Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  Tod waited for a time, watching Jodoul for signs that he might volunteer his insights. Jodoul’s gaze hung obstinately on the small military procession, ignoring his compatriot’s quizzical look.

  “What is it?” Tod asked when he could stand waiting no longer.

  “You ain’t gonna like it,” Jodoul told him, still staring off into the distance.

  “Anything’s gotta be better than moping around waiting for some Megrenn to sniff us out and hang us,” Tod countered. “Spit, even walking back home would be better, taking our chances that the army don’t see us.”

  At that, Jodoul turned and glanced sidelong at Tod with a half smile.

  “What? What’s that look for?” Tod asked.

  “We’re enlisting.”

  * * * * * * * *

  The shushing hiss of steam drowned out any hope of conversation for the brief moment it lasted. Chains clattered through pulleys in rhythmic jerks as workers hauled something out of the chest-deep bath. The thing that emerged took on a sinister look in the reddish lighting of the foundry as water ran off it in a mass of small waterfalls, revealing a yellowish-brown metallic surface. Zorren was the first city in Megrenn to have a proper goblin foundry.

  The bronze cannon barrel that they proceeded to set down on a pair of wooden cradles bore some resemblance to the works of art the goblins had brought to Raynesdark, but only so much as a child’s drawing approximates the human form. It was ragged and irregular, with a pitted surface.

  “Leave that one to cool. Now next one,” K’k’rt directed, his voice stronger than it had been in many winters from having spoken so much Megrenn of late. He still used a megaphone to make himself heard over the din of the workers, but they snapped to obey when they heard him.

  The goblin tinker trusted the workers to perform such a simple task without his aid, and walked about the rest of the workshop to see how things progressed. An ox-driven rig of leather belts and wheels was spinning one of the cannon barrels axially while a pair of human workers ground and polished the surface. A similar contraption was set up for reaming the bore, with a human working at the inner surface with a file, and one of K’k’rt’s few goblin workers taking measurements, and directing the work. Woodworkers put together carriages, made ramrods, and helped repair and replace the numerous wooden fixtures that were used and battered throughout the workshop. A smaller table in one corner was surrounded by goblin artisans who were casting the small components of the pull-chain sparkers using a crucible the size of a teacup.

  “How are today’s deliveries?” asked Lieutenant Daimin Kladds, K’k’rt’s nemesis, the Megrenn Alliance Army’s junior assistant logistics officer. The title “junior” denoted rank rather than age, for Lieutenant Kladds was bald and greying in the moustache. The human was always disrespectful of K’k’rt on his frequent visits, standing close and towering over him. His own workers had been trained to either speak to him from three of their paces away or to go to a knee to talk to him.

  “There will be twelve today,” K’k’rt promised. He had begun with eight per day as his quota, but as the workers improved, he got more and more out of them. He hoped to be up to fifteen per day within the tenday.

  The junior assistant logistics officer harrumphed, but had no grounds for complaint. K’k’rt met his deadlines without fail, and the quality was approaching what his own people had managed with the early prototypes.

  “We have a lot of debts to pay off,” Kladds remarked, telling K’k’rt nothing he did not already know. “See that they keep coming.”

  Debts … Yes, I have a debt to repay as well, K’k’rt thought.

  K’k’rt nodded slowly in reply, not looking at Daimin Kladds at all.

  * * * * * * * *

  It was a cloudless night in Scar Harbor, the stars shining clear as the new moon gave them reign over the heavens for the evening. The lamp-lit streets muted the majesty of the night sky, but the side roads and byways bore no such hindrances. The carriage had been eschewed as well, in favor of a stroll through the brisk Seawatch air. It was a fleeting time of year, for by Greywatch, the nights would be too cold to enjoy at leisure.

  “Do you think he will approve of me?” Abbiley asked, a note of doubt in her voice.

  Tomas Harwick turned to face the girl whose arm was entwined with his, and smiled, finding her earnest self-consciousness endearing. He patted her arm with his free hand.

  “I have had many an argument with my father over the years. I think he finds them to be an exercise of the mind more than a true quarrel. Lord Harwick has a keen mind, and widely acclaimed judgment and wisdom. He would put lie to all that, should he find anything to disapprove of about you,” Tomas reassured her. She smiled back at him. “But if he does … well, we shall have our quarrel at a later date about that, in private.”

  They continued their walk in companionable silence. Abbiley kept her gaze largely skyward, allowing Tomas to guide them along the roundabout route to his estate. Tomas had initially had doubts about the wisdom of allowing himself to become enamored of a tradesman’s orphan. It was a trap for the heart, surely, for when the families became involved, and practical matters came into play, things were bound for ruin. He had been pleasantly astonished upon discovering that his father had no objection.

  Tomas’s home was modest by the standards of Acardian nobility. Tomas lived alone, except for his servants and the occasional guest. The two-story manor house of granite walls and slate-tile roof suited his needs. The gate was open when they arrived; the carriage they had ridden to dinner had preceded them back to the estate by nearly an hour.

  Lord Harwick was awaiting them in the back drawing room when they arrived. His lordship had been passing the time in contemplation, smoking a pipe, and drinking some of Tomas’s best brandy as he looked out into the darkness of the gardens. There was no mistaking that the two men were related. Though stouter of build, and with greying hair too short to tell if it would fall into curls like his son’s did, the facial features were strikingly similar.

  “Tomas,” the elder Harwick bellowed upon noting their arrival. He extracted himself ponderously from the high-backed chair in which he sat. “Your letters do not do your lady justice, it seems. I am Lord Dunston Harwick.”

  “I am honored to meet you, your lordship. My name is Abbiley Tillman,” Abbiley replied, curtseying with unpracticed grace. Tomas had schooled her on what to expect, but she had never dealt with nobility before meeting him.

  “Indeed, you could be none other.” Lord Harwick took her hand and kissed it. “Might I offer you a drink?”

  Abbiley looked askance of Tomas, who gave a tiny nod of encouragement, smiling the whole time.

  “Of course, your lordship,” she said.

  “Tomas, if you would be so good as to pour,” Lord Harwick said, looking to his son. The younger Harwick went to the liquor cabinet, and retrieved an excellent vintage, pouring glasses for all three of them.

  They chatted for a long while, plodding through the necessary banalities of making formal acquaintance. Tomas heard nothing from either of them that he had not already known, and his mind wandered. He knew his father’s presence was only partly social. Abbiley’s involvement in the witch scandal had been far more prominent in his father’s letters than any concerns about her station or character. Thus it was no surprise when—

  “Tomas, if you would be so good as to allow us a time in private. I am afraid that my duties to the king must intrude upon our social gathering. That whole nonsense about a witch, and the events that followed it were botched so badly that the records have been expunged, and I have taken it upon myself to set the official accounting in order,” Lord Harwick said.

  “Father, is this really the best time to have at this bone of yours? Gnaw on it come mid-morrow, if you must,” Tomas replied.

  “It’s all right, Tomas. I have answered questions about those events enough times now to no longer take offense. I have nothing to hide,” Abbiley said, putting a hand on Toma
s’s knee.

  “Indeed, there is no aspersion at all directed toward Miss Tillman. Her involvement, however, is a matter of some speculation after the obvious incompetence of the previous magistrate was brought to light. It is an unfortunate matter, and I believe one that will get no more pleasant with aging.”

  Tomas knew that his objection had been noted and overruled. He could do no more. Despite being in his own home, he was very much subject to his father’s jurisdiction. Tomas graciously bowed and took his leave, adjourning to his study.

  Attempting to lose himself in literature proved not so effective a pastime. Tomas found himself checking his pocket watch, an heirloom from his grandfather. While of excellent repute in its day, the old Sterle & Forthwright piece lost minutes an hour. His inquiries to the Errol workshop to refit it with workings of their own make had been met with polite refusal—the master insisted his logo be prominent on any piece of his. Thus Tomas kept uncertain track of how long his belle had been under questioning.

  While tempted to eavesdrop, it was below his station as a gentleman. Nearing distraction at having re-read the same two pages of The Honor of Arghus a dozen times without absorbing a word, he was finally granted a reprieve from his isolation.

  When he escorted Abbiley to the carriage that would deliver her safely home, she seemed nearly asleep on her feet. Her eyes were glassy and focused poorly. She leaned against Tomas for support as he walked her out to the front gate, muttering sweet words of appreciation for the aid.

  After the carriage departed his view, Tomas turned and stormed as politely as possible back into the house to find his father.

  “What manner of treatment is that for a young lady?” Tomas demanded, finding Lord Harwick back in the same chair as when he and Abbiley had first arrived. “You would not have treated a highborn girl in such a way.”

  “Tomas, sit,” Lord Dunston Harwick instructed, his voice flat, calm, even. “I am a progressive man, champion of the lower classes, overseer of His Majesty’s reform movement. It is not often I am accused of bias against the lowborn, and tonight will be no exception.”

  “Well, you certainly—”

  “I was not finished,” Lord Harwick snapped, forestalling Tomas’s fountain of spewed indignities before it even had a chance to begin. “While the girl seems pleasant enough, comely, and with a working mind between her ears, there will still be troubles if you pursue her seriously. I am of a mind to help considerably with cobbling over those difficulties, should you indulge me in a not-inconsiderable favor.”

  “What sort of favor?” Tomas asked in a huff, trying not to give ground against his father.

  “There are things you do not understand. There are matters of witchcraft that ought not come to light, which, due to several recent and a few upcoming events, will require discretion. You are in line to learn of these matters, and your discretion is crucial.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Father?”

  “Tell you? I will do more than just tell you.”

  * * * * * * * *

  The sounds of slippered feet on carpet and the wheezing breath of ancient lungs were periodically interrupted by a hollow clatter of steel. Though nearly blind, Axterion could hear well enough, and the echoes were leading him back to their point of origin. When he found his youngest grandson, Danilaesis was in Brannis’s room, sparring with the Kadrin Imperial Grand Marshal’s old, disused suit of plate. The steel armor hung in midair, wobbling from the latest blow of Danil’s broom-handle sword.

  “Cease that cacophony at once!” Axterion ordered, bringing the two masses of wrinkles that passed for hands up to cover his ears as Danil slammed the wooden dowel hard into the chest of his imaginary opponent.

  Danil turned, looking at Axterion with wide-eyed innocence, as if nothing at all was amiss.

  “Hello, Grandpa,” Danil said, lowering his sword. “I have to practice if I am going to be a warlock someday.”

  “Is that so?” Axterion replied, his tone suggesting that the question was rhetorical. “Well, I seem to recall that warlocks need to know their arithmetic, and certainly their penmanship. It took me and three of the servants to get your tutor out of the storage closet.”

  “I am going to the Academy this autumn. I can learn all that stuff there, from sorcerers who are smarter than Challeigh,” Danil said. “They won’t teach me to sword-fight there, though, so I have to learn that on my own.”

  “Challeigh is a fine young man and smart as they come. We spare no expense in educating you, I trust you know.”

  “Not smart enough to get himself out of a closet,” Danil muttered.

  “Just because you can lock the door with a ward, and he cannot break it does not mean you are smarter than him,” Axterion said. “He is a scholar, not a sorcerer. Now set all that rubbish aside, and we can get you back to your lessons.”

  Danil stared at his grandfather but did not move to obey. What might have begun as a look of defiance slid slowly into a sly grin.

  “Make me.”

  “Hmm, what was that?” Axterion asked. “I may have misheard you just now.”

  “Challeigh isn’t a sorcerer, Grandpa, but you are. Beat me in a draw, and I’ll go back to my lessons.”

  “It appears that I did indeed mishear you,” Axterion began, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Because I thought I just heard you challenge the former High Sorcerer of the Imperial Circle to a draw. That cannot be true, of course, seeing as how you are a young, unblooded pup who has yet to even practice in draws against his peers, while I was once the strongest sorcerer in the Empire. It also cannot be true, because I am a feeble old man, using what I have left of my Source to hold onto the last few hours of life I have left in this creaky, old corpse I walk around in; it would not be sporting. One might question the valor of a warlock went around challenging greybeards in their twilight. But of course, I am certain I misheard you. Correct?”

  Danilaesis nodded vigorously but said nothing.

  Axterion took the boy by the hand. With a quick, masterful tug—about all the magic he could manage—he unraveled Danil’s clumsy levitation construct. Brannis’s armor clattered to the floor with a sound like a kitchen accident.

  “Besides,” Axterion said, “there is no one about to judge a draw at the moment. And let me assure you, I am just about enough of a competitive, stubborn, spiteful old bastard to accept. I would teach you a hard lesson about humility, and it would cost you a grandfather. Now … let us get you back to your lessons, if Challeigh is in any fit state to teach for the remainder of the day.”

  “Can I practice more after lessons, at least?” Danil asked, sounding hopeful.

  “I suppose. I do not know why you are so set on becoming a warlock, though. Your uncle Rashan is rather an exception. Few of them lived long enough to become old and feeble like me. Take my advice: aim to become High Sorcerer one day, not Warlock. You get to work indoors, and the only people trying to kill you are friends and colleagues.”

  Danil nodded respectfully but made no comment.

  * * * * * * * *

  “The work is much the same, I suppose, but in all other respects, I can scarcely imagine a greater adventure,” Davin Chartler replied between sips of wine.

  “As it should be. As it should be,” agreed his dinner companion, Oriedel Conniton. The elderly former scribe to King Gorden was naught but skin and bones. His body’s only task left seemed to be the carrying about of fourscore years’ wisdom locked up in a hairless, age-blotched head. “I must say I have missed it terribly. Once he warms to you a bit, you will find no better companion than His Majesty, you know.”

  “Indeed, I could only imagine,” Davin replied. Expert Conniton had known the king since they were both much younger men. If such a bond were even possible between Davin and His Majesty, it would be years in the formation.

  The elderly scribe chuckled. It sounded like a wheeze. The older man looked all about the small dining room in the servants’ wing of the palace,
taking in everything, and clearly lost in reminiscence.

  “This was my home a long time, but I believe you cannot truly appreciate something until you lose it or discover you are about to,” Expert Conniton observed. Sensing that Conniton was about to embark on a soliloquy, Davin did not step in to fill the gap in the conversation as Conniton paused. “I had the ear of a king, and I think I had no small part in His Majesty’s reforms. King Gorden is a man of reason, and you can appeal to a man of reason with logic and sense. I see a fair bit of that in you, Davin, mind you, so do not withhold it from His Majesty. I had my little plans and intrigues on the side, of course, just like everyone at court, though my aims were at once both more humble and more noble. Disenfranchise the nobility, focus on the greater good above personal gain, let the smart folk run things. That was my advice.”

  “Sound advice, indeed,” Davin murmured, drawing an approving nod from Expert Conniton.

  “Yes, but I have one regret. One last task that I feel I need to pass along to you.”

  “What is that?” Davin asked.

  “Your former apprentice …”

  “Kyrus?”

  “Yes, Kyrus Hinterdale,” Expert Conniton said.

  “What a mess that was.” Davin shook his head. “I do not even know what to make of it all. Kyrus, accused of witchcraft, murdering guards and escaping a jail cell in Scar Harbor. They even think he was consorting with Denrik Zayne. It seems farfetched but everyone believed it at the time.”

  “Well, I had hoped to meet your Kyrus before that chaos swept him off to who knows where. If he were to return to Acardia, though, I suspect he would seek you out,” Expert Conniton said, looking hard at Davin as he did so.

  “I would hope the boy would have more sense than that, but I admit the possibility,” Davin said, trying not to sound too hopeful. He missed Kyrus terribly, especially knowing that he had fled Acardia as a fugitive, and that his return was implausible.