Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

Sal let that one lie, and turned back to the copper-hilted shol'tuk. The assassin still lay on his back, chest splayed open. He shook violently as he coughed, blood frothing at his lips.

  Sal dropped to the assassin's side and grabbed the lapels of his black tunic. "Who sent you!" he demanded. "Who! Why!"

  The shol'tuk turned quickly dimming eyes upon Sal, and he grinned, the effect ghastly amidst the choking blood. "You're... d-d-dead... y-you're..." He seized brutally, face going purple with the effort, and then he stilled.

  Sal held him a moment longer, shouting again into his attacker's face before thinking to wield Emerald. He sent healing magics into the copper's body, practically willing the corpse back to life. Too late, though. The corpse stubbornly refused to obey. Finally, reluctantly, Sal lowered him back to the ground, his hands shaking with exertion and anger.

  "You coulda waited until after my nap, mate," Retzu growled. "I was just drifting off when Cedric come got me. So, did you get anything out of him?"

  "No, nothing. All he said was 'You're dead'."

  "Right news, wrong recipient," Retzu commented.

  Sighing, Sal straightened, and his muscles suddenly felt every bit of the fight, all at once. His mind fogged over, and he lost his grip on Emerald. He started to sway, the world tilting rudely under his feet, and Retzu threw out an arm to stabilize him.

  "Mark me in this, Sal," Retzu said, digging in his pocket and withdrawing two strips of cloth, one of yellowed linen, the other of blue silk. These he pressed into Sal's palm, locking eyes with him. "Death is efficient, like the linen that covers the slave's back," he intoned. "Death is smooth and easy, like the caress of the harlot's silken sheet."

  Sal repeated the mantras groggily, then again as he weaved them in with the words of his rawhide and doeskin hilts. His focus sharpened with the recitation -- not enough to completely overcome the extreme lethargy bearing down on him, but enough to keep him from passing out. "Two hilts?"

  "You were already ready for them, mate. Killing this copper just sealed the deal."

  "So why not advance me to copper?"

  Retzu chuckled. "Because ya got lucky."

  * * *

  After making triple sure that Marissa was alright, Sal had Cedric take her safely back to Caravan while he and Retzu escorted their prisoners on foot. They expected trouble the whole way back, but amazingly, trouble was nowhere to be found. Granted, it could've been the handcuffs of magic-born ice, or maybe even the katanas laid quite conspicuously against their prisoners' necks, but whatever it was, they went along peacefully. Even the crowded streets of Bastion parted wide for the two shol'tuk and their charges. How courteous.

  Pressing bodies soon gave way to the relative emptiness of the highroad leading south from the city and away from the festivities. Sal directed them to the Main Hall, the Camp's primary structure aside from the varied barracks and outbuildings. The Main Hall was where the Camp's administrative offices were, where classes were held, and where the infirmary and the camp mess could be found.

  It also held the stockade, complete with its share of solitary cells, freshly cleaned and awaiting their occupants.

  Jaren and Menkal met them in the foyer of the Main Hall. Truth be told, neither of them looked like they needed to be there -- Jaren looked haggardly, and Menkal hungover, very hungover -- but Sal felt better having them there to keep him and Retzu in check. Besides it being a policy of the Unmarked that prisoners are to be treated fairly, yada yada, blah blah, it certainly wouldn't help the Cause's image if they were to take to tortures that even the Highest didn't endorse. Well, "officially" endorse, anyway.

  Sal led his prisoner to one cell, and pushed him heavily onto the bench seat that lined the far wall. Likely, his partner was assuming a similar position in the next room, courtesy of one gold-hilted shol'tuk. Jaren observed quietly from the shadows behind Sal, leaving the one-eyed mage front and center.

  With everything in place and the prisoner delivered soundly, Sal released his hold on Sapphire, and with it, the prisoner's bonds. With no magic feeding them strength, the ice cuffs popped and crackled, melting with the prisoner's body heat. The blue tint in Sal's left eye -- his singular gemstone eye -- bled away, and the world returned to its normal crystal clarity. He made no effort to hide this transformation from his assailant.

  It had the desired effect. The thug almost swallowed his tongue in fear.

  "What are you?!?"

  "Well, what I was was just another guy, out walking with his girlfriend, enjoying Long Harvest and the weather," Sal said casually, his tone taking on a hint of menace as he spoke. "That is, of course, until you and your boys went and messed it up. I mean, really. Can't a guy just have one day, one day, without some bozo... Never mind. You wouldn't understand the reference. Point is, why?"

  The thug, still reeling from the revelation of Sal being... whatever Sal was, made a valiant showing of his defiance. He screwed his face up at the question, his lips curling in a contemptuous, if slightly trembling, sneer. He straightened his back against the wall, puffing his chest out as far as a sitting man could, giving every indication that he would not talk.

  Unacceptable.

  Sal's blade was in his hand and laid across the thug's neck so fast that even Sal was impressed. "I mean, I've never met you before today, so I can't imagine what I've done to piss you off," he went on, maintaining his conversational tone, for all that he was seething on the inside. "To piss someone off means 'to stir one's ire', by the way. To make someone mad. To give offense. Ya know, kinda like what you did when you jumped a guy and his girlfriend who were just minding their own business.

  "Oh, hey, check this out," he changed tracks, twisting his katana against the thug's neck to show him his hilt. "I got this today. Pretty cool, huh? I started the day as a doeskin hilt, and you guys helped me jump over linen and earn my silk. Well, not you and your friend so much as the copper that you were working with. See, he was five hilts above me. Five hilts. And I kicked his butt." He paused for effect, locked eyes with his assailant, and drew in close. The smell of fear -- and onions -- grew thick in Sal's nose. "What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

  "I can't tell you anyfing," the thug blubbered, finally breaking. "I gots me family to worry bout. If I breaks me vows, dey'll eat 'em alive, dey will -- me kids, me wife, me girlie, the 'ole lot of 'em."

  "Who will?"

  "The Fellowship."

  "You're shol'tuk?"

  "I was gonna be," he said sourly. "Me and Leb was 'posed to hem in da artisan while Maxus took care of you. It woulda earned us the rawhide."

  "But why," Sal repeated. "Why me? Who put you up to it?"

  "I dunno why," the thug said. "And I can't say who. You can kill me if you like, but I gotta honor me vows and keep confidence wif me contract."

  Sal grit his teeth and sighed. He didn't know yet how to do that magical lie detector thing, but he didn't need to. He was sure this guy was telling the truth -- about the hit, and about his resolve in maintaining the secrecy of his contract.

  He made eye contact with Jaren, and jerked his head. The emerald appeared at Sal's side, arms crossed, face expressionless. "This is Jaren," Sal told the prisoner. "He'll be keeping an eye on you. Try not to do anything stupid. He can turn you into a puddle of goo before you can blink."

  * * *

  Sal stepped to the next cell, leaning against the door jamb and listening through the thick wooden portal as best he could. For the most part, the muffled discussion was unintelligible, but he would catch the occasional word spoken louder than the rest. Shol'tuk. Contract. Murder. Please. Sal remembered how Jaren had enhanced his hearing during their escape from Schel Veylin. He was pondering how he might replicate the spell when Retzu opened the door.

  "Get anything?" Sal asked.

  "Not much," the assassin replied, scrubbing his hands clean with a white handkerchief that was growing suspiciously red. He nodded to Menkal as the old man hobbled by, muttering something about needing a cup of blackbrew
. "He says that he and his partner Prau are unhilted shol'tuk," Retzu continued. "They were trying to get their rawhide hilt by standing guard for that copper, Maxus. He couldn't tell me who Maxus was apprenticed to, and he pulled tight as a bow string when I asked about his contract." He considered his bruised knuckled for a moment. "He was pretty insistent on keeping his silence."

  "Yeah, my guy too. He said that if he said anything, that the Fellowship would kill his family."

  Retzu shook his head. "Not hardly, mate. We may be assassins, but our order is founded on honor. Our contracts must be vetted, verified, and proven deserving of completion before they are accepted. Screw a contract up or snitch someone out... yeah, we'll make you regret it, but family is off limits. We don't spill innocent blood."

  "So you don't think they were shol'tuk?"

  "Nah, not these two minta'hks, anyway. All these threats upon pain of death... kinda counterproductive." The assassin snickered grimly. "The Fellowship is an honorable brotherhood, but an inherently violent one. How long would we survive -- to say nothing of growing our membership -- if every sodu was terrified of his sen'sia?" The assassin shook his head again, then changed direction. "That copper, on the other hand... He was shol'tuk, or at least, he used to be. His hilt was wrapped in proper fashion, with every detail observed. My guess is that he was a Freeblade, an apprentice who's been dishonorably released from his vows to the Fellowship. Either his master had died or he had done something unbecoming a shol'tuk -- probably the latter, moving the Fellowship to sever communion with him. He was lucky to still be alive," Retzu said, as an aside. "Well, until you got hold of him. When someone leaves the Fellowship, they're charged to never wear the katana again. To do so labels them a Freeblade, and subject to assassination. In my estimation, you honored the Fellowship today, whether you meant to or not."

  "Glad to be of service," Sal quipped wryly. "So where do we go from here?"

  "Well, we keep them for a few days, see what else we can squeeze out of them. They think they don't know anything, and I believe them in that. But they may not know what they know. They may prove useful yet. Also, I think I might have an idea on where to go with Maxus."

  "We're gonna check out the local guildhouse of the Fellowship of the Silent Blade, see if anyone knows him?"

  "Not 'we'. Me. You've had enough for one day, and I've got... history with the local guildhouse. I don't know how they'll take to me apprenticing a mage. Many see it as a conflict of interest, so I don't want you anywhere near the guildhouse until I'm satisfied they ain't gonna try and kill you. I think you've use up all your luck on that copper, mate." He paused, as if suddenly struck with inspiration. Sal felt dread settling in his stomach before the other spoke. "And speaking of luck, we need to make sure today doesn't happen again."

  Sal peaked his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "You were seriously overmatched today," Retzu clarified. "Whatever reason that copper had for killing you, he was in earnest. You are marked. And until we eliminate the contract holder, your life -- and Marissa's, apparently -- is in danger."

  "Aw c'mon, Retzu," Sal protested. "I just got the silk..."

  "And if you want to stay alive long enough to enjoy the promotion, we need to get you to iron as soon as possible."

  * * *

  Sal blustered at the suggestion of renewed training. Retzu couldn't blame him. He'd had precious little down time since the Earthen Ranks attacked Caravan all those many weeks previous, and now, having just been reunited with his fellows in the Cause, his master wasn't giving him an opportunity to enjoy it. Sal brought up the Archives and all that he'd hoped to find in there. He'd even fallen back on his diamond eye, and his desire to unlock the secret magics therein. But Retzu argued that unless the young mage honed his shol'tuk skills, he might not live long enough to see either desire a reality. To Sal's credit, he swallowed his frustration with very little prompting, though Retzu could almost feel waves of heat rolling off him as he turned and stalked away. He smiled grimly as he wiped blood from his bruised knuckles.

  ...and froze, considering. It wasn't the pain in his joints from the interrogation that gave him pause. Nor was it the blood that Leb had so rudely splattered him with. It was the darkness he spied between his knuckles, his fingers, the shadows that the purplish bruises could only hint at, the shadows that had been growing on the inside ever since...

  "Enough of that," Retzu said, scrubbing his eyes. He'd never tolerated such weakness in himself before. He wouldn't succumb to it now. Too many people needed... well, Reit, but Reit wasn't here. Caravan -- Reit's people -- weren't safe as long as the Freeblade's master remained hidden. Retzu wanted nothing to do with leadership, but this... this, he was good at. Who better to track down a would-be killer than the best killer his guild had to offer?

  He stuck his head into the other occupied cell and bid Jaren to lock up after he and Menkal were through with the prisoners, and set off for Bastion. He had people to see, people to whom he owed a long overdue visit. He felt his blood rising in anticipation as he went -- his mind on his 'tana and his 'tana on his mind, as Sal had oddly put it -- and wondered if Sal's training and advancement toward iron wasn't the best thing for the both of them, right now. Sal did need to improve his skills, it was true, but Retzu also needed an outlet, and these prisoners just weren't enough. He needed something to do, something to give him a moment's peace, in this time when peace was so hard for him to find. He looked forward to losing himself behind the business end of his blade, paring off against his sodu. The mindless oblivion of battle soothed him, drained away every pain, every thought beyond what was necessary to survive the next moment. No need to think, no need to exist beyond the blade, the hilt, the fist.

  No need to feel.

  * * *

  "It's not fair!" Sal ranted, the childishness of his complaint humiliating him all the more for his agreement with it. "I mean, there's too much to do. The Cause needs whatever information I can squeeze out of the Archives, for one. And if I'm ever gonna become this prophesied Prism, I gotta learn how to wield Diamond, which means I gotta learn how to wield Granite, which I can't do if I'm working on my dang hilts!"

  "So just don't do it," Marissa suggested.

  "I can't just not do it. He's my master. I'm his apprentice. It's a thing."

  "What's the worst that could happen?"

  Her question was innocuous, and he knew that she was just acting as his sounding board, as was her way, but the question hit him wrong. He knew it wasn't her fault, wasn't the source of his frustrations, but he couldn't help but be infuriated.

  He stopped, hands akimbo, and looked at her incredulously. "I could get dismissed from the Fellowship of the Silent Blade. It may not seem like a big deal, since he's the only assassin I know, but he's so driven by honor that I might as well know every last one of them. I'd be labeled a Freeblade before the day is out. Yeah, I just learned what that was this morning. What an awesome concept. It means I can be put to death if I ever touch a katana again. A soldier. In this world. Unable to pick up a sword. Nice, huh? Or I guess I could be punished in some way that only shol'tuk that are out of their mind with grief can come up with. Or I could... undermine him."

  His voice tapered off as the words left his tongue. There it was, right there in front of him. He wasn't afraid of being made a mark. He was already a marked man in someone's book. Today's events made that clear. And he wasn't afraid of being excommunicated from the Fellowship, an order that he only knew through Retzu. He was perfectly fine with putting down his katana and never picking it back up again. He was a diamond mage -- or, at least, he would be one day. He could do that sorta thing.

  But for all that defying his sen'sia didn't faze him, undermining his friend -- undermining the person who everybody looked to to fill Reit's shoes -- that bothered him. The man was already fighting leadership of the Cause, tooth and nail. He was going out of his way to deny that it was his place, his duty, to take over where his brother had left off. He was so twis
ted with grief that he couldn't see straight, and Sal undermining him could be just the excuse he needed to walk away from it all, to abandon his twin's work and everybody that depended upon him, and go back to life as an uber ninja with no name.

  It wasn't fair.

  "Well, then, what can we do about it?" Marissa asked calmly, relentless as ever. Every time Sal wanted to collapse in a heap of his own misery, she doggedly dragged him back into the fight and pushed him on.

  God love her.

  Sal chewed on his lip in thought. "Maybe I can delegate some responsibility -- find somebody to do my homework for me."

  "Home work?"

  "Be glad you don't know that one," Sal said wryly.

  * * *

  Delana saw the pair coming long before they entered the tent, Sal's distinctive skeletal structure and singular gemstone eye giving him away, which in turn gave Marissa away. The amethyst scrubbed her eyes free of tears, and smooth her skirts out. She refrained from casting a glance over her shoulder at Reit's wagon, arranged near the back side of the tent for safe keeping, and instead awaited her attendants.

  "Heya," Sal said quietly as he came in, holding the curtain back for Marissa. A smile crept across her face that she wasn't quite sure she felt, but she didn't mind. If anyone deserved one of her increasingly rare smiles, it was these two.

  They made an obvious effort to not look toward the back of the tent, their intentional disinterest drawing Delana's attention anyway. Her smile faltered.

  "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  "We understand that amethysts are apt pupils," Marissa said.

  "Indeed we are," she said, perking up. "It's said that Amethyst, being the soulgem of Energy, makes our minds sharper, more capable of seeing and learning things that might escape other people. We tend to be very observant, and have keen memories. Sometimes to a fault," she added, in spite of herself.