Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  Cao Tzu. Now there was an enigmatic figure. Far more mysterious than any flying machine or whatnot, this granite seemed to know so much about them, and yet told them so little about himself. He had the look of an elderly man -- the bone structure, the scars, the wrinkles -- but moved like one much younger than Nestor himself. It was quite possible that he was not as old as he appeared, but if he wasn't, he'd certainly had a rough life. Jaeda seemed to know him, but whatever past they shared, she was reluctant to talk about it.

  He understood. Until recently, Nestor had been Chief General of the Highest's armies. It had been his duty to know the people in his care, which generally meant knowing the people that his people knew. So for him to be unaware of Jaeda's relationship with Cao Tzu, let alone the extent of it, really spoke to the depth of Jaeda's subterfuge. She couldn't possibly be proud of that.

  Nestor's stomach grumbled at him. The complaint reminded him of the time. He paused midstride, changing directions and heading for the gardens to pick something for breakfast.

  He found Jaeda there, speaking with Cao Tzu as he knelt, trimming and pruning a tomato plant. Her speech was impassioned, emphatic, expressive, but Nestor couldn't make out a word of it from so far away. "Fine," Jaeda shouted, loud and clear. "But if anything happens..." She never finished her thought. She just stood with hands akimbo, staring at Cao Tzu expectantly.

  The other granite nodded his assent. Satisfied, Jaeda straightened, then spied Nestor approaching. She turned to Cao Tzu and pointed a finger and him, again saying something too quietly for Nestor to hear before becoming one with the ground below her, neatly escaping him and his still-shackled magics. He sighed.

  "Good morning, Cao Tzu," he said as he approached. "What was all that about?"

  "Good morning to you, too," the other granite replied, deftly ignoring the question. His voice lilted slightly with a faint Northern Plainsman accent. "I trust your accommodations suit you?"

  "Yes, they're fine quarters," he affirmed. He really hadn't expected the older granite to answer him, but it frustrated him nonetheless. Jaeda was being secretive enough. He didn't need their host to be so.

  Spying an apple tree, he plucked one of the low-hanging fruit and took a bite. Sweet, juicy, perfect. It still amazed him that every plant here was in season. To hear his host tell it, they were always in season, no matter the time of year. Nestor could believe it, this deep into Goldenleaf and the world feeling as warm and vibrant as Greenfield. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you come to live here in Aeden?"

  The other smiled a bit at the question. "Chance. The Crafter's Will. Either one is as likely as the other. I went looking for the man who had destroyed my life, and that quest led me here. As good a place as any, I suppose."

  "Did you ever find him?"

  "Several times."

  "Did you kill him?"

  Cao Tzu sighed and looked Nestor full in the face. "Not yet. But that's what this place is all about."

  Nestor hesitated, worried what the answer might imply. "And what is this place?" he asked finally.

  The other turned once more to his tomato plant, working the leaves diligently for a moment before answering. "The place where magic was born."

  * * *

  The morning sun was just breaking the horizon to the east, casting a long shadow before Mik's wagon, as he merged with the line already forming at the eastern gate into Schel Veylin. I'd have to arrive during Harvest, Mik thought, his lips curling slightly. He stood up on the toe board and his scowl deepened, as if the extra inches or furrows in his brow would hurry the line in the slightest. It'd probably be High Sun before he reached the gate, no matter what face he made.

  The road close to the city was much more dense than normal. Added to the typical fare of farmers and vendors were late comers to the Festival, looking to get in at least a day or two of Harvest before returning to the drudgery of real life. The old man snickered in spite of himself, remembering a time when a good party meant everything in the world. But that was a long time ago. Nations had risen and fallen since those days of youth.

  The wagon ambled onward, catching what few ruts the centuries had carved into the pavement of the highroad. More than once, the old man thought to just abandon the wagon, or sell it to one of his many fellow travelers. He was certain he could find a buyer. But every time the thought occurred to him, he dismissed it just as quickly. He was ancient, to look at him. Harmless. Entering the city on foot could only serve to undermine that image of harmlessness. What? An old man walking in when he could be riding? What's he got up his sleeve? Gritting his teeth, Mik rumbled on, holding to his seat as best he could.

  Traffic slowed to a crawl as he approached the gate, separating into two rows, foot traffic in one and carts in the other. Low ranking guards stood to the front of either line, making a half-hearted attempt at searching for contraband. An Earthen Rank ruby -- a subcaptain, by his stripes -- stood between the lanes, scrutinizing the eager travelers with all the fervor of a bear den in the middle of Whitesong. "Where are you from," or "Where are you going," all asked with no real concern for the answers.

  "State your business in the Capitol City," the soldier, a Plainsman, asked as the wagon drew near.

  "The wind kisses the wheat," Mik greeted.

  "The wind weaves through the stalks, and they sway," the soldier replied caustically. Immediately, he frowned, apparently thinking better of his rudeness. "Apologies, Elder, it ain't you."

  "No apology necessary," the old man offered. "Mikel du'Ander, at yer service, sir."

  "Subcaptain Lino Taberek, at yours," the ruby returned, more genial.

  "Heard some nasty rumors passin' through Ten League yesterday. I figured ye might be knowin' some'n it."

  "Aye. There's been a bit of a to-do in Bastion. They say it was a rebel attack, but you know how the news is these days. It could've been the Granite Spire descendin' on the town for all we know." The guard looked over his shoulder at the city proper, filled to the gills with celebrants, already well into their cups even this early on, oblivious to the world around them. "But a rumor's all it takes. You know how it is, Elder -- a little fuss somewheres in the Mainland, and we go marchin' off to war. Only thing what's stavin' it off is the Festival."

  Mik nodded his sympathies. "So yer headed off to Bastion a'fore long?"

  "Aye. Word is we'll be leavin' come Firstweek."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Nah, next. I guess the higher ups wanna make sure Veylin's squared away before we head out."

  "Aye, makes sense," Mik nodded his agreement. "Small troubles in Veylin today, or big'ns tomorrow, should ye not tend t' them. Bastion's troubles'll be no worse fer waitin' on ye. Crafter keep ye as ye head out, friend, and Prophets bring ye peace."

  "Thanks kindly, Elder," he said, waving him through and turning his eyes to the wagon in line.

  "May the sun illuminate your path," Mik said cheerfully as he snapped his reins.

  "Sun illumine your path," the ruby replied briskly, his sour demeanor already reasserting itself.

  * * *

  The streets beyond the eastern gate were packed solid with incoming traffic, and it didn't thin out much as Mik drove the cart inward.

  Merchants hustled to restock their shelves. Delivery boys ran this way and that, hand carts laden down with fresh meat, vegetables, and various staples, in preparation for a day's worth of continuous feasting. The fact that these deliveries were still going on, so long after Watchbreak, was particularly ominous. Wherever Mik was planning to be when the festivities started in earnest, he'd better get there.

  He came to a street that intersected with the main road, some two miles or so from the palace in the city's heart. The avenue was divided by an ancient colonnade, running down the center. Mik turned and followed the columns into a densely populated part of the city, where the architecture was as practical as its citizenry. Thatch roofs were common here, as were wooden slat roofs, but every so often, one might find a resident or shop owner, r
ich enough to afford clay shingles. At the next intersection, he found one such shop -- an inn, decked in expensive looking glazed tile which truly spoke well of the owner.

  He smiled as he pulled up, and gave the stable boy a shrill whistle. "There's a silver in it fer ye if ye give me horse her own stall. And mind that ye give her oats, boy. I'll not have her gettin' corn. It sours her stomach somethin' fierce, and you try ridin' a'hind her when she's had a mess o' corn!"

  "Duffer just got in a load of clean alfalfa," the boy responded shrewdly. "Throw in a copper, and I'll see she gets the middle of the pile."

  "There's a good lad," Mik said with a wink as he handed the boy the reins.

  The common room of the inn was just as inviting as he remembered. As crowded as it was, even this early in the day, the wenches were in good spirits and the guards were kicked back and comfortable. A rotund, elderly man stood behind the bar, wiping it down with a fervor born of a warrior bleeding for his homeland.

  A nice, homey place, managed by a quiet, unassuming grandfatherly figure. No one would ever suspect it was a command post for those waging a war against the powers that be.

  "Them ale circles don't stand a chance," he snickered as he sidled up to the bar.

  Duffer looked up and smiled as Mik came to rest on one of the stools. "Don't laugh," he warned with a wide smile, falling into a familiarity that belied the many years since Mik had last come to call. "You'd be surprised at the damage an icy tankard can do to polished wood."

  "Ha! 'Tis good to see ye, me boy," Mik said, clapping Duffer on the shoulder from across the bar.

  "Good to see you too, Mik," Duffer returned jovially, though his eyes cut keenly across the room. "Join me for a tankard in the back?"

  "Nothin' would do me finer."

  With all the merriment they could muster, Duffer and Mik made their way behind the counter. They passed through the bustling kitchens, sparing only a moment to whisper orders to the head cook before ducking into an office on the far side of the hearths.

  "What, are you crazy?" Duffer hissed as soon as the door was shut. "You could've been seen by somebody who didn't die the last time you were here. Then it would've been my ham on a spit right along side yours."

  "I wouldna come if'n it weren't important," Mik assured the innkeeper. "I know well enough what ye risk, bein' a spy and a hidey hole fer the Cause and all. I know better'n most what kinda trouble I could bring ye, and believe me, it couldna be helped."

  Duffer stood and looked at him for a hard minute, then took a deep breath and shook his head, scrubbing a hand through his sparse, silvered hair. "You'll be the death of me yet, du'Ander. The death." He walked heavily toward a cabinet recessed in the wall. The door swung away to reveal a series of shelves, each with a row of silver-backed sapphires and rubies adorning the front. The shelves held a stash of bottles with long, narrow necks, each stuffed shut with a cork. Duffer retrieved two of these, offering one to Mik. The old trapper unstoppered the cork and took a long pull of the contents. The dark, cold liquid was sweet, but it had a hint of a bite to it.

  "Ye've improved on the sassafras beer recipe I gave ye," Mik noted appreciatively. "But ye took and let these turn on ye."

  "Sorry. I know you're not one for spirits, but you're the only one that drinks this stuff besides me. When I make a batch, half of it ferments before I can drink it all."

  Mik took another swig. "I'd say ye only got about a week or two left on this'n."

  "Well, I guess you're going to have to help me take care of that, won't you?" Duffer asked with a smile, joining Mik for a pull.

  Chapter 3

  "Really, it's not that uncommon," Aten'rih said nonchalantly. "Nor uncalled for, to be quite honest."

  "But a null field?" demanded Sal.

  "They are the governing authorities in Ysre, an island that houses not only the Camp of the Unmarked but also the Academy and the Granite Spire. It would be almost impossible for a council largely made up of mundanes to rightly govern such a diverse and powerful region without certain protections."

  Sal hissed, "But we'll be defenseless. If this thing goes sideways..."

  "A shol'tuk is never defenseless, mate," Retzu interjected. "You're still a doeskin by hilt, but you're easily a linen with the occasional flash of silk. The only reason I haven't promoted you is because we've been... otherwise occupied."

  "And there are other factors," Aten'rih cut back in. "Consider how a null field operates. If---"

  A page poked his head through the huge double doors of the audience chamber, interrupting them with their summons to Council.

  The Chamber was expansive, with vaulted ceilings almost as tall as the chamber was long and wide. It reminded Sal of a court room, with pews for petitioners and witnesses to various cases, should the need arise. The patriarchs -- nine of them, mundane and arcane -- sat at the far end of the chamber behind a long, arching desk, about where the judge's bench would be.

  The page led them forward to the open space within the arch. The flooring here was patterned in tile, a large violet square where the defendant's box might be. As they entered the box, Sal felt... something. Or nothing. He'd grown so used to the tingle of magics, ever present in the background of his senses, that he'd come to ignore it. Stepping into the null field was like going numb. He cast his emerald eye about -- without looking like he was casting it about -- looking for weaknesses, but the address started before he could examine the floor in earnest.

  "Third day of Harvest, 4135 Post Rending, audience two of seven," one of the patriarchs, a sapphire, droned. A scribe sat to one side of the chamber, furiously scribbling the dictation. "Audience called by Aten'rih, Commander in the Earthen Ranks and Master Instructor at the Camp of the Unmarked in Bastion. Saves us the trouble of summonsing you. I take it, Commander, that you mean to report to us just what in the Abyss has been happening outside our walls?" he asked, his tone coloring with menace.

  "I do, milord Patriarch," the emerald affirmed. "Early yesterday morning, Earthen Rank forces clashed with rebel forces opposed to the Highest, in response to a rebel presence in Bastion the night before."

  "We surmised as much. We also noticed that a force of some kind remains on the plains north of here -- a force apart from yourself and the Unmarked that are approaching the city. A mix of mages and mundanes, by the looks of them, along with a smallish flock of dragons." The elderly sapphire leaned forward a bit. "Ysre doesn't have dragons. And Earthen Rank emeralds typically do not travel in the company of Unmarked and assassins. I'm sure you can appreciate our confusion."

  "Of course, milord," Aten'rih said. "As such, allow me to introduce my associate, Retzu of the Silent Blade."

  The assassin nodded toward the emerald and addressed the patriarchs. "Allow me to clarify, milords and ladies. I am Retzu, heir to House Nograh, and sole surviving member of the Court of Aitaxen."

  "du'Nograh..." the sapphire drawled, as if tasting a word that was vaguely familiar. "Are you...?"

  "Yes," Retzu said, answering the sapphire's unfinished question. "Reit Windon du'Nograh was my brother, and the leader of the Cause."

  The Council erupted, leaping to their feet in protest. One of the patriarchs shouted for them to be taken into custody, and the hulking Marked guards moved to comply. Sal dropped down into shol'zo masu, while Retzu stood at his ease. Aten'rih, on the other hand, did something... different.

  The big wedge shaped emerald hunkered into a fighting stance and put his hands up... only they weren't hands. Before Sal's eyes, his right fist grew bony, with tooth-like protrusions sticking out at regular intervals, forming a sort of mace. His left arm also changed, with thick, wing-shaped frills extending to either side of his arm, covering the full length from elbow to wrist.

  "Stop!" Retzu commanded, his voice thick with authority.

  The guards, clearly not expecting this turn of events, did exactly that, stutter-stepping as they looked to each other for guidance. The patriarchs were stunned silent. All but one.


  "What is the meaning of this," demanded the sapphire.

  "We're not here to turn ourselves in," Retzu stated calmly, quietly. "This is a courtesy call."

  "A 'courtesy call'? Are you mad?"

  "Not so much," Sal interjected, straightening slowly, adopting as nonthreatening a presence as possible. "We actually have the advantage... if not in this chamber, then certainly throughout the city. Virtually all of the Unmarked are ours, and have been for weeks. And we've still kept faith with Bastion, regardless of where our allegiances lie. Our fight isn't with you. It never was."

  "You see," said Retzu. "We didn't need to address the Council, and we can leave at any time. There's nothing you could do to stop us.

  "We could kill you, cut off the head of the rebellion," the sapphire snapped.

  "Not your best option, mate," the assassin pointed out, almost genially. "That's already happened once this week, and we're still here. All you'll do is make a lot of good people really mad." He casually scanned the Chamber. "And it don't look like you've got the manpower left to survive a lot of good, mad people."

  "Then why bother to address the Council at all? Why not just claim Bastion as your prize and be done with it?"

  "Because, as Sal said, our fight is not with you. It's with the Highest." Retzu's features clouded over, as if with shame or regret. "We're not an army, and we're not here to occupy the city. There was a lot of people what died yesterday that shouldn't have had to die."

  "An assassin that regrets taking a life?" the sapphire scoffed incredulously.