Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  Retzu wagged his head. "Not hardly, mate. We've defeated the Earthen Rank there, sure, but that was only a few hundred souls. Bastion's citizenry numbers in the tens of thousands -- all civilians, sure, but many with deadly skills of their own. Kinda like us, yeah?"

  Sal's mind cast back to the wars in the Middle East -- Iraq, Afghanistan, varied situations in Libya and other countries. Not every liberated people appreciated freedoms that were bought and paid for by others. "Any occupation could spark an insurgency," he translated.

  "We're not here to occupy territory," Jaren stated adamantly. "We're here to fight the tyranny of Highest. So how can we use a Rankless Bastion to further that end?"

  * * *

  The discussion went on for the better part of an hour, with everybody voicing different ideas to be picked apart like so much roast mutton.

  They could conquer Bastion. Sal's Unmarked were still in positions of military advantage inside the city walls. But as Sal and Jaren had pointed out, they would be seen as invaders by the locals, and treated accordingly. If nothing else, the occupation would cast the Cause in a bad light, working against the very thing that Reit had wanted to win -- the hearts of the people.

  They could abandon Bastion, splitting the newly united Cause between the departing Caravan and the remaining Unmarked. They could market the battle as a draw -- the Cause having too few forces to take the city, and the Unmarked having too few forces to hold the rebels captive. It was a gamble -- especially considering how difficult it was to lie to a magic user -- but if the Patriarchal Council bought it, Sal's Unmarked would have unfettered access to the Archives, at least for a while. They could scrape and study at their leisure, passing what they learn on to Caravan in secret, until the Earthen Rank arrived to retake the city. At that point, the Unmarked could then infiltrate the Rank, gain legitimacy, and work to bring down the Highest from within. Play the long game, as Sal put it. This was problematic because if Caravan were to make a convincing retreat, they would have to have already abandoned the fortress the day before. Way too late for that at this point.

  The Unmarked could also leave with Caravan. Again, problematic. Sal was loathe to leave the city defenseless, reliant on a constabulary that he had personally come to view as incompetent. After all, he had helped wipe out the city's defenses. They were kinda his responsibility now.

  They could simply say nothing, and quietly integrate themselves into Bastionite society. This idea was just thrown out there to cover every possibility -- not because anybody had any faith it would work. There were too many flaws in it, not the least of which was the fact that the Patriarchal Council was not stupid. If they didn't already suspect that the Ranks had lost out on the plains, they'd figure it out soon enough.

  Eventually, they settled on an option that had seemed most obvious to them from the start -- they would openly seek peace with the Council. With the Earthen Rank in Bastion out of the way, there wasn't much the Council could do to them. Sure, they might toy with the idea of arresting the Cause, but it'd be foolish for civilians to try and ambush a guerrilla army, and the patriarchs would know that. Much more likely that they'd simply call upon the Highest to send the Rank to "rescue" them from the rebels, if they hadn't already.

  Either way, the Cause's time in Bastion was going to be short, so time was of the essence. The Heads of Order and Guild dispersed, each to their respective duties. Sal called on Aten'rih to organize the Unmarked outside the southern breach, ready to move out. By the time Sal had readied a gelding borrowed from Master Seti, the sun was setting the distant mountain snowcap ablaze, shining like a beacon above the morning greyed Ysrean plain. Let's get this show on the road, he thought, swinging into the worn leather saddle and angling his horse for the breach.

  He found Aten'rih at the head of the still-organizing column, astride a pale stallion as massive as the emerald himself. The assembly fell to silence as Sal approached, not yet coming to order but still keenly interested in whatever would transpire with their leadership.

  On the far side of the wedge-shaped emerald, Retzu sat astride a prancing, midnight mare.

  Sal bit his lip, itching to ask the question but reluctant to startle his mentor away from this unexpected demonstration of responsibility.

  "I know what you're thinking, sodu," the assassin said. "Don't."

  "I wouldn't dream of it, sen'sia."

  The erstwhile twin lifted his chin arrogantly, affecting an air of disinterest that he played surprisingly well. "I'm the heir to House Nograh. Might add some legitimacy to your parlay."

  "Of course, sen'sia," Sal said, bowing his head respectfully, though it was more to hide his smile than anything. Looking up, he eyed the big emerald, jerking his head questioningly at the Unmarked assembled in ranks behind them.

  "Uh uh. Not me, milord Prism," Aten'rih scoffed. "I just run the Camp. The Unmarked themselves... they follow another." With that, he winked.

  As if Sal needed any clarification who that "other" was. Chuckles rocked through the assembly as Sal groaned his frustration. Surely they could've picked a better hi-sign than that infernal wink! He bit his tongue to keep from telling them all that he was spoken for. Likely as not, a snide remark like that would only make matters worse.

  "Arright, listen up," Sal called, sitting up a bit in his saddle to address the troops. The merriment was smothered in the sound of creaking leather armor as the company stood to attention -- mouth shut, backs straight, eyes front. In a split second, the company of Unmarked had gone from carefree to all business. "We expect this to take no more than a few hours, tops. Hang back and give us a little bit of a head start. Make for the main road east of here, and approach Bastion in the open. Take your time. When you get to the city walls, don't come in. Stay in formation, but at ease. If all goes well, we'll signal you to come in and relieve the men and women already on post. Do so quickly, and with as little fuss as possible. We still have a city full of drunks and rabble-rousers to deal with when this is all over."

  "And if all doesn't go well?" asked someone from the crowd.

  "If all doesn't go well," Sal replied with a shrug, "we'll leave. It's not like they can stop us. They don't have any soldiers left."

  There was some quiet, morbid laughter at this, but it died quickly. "Tribean's in charge. He'll be managing the post assignments, and the day-to-day stuff. His orders are mine. Again, when you approach the city, do not show battle readiness. We're not here to conquer Bastion. We clear?" A chorus of yessirs was his answer.

  With nothing else to keep them, the trio rounded their horses and headed east, Retzu in the lead flanked by Sal and Aten'rih.

  They made good time crossing the plain, saddle high shrubbery and the occasional copse of trees impeding their view but not their progress across the otherwise flat land. They reached the main road in short order, then turned south, the city walls appearing at the far end of the unobstructed stretch. The sun was just peeking over the foothills when the trio reached the gate.

  "It's about time," Frasyr said as they approached, his fatigue apparent on his face. His burning ruby eyes had faded to the dull color of embers -- still hot enough to bite, but not much else. "Hafi told me what you got planned, and I had him pass word to the troops. Couldn't happen fast enough."

  "Yeah, the Unmarked are about an hour or so behind us. Hopefully we won't be too much longer. How's things?"

  "Oh, you mean the Council demanding that you report to them at once?"

  "Yeah, that."

  "I wondered if the ruckus on the plains would get their attention," Aten'rih said blandly.

  "Have they been calling for our arrest?" Sal asked sickly.

  "Not yet," said Frasyr. "They just know that something's amiss and you two are at the center of it."

  Sal rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if to block the headache that threatened to form behind it. "Okay, how are we doing on post?"

  "Ah, not too bad. I've had the emeralds on a rotation Refreshing the rest of us -- no substitute
for real sleep, of course, but it helps. We had quite a row down on the wharf last night, and the Honeyed Comb almost caught fire when two drunkards started a brawl over a tavern wench. It's been a Festival about like any other," the ruby said with a shrug.

  "Any talk about us?"

  "Some," Frasyr admitted, "but we brushed off the questions as if they weren't nothin'. We figured the less interested we were in what was going on in the plains, the less interested they would be. Seemed to work out."

  "Good man," Sal praised, clapping the ruby on the shoulder. "Hopefully we can talk the Patriarchal Council into letting us stay for a little while."

  "They'd be stupid not to," Frasyr said. "At least until Harvest is over and the constables sober up."

  "True, but never underestimate the power of stupid," he said as he spurred his horse forward.

  * * *

  Sal fidgeted nervously in his saddle as the trio made their way along the Mainway, the north-south thoroughfare that, with the Learned Concourse, divided the city into quarters. For all that Frasyr's news was expected, it didn't make Sal feel any less like they were riding into a trap. Sighing, he gave himself over to sightseeing, if only to take his mind off of where they were headed.

  The sun was still relatively low in the sky -- Sal judged at least three hours until High Sun, if not a hair longer -- but already the Mainway was filled to capacity. The celebration of the past two days had done nothing to slake the typical festival goer's thirst for revelry. Vendors cried their wares and booked record sales. Inns served up anything that could be boiled, fried, or seared, cooked up without regard for waste. Taverns did much the same, tapping every keg and barrel, sending rivers of libation into the street as if to the Crafter's own chalice. The scene looked like something out of an old Christmas movie from the Fifties, with crowds packing the department stores, each hand laying claim to that one special gift... only long enough to be distracted by the next shiny thing to catch there eye.

  Capitalism at its finest, Sal marveled.

  Though they were on horseback, they made good time through the packed thoroughfare. The Stone of Ysra was just coming into view, marking the center of the city about a dozen or so blocks to the south, when Aten'rih hooked a hard left down a smaller, more pristine side street. Here, the roadway was divided, with each direction of traffic only large enough for two carts to share the roadway side by side, or one large coach. Not an alley by any means, but narrow enough to deter much of the Harvest traffic.

  A row of palms, planted single file in the median, split the left side of the street from the right, though the effect was almost redundant. The houses themselves told the story of the divided avenue. Both stretches were equally majestic as compared to the rest of the city, but the two sides seemed like they couldn't be further apart.

  To the north, the houses were singular mansions, with ornate scrollwork in the architecture and rich, manicured gardens behind wrought iron fences. Each house seemed a kingdom unto itself, only sharing the land with its neighbors as a favor.

  The houses to the south were no less ornate, yet infinitely more practical. The residences were much closer together, not quite the rowhouses that made up the majority of Bastion's neighborhoods, but still packed in tightly. The yards here were much smaller, and yet much more open, lacking the fences that divided the far side of the street from the rest of the world. The southern stretch was trimmed by a sidewalk that cut across every yard, though not violently. It seemed that the homeowners genuinely wanted the footpath there. The architecture of the houses were also more inviting, with large picture windows and double doors, giving a greater sense of space, for all that actual space was more lacking.

  "The patriarchs and the scholars," Aten'rih said, answering Sal's unspoken question. Even though Sal had been here a number of times over the past month, he'd had precious little time to actually take in the sights, to become familiar with the city he was protecting. It made sense that the Commander of the Camp of the Unmarked would know that.

  "The two neighborhoods extend for blocks in either direction, but the Avenue of Book and Coin is where they face off. The teachers at the Academy are paid well, insanely well," the bulky emerald continued, indicating the almost-row houses on the right. "The Highest sees to that. While he allows them to teach and maintain the knowledge of the ages, including the Archives, he insists on their loyalty. They set the cost of schooling themselves, but are required to pay him a tribute. He doesn't involve himself in the pricing of education, but he does... suggest... that the scholars restrict more advanced avenues of learning to those who are loyal to him."

  "Effective," Sal snarled. "The smartest person in the room is invested in remaining the smartest person in the room."

  "Of course," Aten'rih nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was unfair, sure, but life wasn't fair. He pointed to the houses on the left. "The patriarchs, on the other hand, aren't paid to oppress the people. They don't need the money. That's not to say that they are entirely against the common man," he hedged. "They just see the common man as beneath them."

  "The more things change..."

  "Indeed. Oh," the emerald started as a thought occurred to him. "You might better touch Emerald before we get there. We accept you as the Prism, but I doubt the Council will be as impressed with you as we are. Never a blessing appears that they don't seek to twist it to their advantage," he added with a wry smirk.

  The street continued on for a time, with traffic increasing at intersections, only to die back down as they continued through the bisected neighborhood. Eventually the lane emptied into a courtyard, with the houses continuing in their present style in either direction around the quad, only to meet back up on the far side and resume their stately progression toward the Academy complex to the east.

  In the center of the courtyard lay the Conclave, the building which hosted the Council. It was squat if not entirely compact, barely two stories tall, with a partial third level on top. The architecture was basic if not severe. Really, it was shocking to Sal that the patriarchs could live in such opulence but operate out of such spartan quarters. The entry was lined with columns, with a rather large balcony jutting over an open foyer that ran almost the entire front of the building. A handful of guards paced the foyer. Sal didn't recognize any of them. As they got closer, he realized why -- they were Marked.

  "They're assigned by the Segmented Fist in Schel Veylin," Aten'rih said. "Regional councils receive some of the best warriors in the Ranks. It makes them feel important to the Highest. Keeps them happy." He sighed. "And keeps them a lot safer than they have a right to be. I suppose that's necessary, the way they tend to rule."

  "Belly of the beast. Awesome."

  Sal and Company dismounted as they came to the entry. Two pages rushed forward to take their horses, giving them claim chits in trade. Aten'rih led the way into the building.

  The main hall was broad and tall, almost an extension of the foyer, and lined on either side with offices and hallways going in various directions. They approached a desk at the far end of the hall. "Commander Aten'rih, Master Instructor of the Camp of the Unmarked, here to address the Council," the big emerald said as they drew near.

  "You are expected. Your companions?" asked an elderly registrar without looking up from his ledger. He was clearly not interested in the answer.

  "Subsergeant Sal of the Earthen Ranks, and Retzu, gold-hilt of the Guild of the Silent Blade."

  The scribe snickered under his breath. "An Unmarked and an assassin. This should be good," he muttered to himself. He turned rheumy eyes to the trio, for the first time since they approached, and stood, laying a hand upon an ancient tome. When he spoke, it was wooden, dispassionate, as if recited many times a day. "I, Finea Stonebarton, Chronicler of the Fourth Rank, do hereby receive you as attendants to the Chamber of the Patriarchal Council. I am charged by law to inform you that all communication will be monitored for truthfulness, and that any attempt at deception will result in t
he immediate termination of the address, and may be punishable by law. You will be relieved of whatever weapons you may possess, and rendered mundane for the duration of your address. Do you accept these terms?"

  Sal balked at the mention of being disarmed, but before he could answer, both Aten'rih and Retzu accepted the terms. Sal waffled a moment longer, then nearly swallowing his tongue, he followed suit.

  * * *

  Nestor was still brooding on his balcony in the Tower when the air woke to the sweet tinkle of crystal, hung in various shapes from strings in a wind chime fashion. They stirred not by the wind, but by granite magic, reacting to sunlight breaking the horizon and falling down the diamond mountain until it touched the base. As the granite could not see the light without employing certain magics, the chimes served to announce for him the coming of morning.

  They also served to break his dour mood, reminding him of the sheer wonder of his surroundings.

  He and Jaeda had been one full day at the Tower of Aeden, and already the world seemed so much larger. Or smaller, depending on how one looked at it. There was so much to the real world that he'd never even imagined, but that realization seemed to make the world he once knew so much more narrow, naive.

  Each hall in the Tower was lined with myriad rooms filled with an infinite array of baubles and artifacts, simple devices that nevertheless boggled the mind. They had taken their first day there to rest and explore, to get a feel for the land, as it were. Nestor, still shackled against his use of magic, was limited in his exploration, but what little he had access to fascinated him to no end.

  How could the Highest ever leave this place?

  He performed his morning ablutions with eagerness, then set out to find Jaeda. She was likely in the library. They'd stumbled upon it early in the afternoon, and he'd been unable to coax her into leaving except for dinner. She'd practically taken up residence among the bookshelves, looking over ancient tomes that, for the most part, weren't even written in script, or not in a script that he was familiar with, anyway. She just enjoyed the pictures. And remarkable pictures they were, featuring crawling machines, digging machines, sailing machines, flying machines... Cao Tzu even mentioned there being "man" machines, though he never went into great detail regarding how an an'droyd actually worked.