Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “What do you mean by that?” Kyrus asked.

  “Brannis, think about it. There has already been one attempt on your life,” Celia explained. “Now there is someone killing sorcerers right here in Kadris.”

  “What has Caladris heard?” Kyrus asked. She was his assistant now, so the idea that she might have special knowledge of the attacks was not unreasonable.

  “Dolvaen is the one investigating it. He has said nothing to Caladris that I am aware of.”

  Kyrus was about to ask whether she knew of factions within the Circle, and which the victims might have belonged to, but Rashan chose that moment to arrive back at his office.

  “Ahh, Brannis, good of you to wait for me. I hope you took care of a few of those annoying reports for me while I was delayed,” Rashan jested, his mood better than Kyrus was accustomed to seeing it. “Celia my dear, your presence is a bit more of a surprise. What brings you to my offices on a frenetic day such as this?”

  “It is the dreams again,” she replied, casting a quick, sidelong glance at Kyrus as if deciding how much she ought to say in front of him. “I slept all night but woke exhausted. My mind was occupied all night as if stuck watching a play that ran from dawn to sunset.”

  “What is it that you would have me do for you?” Rashan asked. “End the dreams? Tell you what they mean? Reassure you that you are not losing your mind?”

  “Well, maybe all three but in reverse order,” Celia answered.

  “Without knowing more of them, I would venture that there is little risk to your sanity. Folk have dreamed all manner of things, and if they say nothing of it upon awakening, it may as well never have happened. From kings to killers, warriors to lovers, all within the span of a night, all within the confines of the same head. You may do what you like within it. As to the meaning, you ought to search through them yourself for that. Dreams are an insight into your own life. If, as you mentioned to me once before, you are the same person in your dreams night after night, you ought to begin by learning more about this dream-self. As to ending them … there is only one way I know of to end dreams permanently: stop sleeping.”

  “Well, that is not much use to me, now is it?” Celia asked in a plaintive tone.

  “I have many demands upon my time, else I would be willing to discuss your dreams with you at length. However, those demands are lessened greatly in the deep hours of the night when sensible folk are sleeping. You can come back then, and seek both refuge from dreaming, and maybe a more detailed insight, if you can put more details to your description. Now if you would allow, Brannis and I have matters to discuss that I would prefer my great-nephew to hear about when I am ready to tell him myself.”

  “Sorry to have bothered you, Warlock.” Celia stood, gave a small curtsey to the warlock, and took her leave. She cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder at Kyrus just before closing the door behind her.

  Ignoring what formal protocol would have dictated, Rashan slumped down into the chair Celia had vacated, leaving Kyrus seated at his desk.

  “Interesting girl, is she not?” Rashan asked, lacing his fingers behind his head as he lounged, stretched out diagonally on the chair. “Did you ever ask her about that name you had? Abbiley?”

  “Yes. She accused you of having revealed it to me. I am still not entirely certain she is Abbiley, but my suspicions are growing.”

  “Well, keep that attitude of suspicion. Easy trust is a bad habit to fall into. It is easy for me to be flippant about it, given my current condition, and lack of a direct link to Tellurak these days. You, on the other hand, do well to doubt. The girl you described to me from Tellurak sounded like a sweet, innocent thing, but Celia is a clever girl. If the two are one in the same, and she fully realizes it, their personalities will drift together over time. That sweet, young, innocent girl might find a way to get hold of you by the manhood in one world and own you in both. Positioned well, blackmail between worlds can be brutally effective.”

  “It is the look that makes me doubt. She is so close, but there are a number of small things that are off. I cannot tell how much could be explained by magic,” Kyrus said, hands spread wide in a helpless gesture.

  “Most sorceresses get around to hammering out any blemish they find in their appearance, though some are more vain about it than others. A few carry around some flaws as marks of pride that their looks are natural. The sensible ones come to realize that menfolk are not as picky as they imagine them to be. Celia I would place among the first group.”

  “Can you tell by looking what has changed?” Kyrus asked.

  “Not if she is any good at it, no,” Rashan responded. “I have more important matters to attend to today. Your little personal mystery can occupy some other chunk of time, separate from my day.”

  “So which shall it be then, coronation or murderous intrigue?” Kyrus asked.

  “No one ever said we could not combine the two,” Rashan joked. “But actually I wished to speak to you of what will be taking place after the coronation.”

  “The reception?” Kyrus ventured a guess.

  “No, me leaving to go to war.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you taking my place overseeing affairs in Kadris.”

  Silence.

  And silence in reply. Rashan only smiled.

  “You are really going to leave me to run everything in your absence?” Kyrus asked.

  “I could not leave Brannis in charge, even though he had the brains for it. You, though, ‘Brannis,’ are a bit of a different tale. Brannis would have had to worry about plots directed against him, magical manipulation, or someone just straightforwardly turning him to ash. You are raw, largely untrained, but potentially dangerous enough to give anyone pause. You can bully them into obeying you, if transferred authority is not enough to win their cooperation.”

  “But what about the new emperor? What if he wants you to remain? You have been protecting him all this time.”

  “I have hammered it into his head since I got him selected that once he is emperor, he should order me into the field to clean up the mess this war is becoming. We can protect him from Megrenn well enough. Once he is emperor, I will cease worrying so much about threats from within. Killing a crowned emperor is a whole different matter from disposing of an appointed heir who did not enjoy wide support.”

  “Speaking of threats from within, what about those murders last night?” Kyrus asked.

  “A tantrum perhaps, by those who disliked my choice of emperor. None of the three who were killed were particularly important, but I counted them among my supporters. Had they managed to kill Caladris or Aloisha, maybe I would have taken them seriously, but I do not see a threat in this. Mistake me not, though, I will delve into the matter through other parties, and find out the culprit. Just because I do not feel a threat does not mean it ought to go unpunished.”

  “You think Dolvaen will discover the murderer or murderers?” Kyrus probed.

  “No. If anything, Dolvaen would be among my suspects, though I doubt he would have done the deeds himself. No, I have my little guild of rats pursuing the matter through more oblique channels. They will find out the comings and goings around the sites of the murders, and narrow the list of who might have been in all three places.”

  “What if they cannot find out?”

  “Then I will pick someone who has not been so cooperative with my regency, and make them the scapegoat,” Rashan said, shrugging. Kyrus’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? What is that look for? Why would I lie to you, if I expect you to carry on in my absence? You need to know these things.”

  “I suppose I am surprised to hear you admit it openly.”

  “The wards will make our conversation gibberish to anyone standing outside. It is just you and me here. You know me for what I am, and have had no qualms yet in working with me.”

  “There is a difference between brutal methods, and killing innocents to make a point,” Kyrus argued.

  “Who said anything about
killing innocents? Any scrupulous ruler keeps a few guilty men dangling by a thread of hope. It is a form of clemency that is never openly granted, but remains contingent upon not needing to connect a crime and a perpetrator.”

  “Is that what happened with my father … with Brannis’s father?” Kyrus demanded. My father is a kindly farmer with a bumpkin’s accent, alive and well a half-day’s ride from Scar Harbor. For a moment, though, I would have sworn Maruk Solaran was my sire.

  “No, quite the contrary. The rest of the Inner Circle are all on a form of parole, as far as I am concerned, Iridan and Aloisha aside. No, Maruk Solaran—as well as Stalia Gardarus and Gravis Archon—were very much guilty of their crimes. Quite a number outside the Inner Circle are paroled as well. Your traveling companion Faolen, for one, has earned his clemency in earnest, as has Caladris, without whom I do not think I would have kept a civil war from starting.”

  “What if that is what was started last night?”

  “Well, since you will be in charge here come dawn, I would suggest averting it if possible, and winning it if not.”

  “You are not worried?” Kyrus asked.

  “You are young. I have seen a lot in my time, so I trust that it will all work out in the end. I usually have a hand in ensuring that it does so. Once I crush Megrenn and their allies, I will return and deal with any trouble remaining,” Rashan said.

  “Is that the reason for the jovial mood?” Kyrus asked, suddenly piecing it together.

  “Am I in a good mood? Hmm, I suppose I am.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Civil war. The thought haunted Kyrus as he rode down to the waterfront. He had not planned on making his inspection until the morning after the coronation, but ideas were sloshing around in his brain, attempting to coalesce into a plan. It bothered him that Rashan expressed so little concern for the prospect, shrugging responsibility onto Kyrus, and merrily heading off to war.

  By the sound of it, Rashan and Dolvaen were going to be conducting parallel investigations into the murders. By Kyrus’s reckoning, given Rashan’s admission that the victims were supporters of his, the warlock would be seeking the identity of the murderer while Dolvaen acted to obscure it or cast suspicion on another. But if Rashan suspected Dolvaen of involvement, why would he not just confront him? He has never seemed shy about such things before.

  Kyrus’s own conversation with Dolvaen Lurien had left little room for misinterpretation. He knew that the house-less sorcerer was aiming to return Kadrin to the rule of the Inner Circle, and not an upstart emperor. He knew he could bring that information to Rashan, and have the demon deal with the matter as he saw fit. The problem was that Kyrus was not certain whom he wished to prevail in the struggle. Dolvaen was powerful in his own right, and entrenched in Kadrin politics. He had to be aware of the possibility of a confrontation should anyone betray him; Kyrus could not imagine that Dolvaen did not have a contingency in place. Whether it would be enough, he had no way to tell but he suspected not.

  Kyrus’s new sword belt chafed as it bounced against his hip. There was nothing noteworthy about the blade, but he felt he ought to get into the habit of carrying one. Of late, he felt much more at home among the sorcerers of the Circle. It would be best for him to maintain at least the illusion that he was still Sir Brannis, Knight of the Empire. Whichever side the sorcerers of the Imperial Circle fell on, he wanted the knighthood and the army to fall on his own … whichever side he decided on.

  The eastern end of the Kadrin waterfront was home to the shipwrights that built the vessels of the much-maligned Kadrin navy. With five berths, five vessels under construction, and nearly a thousand workers, it rivaled the palace in its orchestrated chaos. Greetings were called out to him from various quarters as he was recognized. It felt good to hear a friendly welcome without wondering about sub-context and ulterior motives. His workforce took pride in the airships, and admired him for designing them. When history looked back on the era, they would be the birthplace of the first aerial navy. That historical perspective might have been lost on the more grounded among the workers, but the palpable buzz of that energy pervaded the worksite.

  “Sir Brannis,” called out a familiar voice.

  Kyrus turned to see Goloway, Brannis’s personal armorer, striding down the gangplank of the newest of Kyrus’s designs—the first actually, since Brannis’s hand had described all the others. The Daggerstrike was the first of a new sort of airship; it was entirely unseaworthy. Built around a flat-bottomed ship’s skeleton, the hull was plated in steel, slotted with arrow-slits, and devoid of sails and rigging of any sort. The latter was no oversight, but rather a change in locomotion.

  The Daggerstrike was the first vessel that would be powered entirely by aether.

  Kyrus climbed down from his horse in time to clasp wrists with Goloway when he arrived. Though taller than the armorsmith, Kyrus was nowhere near Goloway’s girth, little of it anything but muscle; the man’s grip was like the steel he worked.

  “Is everything ready?” Kyrus asked.

  “Just polishing door handles and the like now, makin’ it pretty for inspection,” Goloway replied, beaming with pride.

  “Know anything about how the runework has been going?” Kyrus ventured. There was no reason to expect Goloway to know anything about how the runes worked, but it was not unreasonable to suppose he might have heard how the work was going.

  “All finished, near as I can tell. The Circle boys workin’ at it took off ’fore dusk last night, and haven’t been back. I can go find one of the superintendants if you’d like, Sir Brannis.”

  “No, that will be quite all right, Goloway. I would just like a look around,” Kyrus informed him.

  Armorsmith in tow, he climbed aboard and admired the craftsmanship. There was little wood used in the construction beyond the timbers that gave the vessel its shape. The shipwrights could not work in metal, and the metalworkers had no feel for shaping a hull. Future versions would be entirely of metal, once the metalsmiths could learn the ship-building trade well enough to get the shape right. Kyrus ran his fingers along the contours of the runes that covered most surfaces of the ship. It was the largest, most intricate pattern—no, system of interconnected patterns, he corrected himself—of any of the airships to date.

  “I’ve heard ’em grumbling, sir. Some of them sorcerers don’t think this one will get off the ground. Too heavy. Too many runes for anyone to activate. Not using the wind for power. So … what do you say to that?”

  “If you can keep a secret for a few hours,” Kyrus said, pausing to wait for Goloway to nod in acknowledgement before continuing, “you can see for yourself.”

  “I thought it was going to be activated tomorrow.”

  “Was.”

  Kyrus grinned. Goloway found it contagious.

  * * * * * * * *

  Juliana arrived back at her room with pockets heavier with gold than when she had left that morning. Festival days were always lucrative occasions for a port inspector, if they had the right frame of mind. There were always shipments arriving with critically demanded goods, and men willing to pay extra for theirs to make it through the process more quickly. I would not want to trade places with Aloisha. More work and less coin at the end of it, plus a lot of folk poking around at your business. Juliana was content working occasionally, and keeping her own endeavors quieter.

  The ward on her door took an effort to disengage, which raised her hackles. Someone has been in here. Juliana was inexpert in her ward-crafting; it had been Iridan who had carved the runes for their bedchamber. With any luck, it was just Iridan who had been there in her absence, but the ward felt different. It was the same pattern of runes; it had not been recarved or anything so extreme as that. It was merely infused with more aether than she was accustomed to putting into it when it needed refreshing.

  She entered the room with a hand under the back of her tunic, on the hilt of Adventure. A quick scan in the aether revealed nothing, but she was all too aware that assa
ssins of late had managed to avoid such scrutiny. The space was as disheveled as she remembered leaving it, bedclothes rumpled, jewelry scattered on the bedside table, piles of soiled clothing on the rug. Her black silk formal Circle uniform had been laid out on the bed, folded clumsily. She relaxed a bit. Someone let the servants in to set out my attire for the evening? Stranger things had befallen of late, but she could not rule out the possibility that something was seriously amiss.

  Having left herself little enough time as it was, she decided that she was safe enough to strip out of her working gear and bathe. She had spent the day consorting with the sort of folks who did so infrequently themselves, and hanging about in locales that smelled of fish and ale. She had long since become inured to the odors, but knew that they would stand her in poor company at the ceremony. She was not so important to the proceedings that her presence would be missed if she was a bit late, but coming in reeking of dockside swill would draw attention she preferred to avoid.

  After an all-too-brief cleansing, she donned enough lavender perfume to cover any lingering odors. She did not use the little bottle of honeysuckle that she knew Brannis remembered, and loved from when they were both younger: that was only for special occasions, not mere coronations. When she picked up her evening attire, she heard a crinkling sound. Turning the garment about, she located the source of the noise, a note stuffed into one of the sleeves.

  Skip the reception afterward.

  Head to the drydocks. Ask for Daggerstrike.

  I will keep an old promise.

  The note was written in beautiful Acardian script, casually scrawled artwork that served as adequate identification for the unsigned note. Juliana pondered for a moment, but knew that she did not have the time right then to puzzle through it. She did, however, reconsider her decision to leave her daggers behind for the coronation. Half the sorcerers in the Empire would be there, ensuring that only suicidal violence would be possible. With the change in plans for immediately afterward, she decided that she would be better off finding a place for them under her formal attire. A quick check in the mirror revealed slight bulges where the harness held Adventure and Freedom against the small of her back. Brannis’s daggers were far superior to the ones she had brought with her to Raynesdark, but they were also a bit bulkier.