by J. S. Morin
Danilaesis had paid rapt attention whenever he had heard his Uncle Rashan talk about what it took to be a warlock. He did not show off. He minded his shielding spells, he charged into close range and drew from his opponents' Sources when he could. He'd had to improvise a bit, and use more blasting magics since his sword was still too slow to win at dueling, but he swung the course of battles.
None of the Megrenn fighters survived, and only a few minor injuries were reported among his own men. It was the third time they had found real live enemies to defeat. He was building quite a reputation for himself—once they got home and he could tell everyone.
"Um, Warlock Danilaesis, sir, two men have surrendered to us. They asked to see you," one of the soldiers informed him.
"Hmm, that's new. Do we take prisoners?" Danil asked.
"Not as a rule, warlock, no," said the ship's captain, a beleaguered man named Prough, who had been supplanted as ranking officer by a boy of seven summers.
"Well, then just kill them. I want to do things the right way."
"If you pardon, warlock, they claim to be Kadrins, and said they had the right to demand to see the warlock," the soldier said.
"Well, fine. They can see me, but we will still probably have to kill them, since we don't take prisoners," Danil declared. He stood with his dragon-bone blade resting on his shoulder, keeping every man standing within three paces of him ready to dive for safety.
The would-be prisoners arrived before him in Megrenn uniforms, which reflected poorly on them in Danil's mind.
"Well, here I am. What did you have to say to me?" Danil asked.
"Well," one began, then turned to look at the other, who shrugged in reply. "Well, you see, we work for the, um, other warlock ... the first one, Warlock Rashan."
"He has people working in the Megrenn army?" Danil asked.
"'Course he does! We're like, um, spies, ya see," said the Megrenn-uniformed Kadrin spy. "All the army 'sposed to know if some fella says he's workin' for Warlock Rashan, they got to bring him to Warlock Rashan, see. If they's lying, it'll go bad enough from the warlock, um, Warlock Rashan, not you, I mean."
"Is that true?" Danil asked, turning to the captain.
"'Fraid he's right on that one, warlock."
"Very well, head us home. We probably don't need to tie them up, I guess."
Chapter 25 - Child's Ploy
Faolen pressed his eyes closed as Warlock Rashan reached out for him. He felt the cool, smooth skin of the demon's fingers as they locked about the front of his skull. With conscious effort, he resisted the temptation to watch in the aether as the spell took hold. He had done so only once, and the creeping feeling of watching aether being poured into his own mind still gave him shudders when he thought of it.
"Just relax, you are making this harder than it needs to be," Rashan cautioned. Faolen realized that his jaw was clenched and that all the muscles of his neck were pulled tight as bowstrings. He filled his lungs and released a long breath, forcing himself to ease them loose once more. "Better. Now, go wake your twin."
Wendell's eyes opened in a dirty little rooming house in Takalia. It was dark save for the moonlight that squeezed past the shutters. After allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows, he could make out the sleeping forms of Jadon and Zellisan—though he could have found the latter by his snoring.
The boy was still thin, but not in the same sickly way he had been when Wendell and Zell first found him. One could still see and name any bone of his little body, but the skin no longer tried to suck in and around them. Jadon's hair had grown long as well; Wendell brushed a lock of it aside as he reached down to mimic the warlock's grasp upon his own skull.
* * * * * * * *
Anzik Fehr had never considered trying to be a hero. He had been several things in his short life, he knew: a suckling baby, a toddler who soiled himself, a boy with voices in his head that no one could stop, a thief of valuable staffs, a necromancer, a runaway, a bad son who betrayed his father. But now when everyone looked at him ... well, they looked at him. He was no longer a bystander. They asked him for help with things, and nothing stopped him from being able to give it.
There were not many of them left. The palace was badly damaged and the princess who lived there was dead, along with her father, the king. He had saved his mother and siblings—and their mothers. A few others he had been able to save as well, including the nice general lady who used to pat him on the head, and tell him to be a good boy for his father; he had learned her name was Kaynnyn.
There was much to be done. Peasants from the surrounding areas had been coming back, but not many of them. Anzik used his magic to help clear debris and patch walls. He had always used his magic, even, he realized, when he was not really thinking about it. Things were starting to be so much easier to think about.
When he felt a tingling in his mind, he knew that it was magic not of his own making. He felt it crawling out from the center of his brain, wriggling around his eyes and into his ears. He shut his eyes.
"Excuse me a moment," Anzik said, and took his leave from the crew of workers, highborn and peasant alike, who were restoring the hallways of the palace. He had only been there a few days, but already knew his way through every room he had been allowed in, and knew the counts of steps. No one challenged him leaving.
... thirteen, fourteen ... turn ... one, two, three ...
When he opened his eyes, he saw his own eyes staring right back at him. His nose touched the glass, and his breath fogged the mirror in little puffs. He stood in his mother's bedroom, which had been largely untouched in the attacks. He knew because he had counted the steps correctly; he made sure he could see nothing but his own eyes, never breaking his concentration to dart a glance at the room behind him.
"Wendell, go away. You and Faolen helped me, but I paid with the staff. That was the deal. Jadon still likes you, I think, but I can make him hurt you if you don't go away."
* * * * * * * *
A stumble and the creak of old floorboards woke Zellisan from his hibernation. He was finding his sleep less restful as his worries over pursuit gnawed at him; smaller and smaller sounds awoke him of late. He rolled over and grabbed for his sword, lying by the bedside.
"Aw, pus and spit, it's just you. Wendell, what are you kickin' about for at this hour?" Zellisan asked, keeping his voice low.
"I needed to piss. I just tripped, that's all. Go back to sleep," Wendell replied in a whisper. He crept back over to his bed, and worked his way under the blankets.
"Thought you needed a piss?" Zell asked.
"I was on my way back," Wendell replied.
Zell let the comment pass. He waited until he heard Wendell's snoring resume, then a little while longer, in case he was faking. There is only so long a man has patience to fake a snore, and Zell thought he had the measure of it. He shifted, peering over his pillow to the floor in front of the door. Zell's bed was right up next to the door—a first defense if they were attacked in the night—and he had left his helm in front of it. Had the door opened, there would have been a clamor.
Wendell didn't piss in the pot; there's no stink of fresh urine in the air. He didn't move the helm or I'd have heard him.
Zell reached over the end of the bed. He hooked the helm with a finger and lifted it, careful not to let it scrape along the floor and wake the two sleepers. Slipping it over his head, the helm shifted him into aether-vision. All the occupants of the rooming house appeared in his view. They had mundane, ordinary Sources, mostly asleep; even the seated figure slumped in the common room below likely slumbered. Only two stood out. Wendell's Source glowed a bit brighter than the rest, though Tanner might have been his equal in a draw, which was faint praise. Jadon's stood well apart, as if the same glow all the adults held within them was compressed into a smaller package.
Looking closer, he saw that there were marks on the boy's forehead, splotches of darker aether that lingered. Even with his limited experience with aether-vision through the h
elm, Zell knew that something was wrong, something had been done.
Zell slipped the helm from his head, and gently placed it back against the door.
Though he lost a night of sleep for it, Zell kept a vigil, and knew that Wendell tried no other magic while Jadon slept.
* * * * * * * *
Faolen jerked from his reverie, still finding Rashan's hand tight around his head. Though the spell had ended, the demon had not released him.
"He was aware of us, he caught—"
"You were sloppy," Rashan told him. "I saw the whole of it, remember? You marched into his mind like a monohorn at parade."
"My twin isn't the sorcerer I am. He has a much weaker Source, and he had just gotten out of bed. It was the middle of the ..." Faolen let his string of excuses end unfinished. He found the warlock's eyes fixed on his own, his expression unwavering.
"Much better," Rashan said after a moment's pause. He released Faolen from his grasp. Faolen reached up, dabbing at his temples and inspecting them for signs of blood, but they came away clean. His head throbbed. He blinked a few times to reorient himself.
"Since you seem unable to provide further use in this endeavor, what of your other assignment?" Rashan asked. He turned and paced away from Faolen.
"I have tried a number of nights. Sir Brannis's wards are impassable, and he rarely releases them. I know he plots against you, but I have yet to snare him in anything concrete. He seems paranoid, and of course, that would stand as evidence that—"
"Evidence?" Rashan shouted, interrupting him. "Evidence is the one thing you have been unable to provide. You tell me of feelings, of looks you see; I can see and feel and look all I like as well. I want tangible. I want culpable. I want his confession chiseled in stone before I act against him—if I am to act at all.
"You have yet to provide me anything beyond your guesses. I will not act against the strongest Source I have ever seen in this world or the other based on guesses. Even those of you who serve me fear me, secretly or otherwise. Even Caladris was a bootlick at heart, it turns out. Brannis is the closest thing I have left to a friend. And if he were to tell me you were working against me, at this point I would take his word over yours. I must be sure, do you understand me?"
"I have played Crackle with the man, warlock," Faolen replied. "This may mean nothing to you, but it is a special skill of mine to see behind a man's thoughts without using any magic; my twin had little enough else to rely on. I will keep my feet in his shoes as best I can until I can give you the evidence you require."
"I have heard your conjecture," said Rashan. "I do not need to be reminded of it. I have told you, I do not care what means you use, Unfettered, but do not bring me another bone until it has meat on it. If Brannis cannot be caught up directly in your net, find an accomplice. I would suggest Juliana Archon, but I believe Brannis has placed her permanently beyond our reach."
"Yes, warlock," Faolen replied, and turned to leave.
"One last thing," Rashan called after him. "If you can find hard evidence that he is in fact not working against me, I would be most relieved to receive that, as well."
* * * * * * * *
Tanner eyed the bottle, scrutinizing the label and turning it to watch the contents slosh about within.
"This is expensive swill to be drinking first thing in the morning," he commented. "Pretty sure it ain't legally binding, either."
Stalyart swung a chair around, and sat straddling it, resting his arms on the back. The tavern was sparse in the late morning, with a mix of devout drunkards and those who preferred tavern food to that of proper eateries. Tanner and Stalyart looked the part of men who deserved a table off in a corner to themselves, and thus they had one with no trouble.
"It is a tradition, and a good time for one, I think. We must have caught them this time. Their habit is to flee like a slow ship. They make a run from one hiding spot to the next, hoping that any pursuit will lose them. Tonight, we may meet our fates in this world, if they are still here," Stalyart said.
"Yeah, but I don't get how this makes us partners. We've drank together before."
"It is the pirate way, to celebrate success beforehand. Either you win and earn it, or you do not, and die. Why not drink now?" Stalyart asked.
"How is this going to work, anyway? You work for Zayne," Tanner said. Even as he questioned Stalyart, he worked the bottle open. He took a sniff, and blinked several times. Takalish whiskey was as strong a liquor as one could hope to purchase.
"We will make our plans in Veydrus, and sail together there. I will teach you the trade of a smuggler, and you will make me a better swordsman. Here, we go our separate ways after this, but keep our efforts working as one. We can make great coin, I think, with a more mercantile arrangement. I can think of great ways to create coin, for a man with pockets as deep as your own, Mr. Tanner," Stalyart said. A grin spread across his face. Tanner guessed it was supposed to be the contagious kind, but he failed to catch it.
"You're the brains, I hold the purse strings? That about it?" Tanner asked. He held the bottle up, addressing it more than Stalyart.
"You have made vast amounts of coin by your blade, and those of your friends, I understand," Stalyart said. "A year from now, five years from now ... eventually your blade will slow. Misfortune might claim you on even your best day. Also, I think that your band of coinblades has ridden together for the last time. When you met Mr. Hinterdale—or his twin—you lost your girl to him. Miss Soria has a hold of his heart, but Mr. Hinterdale has no brigand in him. Think of him what you will, but he thinks himself above it. She will throw in her cards before he will, I assure you."
Tanner kept his eyes on the bottle, as if the contents would show him what was in his heart. "Been years since it was just me, Zell, and Rakashi." Tanner swallowed, taking a moment to think. "Zell's showing his age more and more; his blade's already too slow for his own good. Rakashi ... I don't know if he'd stay around if it was just me. Neither of us really ran things much. I mean, I bet he could, but I wouldn't follow him, book-weevil that he is."
Stalyart stayed silent as Tanner worked his thoughts aloud, kneading them like dough until they were fit to bake. Tanner looked up from the bottle. "You're right. Let's do this. To a new partnership." He took a swig from the bottle, and handed it to Stalyart.
"To the successes. We will have earned this," Stalyart replied, and took a long drink of it himself.
Tanner took the bottle from Stalyart's hand, and plunked it down on the table. "Leave the bottle here. We have work to do."
* * * * * * * *
Two men in midnight blue cloaks walked the edges of the snow-dusted streets of the Takalish city of Riyani. They wore wide-brimmed hats, much favored by the locals for keeping the sun off in the warm months and snow out of the eyes in the cold ones. They also disguised faces, if you kept the brim angled low.
The cloaks hid swords and most of the bandolier of pistol shots that Tanner wore, though a metallic glint peered out from between the edges. The cloaks hid skin as well, and blended two foreigners among the local throng, many of whom were dressed much the same.
"Can't believe how short the coin was to get these fellas around here to talk," Tanner said quietly, his brim rubbing against Stalyart's. "A street sneak could starve trying to sell secrets around here."
"They feel safe, and well they should. Our kind don't survive long. Once we have the boy we must take him farther west. Back the way we came there will be men expecting us—men with shackles and chains."
"No argument there. Let's just do this," Tanner replied.
They came upon a gathered crowd clogging one of the city's major intersections. A voice somewhere within the throng was shouting above the murmur of the city noise, some sort of street performer. Stalyart moved to join the fringes of the crowd but Tanner took him by the arm and held him back.
"Don't get close. They might spot us. Come on," Tanner said. He led Stalyart down a side alley, looping around the performance. "That's got to
be Wendell. That means Zell's probably around too, I'd wager."
"They must be fools to carry on in such public fashion. Surely they must know they will be hunted," Stalyart said.
"Yeah, Wendell mostly, I guess. Varnus—Zell's twin—thinks the whiskers in his ears connect. He's set on performing, gutted if I get why," Tanner said.
They caught glimpses of the crowd as they passed each side road from the alley, continuing until they got to the far side of the gathering. There had to have been hundreds of people watching.
"They must be new in town, if a traveling magic act can round up these kinda numbers," Tanner said.
"I would very much like to see the show," Stalyart said. "Word must have spread ahead of them. I imagine he must be quite skilled." The two of them were in an alley, pressed near the wall of some building, skulking around waiting to stalk someone from a crowd.
We're figments out of a fairy story: two men in dark cloaks, looking to run off with a boy. Those stories never end up workin' out for the fellas in dark.
"Stow it. Remember, we might have to kill that beloved entertainer over there to get away with this. Don't go sending him locks of your hair or nothin’, " Tanner chided. "We just wait for the show to end, and then we follow them."
Stalyart heaved an exaggerated sigh. "If we must, we must. While we wait, you might answer a question which has burrowed itself under my skin. Why did you offer to bring both boys? Captain Zayne would have released you gladly after returning just Anzik."
"We talked a bit once ... I agreed he was actin' the thievin' preacher about the boy gettin' kidnapped. Not like it was worse than anything he'd done himself, or worse than stuff I'd done," Tanner said. He kept his voice low, and leaned close to Stalyart. "Well, see I got thinkin': maybe it is worse. Kyrus ain't a bad sort at heart, but he lets a lot of things slip his mind when it suits him. He didn't care a spit about the boy until I came up with a plan to trade him for the staff Jinzan's got. Kyrus knew it was a long coin bet, but he let me take it anyway. Probably figured I was a dead man ... another thing to let slip, I guess."