Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  The emperor went to his knees, using his weight as leverage to try to pry free from the warlock’s grip.

  “Oh, just let him go. This is no way to treat an emperor,” Kyrus chided Rashan.

  The warlock shrugged, and released Sommick, who fell forward onto his hands, gasping for breath after his exertions. Kyrus noticed that Celia was present, sitting at a desk in the corner of the room with quill and ink at the ready.

  “Let me know if you change your mind about that,” Rashan said. “He was getting rather tiresome, and I consider myself the model of patience.”

  “Sir Brannis,” Emperor Sommick managed between sucking in lungfuls of air. “Arrest Warlock Rashan, and … throw him in the dungeons. I understand that … we have cells for sorcerers.”

  Kyrus looked over one shoulder, then the other. “I seem to have come alone. Had I known I was to be arresting warlocks, I ought to have brought a few from the Inner Circle along with me. Besides, those cells do not hold much of anything, in my experience. Warlock Rashan can break out of them any time he wishes,” Kyrus replied. He had initially had every intention of politeness, but could not help his reply sounding sarcastic even to his own ears.

  “Is this how it is to be?” Sommick asked. “Defied by my advisors and subjects at every turn?”

  “It is not defiance, as such. I was merely pointing out that your orders were not going to have the effect you intended,” Kyrus explained. “You no doubt envisioned me marching off to the dungeons with Rashan by the scruff of his neck, throwing him in a cell, then releasing him days later, much chastened and properly subservient. What was more likely to have happened would have been a magical struggle that would have left most of us dead, and Rashan once more in charge of an empire with no emperor.”

  “Emperor Sommick, you need to understand that we are neither wooden play-soldiers nor your personal handmaidens,” Rashan explained, speaking as if to a small child. He helped the emperor to his feet, and brushed his royal robes off where they had touched the floor. “And you also need to understand that you are the offshoot of a wet little mistake a good friend of mine made a hundred and fourteen winters ago, when he was far from home and the company of his empress.”

  “None of that matters now. I am emperor. My word is law!”

  “Celia, my dear, did you happen to write any of that down?” Rashan asked across the room, keeping his eyes fixed on the emperor as he did so.

  “No, Warlock,” came Celia’s reply.

  Rashan smiled. “You see? None of what was said or done actually happened. An emperor needs supporters, loyalists, obedient subjects. Without those, you are just a young man in expensive clothing, who happens to have some very noteworthy blood in his veins. Please understand that we are your supporters, your loyalists. If we are not the obedient servants you crave, then see for yourself how many of those you have if our support—my support—were withdrawn.”

  “Um, Warlock Rashan … does this mean you have not gotten to the point of discussing the arrangements for your … absence?” Kyrus asked.

  “No, but I suppose we ought to. My sword hand itches to hold a blade, and I am not sure I trust myself with one in hand while our new emperor persists in vexing me. The sooner I am off to war, the better.”

  “What arrangements are you referring to?” Emperor Sommick demanded, having recovered enough of his dignity and ill-won egotism to resume demanding things.

  “Sir Brannis will be running the Empire in my absence,” Rashan began, holding up a hand to forestall the emperor’s nascent interjection. “I know, I know, you had thought yourself clever in ordering me away. I let you grow that idea from seeds I planted in your head. You are not qualified to oversee the Empire’s flower gardens, however.”

  “But it is my empire now. I rule it, not you, and certainly not Sir Brannis!”

  “And you will continue to rule it. You will just not run it. You will sit a horse in parades, wave from balconies, throw feasts. But do not attempt to meddle in the affairs of the Circle or the army, and do not get involved in the wranglings among the nobles. Bring in jesters and musicians to amuse yourself, if you like. Get roaring drunk every day, and no man can gainsay you. Take the company of any—”

  “But I would lose the respect of the people!” Emperor Sommick protested.

  “No worse than you would by trying to control something you do not understand. Emperor Dharus did not even exist, and he was looked upon well enough by the commoners.”

  Kyrus was distracted from the exchange by a sound he was more sensitive to than most: the scratching of a quill. He looked over from the corner of his eye, and saw that Celia was writing something. He judged from the pacing, and lack of stops when the conversation broke, that she was not taking down the current, highly subversive, discussion between emperor and warlock.

  “Think about whom you might wish for an empress, as well. You may as well aim high; no unwed girl in the Empire could refuse you,” Rashan told Sommick.

  Kyrus noticed that the warlock glanced sidelong at him as he said it, though. Brannis had heard a similar speech from Rashan, and had still not heeded the advice.

  The scratching noises from the corner stopped, replaced by the sound of chair legs scraping on stone. Kyrus looked over to see Celia rising from her task. She sprinkled a bit of sand over the wet ink as an afterthought.

  “I have finished, Warlock,” Celia called over to Rashan.

  “Ahh, excellent. Let us proceed with the formalities then. Emperor Sommick, if you would come this way.”

  Rashan put a hand to Sommick’s back, and guided him over to the desk that Celia had just vacated. The emperor looked confused, but there was likely so much buzzing about in his head that he could mount no objection.

  Kyrus followed just behind them, close enough that he could read over the emperor’s shoulder—seeing over the diminutive warlock was no trouble at all.

  I, Sommick the First, Emperor of the Kadrin Empire, do declare as follows:

  I appoint, in all matters, Sir Brannis Solaran, as overseer of the Kadrin Empire and such decisions as require imperial consent …

  Kyrus skimmed the rest of the single-page document, and found that it would be his official appointment. Celia’s penmanship was labored. He could see it in the lack of fluidity in the looping letters, where she had moved her wrist in the formation of the curve rather than managing it strictly in the fingers. He realized a vague annoyance at not being able to write the document on his own behalf. With how long she had worked at it, he was amazed at how short it was in the end.

  He watched the emperor take his seat, and peruse the document. Rashan stood over him like a disapproving tutor, waiting for some mistake to give him reason to berate his pupil. Emperor Sommick looked up at Rashan, saying nothing, but conveying a protest by eyes alone. He took up the quill, and signed his name to the document, his signature an atrocity of ink.

  “If anyone requires me, I will be holding court in the throne room with a barrel of wine,” Sommick informed the three who had just wrested his imperial authority from him. He pushed back away from the desk, and rose, shouldering his way between Kyrus and Rashan when they were not quick enough to clear a path for him. No one said a further word until the door had closed behind him.

  “My, but did that not go well?” Rashan commented. To Celia, he said, “Take this over to the Sanctum. Oh … Sir Brannis still needs to sign it.”

  Kyrus leaned over the desk, and took up the quill in his own hand. He was growing accustomed to the Kadrin goosefeather quills, though they still felt too light to him. After a quick dip in the ink, he touched the tip to the parchment.

  Kyrus Hinterdale. His hand froze. A dollop of ink pooled where a “K” was poised to begin.

  No. Kyrus breathed, the sound filling the silence of the room around him.

  Sir Brannis Solaran, he wrote instead, as if he were signing a client’s name in script more elegant than they could manage for themselves.

  The ink wa
s given a moment to dry before Rashan sealed it with wax, and an impression from the emperor’s signet, which he then left on the table.

  “I shall get this to the Inner Circle straightaway,” Celia said, taking her leave.

  Rashan watched her go; Kyrus followed suit, wondering if her walk was similar to Abbiley’s or if he was just imagining it.

  “It is about time I take my leave as well. I had initially thought to have you activate the Daggerstrike for my use, but I find that I am half a day too late for that,” Rashan said once his attention was turned back to Kyrus.

  “Well, I—”

  “Well played, Brannis,” Rashan interrupted him, smiling. “This is the other reason I feel I can leave the Empire in your hands. You can keep up with the game, ahead of it even, when you have a mind to. I have gathered that Juliana Solaran is aboard …”

  “Yes, I thought it was about time we used the ships for other than transportation duty. Munne showed the hazard of bringing them into battle against large forces, but I think that harrying tactics are ideally suited to them. The Daggerstrike will outrun anything we have made thus far.”

  “And you picked Juliana as captain, despite her lack of any naval experience, because…?”

  “I like having more than one reason for something. The other reason is that in Tellurak she leads as good a group of coinblades as I have seen. She knows ambush tactics better than any of the garrison commanders we have running the army,” Kyrus explained, thinking the jab at the passive army commanders would fit well with Rashan’s view of them.

  “So the gallant reason is to get her out of harm’s way, and the practical reason is that she is suited to this assignment you have created just for her. Ahh, but there are at least two more that I can think of.” Rashan grinned. It was the same grin he used when he taunted Gravis Archon upon his return to Kadrin. Kyrus waited to hear how much of his plan was already laid bare in the demon’s mind. “You are also worried for her reputation. As murders pile up in the city, a select few wonder whether she might be involved. Rightly or wrongly—and I think she had no part in these—she has bits of her past and quirks of personality that make it seem plausible. The last reason is the clever one though: you cannot investigate Celia’s link to Tellurak with her around. If Celia is your girl Abbiley, you can take no action on that knowledge with Juliana about. I truly hope for your sake that she is, for it will disentangle you nicely from Iridan and Juliana, and keep peace between you all—perhaps not between Celia and Juliana, though we can work on that over time.”

  “…”

  Rashan smiled. “I have been at this a lot longer than you, Brannis. You are off to an excellent start, mind you, but you have ages to catch up on. I ran a network of spies from Acardia to Khesh, Kadrin to Safschan, and back again. Unravel the conspiracy against the throne in my absence, and see how it feels. You have it in you.”

  “Do you know who heads the conspiracy?” Kyrus asked.

  “Not yet. Work that out, and the rest ought to fall in behind. Trust in Caladris for advice while I am gone. You can trust him and Aloisha among the Inner Circle, and Iridan when he returns. The rest are all suspect, either sitting on their hands or actively dirtying them against me.”

  “Will you go to Munne to find Iridan?”

  “Reports are that Munne is stalled. Megrenn has been unable to remove forces from the garrison to continue an advance. That would indicate that Iridan is proving his worth after all. I will not steal his glory from him.”

  * * * * * * * *

  “He has held out admirably. I could spare you this, possibly, with another day or two. He keeps asking for you, though, and I think it best if you indulge him in this,” Narsicann told Jinzan.

  They stood together in a level of the army headquarters that dated back to the Kadrin occupation of Zorren. Rough-cut stone blocks lined the walls and ceiling. Others of the same make—worn by the passages of a hundred winters' worth of feet—comprised the floor. Wooden beams provided structural support at intervals. Torches flickered and guttered in wrought-iron sconces all down the corridor. There was no natural light as far down as they were, and the air hung heavy with the burning scent of pitch-soaked wood.

  “You know I prefer a clean death. This sort of business reminds me of the Kadrins. I will not presume to tell you your job, though. Yesterday was torment, waiting for word of the prisoner relenting,” Jinzan said. He looked better rested than his claims would have led one to believe. He would not leave Zorren without an answer to the question of what the Kadrin spy knew of the Staff of Gehlen … and of Anzik.

  “It was your idea that even let us keep him captive this well. I have never questioned a sorcerer before. At least, not under such duress. It is amazing the difference in the sorcerous mind, compared with the mind of a soldier or a common sneak.”

  “Well, let us get on with this,” Jinzan grumbled.

  He followed Narsicann down the dungeon passageway, unused cell after unused cell. Iron doors, iron bars, a place for souls forged of iron, with hearts that were cold lumps of stone.

  The Kadrin spy was in the last cell on the right. He hung limp in his chains, dangling from the wall by his wrists, his buttocks not reaching the floor to allow him to sit. His head lolled forward, but perked up at the sound of their approach. The Kadrin was naked, looked to be perhaps thirty or thirty-five winters in age if the age of a sorcerer was to be judged thus. Stripped of the illusions he had worn when they found him, he looked slovenly; his hair was flecked with grey, as was his unshaven scruff. Most notable about his appearance, though, were the runes covering most of his flesh, carved in shallow knife-cuts.

  “What is his name?” Jinzan asked. He felt sick to his stomach. The prisoner’s own filth pooled beneath him.

  “He has not said. You will find him quite hungry and thirsty. I told him he would be fed when he gave me a name. He has not even tried to lie about one,” Narsicann said, visibly less bothered by the conditions.

  “Has he tried to use magic?”

  “He figured that one out quickly. I brought some reports down to read while I waited for him to awaken. He tried to draw as soon as he woke. The sound alerted me that he was ready to interrogate.”

  A key hung in the lock, a convenience in a place where sorcerers could almost as easily manipulate the mechanism by magic. Narsicann turned it, and preceded Jinzan into the room.

  The prisoner mumbled something, his voice weak, dry, incomprehensible.

  Narsicann kicked him. After a grunt, the prisoner cleared his throat, spat, and tried again: “Just Jinzan. The other one can leave.”

  Narsicann looked to Jinzan, question clear in his eyes.

  “Go ahead. I am in no danger from this one, even turned loose,” Jinzan reassured him.

  Narsicann’s patronizing smile in reply assured Jinzan that such was not the question he was worried about. “Just give a yell if you need anything,” Narsicann told Jinzan before exiting the cell.

  “Food and water. Whether I give him either remains to be seen, but I want them at hand.”

  There was an awkward silence, broken only by receding footsteps. The prisoner looked up at him, bloodshot eyes judging him, weighing him.

  “There, you have me all to yourself. Now where is the staff?”

  “Not so simple as that,” the prisoner replied. “Introductions first, I think.”

  “You already know my name. Give me yours.”

  “Ah, here is where we make it interesting. I know who else you are, Captain Denrik Zayne.” The prisoner grinned with cracked, bleeding lips. Jinzan’s heart quickened. “That torturer of yours … I had no grasp on his throat. You, I can deal with.”

  “Deal? What sort of deal do you think you can make from that position, whatever knowledge you may possess?” Despite his bluster, Jinzan worried that there might be a true answer.

  “Here, not much, maybe something. There? Everything.”

  “You will have to do better than that.”

  “
Tanner, for starts,” the prisoner said. “Kyrus set it all up. Brilliant. Has a sword at Denrik Zayne’s throat. I can give the word.”

  Jinzan’s expression turned from annoyed to fury instantly. He drew aether, and thrust it into the runes on the prisoner’s chest, ignoring his revulsion at the man’s condition. Lightning sparked and crackled along the prisoner’s exposed skin. He screamed, thrashing convulsively in his chains.

  “You Kadrin bastards! I shall have that wretched swordsman tossed over the side of the ship. We will see how he fights sharks with that blade of his. If that was your master plan, it will not work.”

  “Backup plan,” the prisoner managed between coughs as he recovered control of his muscles. “Anzik is twinborn, too.”

  Jinzan’s hot blood turned to ice. No. His mind fought to deny it, but the prisoner knew too much. Had he seen clues, and not known them for what they were? Anzik had always been odd, but had never shown any knowledge from Tellurak. He had just always been cursed by constantly seeing aether all around him.

  “Where is he?” Jinzan demanded.

  “Which one?”

  Jinzan hesitated. “Both,” he answered.

  “Anzik is in hiding. I do not know quite where. His twin is asleep within arm’s reach of mine.”

  “So is that it?” Jinzan asked, seething. “You would hold a young boy hostage? Where do you have him?”

  “Well inland.” The prisoner managed to make a joke of it.

  “So is that the bargain you propose? Your life for Anzik’s twin?”

  “No,” the prison replied. He tried to say something else, but the words failed him. With effort, he instead said, “Water.”

  Jinzan waited for a guard to fetch water and stew. He placed them well clear of the prisoner as he worked magic to loose him from his shackles, and deposit him gently on the cell floor away from the muck of his bodily excretions.

  “Your name, now,” Jinzan stated as if fulfilling Narsicann’s bargain from the previous day.

  The prisoner crawled over, and drank sparingly from the jug of water, seeming to lack the strength to tilt it back far enough to drink his fill.