"But... that's thirty feet---"
"I could smell ye, boy. Didja think thirty feet'd be enough fer this ol' nose?"
"No! No, of course not, Uncle," Denis said. Meekly. Adoringly.
Intolerably.
Mik sighed, silently berating the beggarly man for his cloying, clingy, submissive manner, and himself for being irritated at it.
"I'm up. I'm up," Mik croaked, pushing himself up to the sound of pops and creaks to prove it.
Every morning, it was the same thing -- breeches, tunic, a likely bush, the wash barrel, then to pack his bedroll away and get to work.
First the fire. Then the cauldron -- creamed oats today, with a sack of apples thrown in, to flavor it for his squadron, and maybe a fist or two of stragglers. He would've preferred to have chopped and cored the apples first, but he didn't want the soldiers thinking him in any way competent. Just an old man and his nephew, tagging along with the army because they were too simple for anything else. Nobody worthy of note. You'd think that after ten days of it, he would've gotten used to it all. But no. He could play the idiot to perfection, but he hated every minute of it.
It didn't take him long to get integrated into Rank life. Could've been even sooner, but he was a little out of practice. He made his introduction to the squadron leader that Denis had been assigned to, Footman Joar, almost immediately. A fine fellow, if a little on the deviant side. His comments about farm girls -- especially those who had yet to ripen -- were a tad off-putting. As it happened, Joar knew virtually nothing about where they were going, or why. Mik found that out on his second day with the Rank army. On his third, he'd had to bring news of Joar's death to his superior, Soldier Wekley.
Sad, sad business, that. What? To choke to death on a flagon of mead? What were the odds? And for Wekley to be gored hunting a Veylin stag just a few days after that? Centurion Gones was none to pleased with the news, but very grateful to Ol' Mik for bringing it to him.
In all, it had taken only a week for Mik to find himself in the officer's camp. No, not every Rank soldier had had to die. Just a few. But they were most deserving. And had any of them known anything about where the army was headed, they might even have died a quicker death.
Once Mik was in the officer's camp, things slowed down tremendously. The men stopped naming their superiors, so Mik had to rely on rank insignia when it was available, and deference when it wasn't. He was up to Major Lieutenant before he got his first hint of where they were going.
Bayton. But why?
He was pondering that question over the cauldron -- the apples were just getting soft -- when he heard footsteps behind him. A tall man, maybe two hundred twenty pounds, about fifteen yards to his rear and five to the left, wearing no armor but smelling as if he typically wore it. High Sergeant...?
"I seen you," the voice said.
Yul. Definitely Yul.
"I said I seen you," Yul repeated when Mik didn't react. "You're one of Joar's men, ain'tcha? And then Wekley's? And I think I remember you speaking to High Sergeant Bostik right before his horse trampled him."
"Aye, we 'ad a streak o' bad luck, we have," Mik said sickly.
"And now you're heading up services for Regiment Three," Yul said with a note of accusation. "What's next? Commander Trill eats a bad date? High Commander Rugan falls into the latrine? I know..." he said with a zeal approaching hysterics. He jabbed a finger at a nondescript tent not too far from where they stood. "You reveal these deaths as assassinations to curry favor with General du'Chapin himself, and 'save' him from being next on the list."
Mik stood silently for a moment, then tipped a curt nod. "Not a bad idea, actually."
Yul sputtered incredulously, hand dropping to his short sword. For Mik, time slowed to a crawl. It always did, when he engaged an adversary. He reached into his open tunic, hand going to its accustomed place in his armpit, fingers locking around the tassel he found hanging there. He tugged, and his tanto pulled free of his body, leaving not so much as a scratch to mark the place it had been. Momentum carried the tanto around, passing effortlessly through his tunic as if it were nothing but wind.
He released the tassel, the dimly glowing runes winking out like an ember in water. The tanto was still airborne when he took the hilt and swept it around. Yul's throat offered no more resistance than Mik's shirt did, for all that the tanto was now solid.
The High Sergeant had barely registered what had happened when time resumed its normal flow for Mik. Still in mid-sputter, Yul's righteous anger turned quickly to confusion, then to shock. Mik could tell when terror took hold -- the spurt of the blood was plenty indication. Yul's hand fumbled desperately for the simple emerald ornament that hung from his belt.
His hand never found it. Yul pitched forward, still grasping at his belt out of reflex.
Mik sighed and stooped over the High Sergeant's still twitching corpse. "Ye didn't hafta pry, me boy. Ye weren't my concern, and I weren't yers. Ye coulda let me be. I don't kill nobody what don't need it, and ye didn't need it yerself. Until now."
Mik drew the flat of his blade across Yul's outer wear, first one side, then the other, before melting the tanto back into its accustomed place at his side -- in his side. Finally, he dug a hand into his coin purse, drawing out a tiny granite chip with a flat silver backing. Mik held Yul's mouth open and laid the chip on the corpse's tongue. He closed the once-soldier's mouth and the chip's magic activated. The ground under the corpse rippled, and Yul fell in fast enough to leave a splash, had the ground been water.
Crafter take it, Mik cursed silently. He only had four more of those chips. He hadn't planned on needing them at all, and here he was, down by three. He was definitely getting rusty in his old age.
Well, there was nothing for it. Standing, he smeared some of the blood spatters on his face and tunic, to give the impression of an extended fight -- something much longer than a single strike. Satisfied, he ran for the center of camp, effecting a limp and shouting "General du'Chapin! General du'Chapin, sir!"
* * *
Sal poured over his work, copper runes gathered in piles before him, according to their Tile. He and Marissa had been at it for over a week, with no real progress to speak of.
The idea had been simple enough -- match concepts between the four known runesets with the granite runes on the tassel Stack them correctly, and the runes build a diamond rune. The rune's self-translating properties would serve as a Rosetta Stone for Sal, revealing the concept behind the granite rune that they'd used. In theory, that'd help him understand how Granite worked, which would help him touch Granite, which would help him touch Diamond.
Some Rosetta Stone.
It had only taken a few minutes to transcribe the tassels, and an hour or so to build copper runes. The rest of the week had been spent painstakingly comparing them to known runesets. Hour upon hour, he and Marissa stacked runes with their counterparts from the main four sets -- 'projectile' or 'decompose' or 'activate' or what have you, written in Emerald, Ruby, Sapphire, and Amethyst -- and laid the granite runes on top of the stack, hoping against hope that the granite runeset would give up its secrets. A whole week, and nothing to show for their efforts.
Well, almost nothing. They did add "begin" and "end" to the mix, but that was pretty much expected. Any spell worked into an artifact had to have those two runes, regardless of which Tile an artisan was using.
So, for a week's worth of effort, they'd expanded their vast library of diamond runes -- and by extension, granite runes -- to four.
Four runes. In seven days. Big whoop.
His first thought was to ask Retzu his opinion on the sword set, but after a stern look from Marissa, he thought better of it. The orphaned twin wasn't in the best place at the moment, judgment wise. He was spending a lot of time with Patrys, training as much as a shol'tuk could with someone who could never be his sodu. Whatever that counted for. To Sal, it still looked the same as his own training, minus the katana. The rules on shol'tuk-mage relations was still kin
d of fuzzy to Sal, but it didn't escape his notice that it wasn't exactly 'normal'. When not with Patrys, Retzu was either in the city or with Reit, standing vigil over his dead brother's corpse as if it could sit up at any time. In any case, the assassin was acting strange enough that Sal wasn't sure what he'd do when he revealed the swords to him. Claim the swords as his own? Attack Sal for not bringing them to his attention immediately? Dismiss them out of hand? Those possibilities were just as likely as any other, and until Sal had unlocked the secrets of the tassels, he couldn't risk being parted from the swords.
For Patrys' part, she was rather kept to herself. She brooded like Keth used to, and lashed out with an anger more worthy of a ruby than a sapphire. But Retzu's lessons seemed to be having an effect. Now, instead of exploding, she seethed. Sal wasn't sure that was an entirely good thing, but hey -- no stabby-stabby.
Senosh and Jaren were both in their element, respectively, with the ruby organizing the joint fighting forces of Caravan and the Camp of the Unmarked, and Jaren leading the administrative side of Caravan. Each carried out their tasks with skill and passion, reporting to Retzu throughout the day with anything that had bearing on the Cause as a whole.
Menkal and Eshira, on the other hand, had been conspicuously absent of late. They were fine, of course. Sal checked in on them many times throughout the day, through Sapphire or in person, but each time it felt like he had intruded on a very private conversation. Both man and dragon grew incredibly awkward -- which was quite laughable, considering how brash he knew Eshira to be -- and Sal always came away blushing, though he wasn't sure why. "It ain't as if they could actually be declared or anything," he muttered incredulously under his breath.
"Who?" asked Marissa, looking up from their work.
"Menkal and Eshira."
"Well, they are declared. Where have you been?"
"I'm serious, babe."
"So am I," Marissa affirmed. Carefully, she laid her latest rune atop its assigned pile, making minor adjustments here and there, hoping to lock in what she'd hoped to be Diamond Rune Number Five for them. "Didn't you learn anything about dragon physiology as an Unmarked?"
"Well, sure," he said defensively. "When dragons breed with each other, they sire animalistic offspring, so they have to breed with humans in order to have intelligent offspring. But Menkal..."
"He's not unattractive," she teased. "For an old man. Anything?"
Sal scrutinized the copper stack, then shook his head. "Nope. Next candidate?"
Marissa groaned her frustration. "Each rune has about four or five different ways it can be used, depending on the other runes it's used with. It's hard enough to find places where the concepts are universal between the translucent Tiles, let alone adding Granite into the mix." She stood and lifted her arms over her head, stretching to the chorus of pops and creaks that emanated from somewhere within that pleasantly shaped body. "I need a break. Care for a walk? I've been selling some jewelry through an artificer in Bastion, and I'm due to run him a few more pieces."
He considered for a moment, then declined. "Nah... I think I need to stare aimlessly at this sword a little longer."
Her laughter tinkled like crystal. "Just don't cut off anything important while I'm gone." She kissed him sweetly... sweetly... and ducked out the open tent flap, leaving him to marvel at her retreat. But he didn't marvel long. As distracting as the redheaded artisan was, she wasn't near as frustrating, as elusive, as the secrets locked away within the granite tassel
Turning again, he swept the copper runes to one side of the table. He took up the steel-hilted tanto and laid it in the center of the table, then sat down in a huff in front of it. He leaned on his elbows, and turned his eyes once again to the runes, daring them to give up their secrets.
The granite studded silver was marked with eight distinct runes, four on the front, four on the back, bookended by matching begin and end runes. He'd stared at the hilt off and on for days, studying the shapes of the runes, their placement, their depth of etching, everything. He could shape each one in copper with precision, and without looking. And he still didn't know squat about them.
Sighing, he drew a lazy finger along the tassel, touching each rune individually, watching it light and then dim as he moved on to the next. Reaching the end of the strip, he started again. "What is your secret?" he asked under his breath, as if the tassel could answer.
Coming to the end of the tassel again, he thought to flip the tassel over, to study -- again -- the runes on the opposite side. He pinched the silver with his fingertips...
...and the short sword sank into the table!
Sal gave a start, jumping to his feet and retreating to the far side of the tent, shouting curses as he went.
What had he done? What had the runes done? Oh, he knew exactly what they'd done -- they'd melted the tanto into the table! But how? And how had he activated them, when he never had before?
Retzu would know!
Wait, why would he know? He's neither an artisan nor a mage!
No, but he was shol'tuk, and those runes were part of a sword hilt. If anybody would know...
Every argument moving Sal to tell Retzu about the runes, he rebuffed with an argument against. Back and forth he went, back and forth, neither side gaining any ground on the other. So engrossed was he in this internal debate that he didn't realize that he'd left Marissa's tent, or where he'd gone, until he was standing slack-jawed in front of his sen'sia, trying to decide which argument he'd found to be more convincing.
* * *
It wasn't possible. It simply was not possible.
It was clear to Retzu that Sal was out of sorts. He had been, ever since his discovery in the Granite Spire. His normally unflappable sodu had been extremely flappable. Diamond mage. Silk-hilted shol'tuk. Navy seel, whatever that meant. Everything about his one-eyed friend spoke to a core of iron, and yet, from the moment he'd entered that building within a building, Sal had been erratic, jumping nervously at the slightest change or challenge.
Surely this was no different.
Apparently, when Sal was in the Granite Spire, he'd run across a sword set, a katana and its matching tanto, with hilts of solid steel. Of course, there was only one sword set like that in all the Mainland, so this set obviously had to be forgeries, purely for decoration. There was no way...
He pushed through the tent flap behind Sal, and his eyes fell upon the empty table in the center of the canvas walled room. "Sal, where..." His voice trailed off as he noticed that, no, the table was not empty. In the center of the flat surface, there laid a leather tassel with a granite encrusted silver strip, exactly where Sal had said it would be. It seemed to lay there alone, but stooping down, Retzu saw the rest of the sword -- a tanto blade, with part of a steel hilt, protruding from the bottom of the table, directly under the tassel
Blessed Crafter. It can't be...
"See what I mean?" Sal half-shouted. "All I did was grab---"
"Hold!" Retzu commanded. Wonder of wonders, Sal did as commanded.
Stepping forward, Retzu gingerly laid a hand upon the tassel, careful to not touch too much of the exposed pommel. As his grip closed on the leather, the table rippled, and he pulled the tanto free as cleanly as a fish from water. He adjusted his grip, taking the steel hilt fully in hand. As expected, the runes on the tassel winked and went dim. Blessed Crafter, how long has it been?
"Second chance, Sal," came a woman's voice from behind him. Marissa. "I forgot to bring my... Retzu!"
The assassin didn't respond. Oh, he heard her. He just didn't care. Instead, he focused on his breathing, slow and full, and his voice, smooth and steady. It just wouldn't do for him to lose control, not in front of them, and not right now. "Do you have everything you need from the sword set, Sal?"
"Uhhh... yeah," Sal breathed, awe coloring his response. "Yeah, I'm good."
"Very well."
Retzu leaned across the table and gathered up the matching katana, his grip steering well clear of the tassel
He'd only heard stories of how this sword worked -- he'd never actually been allowed to handle it -- and he didn't want to risk activating one of its spells by accident.
He typically didn't carry his tanto, but he kept his sheathless runner -- little more than an enchanted leather loop with metal clipping -- in his purse for safe keeping. He pulled the runner out and slid it onto the tanto's exposed blade. The edge visibly dulled as the loop's spell took effect. Clipping the runner to his belt, he sling the sheathed katana from the shoulder opposite his own sword. He paused, numb with shock, and then turned and left, doing his best to avoid Sal and Marissa's gaze as he passed.
Outside the tent and in the street, his resolve threatened to crack. A lump grew in his throat, and unshed tears threatened to cloud his vision. Not yet, he commanded himself. What to do? What to do?
He thought briefly about bringing this up to D'prox, but something about this...
He thumbing the sapphire chip behind his ear. "Uncle. Can you talk?"
Aye, I can fer a moment, but not much more, Mik replied. We just took t' the road, and I've been workin' my way into---
"I have Kaleb's sword," he interjected forcefully.
There was a long pause, and then a shaky sigh. I was wond'rin' about that.
"Wondering?" Retzu demanded, coming to a dead halt in the middle of the dirt road, heedless of the midday traffic that was now forced to part around him. "What do you mean, wondering? You knew?"
I had me suspicions. Kaleb was wont t' go weeks or e'en months wi'out sayin' a word, ye know, so I ain't heard from 'im fer a time, I thought nothin' of it. Not su'prisin', him bein' water folk'n all. But long about the time you an' yer brother was still cookin' up yer great escape from prison, I had it in me mind t' employ Kaleb in stirrin' up some trouble in the Palace o' Schel Veylin -- give ye some cover, a good distraction, mayhap e'en run a blade or two across the Highest's throat t' boot. Figure Kaleb'd surface long enough the tell me yae or nae at least. But I couldn't find 'im. He'd ne'er answer me when I'd call out to 'im. Dinna think anyone coulda e'er kilt 'im, but he was gettin' a little long in the gill...
Fractures (Facets of Reality Book 2) Page 29