She shook her head slowly, and spun toward Bastion, hoping against hope that nobody would notice her exit.
The road north passed through a stand of spiked sawhorses that served as minimalist barriers around the Camp. The sawhorses stood open where they crossed the north road, the breach guarded by two Unmarked emeralds that Patrys only knew in passing. They stood ready, spears in hand, giving far too much weight to their meager assignment. Their attention panned north and south, taking in the Camp, the road, and the surrounding areas quickly and efficiently. Nothing escaped their notice.
Except Patrys. As she edged between the Unmarked, their gaze passed over her -- through her -- as effortlessly as a spring breeze through a meadow. It was as if their eyes skated over a hole in the air. As if she weren't even there.
Patrys crinkled her brows in confusion. Why...?
As one, the guards leapt, finally noticing her. "Halt!" one shouted, leveling his spear at her before his partner put out a restraining hand. "Sanjey, wait," he urged. "Her throat..."
The other, Sanjey, swallowed hard as realization hit him. "Apologies, Patrys. I didn't... I mean... you kinda snuck up on us," he sputtered sheepishly.
Snuck up on you? she Whispered, mana carrying her thoughts to them.
"Aye," Sanjey's partner -- Nicho, was it? -- said. "One minute the road was clear. Next, you were in our faces. Been studying with the shol'tuk, have ya?" he joked lamely, nervous sweat beading on his forehead, apparently shaken by how poorly he'd done his job of guarding the entrance.
Patrys carefully schooled her face to hide her confusion. Shol'tuk? Me? Not hardly. I got better things to do with me time than spend it gettin' tossed around by a bonny lad in shiny black leathers.
The guards chuckled at the joke and waved her past, likely as not relieved that she didn't bust their chops for being inattentive.
But they weren't inattentive. They simply hadn't seen her.
Of course, wasn't that what she'd hoped for as she approached them?
She cast a look backward and saw that they'd resumed their watch, the nervous mirth all but vanished from their features. How odd. They recovered rather quickly for guards who had let a bare slip of a lass steal up on them as if she were invisible. Far beyond them, she spied the crowd once more, still hanging on the shol'tuk's every word. All thoughts of her "invisibility" left her as she once again fell to disdain at what her revolution had become -- a mindless body of bleating sheep, following an unworthy shepherd.
She huffed, her breath whistling slightly through the scarf that she had wrapped around her neck to cover her stoma. Let them carry on however they wished. She had better things to do.
Turning her attention again to Bastion -- and Crafter grant it, to the justice that awaited her there -- she set off to do those better things.
* * *
Retzu stood stunned for a moment as the crowd dispersed. Had he really just said all that? Between the beaming smiles of approval and the nods of grudging admiration, he had to conclude... yes, he had. But try as he might, he couldn't remember a word of it. It was as if he had been watching events unfold from the outside, and he himself had been caught up in the hysteria.
It had all started off simply enough, aiming only to apologize for his negligence, maybe whine a little bit about his lack of leadership skills. Whatever he had intended, it quickly became a rousing call to arms -- his message shifting from apologetic to inspirational, and his audience shifting from skeptical to fawning. Scanning the crowd, he saw nothing of the bitterness and anger, confusion and hopelessness that had greeted him when he first joined the assembly mere minutes -- minutes -- ago. Now, even his closest friends, who'd had the greatest cause to be angry, looked to him with nothing short of sheer giddiness.
Stunned as he was, though, there was still much to do, and the sooner he got to it, the better. Drawing Sal, Jaren, and Menkal aside -- his "cabinet", Sal had called it, though only the Crafter and Sal knew what that meant -- drawing them aside, he laid out his plans for the Cause.
Which is to say, he had none.
"You fellas wanted me to do this, so I'm doing it. Still ain't got a clue how."
"Well, you got the hard part out of the way," Sal pointed out. "Public opinion. You've inspired everybody's confidence, so mission accomplished. Now you just have to put folks to work."
"And?" Retzu asked. "I can organize a strike team, but organizing an army is something else entirely."
"Not really," Sal argued, Jaren shaking his head in agreement. "It's all about resources and direction. I mean, as a SEAL, my job was a lot like that of a shol'tuk -- covert ops. But I didn't know I'd end up there when I joined the Navy, and neither did they. When I made the switch, the same two things they drilled into me as a Seaman still applied -- resources and direction. Make sure those two things are squared away, and you're golden."
Squared away? Golden? Retzu chalked them up to Sal's tendency toward otherworldly idioms as Sal pressed on. "For example, you've got a whole flock of dragons in your back yard..."
"Flight," Menkal corrected.
"Whatever. Point is, you got a whole bunch of them that wanna help but ain't doing much of anything right now. Just because we're not fighting right now doesn't mean that we can't use them for other things."
"Transportation around the island?" Retzu asked, catching on. "Evacuation?"
"Cavalry, too. And long range patrols," Sal added. "The farther out we can see, the more warning we have that the bad guys are coming."
"I'll get right on that," Menkal said and turned to leave. He pulled up short and cast a querying glance at Retzu.
This was it. His first order. One that may begin a chain of such orders that lead to victory over the Highest... or the deaths of those following his command. Drawing a quick breath, the assassin nodded, and the sapphire made his exit, blue eyes blazing with Whispered magics.
"Sal," he continued.
His one-eyed friend groaned slightly. "If you're gonna tell me we've got to step up our training..."
"But... we haven't been training."
"That's beside the point."
Retzu chuckled. That had been his go-to command for his sodu. "Point taken. I'd actually like you to concentrate on the Granite Spire."
A grin tugged at the corner of Sal's mouth, and his natural eye took on a twinkle to rival the diamond one. "Hey, I'm all over it."
"Your efforts in reaching Granite are part of the reason I'm sending you there, but not the main reason," he clarified. "Do recall, we had a 'jailbreak' recently."
"Yeah... about that..."
"No matter. What's important is that the Spire is the last place we seen our friend Prau -- most likely in the care of the very granite that's rotting away, half-buried in that alley."
Sal nodded. "So if we got all that we're gonna get out of our remaining prisoners, we might find more at the Spire, like if that granite was the one calling the shots."
"Or if he answered to another."
"Yeah, yeah," Sal said, thumbing his chin in thought. "Jaren, if I can pick your brain for a minute..."
"What?!?" the assassin and the emerald demanded in unison.
"Never mind."
Bayton
Chapter 13
A mayfly fluttered past Retzu, close enough for it to skip off his nose. He barely noticed.
He wasn't certain how long he'd been standing in the middle of the street, Commons traffic parting around him like a river around the stubborn trunk of a fallen tree. Standing, and staring. He knew D'prox was inside. He knew that D'prox knew he was out there. His sen'sia may even know why he was there. But for all that D'prox may or may not have known, Retzu simply couldn't seem to force his feet forward, because as long as he was outside, he wouldn't have to answer the question he was dreading.
Why did you kill my daughter?
Death was a part of life, as the recitation of hilts taught. Death was their business. But that didn't ease the sting when it was a friend who died, or when
you were the one who brought it about.
He half convinced himself to just leave off his errand, to return to Caravan and tell Jaren that they were just going to have to make due without the Fellowship. Whatever the Highest had in store for the Cause, surely it didn't require that Retzu bring his master any more pain by begging his help.
As quickly as that thought came to him, another rode on its heels. The Highest didn't care who his real enemy was. He didn't care that the Fellowship's only loyalties were to honor and to their clientele. The massacre of the court of Titus was testimony to that. Only King Titus and his court were opposed to the Highest. The women, the children, they were innocent. But that didn't save them. The Highest slaughtered them with no more reservation than he'd slaughtered the king's court. Retzu silently blessed his "uncle", Mik du'Ander, the kindly sailor who took pity on a stranger and his kin. If not for him, there would be no Cause left for the Highest to stamp out.
The assassin snickered. That wasn't precisely true.
Screwing up his resolve, he marched forward, presenting himself ceremonially to the door guard, who let him in with the barest of knowing grins.
Yeah. Retzu was going to hear about it.
He met no resistance within the guildhouse. Quite the contrary, the shol'tuk he met parted for him as easily as the street traffic did, all the while goggling after him as if he had horns growing out his nose. Apparently, D'prox wasn't the only one who might suspect his hand in Fila's death.
Retzu found D'prox in much the same place that he'd left him -- lounging in his chair opposite Trista, sipping on a tankard, decked in pliable armor and appropriate finery, all polished to a high gloss. But that's where the similarities ended. However bright his accouterments, the guildmaster himself was dour enough to swallow the light. His boisterous laugh had been replaced with a low and incessant growl, his booming voice with a hollow whisper. Trista appeared even worse off.
"Sen'sia. Trista-mau," he addressed respectfully as he approached.
"Retzu-tau," Trista replied hollowly. Formally. D'prox said nothing.
He would rather they had cut him down where he stood.
"I know you had your reasons," D'prox said after a moment more, raising his sword arm to gaze at the simple woven wire bracelet he wore there. A copper bracelet, the twin of the one that Trista now wore. Fila's windings. "No son of mine could've struck her down without honor. And no son of mine has ever had the sense of honor that you have. You are truly among the greatest of the Fellowship." Pausing, the bald assassin turned to look at Retzu, his eyes blazing with a baleful fire. "I would have killed you where you stood, had it been otherwise."
Retzu swallowed hard to push down the lump that had grown there. "Sen'sia, if there had been any other way..."
"I spoke with your Uncle this morning," the guildmaster commented, settling back into his chair. "Be glad I did. Honorable or no, Fila's death is a lot to overcome. But Mik can be... very persuasive."
He sat up a little straighter as he continued. "He told me about what you face. I presume that's why you're here."
"It is, sen'sia."
D'prox nodded thoughtfully. "I can't commit the Fellowship to such a cause. To render final judgment against the guilty is one thing. To send soldiers into the Abyss for simply following orders without question, however..."
"There's a certain honor in obedience," Retzu finished, sighing. "In trusting your master to be right, even when their command seems to be wrong."
"Indeed. I'll leave it to our sons and daughters, to decide for themselves."
This surprised Retzu. "You'd allow them to fight?"
"Of course. Prophets, I might even join them. A shol'tuk need not take up the katana, nor even take a life, to be of service to a worthy cause."
Retzu allowed himself the most meager of smiles. Even an unarmed shol'tuk adherent was as lethal as any Earthen Rank soldier -- perhaps even their mages. For his sen'sia to allow even this much aid was more than Retzu could've hoped for.
He was about to say so, when D'prox added, "Don't think that this service comes without a price, sodu."
"Of course, sen'sia."
"I... offer you a contract," he started, assuming a demeanor that was all business. "There's an invisible assailant, it would seem, attacking mage and mundane alike. I've lent adherents to the constabulary to help them capture this assailant, only to have my sons and daughters return, severely beaten but without any memory of how it happened."
The gold-hilted assassin nodded once and drew his blade, holding it point down against his chest. "My life and blade to honor this contract, to determine guilt or innocence, and to deal justice as justice demands."
* * *
Sal laid back in his accustomed spot, staring at the tapering form of the Granite Spire as if the mere pressure of his observation would convince it to spill its secrets.
No such luck. It was being just a stubborn as ever.
Four days Sal had been coming to the Spire, Four days of sitting and staring and thinking through the myriad possibilities. It was the "Toilday" after Midweek, as this world reckoned time, or Thursday for him. On his world, he'd already be looking forward to the weekend, but here, it was just another day in the grind.
The first day had been spent in pure observation, searching for entrances that simply were not there. Nothing in the stone surface. Nothing under the ground. Nothing hidden by means arcane or mundane. There was just no way in. Period.
The second day, he tried as many magical means as he could think of. Blasting the wall with fire or ice. Withering the wall with Emerald. Casting inverted null fields at any magical barriers that he might've overlooked. Levitating to the top of the Spire. Nothing. Aside from air vents and arrow slits too narrow for a bumblebee to pass through, the inside of the Spire was absolutely cut off from the outside world.
So he sat. And thought. And fumed.
"Milord Prism," a voice rumbled over his shoulder.
"Milady dragon," he muttered, never taking his eyes off the Spire. He'd heard the beat of her wings minutes ago, but so intent had he been on the Spire that he hadn't taken the time to properly greet her. He was sure he'd hear about it sooner or---
"You know, most people are more in awe of a dragon's approach," Eshira commented.
Sooner, then.
"Probably not as many as would be in awe of a diamond mage."
A rough grinding sound came from deep within Eshira's breast -- a dragon's approximation of laughter, Sal concluded. "Be that as it may. My fangs are still bigger," she teased, laying her head gently on the ground next to Sal's perch, only to crane her neck again. "Not comfortable at all. Do you mind?"
"Nah, go ahead," Sal said dismissively, though he did angle his head slightly and touch Amethyst to watch the transformation.
Just as before, the dragon's metamorphosis went off without the slightest hint of magic, though Sal was convinced it couldn't be natural. That massive body compacting itself into a frame so slight couldn't help but be magical. But he saw no aura, save that of blue-white bones morphing and melding from giant lizard to petite woman, all surrounded by violet radiance. The dragon's wings wrapped around the body in a natural covering, a dress without cloth.
"Better?" he asked as she took a perch next to his.
"Some. Though it'd be more comfortable if you didn't make me cover up."
"Yeah, that's just what I need -- me having to explain that to Marissa. Besides, aren't you all into Menkal?"
"I find him fascinating," she admitted, her scaly cheeks showing a slight hint of blush.
"He's old enough to be your grandfather."
"He's twelve years younger than me," she countered. "What does that have to do with me covering up?"
"Modesty, Eshira. Modesty."
"A petty human concern," she declared, blowing an errant strand of emerald colored hair from her face. "This isn't even my real form."
"Beside the point."
She smiled as she settled back. She was
easy for Sal to relate to, for all that she was a dragon. She had an arrogance that fit perfectly with a number of the girls he'd dated in school, and more than a few Marines he knew as a SEAL. She seemed to genuinely enjoy their irreverent back and forth as much as he did. After only knowing her a few days, it seemed he'd known her much longer.
Sal rolled his eyes. He was thinking this about a dragon! If you'd told him a year ago...
"So... Menkal said you needed help?" she prompted. "We've already tried flying around the Spire, so I can't imagine what use I'd be."
"I need a sounding board. There's only so many questions I can ask myself before I start repeating the same answers. I need fresh eyes on the problem, and fresh ears hearing my ideas."
"Alright then," she said, winking one reptilian eye at him. "A 'sounding board' I shall be... though I'm not entirely sure what that term means exactly."
"Idioms de Sal. Don't try and figure them out."
The serpent-cum-woman nodded her acquiescence, the scaling of her skin catching an errant ray of sunlight and throwing it in Sal's face, causing him to squint. "Of course, a basilisk would be better suited to this task," she said, not noticing. "They at least understand the granite soulgem and its wielders, even if they are unable to wield it themselves. Caduceans have more in common with emeralds."
"Right, but you don't have any basilisks with you," he commented, then threw up a hand to shield his eyes from yet another blinding ray. "Wow, Can you tone those down?"
"Dragons are not magical, Sal," she reminded him. "Not the way you are. We have certain abilities, and we sometimes call them 'spells' for humans' sake, but it's not true magic. My green skin doesn't mean that I can change the texture of my scales to suit--- What?"
Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2) Page 21