Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  Aye, Sal.

  Are we busy this morning?

  The teenage sapphire paused. A wee bit, sir. Drunkards, mostly, thinkin' this mornin' is still last night. I had me hands full o' some vandals mussing up the docks back around Watchbreak, but nothin' I'd call trouble. Why do y'ask?

  See if you or Hafi can run Tribean down. Tell him that he'll be in charge for a while. I'm going to play hookie.

  Hookie, sir?

  Really? You're sixteen and you don't know what hookie is? Never mind. Just find Tribean and tell him. He'll understand. Gimme a holler if you need me.

  Aye. We'll do, sir.

  Sal was careful to touch Emerald again before he opened his eyes. "Arright, toots," he smirked. "I'm all yours. Let's go make memories."

  * * *

  Good on you, mate, Retzu thought, leg slung over the edge of the roof, watching the singular mage and his lady love wander off into the early morning festivities. Good on you.

  The assassin took a pull from the amber bottle that he'd pinched from a rather large brewery near the wharf -- They'll never miss it. -- then set it down beside him, half empty. He stretched one arm long across his chest, then both over his head, his back popping loudly with the early hour. Or late, depending on how one looked at it. He'd yet to find his bed, and truth be known, he'd been rather avoiding it. Too many memories found you when you were asleep. Too many weaknesses to exploit.

  Besides, there'd been too much Festival to enjoy in the small hours. Too much fun to be had. Thugs getting randy with unwilling wenches. Cutpurses seeking to have their way with sloshed and weary celebrants. The lowest of lives, abusing the joy of the season to take advantage of those who were worse off.

  Retzu shook his head at the thought. Not sporting at all. The assassin had been forced a number of times throughout the night to play the hero. After all, what else could a decent man do but champion the cause of those in need? True, he'd left a number of broken and bleeding bodies in his wake, and his knuckles did tell the tale, but nobody had died thanks to his efforts -- not even the ones who sorely deserved it. All he'd needed was a bit of diversion, to relieve a bit of frustration, and nobody needed to die for that. Thankfully, the shady underbelly of Bastion was in grand supply of diversion for an assassin looking to be of service to his community.

  He found his way back to camp just as the cooks were clearing up their breakfast dishes. Remarkably, his hand didn't waver in the slightest as he reached for a proffered morsel -- eggs and bacon on sweet, light bread -- with a smile he didn't mean and a gratitude he wasn't sure he felt. The cook, Crafter bless her, simply took the thanks at face value and nodded her own. He turned to leave when he heard...

  "Blessed Crafter!"

  Perfect. Retzu steeled himself for the tirade that was surely coming his way.

  "What have you been up to?" demanded Jaren.

  "A little drink, a little sport," Retzu shrugged, talking around a mouthful. "Nothing to get in a twist over."

  The emerald's face drew up with whatever tirade he was biting back, contenting himself to lay hands on either side of the assassin's face. Retzu felt a chill rush from his cheeks throughout his body as bruises faded and cuts stitched themselves together. "What were you thinking?" the mage hissed. "It's not proper. People will talk."

  "Let 'em talk. They know who I am, what I'm about. What do I care about 'proper'?"

  "You ought to care," Jaren insisted. "We need you, now more than ever. Your brother's people need you now. If they see you falling apart like this..."

  "I'm not falling apart," Retzu whispered -- kindly, he thought, though he couldn't reconcile that with the pointing finger he waggled mere inches from the mage's nose. He gave his most disarming grin. "I'm right as rain, I am. Besides, they don't need me. They have you and Delana. I'm just a guest in this house, mate."

  "You're not just a guest, Sticks. You're Reit's br---"

  "I know blasted well what I am! Don't presume to tell me my business, like you know it better than I do. I don't need you to remind me of my 'obligations' or my loss..."

  The emerald's image wavered, and for a moment, Retzu saw the face of his childhood friend. Just a trick of the drink, he was certain. "It's not about Reit, Sticks," Jaren said, tears welling up visibly in his eyes. He laid a hand on Retzu's shoulder, drawing him closer. His verdant eyes blazed for a moment, and Retzu felt the chill of healing again -- this time not going to his body but to his mind. The cheery fog that Retzu had worked so hard to achieve evaporated, like mist before the sun.

  Salt of the Abyss...

  "You don't have to find your comforts in drink and... diversion," Jaren said softly. "And you don't have to do it alone."

  The now-brotherless assassin stood quietly for a moment, his friend's words echoing through a mind that was unfortunately clear. There was no denying the man's logic.

  But he'd be blasted if he'd give him the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, he affected a smirk. "I'm headed to the latrine, then to my cot. I suppose you could tag along, if you don't want me to be alone..."

  Jaren snorted in spite of himself and pushed the assassin away roughly, quite like when they were kids.

  "You know your life would be boring without me in it," Retzu called over his shoulder as he beat a hasty retreat. For a moment, he thought he'd make good his escape. Not so much.

  "Wait," the emerald accused, his voice now receding in the distance. "It was you who sent Menkal to me, slobbering drunk!"

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the assassin called, not slowing his pace in the slightest.

  * * *

  Sal and Marissa strolled the streets and took in the sights, hand in hand as they walked. Their travel was impeded several times by jugglers and jesters and performers of all stripes, but they didn't mind. They weren't going anywhere, really, so they weren't in a big hurry to get there. Their travels led them to one of the city's many parks, which had remained remarkably pristine throughout the celebration.

  "So what was Harvest like, growing up in Bayton?" Sal asked as they detoured along a stream that cut through the park.

  "You remembered!"

  "Of course, I did. I am your declared, after all," he replied, puffing out his chest in mock smugness.

  She laughed. "It was roughly the same as this. Bayton's of a size with Bastion, and the culture is similarly diverse -- a mixture of Northern Plains, Southern Plains, and Valenese. All the country folk head into the city for the Festival, just like here, so you get a nice mix of common and extravagant.

  "Much of my family were woodcutters. Even my mother swung an axe! We work the land just southeast of Bayton, about a day's walk from Pigeon Creek. It's fine land for lumber, but it's a hard land for living, so when time came to be frivolous, my family dove into it head first. I must admit that I enjoyed the rougher side of the Festival growing up -- I'm no stranger to ale -- but I thank the Crafter that I survived the stupidity of my youth. What about you?"

  "Me? Oh yeah, I drank like a fish, too," he deadpanned.

  "No," she laughed expansively, her mirth catching Sal up and carrying him along. "I mean, what was Harvest like where you grew up?"

  Sal's laughter faded as he thought back to his youth, growing up in a world that was becoming less and less real to him as the days slipped by. How long had it been since he'd thought of home? How long had it been since he'd thought of it as home?

  "Well, we don't have a 'Festival of Harvest' per se," he said, "though we do have our festivals. Back home, peanuts were a major crop. Peanuts," he said again, as Marissa gave him a blank look. "You don't know peanuts? Ground nuts? Goober peas? Aw, Jiminy Christmas. What kinda world is this if you don't have peanuts? Anyway, they're kinda like beans, but their pods grow in the root of the plant rather than off the stem."

  "Dirt peas!"

  "Thank God," he sighed. "I was actually starting to miss home. Anyway, 'dirt peas' are a real cash crop where I come from. You can boil them, roast them, use them for oil, any of
a number of things. Anyway, we have a festival that celebrates the peanut industry."

  "Industry?"

  "Market. Stop sidetracking me. So we have this festival about the same time as Harvest, right when the world starts getting colder. It goes on for about a week or two, and we have vendors and rides and livestock showings and concerts..."

  "Concerts?"

  "Music. Some of the best you've ever heard, with big bands and loudspeakers and lights. My favorites were the country acts, but I enjoyed the R&B and rock concerts--- Forget it. I'm not explaining those. Just trust me. It was all good.

  "But one of the most memorable to me was this Christian group that came. They were really popular, and sang a bunch of songs that had made them famous, but they sang one that I really needed to hear at that particular time. My family was going through some things, and I was angry at God, and the song they sang really spoke to me.

  "It was written by a businessman, years and years ago, who had fallen on hard times -- lost his son, lost his wealth, that kind of thing. He'd planned to take a trip with his wife and daughters, but he had to take care of some business at the last minute, so he sent his family on ahead of him. The ship that they were on sank, killing the rest of his children. His wife sent him a letter to let him know that she was still alive... but the letter itself was almost as tragic. All it said was, 'Saved alone'."

  Sal paused in his telling to clear his throat and wipe his eyes free of the tears that had just appeared there, as if from out of nowhere. No matter how many times he heard or told the story of Horatio Spafford, it got him. Taking a breath, he continued. "As he left for England to meet up with his wife, his ship crossed over the waters where his daughters' ship went down, and was inspired to write a song. The song was still popular when I heard it a hundred and fifty years later. It's a song about love and loss, and about continuing to have faith in God even after the worst has happened."

  "Sort of like getting lost in an alien world?" Marissa said gently, trying to lighten his mood. It worked.

  "This place ain't that bad."

  "How does the song go?"

  Sal smirked a bit to cover up his nervousness over singing to Marissa. It's not that he didn't have confidence in his voice -- he'd planned to go to Nashville as a kid, after all, and would have, had he not gone into the military first -- but he was singing to Marissa. That added a whole nuther level of terrifying to the prospect.

  Still, she smiled at him expectantly, patiently awaiting his performance.

  Can't disappoint a pretty girl, can we?

  He took a deep breath, centered himself, and began.

  When peace like a river attendeth my way

  When sorrows like sea billows roll

  Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say

  It is well, it is well with my soul...

  At first hesitant, he gradually gave himself over to the song. Words and melody swirled together until the lines blurred between the two. As he progressed through the verses, they worked his way through his mind, his heart, shining the song's light into every corner of his being. The world faded from view until even Marissa seemed dim to him. All that existed for him was the song. His voice rose and fell with the timbre of the notes, his throat constricting at various places in his performance when the emotion became too strong. There was so much that the song unpacked for him, so much that it said about his life, both in this world and in the previous one. He had never been a Horatio Spafford per se, but whenever he sang this song, he knew the man's heart, because it was his own.

  The final measure closed and the sound of his voice hung in the air for a moment, then faded. When he'd finished, they walked in silence for a little while, Sal staring at the ground before him. It was a comfortable silence, one that didn't ache to be filled with words, as if the words were what drew hearts closer.

  "This Christ of yours," Marissa said softly. "Who was he?"

  Sal smiled at the question. It was one of the few questions about his world that he didn't have to struggle to answer. "He is to God as messac'el is to the Crafter. You'd like Him."

  "I'm sure I might," she said. "Tell me more."

  Chapter 5

  The morning passed slowly for Sal and Marissa, peacefully, standing in stark contrast to the gala taking place around them. They strolled the park without a care in the world, talking, laughing, catching up on lost time. It was a time of intimacy that was long overdue.

  But they couldn't keep themselves sequestered forever, as their growling stomachs evidenced. So, regretfully, they left the park and headed back into the hustle and bustle of real life, as colored by the Festival of Harvest.

  The smell of smoked meats tempted them, and they followed the heavenly scent to a hawker's wagon that was laden with meat pies. The paunchy vendor had a long line of patrons awaiting his wares, but he was efficient in serving them, nabbing pies with one greasy fist while collecting his due with the other. Sal and Marissa had their food almost as soon as they stepped in line.

  "Pee'tsa pockets?" Marissa laughed at Sal as they meandered away. "What a strange name for a meat pie."

  "Well, it's not that strange," Sal defended. "See, in my world, there's a country called Italy, and they---"

  Marissa laughed suddenly and drew in close, making to lay her head on Sal's chest. "Someone's following us," she said with an urgency that belied her mirth. Sal started, and made to turn his head when Marissa laughed again and said, "Don't look," the wide smile on her face coming nowhere near her eyes.

  Sal forced a laugh and played along. "How many? Mages or mundane?"

  "Three, I think. Mundanes. One has a sword."

  "Follow my lead. Let's see what happens."

  They ducked into an alley on the left side of the street, and chaos immediately gave way to solitude. Sal released Emerald and touched Sapphire, wielding as they walked. Patrys.

  Y'alright, Sal? she answered, apparently catching the concern that he felt.

  For the moment. We're being followed by a couple mundanes, one with a sword. Does Tribean have anybody on guard duty to spare?

  A few novices, aye, but nobody with any real combat experience.

  Sal thought quickly. Any amethysts? I need someone who can travel fast.

  Aye, sir. There's Cedric. He just come off'a lunch. Where're ye at? I'll send him to ye.

  No, send him to get Retzu. Menkal or one of the other Caravan sapphires should know where he is. Tell him we'll be near the grain warehouses east of the wharf in about half an hour. The sooner the two of them can get to us, the better.

  Aye, sir. I'm on it.

  Sal switched back to Emerald, forcing a laugh as they reentered the public eye. "Help's on the way. We just have to stall these goons."

  They meandered the streets of Bastion in the general direction of the port. Occasionally, Marissa would shoot a glance behind them, to make sure that their groupies were still in pursuit. They were still a few blocks from the warehouse district when Marissa whispered, "The one with the sword is gone."

  Sal's bowels liquefied at the thought of Marissa being in danger. He edged her into an alley to the right of the street, and hissed, "Run!"

  They sprinted north, the passageway barely wide enough for the two of them to run abreast. Sal urged Marissa onward while he trotted sideways, looked back over his shoulder for his pursuers.

  The man with the sword appeared before them, as if from nowhere. He backhanded Marissa as she came in range, the crack of his hand against her jaw echoing down the alley. She fell in a dazed heap.

  "No!" Sal shouted, drawing his doeskin-hilted katana. In a flash, the other man's sword was in his hand, neatly blocking Sal's chop. Sal saw with sickening clarity that the man's hilt bore a copper winding.

  He was shol'tuk.

  Sal didn't have time to ponder this before the man countered his attack, showering Sal with cuts and chops and slices of his own. It was all that Sal could do to keep from being butchered.

  The doeskin-hilted
adherent blocked everything out -- the ringing of the katanas, the two men yet to join the party, the groggy redhead still kneeling to one side of the alley. The world shrank in focus, until the alley was all that was left. The alley, and the copper-hilt that controlled it.

  Death is raw, like the hide of the newly skinned bull.

  Death is soft, like the doe in her winter coat.

  The alley was narrow, limiting the full range of attacks that the copper might employ. Sal used this to his advantage. He pressed the attack, using fist and foot as much as he did his sword. He reached out to Marissa through Emerald and wielded. He could spare no concentration to build a proper spell for Marissa -- not as Aten'rih had taught him -- so he simply willed that the magic heal her however she required, all the while desperately lashing out at his attacker.

  The fury of his assault set the other man on his heels. He tilted off balance, scrabbling with his feet for purchase. Seeing an opening in the copper's defense, Sal jabbed, then spun and cut diagonally, slicing the shol'tuk's chest open and knocking his katana away. The assassin fell heavily, his breath leaving him in a gurgling whoosh.

  Sal spun to meet the other two men... only to find them already dealt with. Retzu stood over one at the far end of the alley, and Marissa was just finishing the other one up.

  Marissa?!?

  For all that she looked dainty, there was nothing fragile about her at that moment. Blood streamed from her nose and from the corner of her mouth, but the look in her eye wasn't hurt. It was rage. She grit her teeth as she lashed out, her doubled fists catching her attacker squarely under the jaw. Before he had time to fall backward, she grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down into her knee, driving it deep into his face. Blood squirted to both sides as his nose shattered. She released him, and he dropped in a near-lifeless pile at her feet, eyes glazed and struggling for breath. Sal stood there looking at her, agape.

  "What?" she said, self-consciously. "I have brothers."