Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2)

by Jeremy Bullard

  "Hmm..." she purred as she inspected the ring, sniffed it, flicked it with her tongue. "Vi'zrithi design, I'm certain of it. Or the Maw Lands or the Outer Reaches, but they're largely vi'zrithi as well. I've something of an eye for jewelry, artifacts, and the like, and this piece doesn't adhere to any of the styles of the Mainland or the Mandible."

  "The vi'zrith?" Delana repeated, her heart sinking.

  "I'm afraid so, dear. You could try and find a vi'zrith in Bastion, but this far inland, it'd be easier to find a dragon scale in a rock quarry. Your best bet is to go back to Stormhold."

  Chapter 8

  Sal held his breath as he twisted the drunk's arm behind his back. Even so, the pungent mixture of unwashed body and stale grog stung his eyes. If Sal's prisoner received any blessing at all from the Crafter that night, it would be the complimentary bathing that he'd be treated to.

  Sal shook his head in amazement. If the previous three days of Harvest had been chaotic for Bastion, Long Harvest was virtual anarchy. Fights broke out on a whim. Thefts were boldly perpetrated, without care for who might be watching. As were bawdy acts of affection. Screams cut sharply above the raucous laughter, and it was hard sometimes to determine whether they were screams of pain or pleasure. Or both. Harvest may well have been the combined equivalent of Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas in his old world, but Long Harvest was more like Mardi Gras in the French Quarter.

  "One more for ya," he called to no one in particular, binding the current miscreant's wrists in cuffs of ice.

  Hafi stepped over to receive the prisoner. The sapphire extended an ebony hand, grabbing the meaty portion of his arm roughly. "Try me," he whispered dangerously, his lips forming a grin that never touched his icy blue eyes. "I dare you."

  The whimper that escaped the drunk's quivering lips told Sal that the dare would go unmet. He did his best not to belly-laugh as the menacing Mandiblean led the man away. I bet that's the last time he grabs a wench's---

  "There you are," came a familiar Onatae accent.

  Sal turned to meet his emerald friend, groaning in spite of himself. "Tribean. I've been trying for an hour to get down to the Cooper's Horde for a meat pie. Please don't tell me you need something."

  "Yeah, I hear Jor'ash is selling them two for one tonight," the mage said. "Well then, this will be... in the alley?"

  "Up your alley," Sal corrected.

  "Right. I just spoke to Ged. He and Netahl are in the smith district just west of the Horde, and they just saw a fist of ruffians roaming the area, looking like so much bad news. Not doing anything, mind you, just... waiting." Tribean paused, then added, "One of the wenches overheard them talking. They claimed to be shol'tuk hopefuls."

  That got Sal's attention. Thugs, claiming to be shol'tuk? That sounded awfully familiar.

  He clapped Tribean on the shoulder and said, "Join me for a meat pie afterward?"

  * * *

  Sal led the way through the back streets north of the Concourse, with Tribean and Kiri'tsa taking rear guard. The flow of traffic parted easily for them as they moved with purpose toward the Cooper's Horde. One Rank Unmarked might go unnoticed among the celebrants of Long Harvest. Two Unmarked together might draw a curious eye. But three Unmarked, clearly on a mission? Few Bastionites wanted any part of that, drunk or not.

  "Ged, where are the thugs now?" Sal asked, his sapphire earring freeing his green-tinted diamond eye of the responsibility.

  Three blocks north, one block west of the Cooper's Horde.

  "Have they done anything yet?"

  No sir, came the reply. It was hard to tell through the earring, but Sal thought he caught a sense of the mage's uncertainty, his unease, through the connection. They're just standing there, arms crossed, backs propped against the wall, staring down everybody that passes.

  "Okay, we'll be there...

  "...in just a second," Sal finished as they rounded the corner to Ged's rear.

  The young sapphire snapped around, a startled grin spreading across his unkempt chin. "You're lucky I was expecting you," he bluffed. "I'd have frozen you solid otherwise."

  "Sure you would, farm boy," Kiri joked. "You're a regular coiled spring, you are."

  "Where's Netahl?" Sal asked.

  "Off helping a pair of drunkards. They had a friend that they couldn't rouse, so he went to offer his emerald services."

  "That our group?" Tribean asked, pointing across the street. Sal followed the emerald's finger to five rough looking men, congregating near a neatly designed home, though by the look of the overgrown lawn, Sal guessed that the owner had fallen onto hard times.

  "Yeah," Ged answered. "It's almost Second Watch, and they've been there since about Watchset."

  Sal stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Got something seedy going on inside, maybe?"

  "A good bet," Tribean said. "How do you want to---"

  Kiri didn't wait for the emerald to finish the thought. She rounded the deliberating mages and headed straight for the house, her purposeful stride morphing into a saunter somewhere along the way. Sal bit back an oath. "I could throttle her," he hissed. "Get down, guys. Let's see what happens."

  "Heya, boys," she said smokily, gliding close to the fist of thugs. To a man, they stood straighter as she approached. Sal heard a dry cough over his shoulder, an uncomfortable clearing of the throat, but he didn't turn around. He simply stared, unblinking, himself enchanted by the transformation. Clearly, the young lady had no need of her ruby magic to bewitch a man.

  "Th-the wind k-k-kisses the wh-wheat," one of the thugs stammered.

  "And the stalks... sway," Kiri replied coyly, sliding closer.

  "What can we do to help the wind bring seed to new fields?" said another street tough, chortling through his gap-toothed leer. The others added their crude laughter to his, and closed in a circle around the ruby.

  "She's touching her soulgem," Ged spat under his breath.

  Sal switched to his emerald second sight, and Kiri's form, shadowed by dark and distance, ignited with vitality. The ruby aura of her eyes showed brilliantly, even with her back turned to Sal, offering a cheery crimson counterpoint to her green-glowing vitals. That crimson pulsed dangerously, eagerly, like the heartbeat of a tiger preparing to pounce. Sal groaned. Those meat pies at the Horde were getting further away with every passing second. Dangit.

  "No swords," he instructed. "Not unless they pull first. Magic and unarmed combat only. I want them alive." The other Unmarked answered their assent.

  "Well, a friend of mine was attacked earlier today by a couple of unsavory men claiming to be shol'tuk," Kiri continued, subtly teasing the the thugs. "Now, an apprentice never acts without a master, so I was wondering if a couple of street wise, obviously resourceful men like yourselves could point me in the right direction? I would be... very grateful..."

  The thugs guffawed roughly.

  Hungrily, Sal thought. "Get ready..."

  Without warning, the sapphire earring barked painfully in Sal's ear.

  Don't! It's a---

  "Patrys?" Sal hissed urgently.

  The ringing in his ear dissipated grudgingly. Sal wielded Emerald, speeding up the process. Next to him, he saw Ged on his knees, his eyes glazed with pain, no doubt from feeling the full brunt of Patrys' outburst. Looking up, Sal found Kiri already engaging the ruffians, with Tribean rushing to her aid.

  "Ambush!" Sal shouted, pulling his katana as he half-ran, half-stumbled to join the fray. Two more fists of hooligans closed in from either side a moment later. The jig is up, Sal thought sardonically.

  His vision blazed verdant as he wielded Emerald and loosed himself upon the thugs. The green aura of emerald magic spread throughout Sal's body and down into his blade, as it had in defense of Caravan so many weeks ago. As before, the magic both healed him and sped up the decomposition of his targets. He didn't take time to form any specific spells, didn't direct the magic to take any specific action. He simply filled himself to the brim, and allowed Emerald to do what it woul
d.

  Blade met flesh, again and again, and men became corpses, rotting as they fell in upon themselves. Sal was distantly aware of magic being wielded -- acid, ice, fire -- as he hacked and slashed his way to the center of the melee, but he could see nothing beyond his bloodlust. His entire existence narrowed to just two elements, allies and enemies, and he dispatched his enemies with horrifying efficiency.

  Fifteen attackers quickly became ten, then seven, then three. Sal ran the first through, the decomposing body hitting the cobbles with more of a squish than a thud. He pulled his sword easily from the liquefied chest and jabbed the silken hilt of his katana straight back into the sternum of the second goon, who landed on his back heavily. Whatever became of their one remaining assailant, Sal neither knew nor cared. His prize lay before him, and it was time to collect. He fell knee first upon the thug's chest, and the big man deflated with a whoosh. Sal's blade was at his throat before he could even wrestle another breath.

  With extreme effort, Sal shook the cobwebs of battle from his mind. He saw the other remaining attacker, similarly pinned to the ground, courtesy of a certain ruby Plainswoman. Tribean and Ged looked on, ready to give aid wherever needed.

  Sal turned his attention back to his opponent for a moment. "Give me a reason," he dared. Satisfied that the thug wouldn't be taking him up on his offer, Sal raised a hand to his sapphire earring.

  "Patrys, report."

  Sal waited for the young sapphire to reply, reciting his hilts once more in the interim.

  She didn't answer.

  "Patrys?" he called again, and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  * * *

  Sal and Ged spared no time in binding the remaining pair in shackles of sapphire-wrought ice, with matching chin straps holding their jaws shut and their cries for rescue relatively silent. That done, Sal stepped back and let Tribean and Kiri approach. They set about interrogating the pair at once, trying their hand at some magical version of good cop, bad cop.

  Sal turned away and cleared his mind as best he could. Patrys had tried to warn him about the ambush, but she was cut off in mid Whisper. Now she wasn't answering his call. That couldn't be good news.

  "Hafi?"

  Yes sir.

  "Patrys tried to warn us of an ambush a moment ago."

  I know, I felt it. The message was so full of anger and... fear, I guess. Felt like somebody was peeling my brain for eel fin salad. He paused, then Whispered, How was she able to reach us all like that? I've never heard of---

  "Not important right now, Hafi. Right now, we need to find her. Where was she at, last time she checked in?"

  Sal waited impatiently as the sapphire sorting through the varied details that he'd received, catalogued, and amended as the night had progressed. Uhhh... Her last check in was about two hours ago, not long after Watchset. She and Cedric spotted a pair of seedy looking fellows over by the Galley Rat.

  "Two hours. Good gravy, she could be anywhere by now." He sighed. What was the point of having comms -- magical or otherwise -- if they didn't check in more often than that? "Did she say anything else?"

  I'm afraid not, sir.

  "Understood. If you have somebody in the area, send them toward the Galley Rat. And send me everyone in the vicinity of the Cooper's Horde."

  At once.

  "And Hafi? There's something going on here. Festival goers don't just organize twenty some-odd strong ambushes. Pass the word for everyone to check in with their superiors every fifteen minutes. I don't care if they're on the active patrol, minding the brig, or standing watch at the barracks. Fun's over."

  So your attack by the warehouses wasn't an isolated incident. The magic-borne thought was more a statement than a question.

  "Nope. I don't know what's going on yet, but it's safe to assume that we're under attack."

  Pretty small attack, if that's the case, Hafi remarked.

  "Not for Patrys and Cedric. It's obvious that they were targeted, just like I was at the warehouse." He paused and took in the two still-living assailants, shivering in their frozen bonds. "And just like we were near the Horde. This was planned, and I'll bet my stipend that there's more coming."

  * * *

  Retzu sat lightly upon the shingles, cloaked in shadow, as he watched the ebb and flow of life in the streets below. He'd hoped to steal a moment with Fila -- perhaps more than a moment -- but she, like everybody else in this city, had run off into the night, chasing after whatever diversions struck their fancy. He'd caught the barest glimpse of her leaving the guildhouse before she disappeared, vanishing like the vapor of a dream. She was a copper-hilt, and the daughter of one of the greatest shol'tuk that Retzu had ever known. He should've expected nothing less. But he had hoped.

  He took a pull from the bottle in his hand and turned his eyes back to the Unmarked. There had to be a score of them at least -- pardon, a squad, to use the lingo -- headquartered around the massive marble pillar that stood in the middle of the Quad. The Stone of Ysra. It stood as a monument to that day in the future when the Ysreans, the Lost Ones, would supposedly be found. "By what?" he whispered around the mouth of his spirits bottle. "None o' my business."

  Come and go the Unmarked did, come and go, come and go, as if Long Harvest were a military operation and not a rare extension of the most cherished of all Festivals. Sal was bound and determined to see that his followers not have any fun.

  His cheeks flushed warm under the influence of the drink, and his eyes wavered slightly. Three bottles in -- four, as soon as he drained this one -- and the effect was barely noticeable. He cursed. He wasn't sure whether to curse that pitiful excuse for swill or his abominable, indomitable, shol'tuk resolve, but something was keeping him from getting drunk, and it was in bad need of cursing.

  The buzz around the Stone increased dramatically. A number of mages had fallen to their knees, screaming and clawing at their heads. After a few minutes of chaos, one of the Unmarked -- a sapphire, if Retzu wasn't mistaken -- started barking orders. He was too far away, and Long Harvest too festive, for the assassin to hear clearly, but the impression he gave was clear. Something serious had happened, and the Unmarked needed to move in force. Even as the leader issued his commands, a large body of Unmarked broke off and hurried toward the warehouse district. At over a mile away, Retzu could cover that distance in ten minutes flat -- eight, if he stuck to the rooftops. A group of Unmarked that size, cutting through Festival-clogged streets? Twenty minutes, and hard-earned at that.

  He had plenty of time.

  He looked long at his flask, over half full, before thumbing the stopper and cramming the bottle into one of his ever-present pouches. He didn't regret not finishing off the contents. It wasn't doing any good anyhow.

  He gently brushed the gems lining the turned down cuff of his boot, activating the varied spells with a brief flash of color. He stood and torqued his boots briefly, testing the spells, then launched himself to the next available rooftop.

  The boots made traveling the darkened skyward paths of the city almost too easy, magically boosting the power of his legs and decreasing his effective weight. He skipped lightly from shingle to wood slat to thatch, then back to shingle as he made his way west. He leapt alleyways and smaller streets with ease, and even tackled a divided lane or two without difficulty.

  The detachment of Unmarked turned north into the general residential areas of Bastion -- an area too "clean" to belong to the Commons but too common to belong to the patriarchs. He felt as light as a feather and as swift as a pegasus, but even his amazing boots had their limits. Even the great Retzu and his magical boots couldn't jump the Learned Concourse. Skipping over another street, he briefly dropped down into an adjoining alley and made his way to the north side of the thoroughfare, then returned to the rooftops.

  He scrambled up a short wall adjacent to a brief perch to the acme of the next building and continued north. The section was expansive, and ringed with a parapet. It was almost certainly a
n inn for the well to do. He was scouting his next roof when he spied a shadow out of the corner of his eye, heading west along the rooftops. It was gone as soon as he'd seen it, but he knew exactly what it was -- a shol'tuk.

  To his north, he saw the Unmarked detachment turn west, almost as if it were following the roof-tripping shadow.

  But... they weren't following the shadow. They couldn't even see the assassin, prancing across the rooftops as he was. The shol'tuk was racing them to their destination.

  A cold lump settled in his stomach as the truth dawned on him. The thugs that attacked Sal had been shol'tuk -- or, at least, led by one. The fact that Maxus was a Freeblade mattered not a bit. The shol'tuk artform was just as deadly in the hands of a traitor as it was in the hands of the Hidden Triad. If this assassin had Sal marked as Maxus had...

  Retzu changed direction in midstep, giving chase to the now vanished shadow.

  He cleared the parapet and the alley beyond, landing easily on the lower roof of the adjacent shop. The shadow continued his dance, skirting the varied smithy stacks and bakery chimneys with skill and silence. Retzu made quick work of the elevated obstacle course himself, gaining meager but hard-fought ground as he went.

  The assassin's course took him over a narrow street. He cleared the avenue, but just barely, landing unevenly on the residence across the way. Retzu again blessed D'prox for gifting him with magical boots, thrilling at the cool night wind, blowing his hair back as he effortlessly vaulted the street.

  He caught sight of the assassin again, some three houses west of him. The shadow dropped to a crouch as he ran across the roof, finally hunkering down along the north side of a gable. He unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, drawing it across his flattened body to launch into the street below.