying himself." Xizix dropped his mocking tone. "You never were mortal, Illiardra, and it again proves a blind spot for you. He will think he can do better. Tallax's madness resulted in a failure to make himself immortal. Well, Tallax's Source was intact but flawed, powerful as it was. This Acardian has all the ingredients to succeed where Tallax failed."

  "We should guard the gate," Uok suggested.

  "What if we just let him through and destroy it. It seems a good time for a gambit we can only play once," a bronze-skinned man offered. He made it sound as if he was jesting, but many among the assembly began to nod in agreement.

  "Enough!" Illiardra shouted. "We will guard the gate ... but only to prevent one of you from destroying it. It is a legacy from the gods. Most of you are too young to remember, but I am not. We are its caretakers."

  Xizix snarled. "Very well. Consider yourselves warned. I will offer neither aid nor death to this Acardian until he has settled his business with Rashan." The demon flapped his wings, thrusting himself aloft and sending waves across the pond, before disappearing in a sphere of aether.

  Chapter 17 - Back on the Water

  Brannis stifled a yawn. The biting air helped, but could not overcome the fact that dawn was hours off and he had slept little. He clanked softly as he walked, his armor muffled by the layers of fur that kept it from shining gold in the lamplight. The falling snow helped muffle the world. Scar Harbor's streets were lit well enough to walk safely by, but Brannis’s concern was more for stumbling on the cobbles than robbery. He pulled a rented handcart with their belongings as he accompanied Soria to the docks.

  "The army coddled you something awful, didn't they?" Soria teased. "Some of us have to wake when a job needs doing." She carried a satchel on the pretense of lightening Brannis's load, but had she sat in the cart with it, he would hardly have noticed the difference. The docks were the lowest land in the city, and there was a downhill grade that was nearly imperceptible—that is, unless you were pulling fifty gallons worth of luggage in a wheeled cart, in which case it seemed a form of magic.

  "All those seasons spent fighting ogres ..." Brannis could not stop a yawn from interrupting him. "They prefer not to fight in the dark. When the goblins attacked Raynesdark I was up the whole night without sleep. And if I recall, you are a coinblade who works when she pleases and an import inspector who gets paid not to do her job. I ... will think of a better argument later ... remind me when I wake up."

  "I need you awake. Someone left a trail we were meant to follow. There has to be someone watching it, waiting for us to find it. Unless I missed my guess, Poet's Hammer will be the only Khesh-bound ship in port right now."

  "So you hope they are the sort who sleep late?" Brannis asked. "I could see how that might be a good guess, sneaks being night-loving sorts and all."

  Soria gave a dainty little snort. "We could only be so lucky. I'm just hoping to catch them off guard a bit, get aboard before they get any ideas about trying to stop us and maybe ask a few questions about who has gone ahead of us. It's the docks; someone must have seen Tomas and the girl as they left or at least know what the last ship bound for Khesh was."

  They wove their way down the deserted streets. For a long while, the rumble of the cart's wheels and their own footsteps were the only sounds. As they neared the waterfront, they could hear the Katamic washing against the docks and the creaking groans of tethered ships sitting idle in the rising tide.

  There were men about at all hours by the waterfront, though far fewer than in the daytime. Even the women of the night had since turned in. Longshoremen and warehouse watchmen lounged on crates and barrels. Fishermen readied their boats for the day's run. Drunkards awoke from a night's indulgence to wobble back to a bed.

  "Stop and leave the cart here," Soria said. They passed near a run-down tavern frequented by sailors and travelers. Brannis looked to the sign and recognized the name "Dogger's Shack" as someplace Kyrus had heard of but had never been tempted to visit. It was the sort of place where pissing in the ale was more of a business practice than an insult to their offerings. Most patrons were too poor to afford even the cheapest unspoiled ales.

  "Around here? Someone is going to rob us," Brannis protested.

  "If they try it'll give us an excuse to rough them up a bit for information," Soria reasoned. "Besides, most of the thieves are done with their night's work and off to sleep the day away."

  "With the value of our gear and the gold you have stowed in there, it will be worth someone's while to take up the profession," Brannis replied.

  "Well, now that you've announced it to the waterfront at
large, certainly. Stay here with the cart then. I'll go in and have a word with the proprietor." Soria reached to her back and drew forth one of her daggers. When she reached the tavern, she slid the dagger through a gap where the door fit poorly. Using both hands she heaved upward and pushed the door in. Brannis imagined she must have lifted the bar from the outside. There was a cry of alarm from within but it was cut short when the door closed.

  Brannis sighed and shook his head. This is her element. I can let her handle herself. He turned his attention to his own situation and began scanning the area. It had been a still night for the most part, and the magic of Liead's armor was keeping him warm enough, but a gust chilled his uncovered ears and made him shiver. Although his first thought was to rummage through the cart to find his helm, prudence overrode his discomfort; the whole reason he was bundled up without the helm in the first place was to be a bit less conspicuous. Armor was rare enough. The demonic helm of his kit was both a masterwork and a terror, and it would make him impossible to overlook.

  A sudden crash of wood from within the tavern had Brannis turning toward the door before he stopped himself. Unless he heard pistol fire, he was intent on remaining out of her way. She was accustomed to this sort of thing, he knew. He brushed away the snow from his hair and pulled up the hood of his cloak, tucking it tight against his ears.

  The blow to his head stunned him. Brannis found himself on his hands and knees before it even registered that someone had caught him by surprise. He put an arm up to protect his head and felt a gentle tap against his armor. It might well have been an ogre assaulting him for all that it would have mattered to the armor's runes; it would have felt the same.

  Brannis curled up and got both arms protecting his head before attempting to rise. He felt something—a hand most likely—pressing into his back and blow after blow raining down against his gauntleted hands and plated arms. Whoever his assailant was, he weighed far less, not enough to keep Brannis down.