Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "Uh, right," Sal said, looking even more uncomfortable than he did when he'd first come in. "Here's the thing. My training with Retzu's about to get more intense, but I also need to go through the Archives and see what there is to find there. But I can't be in two places at once, so..."

  "So you want me to find a stand-in for you," she finished for him. "Somebody who can search the Archives in your place, and teach you what he learns."

  "Yeah."

  "I'm sure any one of my amethysts would be more than happy to help."

  "I'm looking for a specific kind of amethyst," Sal clarified. "Somebody like Keth and me, who's not bound up with what he already knows. If I've learned anything about this world, it's that what you guys know really gets in the way of what you can learn. Does that sound like anybody to you?"

  Delana pursed her lips in thought. "Not immediately, no," she admitted. "All of my amethysts have been to the Academy. Most of the ones that haven't number among your Unmarked, and I don't know any of them. I wish I could be more help."

  "No, that's fine," Sal assured her. "If you would, though, chew on it for a little while and see if you can come up with anything."

  Chew on... It had to have been one of Sal's idioms. He could come up with the strangest sayings. "I will," she promised.

  She watched them as they left, stepping back out into the midafternoon sun. Likely as not, they would head back into the city to enjoy what was left of Long Harvest.

  She turned back to Reit, to gaze once more upon his face, still peaceful in death, still pink now days since his passing. She allowed her vision to slip back into its magical spectrum, and Reit's body came alive with auric residue, just as powerful and as present as it had been when the magics that created it had been wielded.

  "Well, love, it appears that I'm still needed, for a few more days at least," she said to the spectre of her dead husband, as if he heard. As if he could respond.

  * * *

  The sun hit Sal's face hard as he left the tent, shining cheerfully, relentlessly. Such a beautiful day, even ignoring the fact that it was Long Harvest, and it was going to waste. Bastion's gates loomed large at the end of the dirt path to the north. Sal sighed. It would be so easy to take that walk, so easy to just abandon all of his worries and gather Marissa up and go party what was left of the day away.

  "You're not going to do it," Marissa said with certainty, reading his thoughts. "I won't let you. There's too much to do."

  "But Long Harvest only comes once every four years."

  "And this is your first one. It's not like you know what you're missing. That's not what this is about, is it."

  It wasn't a question. Sal deflated. "All I wanted was to show you a good time."

  Marissa's smile positively glowed. "And you did. You do. Constantly. But you're a man with responsibilities. You've got a small army to run. You've got a soulgem to become acquainted with. You've got a sword to become better acquainted with. And you've got a contract on your head, with no idea who wants you dead. Well, not specifically. How much time for frivolity does that leave you?"

  Sal shrugged. "At least I can do something about that contract."

  "How? Retzu's already left to speak to the Fellowship. He made it fairly clear that he didn't want you following him."

  "Oh, I won't be following him, don't you worry about that," he smirked.

  "Then what are you planning to do?" she asked, his smile infecting her.

  His eyes took on a mischievous cast. "Off the top of your head, what can you tell me about Sapphire's ability to put people at ease?"

  Chapter 6

  Menkal walked slowly back to the Main Hall, sipping his blackbrew gingerly. He moaned in bliss as the bitter draught washed over his tongue, refreshing his bones and driving back that infernal headache. He had never quite figured out whether it was the taste or the heat of blackbrew that made it such a cure for ails. Sal had said it was a substance called ka'feen. But whatever it was, the old sapphire counted it an elixir, poured from the cup of the Crafter Himself. He knew better than to swear never to touch a drop of ale again -- he was too foolish to discipline himself to something so wise -- but as long as he had a pot of blackbrew to stave off the headaches---

  Good day, milord Sapphire, a voice boomed in his head.

  Not so loud! the old mage groaned, and his eyes crossed as his skull beat out a rhythm in protest at the intrusion. When the thunderous headache finally faded to a low rumble, he drew together the tattered rags of his civility. And good day to you, too, mistress...

  Eshira.

  Menkal paused. The name wasn't totally unfamiliar, and it seems he had heard that voice before. The green dragon from yesterday?

  Caducean, she clarified. "Green dragon" sounds so juvenile. But yes, the same. Athnae asked me to serve as your liaison, to instruct you in all things draconian, and to be a dedicated point of contact between the Flight and the Cause.

  The Flight? Menkal felt the sense of pride, of belonging that Eshira had for the word.

  The dragon collective. The term itself can mean many things -- our people as a whole, a specific group of dragons, or what have you. In this case, it means our governing council. We are among the few races not enthralled to the Shadow Mage, so we enjoy true self-government -- not the farce that humans must suffer. You've met our Sire -- Aplos, Heir of Lycahtris. He and our First Wings govern much our race.

  Much of your race? There are those that the Flight does not govern?

  There are, she said simply.

  Menkal toyed with the idea of trying to tease more out of her, but he had more pressing matters. He mounted the steps to the Main Hall gingerly, so as to not spill his blackbrew, then turned down the hall leading to the stockade. You actually caught me in the middle of something. Perhaps you could help me?

  Of course, Eshira piped up eagerly.

  Excellent. One of our friends was attacked this morning, and we were able to capture two of the attackers alive. Now, we've questioned them, but they gave us precious little. I was going to try and use Sapphire to see if I can get anything else out of him, but I was wondering, since dragons seem to all be able to speak to the wind, even without Sapphire, you might be able to...

  The mage stopped dead in his tracks as he rounded the corner to the stockade, and found the door to the first cell thrown wide open.

  ...help us track the prisoner down? he finished lamely.

  * * *

  The bustle of the streets soothed Retzu, coating his frayed nerves like a balm. Stepping from the Mainway into the decidedly darker backstreets of the Commons didn't hold the trepidation for him that it might others. For many, the hard and fast world of the Commons was something to be feared, where death was often a bladestroke away, and for something so trivial as a few gold. But for Retzu, that hard shell covered a soft underbelly, a world far more honest than what "civilization" had to offer. Out in the "civilized" world, men wore masks, as surely as they did here, only their masks covered their hearts, not merely their faces. Here, men stole your money, true, and perhaps even your life. But there, men stole your worth, so that you died long before your body did. None of that made Retzu hate the injustices of the Commons any less, but there was an authenticity to be found here, among the harlot's catcalls and the cutpurse's sleight of hand. People were certainly no more trustworthy in the Commons than they were the Academy and among the patriarchs -- many of which he himself had serviced -- but at least here, a man knew who his enemy was.

  Which was everyone but himself.

  The conspicuous lack of clutter in the winding lane was testimony to the civilization that nevertheless found its way into the seedy corners of Bastion. Ceramic pipes attached firmly to the outside of the buildings spoke of the myriad Commons Revitalization projects, where every twenty years or so, the patriarchs chose to express their magnanimity by graciously offering indoor sanitation to their lessers. The cracks in the piping, bleeding brownish liquid, suggested how close they might be to the next
round of twenty years.

  Retzu continued down the lane, blithely ignoring the calls of harlots and hustlers alike, each peddling their respective wares. He finally came to a building where the ceramic piping was in much better repair. The curtains on the ground level were pulled tightly closed, revealing nothing inside. A street tough sat at his ease in a chair on the front stoop, seemingly ignoring the passage of the world beyond his pulled hood. Retzu knew better.

  "Death approaches, my friend," the thug said ominously, raising his hood just enough to take in the newcomer as he walked up.

  "Here am I," Retzu replied.

  The ruffian looked him over a moment longer, then rapped on the door twice, then twice more. The door swung open to reveal an unlighted foyer. Retzu entered without a word, leaving the guard to his duties.

  Beyond the foyer, the house betrayed an opulence that was at stark odds with the side of town it occupied. Shelves of books lined the walls of the sitting room, speaking to eons of stored knowledge and successful business practices. Expensive looking drapes hung behind the meager curtains, casting the library in utter darkness, save for the torches in their sconces and a cheery fire on the hearth. A wispy copper, her hair braided tightly in the fashion of shol'tuk females, approached him, casually but cautiously. Shol'tuk had a way of hiding lethal skills within carefree mannerisms, and the young lady was no exception. To the untrained eye, there was nothing to separate her from any other dainty lass, but to Retzu, she appeared a blade with an edge keen enough to cut a moonbeam longways.

  "Good afternoon, Retzu-tau," she said.

  He paused, the girl's voice striking him as strangely familiar. "You wouldn't be... Fila, would you?"

  "You remembered," she beamed, her smile dulling the steel in her eyes only slightly, but noticeably.

  "How could I forget. You were your father's daughter in every way. And now, even more," he added appreciatively, eyeing the copper hilt. "I guess Fila-mau would be your proper address now?"

  "Please," she snickered. "Just Fila."

  "Is the old man around?"

  "Yes," she said, then hesitated. "He's a little upset that it's taken you this long to stop by."

  Retzu adopted a look of utter innocence. She returned a look that told him that she was not convinced.

  "I guess I'd better go explain myself," he sighed.

  She led him up the stairs in the foyer to the second floor landing. Rather than continue to the third floor, she veered off, choosing one of the doors opposite the staircase. It opened to a study of sorts, complete with book shelves on either side and a desk in the center, stacked nearly to the ceiling in papers and bric-a-brac. A fireplace occupied the far wall, with two shol'tuk, a man and a woman, seated on either side of it, sipping tankards and laughing heartily. Both adherents looked up at the sound of the door. They never missed a beat in their revelry, but Retzu knew it was a ploy. Even at their worst, both assassins could kill, quickly and quietly, at less than a moment's notice.

  "It's about time," the man boomed. He shook his bald head in mock disappointment, his beard and braided mustaches making wispy noises as they brushed his leather cuirass, bulging outward from his barrel chest.

  "Sen'sia D'prox," Retzu nodded to the man, then turned to his companion. "And Trista-mau. The years are certainly being gracious."

  "Silver-tongued minta'hk," the middle-aged assassin replied, though not unkindly. "I'd ask what you were buttering me up for, but I really don't care. I'll take the compliments where I can get them."

  "He's right, you know," D'prox commented, drawing a chortle and a backhanded slap.

  "Don't you dare ride his coat tails, Brightblade," she warned. "You've got to come up with your own pleasantries."

  "Yes, dear," D'prox placated, kissing her gently. "Now if I may have a moment with our recalcitrant brother?"

  "I suppose," she purred. She stood and whisked toward the door, the silver of her hilt catching the firelight as she came up. "Don't kill him before we have a chance to catch up."

  He chuckled darkly as the door closed behind Trista and Fila. "I'll try," he muttered, "but no promises."

  "Silver?" Retzu asked under his breath, confused.

  "Yeah, I'm sure we'll get around to it," D'prox said. "Well, come on in, boy, lemme get a look at you."

  Retzu smiled and embraced his former master... though not so carelessly that he didn't scrutinize the twitch of every muscle, the pop of every joint, as he did so.

  "You're still on your toes," D'prox said with approval.

  "I have to be, sen'sia," Retzu replied.

  "Fah! I'm not your master anymore."

  "As long as you wear that contemptible gold hilt you are, tau," he countered.

  "Contemptible? You wear one yourself!"

  "But I'm rightly a gold hilt, tau. Big difference."

  The big man rumbled with laughter. "Ah, my kingdom for the days when I could just roam the countryside, free of care, with Trista and Fila by my side... and whatever man I found suitable to court her. You know, she is of age..."

  "Not a chance. I got enough enemies without adding you to the list."

  D'prox's smile faded a bit at that. "Yeah, I heard. I'm so sorry about Reit, my boy. He was a fine lad -- and even finer, for him to keep your feet on the straight and narrow."

  "Thanks," Retzu said softly, trying to maintain composure at the mention of his brother. "Seems like your eyes and ears are as sharp as they've ever been...?"

  "Yes. Sharp enough to hear about you breaking into the Archives. A fine piece of work, that. Also, I know that you've taken a mage as an apprentice," he said with disapproval. "Reit's Cause was -- is -- an honorable one, so I give you as much leeway as I can, but that..."

  "Well, to be fair, he wasn't a mage when he became my sodu. He ascended after."

  That took D'prox aback. "How? Surely he is of age. How did he manage to avoid the Tiled Hand for so long?"

  "That's a long story for another day, tau. Suffice it to say, it is an honorable apprenticeship, and it's my privilege to have him as my sodu." He took a breath, giving his sen'sia the opportunity to rebut and rebuke. When the elder assassin stayed silent, Retzu continued. "But right now, I'm here on other matters."

  D'prox nodded grimly. "The attack in the warehouse district."

  "Do you know anything about it?"

  "Only that Maxus was involved. I don't know how or why he got mixed up in that minta'hk filth," the older assassin lamented. "He was such a promising shol'tuk. He was long in his copper hilt -- I'd say only a year or so away from the gold. And he and Fila..." He shook his head sorrowfully.

  "Did she take it hard?"

  D'prox eyed him askance, and scoffed. "Only that she didn't get the chance to run him through herself. She was well past being infatuated with him. She liked him, but this life doesn't lend itself well to attachment."

  Retzu nodded knowingly. "How long had be been Freeblade?"

  "Hard to say," D'prox shrugged. "He never officially severed ties, and we certainly didn't release him. He'd been gone for months, and we hadn't heard news of him from any other guildhouse. And then a package arrived for Trista back around Courting, containing some old hilt windings, up through brass. Of course, all of the adherents out of our guildhouse were accounted for but Maxus, so we had little doubt what the windings meant." The elder assassin took a long pull from is tankard, and rubbed the foam from his mustaches. "He was Trista's sodu. He's why she traded her gold hilt in for silver. That any shol'tuk should go Freeblade is unthinkable, but for it to be her own sodu... it got her thinking that she's good for nothing but book keeping. And after all she'd done for him and his family, too..."

  "Family?"

  "House Cyphem, here in Bastion. The family was once powerful, influential among the patriarchs, but they'd fallen on hard times. A few of them left for the Southern Plains about a hundred years back, and then moved on to Schel Veylin. One of them, Maxus' great aunt, actually made a name for herself there. Got a ladyship a
nd everything."

  "A ladyship in Veylin? Who was she?"

  "Bralla du'Cyphem. She married a fellow in the Highest's employ -- a granite named Nestor Veis."

  * * *

  Sal followed Prau at a distance, his former assailant completely oblivious to his presence. He hadn't quite been able to figure out how to use Sapphire to hypnotize the thug, but he had been able to encourage the thug toward forgetfulness. It worked so well, in fact, that near the end of their "discussion", Sal had difficulty maintaining Prau's focus. It really was a wonder that Prau had gathered enough wits about himself to escape at all. For a while there, Sal thought he might have to release the thug himself. But thankfully, a conveniently inattentive prisoner detail and a huge hole in the perimeter patrol was all it took for the dastardly villain to make good his dastardly escape.

  Once Prau was out of the Main Hall, Sal thought he'd turn north toward the city. Instead, he hooked to the south, following the traderoad that ran parallel to the shoreline of the island. They passed field after field, farm after farm, for the better part of an hour, with Ysre dwindling behind them until, finally, only the tallest buildings remained visible in the distance, poking above the trees sporadically.

  Eventually the road split, with one branch continuing southwest and the other winding through the trees to the east. Prau took this eastern path, and Sal followed, hanging back in case the thug's benefactor was nearby.

  Just as well that he had, as the path led straight to the base of the Granite Spire.

  He'd heard stories of the tower back at Camp, tales of mystery and woe for those mages foolish enough to venture upon the outpost. The Spire was at least three hundred feet tall, probably taller, and about a third of that wide at ground level and tapering slightly, though never coming to point. It's surface was pocked with arrowslit windows spaced throughout the length of the tower, narrower near the base, slightly wider the further up you got. Oddly, it had no visible doorway at its base. It seemed an impenetrable fortress, and yet Prau walked straight on as if the wall itself would open up.