"I know no kings," Ensel Rhe said.
"Sometimes, the King may represent royalty of another sort."
He knew no royalty at all, though he said nothing on the matter as the woman continued.
Her hand touched the next card. "The Lurker."
"A creature?"
"Or creatures. The card by itself means only that the Lurker watches. But the Lurker always watches. Only when it takes action should you be concerned. The cards do not stand alone. The one preceding and the one which follows have influence. Always there is action and reaction. Here the King might stir up the Lurker. The Lurker will then—"
"Harm my family?"
Dasinda placed a finger on the card depicting three burning candles. "You have a wife and daughter. They light your way, but they can also burn."
Ensel Rhe didn't bother asking how she knew about Awen Ren or Jakinda Rhe.
The fortuneteller's head moved in a slow back-and-forth motion. "The portents the cards show me...always foggy. Your wife is faraway and safe. But your daughter...she is close."
"Yes, in the city."
Dasinda touched the fourth card. The Element of Fire. "It means strength of spirit. But, also, danger."
Ensel Rhe leaned over the table. "What are you saying, witch?" His raised voice created a stir at the other side of the curtain. "Will harm befall my daughter? If so, when and where?"
Dasinda raised her hands in supplication. "I only interpret the message of the cards! I cannot give you specifics beyond what I have told you."
"Is it for certain?"
"Nothing is for certain." She lowered her hands, drawing Ensel Rhe's attention back to the cards. She pointed at the last. "But Fire followed by Death?" She shook her head again. "It gets worse and worse. But, there is a chance at avoiding all of this. Another draw. A single card. It may shift the outcome in your favor and change the foretelling completely. Or it may tell of even worse."
"I will take my chances. If ill is to befall my daughter, then I will know of it with certainty. Draw."
The soothsayer moved the top card from her deck so it lay face down in the sixth position. She flipped it. Dasinda recoiled from its image. A city, ruined and in darkness. "Fire and Death! And now this! The portents are not for you and yours at all, eslar, but for all of us!"
The two bruisers from earlier entered the room but took no immediate action. Ensel Rhe paid them no heed.
"The card shows an empty city," he said. "No more."
Standing now, Dasinda clenched fists and crossed her arms. Her body shuddered as if in physical pain. "Yes, but taken with the preceding it becomes the City of the Dead! We must leave! We must all leave, before it is too late!"
Ensel Rhe's voice cut through the woman's rising panic.
"Draw again."
Dasinda tore her gaze from the cards to look at him. "A seventh card? It has never been done. It cannot be done!"
"If we are all doomed, what does it matter? Draw again."
She considered. Then she returned to her seat. She stared at her deck, hesitating, but then turned the topmost card over and placed it alongside the others. The card face depicted a scholar holding a beaker. All around him were glass alembics, retorts, and vials.
"The Alchemist," Dasinda said in a whisper.
"A sorcerer’s apprentice," Ensel Rhe said.
Dasinda’s gaze snapped to him. "You know this person?"
"Yes."
"A sorcerer?" she said with surprise. Her focus returned to the card. "But that is another card. Here we have the Alchemist. Perhaps he is neither, but something else entirely."
"Call him what you will. If salvation is what you require, look to him."
Ensel Rhe tossed a few more coins onto the table before he left. Mesmerized by the final card, Dasinda took no immediate notice of the coins or of his departure.
The day grew old and night was just beginning by the time he reached the temple district. Neglect and disuse ruled the area, for worship of the Old Gods had been abandoned long ago. Ensel Rhe did observe one new thing: half the district was underwater. The source was Upper Brighton's sewers, which emptied out here either because of a mistake or a repair no one thought high enough priority to fix. Habitable structures were few and far between, and so Ensel Rhe found the sun and stars emblem readily enough.
Weeds grew everywhere along a long portico. The great doors lending entrance to the temple were missing, either rotted away or chopped apart for firewood. Ensel Rhe entered the place with caution. Inside, all was dark. Beyond shattered pews and what might once have been the foundation of a great stone altar, he found a single door with relatively new hinges. He slammed his fist down on it and waited. He was about to knock a second time when he heard a latch undone at the other side. The door opened a crack.
"Who the hell are you and what do you want?"
"Who I am is no concern of yours. What I want is your opinion of a magicked item I have in my possession. I come at the recommendation of Dasinda the soothsayer. I can pay you in hard coin."
A pause, and then the door opened the rest of the way. Inside, Ensel Rhe spotted his greeter already walking away. He followed, closing the door behind him. A dark hall led to a chamber sparsely lit by wall lanterns. Whatever holy purpose the room had once served was long forgotten, for now the place served the will of the arcane. Light from the lanterns cast flickering shadows across tables weighed down by an assortment of glass paraphernalia filled with steaming, bubbling liquids. Scrolls and open books were interspersed throughout. A bed was shoved into a corner, for this place served as both workroom and sleeping chamber for the pyromancer. The state of the environment surprised Ensel Rhe, for while their paths had never crossed before, he'd known Persimmius as a successful, well-to-do practitioner. No longer, it seemed.
"Show me what you have," Persimmius said, waving to an empty spot on the nearest table. The pyromancer was a lean individual with wavy, dark hair and a wild beard. He wore patched trousers and a tailored shirt which had seen better days. He had his sleeves rolled up.
Ensel Rhe took out the chest and placed it where indicated. He stepped back as the pyromancer leaned in for a closer look.
"The soothsayer revealed runes etched across its surface," Ensel Rhe said.
Persimmius waved his hand over the chest and the same glyphs reappeared. "Yes, as have I."
He studied it some more, at one point going to the other side of the room to retrieve a short, black rod which he held over the chest. The azure glow of the runes grew in intensity as he passed the rod over it. He moved the box about, resting it on its back as he probed it in different ways. Finally, he straightened.
"It's locked damn tight. Damn tight, indeed. Whatever's inside must be important. These runes," he said, pointing to the series which ran across the keyhole in front and the hinges in back, "are not second rate. Someone powerful placed them there."
"Can you open it?"
"Maybe. Probably. It'll cost you, though."
They haggled and decided on a price.
"Half now and the rest when you return," Persimmius said. "I'll need at least a day. Come back this time tomorrow and I'll have something for you."
Ensel Rhe counted out a handful of keenars and guildas. As he handed the coins to the pyromancer, he asked, "I trust you will be discreet with the chest and its contents?"
Persimmius made a show of looking around. "Who the hell am I going to tell?"
Ensel Rhe left the pyromancer to his work.
Outside, back in front of the temple, Ensel Rhe paused to consider his next move. While he stood there, he felt something, as if eyes watched him. Not the pyromancer's, for he'd remained in his laboratory as the eslar had left. Ensel Rhe feigned rummaging in an empty pocket as he surreptitiously scanned the temples and holy places at the street's other side. He saw nothing and, sensing no real danger, started walking away. As he did, the feeling subsided and was soon gone entirely. He thought nothing else of it as he went searching for a
place to lay low.
* * *
Persimmius walked outside the temple. Early evening, he saw. Pulling his threadbare coat tighter against the air's coolness, he scanned the street in both directions. Empty, and quiet. Damn quiet. He hated the quiet. Give him busy, noisy streets any day of the week. Fine, crowded taverns. Boisterous gaming halls where the minimum bet was a thousand guildas and brothels where the women laughed and screeched from windows on high. He missed those things. People too. In a city of a hundred thousand, he never thought to think such a thing. But not all of those hundred thousand were the right people. Plenty of Sunken Slums shat-holes didn't give a rat's arse who he was, and so his coin was as good as the next. But it was torture entering those places. They smelled. Not just the establishments, but the patrons too. Smelled like this whole gods-forsaken half of the city. It didn't seem to matter how far one got from the temple district and its sewage-flooded byways. If you were in the Sunken Slums, then the whole damn place reeked of the same vile odor. Yet, cross over Old Wall into Upper Brighton, even just at the other side of the temple district, and it smelled wonderful. Maybe it was true what they said. Rich peoples' shat did smell better.
Persimmius used to believe such drivel. Not anymore. Thanks to Shat Swamp right outside his very doorstep, he knew firsthand that all shat smelled the same. Damn engineers needed an extra place to discharge the sewer lines, and since the one running along this part of Old Wall came up short, the temple district was it. No one came here anymore, anyway. The Old Gods were gone. Obliterated themselves a long time ago, leaving the Blasted Land behind as a reminder of their stupendous folly. Idiocy was more like it, Persimmius liked to tell anyone who'd listen. All that power and the best the gods did with it was wage war on one another. Persimmius hadn't understood them for a very long time. But now, he thought he did. It took being driven to a certain extreme before one was willing to go to war. No one woke up with the immediate notion of it. It had to build up slowly, day after day, incident after incident, until, finally, the cork, so to speak, was ready to blow. Persimmius's cork had blown. He'd lost his workshop and laboratory in the accident. But those could have been rebuilt. But then they came and took his home away. Though he'd enjoyed its spaciousness, there were other, smaller houses nearby he would have found agreeable. But they'd driven him from the neighborhood, too. Then, also, from his favorite taverns and gaming halls and brothels and every other place he'd ever known. The Old Gods had been driven to a violent, self-destructive extreme. He felt himself capable of no more or less.
Persimmius was shaken from his thoughts by a dark form dropping down in front of him. The pyromancer jumped back, cursing when he recognized who it was. "Gods damn it! Don't you people ever just walk up to someone?"
The figure straightened. Clad from head to toe in black, a slit revealed the person's dark-as-night eyes. The hilt of a sword protruded from over one shoulder. The oblong shape of the head was all wrong, with jutting jaw and bulges in its head-wrapping at the ears. Not a monster, Persimmius knew, though it might as well be one. Skeva. He wanted to spit just thinking the word, but allies didn't spit at each other.
"I have come at Rachna's behest," the black-clad figure said. The voice was muffled behind its wrapping, and indistinct. "He wishes to know when the remainder of the devices will be ready."
Persimmius took a deep breath. It didn't help calm his agitation. "Tell him never, if he sets off any more of my explosives before it's time."
The skeva crossed its arms. "We had to know if they worked."
"Eastern Gate was not the best place for a demonstration. If you wanted to see my devices in action, I could have found a deserted place where no one—"
"Got hurt?" The skeva snickered. "That would seem the least of your concerns, pyromancer."
Persimmius scowled. "I was going to say 'where no one became suspicious.' The authorities are investigating the event. If they so much as suspect an incendiary device, whose door do you think they're going to come knocking on? If anything happens to me, no more explosives. No more explosives, no more grand skeva plans, eh?" Unable to control himself any longer, Persimmius spat. "Damn dim-witted, filthy rats! You'll ruin everything with your—"
The skeva's arm moved in a blur. The next thing Persimmius knew, a naked sword was at his throat.
"We are no more filthy than your own kind, human." The skeva sniffed. "Less so, if your smell is any indication."
Persimmius looked down at the blade, seeing his face reflected in the polished surface. He was reminded he needed a shave. A haircut, too.
"You are not afraid?" The skeva sounded genuinely surprised.
Persimmius looked into the creature's black eyes. "I'm about to bring wholesale destruction down on this city. Fear of death was expunged from me a long time ago."
The skeva nodded and, stepping back, withdrew his blade. "We shall endeavor to be more careful should the need to perform another test arise."
"How about you just don't run any more?" Persimmius said, straightening his coat and brushing at the rat hair the skeva surely had shed on him.
The skeva bowed, but said nothing.
"Tell Rachna he'll have his devices on time. Every last one of them. Just make sure you're ready to do your part."
"Worry not, pyromancer. We of the shodeth are always ready." The skeva turned and faded into the evening's growing dark.
Persimmius stared after him for a time, his thoughts returning to the Old Gods. Most believed they'd gone to the same afterlife they'd promised their mortal followers. Persimmius wondered what it smelled like and if it was crowded. He supposed he'd find out for himself soon enough. Persimmius wrinkled his nose at the odor blowing in from the swamp and went back inside.
5. Family
SERENA WAS ALL SET TO follow Lord Phillip from the Sanguine Chamber and leave her parents far, far behind when the earl's Chief of Stewards entered to remind his liege of the many guests awaiting his attention. The march about the city and the ceremony after had been in observance of the deceased. Now, the earl's guests wished to pay their respects to their surviving son. With a promise to send for Aaron and Serena as soon as possible, the earl started a procession out of the room which emptied it of everyone except for Aaron, Serena, Chane, and Serena's parents. Dip and Dup continued to man their stations outside in the hall. Chane, in deference to his employers, maintained a respectful distance. Serena knew he'd not interfere. The same went for her father, who presently chose to acknowledge the tension grown thick in the air by playing with the lace of his cuffs. Astute at his trade, he was an utter coward when it came to Serena's mother. Poor Aaron should have left with the others when he'd had the chance. Serena did not expect him to intervene, which left her entirely on her own.
"We sent you to Wildemoore with high hopes, Serena," Lady Verna Walkerton said with pinched lips. She was as tall as Serena remembered her, with those same icy, unblinking eyes whose memory had too often stolen sleep from her. Everything about her mother was in perfect alignment. Her blonde hair was done up without a single strand out of place. Her rouge and liner, applied without flaw. The dress she wore, somber black from neck to ankle, possessed neither a single wrinkle nor crease.
"High hopes I’d never return?" Serena asked.
Verna sighed. "You know that is not true. You were supposed to have learned to control your abilities under Master Ansanom's tutelage. Instead, you destroyed the man's home and ended his life. This is not progress, Serena."
"This time was completely different, Mother." She hoped the word dripped with enough acid to scald. "Ansanom was sacrificing people for his research. He was going to kill Aaron—and probably me—if I hadn't done something."
Verna pursed her lips, unconvinced. She glanced in Chane's direction. "What excuse do you have for not spotting these distractions during your visits to Wildemoore? You gave me your personal voucher, on more than one occasion as I recall, that Serena progressed well in her lessons, did you not?"
"Yes, I
did, milady," Chane said, taking a step forward. "As for excuses, I have none. Master Ansanom was indeed a sinister individual to have fooled every one of us so well."
Serena smirked, for Verna had been the one to verify Ansanom's credentials. Perhaps if her vetting process had been more thorough and not so hastily done, she might have found out about his tendency toward homicidal lunacy.
"It is well Serena has arrived to us safe and sound," Chane added.
Verna raised a brow but said nothing as she shifted that piercing stare of hers back to her daughter. Before she said anything, though, Serena's father gave up on his cuffs and managed a few words of his own.
"Yes, it is good to see you safe and sound, Serena." Arlen came forward with arms extended but, hesitating, modified the gesture at the last minute to a simple squeeze of her arm. "Welcome home," he said, smiling. Her father had the same fit and trim figure, maintained by regular bouts of fencing. It actually was good to see him, Serena thought, but she wasn't about to let such feelings lessen her resolve.
Serena curtsied to her father, responding in her most pleasant voice. "Thank you, Father. It's so wonderful to be back."
Verna's expression grew more peevish.
"Perhaps you should present your friend to us?" Arlen asked, glancing in Aaron's direction.
"Of course," Serena said. "Mother, Father, this is Aaron Shepherd. You already know his credentials from earlier. Aaron, these are my parents, Lord Arlen Walkerton and Lady Verna Walkerton."
Aaron bowed low. He did a better job at it this time. "It is an honor to meet you both. Serena has told me nothing but good things about you."
Serena hadn't actually told Aaron anything about her parents, but never mind that now. His comment elicited a snort from Verna, but another smile from her father. Verna flashed her husband a look which immediately wiped it from his face.
The Nullification Engine (The Alchemancer: Book Two) Page 9