Shadowrun - [Earthdawn 05] - Shroud of Madness

by Carl Sargent, Marc Gascoigne (v0. 9) (epub)

  A sudden wave of suspicion crept over him, a slight edge of anxiety he was not used to. I am a pawn in something here, the thought said. Andreax is playing some game, and I am a pawn in it. He has told me little, and I still have not had any real explanation for being called before him in person. Something is awry.

  His speculations dissipated as his stomach rumbled and returned his thoughts to breakfast. With a slight shrug, the elf made his way past the vast pillars of the library. Some eager young scholars and students were already arriving for their day's studies. The ambitious or desperate, he thought, and grinned to himself. Well, that's as it may be, but I am neither.

  And the airship journey will be a blessing in this weather. I might even be able to sleep tonight.

  2

  "Pleased to have you on board, I'm sure." The troll's emphasis turned the words into the opposite of their apparent meaning. Although Cassian had not delayed Korrurg's departure one instant, he guessed that any minor disruption of the pre-ordained itinerary of the airship would irk the precise, routine-loving Captain. The troll stood glaring down at him in a posture that made him look as if he had an iron rod running up through his spine.

  "Not that we have much in the way of passenger facilities ordinarily, but you will be allowed access to one of the small staterooms," Korrurg continued ungraciously. Cassian smiled despite himself.

  "I'm sorry to be a nuisance. All I can say is that I was dragged from my bed at dawn and told I must go immediately to Vivane. I think we've both had our routines disturbed, and I apologize on behalf of the Arbitorium," the elf said silkily.

  Korrurg seemed to unbend ever so slightly. "Hmmm.

  Well, we're ready to cast off. I hope you're not prone to airsickness/' the troll grumbled, plainly more concerned for what a sick and unwanted guest might do the airship's luxurious fittings than for the health of the afflicted party.

  "I have been fortunate enough to travel in airships before, although not, of course, on any as grand as the Ascendancy," Cassian said ingratiatingly, "and I am not prone to such sickness. Thank you for your concern, however." Despite his words, the slight giddiness he still felt from the levitational magic that had carried him up to the mooring point had him wondering whether he really did have problems with air travel.

  Korrurg gave him the kind of look one might reserve for a rather irritating pest one cannot manage to swat or squash underfoot on account of its nimbleness. "First Mate Arcanth will take care of any requirements you have," he said finally and stomped off to the great central tower of the massive airship.

  Watching a leather-armored ork come striding across from the right foretower, Cassian took in the epic scale of the magnificent vessel. Almost square in design, the ship had a circular tower at each corner, each some fifty feet in height, crafted from wood and stone and bronze. Archery slits ringed those towers, perches for the elite archers of the Eighth Legion, and a fusillade of missile fire from them could wreak devastation on any troll crystal-raider vessel foolish enough to get within range. Against land-based enemies, the archers could slay hundreds in a matter of moments. Yet even those constructions paled into insignificance against the gigantic Great Tower, twenty feet taller and a monstrous fifty feet in diameter. The stone walls around it were of colossal weight, and the magical crafting that had gone into this behemoth of the air must have been exacting and seemingly endless to the artisans and wizards who had constructed the

  Ascendancy. Two hundred feet to a side the proud airship stood, wavering not at all in the breezes that cooled the air atop its mooring point, and nearly four hundred troops regularly traveled within her. In a pinch, nearly half that number again could be carried on a shorter journey. Vivane, some six hundred miles distant, would be reached just after noon on the following day. Whatever privations his quarters might offer—and Cassian thought .1 stateroom did not sound much like privation—he could easily suffer them for such a short time.

  "Over there," the ork, who had finally made it to his side, said curtly. "Your stuff has already been dumped in your room. First floor, first door on the right as you go in." He turned away before Cassian could even thank him.

  The lurch of the airship as it commenced its voyage was barely tangible to the senses, but Cassian could feel the billowing of welcome breezes growing stronger about his body even as he began to unpack his minimal possessions. Clutching the papers he still hadn't even begun to read through, he reflected gloomily that he could hardly risk sitting outside and having them blow away over the sides of the ship. On a rare impulse, he placed the papers carefully beneath the pillow on his bed, locked the door to his room with the small brass key left in the lock for him to find, and strode out onto the deck. Using both hands to pull the silver-threaded leather thongs from his braids, he faced into the oncoming wind and let it blow his hair around him. After the still heat of Thera, it felt like magic itself.

  Then he walked over to the wooden rail on the starboard side and looped the safety rope around his waist while gazing down at the beauty of the blue-green ocean below as the island of Thera slowly receded into the distance. It is so small, he thought, yet our people have built an empire that stretches for endless thousands of miles; along the fertile rivers of Eupharel, Indrisa, and Vasgothia. Therans had sailed the world over in airships such as these, and brought wonders and marvels from every far-flung corner of the earth. For an instant, his reverie brought him imaginative glimpses of the lands he'd been taught about, with waterfalls half a mile deep, endless plains of ice, exploding geysers of mud, elemental earth and steam, of fabulous beasts displayed—as skins or skeletons—in the nooks and crannies of the Eternal Library. Not just books were to be found in that place of study. An example of almost everything the world had to offer was somewhere within its endless walls.

  A hard tap on the back, given in that roughhouse way that passed for playfulness among orks, roused him from his daydreaming. He turned to see an ork skysailor gnawing on a boiled boar's foot, asking him if he wanted some "fodder." Grinning, Cassian declined, and decided to begin reading the briefing documents after all.

  The long-looped handwriting told him that the political picture in Vivane was less complicated than he had feared. Of the great established Houses of Thera, only five were significantly involved in the affairs of the frontier settlement. As yet, so much of the city still needed rebuilding after the Scourge that only the more venturesome, foolhardy, or excitable had considered taking up residence there. Of course, the people of the Empire made sure they were safely ensconced behind the newly built walls of the Theran Quarter, but a good third of the rest of the city was little more than a random labyrinth of dangerous, refugee-crowded ruins. That the fierce General Crotias was of House Zanjan he already knew, but he had heard little of Provincial Admiral Tularch, and was surprised to discover that the commander of the formidable airship squadrons stationed at nearby Sky Point was a Carinci. It was not a House noted for its military prowess, and Cassian wondered whether Tularch's appointment might not be one of those political ones whereby everyone got some slice of military rank just to maintain the balance of power between the Houses. But that could not be true here; the position was too important. She must be worthy of it.

  Medari, Carinci, Zanjan, Narlanth, Thaloss; familiar names. None would have any rankling grudge to hold against him. Once, years ago, Cassian's judgments had offended House Carinci because of his own House allegiance to their prime rivals, but he had atoned for that some time back in his first posting to Vasgothia. His brow furrowed to see his own House Medari on the list of names; surely it would have been better to have chosen a praetor from House Aralaith, perhaps? Then impartiality would be unquestioned. Again, the nagging sense of something not quite right tugged at him. Perhaps this is all on paper so I can't ask awkward questions, he thought.

  Continuing his reading, Cassian learned that the first murder had occurred less than two months ago. Dragold, a dwarf architect involved in both city reconstruction and milita
ry projects, had been found ripped limb from limb in his own bedroom. An eyewitness account of the discovery of the body was appended, and though Cassian was not easily shocked, his sensibilities were nevertheless offended by the lurid details. The dwarf had been hanged from a ceiling hook with his own intestines. Fortunately, the details were less sensational in the later cases. The suicides, of brother and sister, looked to him like a simple domestic tragedy, and the insanity of the wizard Aralesh could surely be put down to ill-considered spellweaving. There must be plenty of places close to Vivane where astral space was polluted, making the use of raw magic dangerous. Except that the wizard had been a member of Kypros's Council of Advisors, his death would probably never have found its way into this document. What linked these events?

  Well, if that was known I wouldn't be going to Vivane to find out, Cassian told himself. But it was hard to understand why anyone considered such goings-on so unusual in a place on the very edge of the Empire. But if Andreax commanded, Cassian must do as he was bid.

  He looked out through the porthole in his small cabin, gazing languidly at the cloud fleece drifting in wisps past the airship's bronze fittings, which gleamed in the afternoon sun. Then he had to look away from the brilliant reflected light, squinting in discomfort. The smell of lindaran oil, used to treat the wood of even the interior fittings of the airship, was strong and beginning to make him drowsy. He rubbed his eyes, and decided to risk the irritation of the skysailors by venturing out onto the deck once more.

  This morning would be a lively one, and Jerenn looked forward to the break in the usual dull routine. For days now there'd been nothing for him at his master's house outside the mundane household drudgery. Today, however, the Vanguard would return from upriver with its cargo of grain and foods to be stored against the coming winter, and Tarlanth's bored scribe, Berelas, would send the youth down to the docks with the inventory to check everything aboard. A slave who could be trusted as Jerenn could, and who could read and write and was equipped with sharp eyes and brain to boot, was valued by any Theran with any sense in his head. Jerenn had learned that soon enough, and had also learned that being trustworthy meant he didn't get beaten, got enough food to eat and clothes to keep him warm, and was even allowed his own room. That the room was a windowless hole next to the cold cellars had been more to his advantage than his master could ever have intended, since the resourceful youth had soon discovered the narrow crawlways and passageways hidden behind the far walls of the cellars— and the places to which they led.

  Jerenn had barely had time to wolf down half his bowl of maize porridge, into which his charms had persuaded the cook to ladle a little milk and honey, before Berelas found him. Jerenn gave him his practiced look of one about to suffer a demanding and difficult task with fortitude as the scribe handed over the punctiliously written list of items that were expected.

  "If there is anything missing, anything at all, you must make a record of it and ask the captain to sign it," the scribe droned at him. "And, likewise, if there is anything in addition to what is expected you must make a separate list of it and make sure that is signed also. If all is in order, then Master Tarlanth will not have to visit the docks himself, and he is very busy today."

  Jerenn nodded, taking in the unspoken meaning: sort out anything untoward or else your master will be irked at having to sort it out himself when he has better things to do. His morning's work offered the chance of a thrashing, but also of a coin flicked his way by a grateful noble if he did it well. From what he heard when the slaves of Tarlanth's house talked among themselves, even other trusted household servitors rarely got such a reward. If one must endure slavery, Jerenn thought, one could do a great deal worse than this household. And at least he didn't have to worry every minute about ork scorchers on the road as he had on that last wretched flight from Barsaive. He didn't have to try simply to stay alive, with a half-dozen people at his back, dogging his steps, pursuing his trail. As he always told himself, one day he would escape, but for now. . .

  3

  He took the list and began to survey the contents.

  "Be sure to be back by noon," Berelas concluded. "Master Tarlanth has a further task for you. Something rather unusual, I gather." The scribe grinned in that ambiguous manner that told Jerenn the job might be interesting and pleasant, but, if so, Berelas didn't want him to feel too good too easily.

  The youth leaped up from the rickety wooden chair, almost spilling the last of the thin porridge over the floor. He tucked the tails of his thin cotton shirt into his leathered leggings, and barely managing to avoid a painful blow to the hip from a heavy kitchen table that had inconsiderately gotten in the way of the back door, he raced out into the warm, sunny morning.

  Jerenn would have just begun running back almost the full length of the Grandwalk when, some small distance away to the southeast, the Ascendancy finally docked at Sky Point. Cassian was shown to the crystal-rimmed shaft leading to the ground far below by sky-sailors obviously not unhappy to be rid of him. The prae-tori were not liked by other Theran military men. Though these emissaries of Thera came from the ranks of the military, the praetori did not share the camaraderie of the ordinary uniformed men, who often felt this, however unconsciously, as some kind of betrayal, even a threat.

  Descending as lazily as a feather down the column of enchanted elemental air, Cassian frowned at the sight of Barsaivian slaves being forced to descend rope ladders from the skyship platform where a slave-trading airship had docked just prior to the Overgovernor's vessel. Stupid and dangerous, he thought. After the Scourge, a slave is a more valuable possession than ever before. Don't these people realize that?

  Once on the ground, he was greeted with unnecessary effusiveness by a nervous functionary who, judging by the sweat plastering his greasy black hair to his forehead, had been sweltering in his ostentatious uniform for much longer than was good for him. The elf was shown to a pompous carriage which, to his annoyance, was actually gilded. The Theran emblem shared pride of place with the badge of Zanjan. Cassian was surprised; the militaristic noble House was not usually given to such indulgences.

  Once inside, his mood of disapproval was not improved by the need to climb over a landslide of elaborately embroidered, silk-covered cushions. The only good thing was that once the coachman pressed the two fine Cathay stallions drawing the vehicle into action, the passage was extraordinarily comfortable. As usual with such carriages, elemental wood and air were used to reduce the friction of the wheels against the ground to almost nothing. It gave the passenger a luxurious ride, and it also meant the horses were drawing almost no weight at all once the carriage got moving. The distance to Vivane itself could be covered in little over an hour.

  Struggling with the cushions again, Cassian's left hand suddenly grasped something cool. Drawing it from its feathery hiding place, he found a ceramic bowl of chilled peaches and oranges, and a note written in an extraordinarily fine hand. Whoever had penned it had even used liquid gold ink, that alchemical masterpiece of ostentation. Cassian quickly skimmed the platitudes to find what really mattered—the signature.

  Ilfaralek, he read. Now that's a name I know. Brow furrowed, he pulled out his sheaf of mostly spurious notes and began shuffling through them in search of it.

  Jerenn was late getting back and he knew it. The t'skrang of the Vanguard had been in an exceptionally boisterous mood and much given to tale-telling and showing off among the dockers and traders. It had been difficult for a mere slave to persuade a haughty riverboat captain to take his requests seriously but, by dint of flattery and polite persistence, Jerenn had finally got hold of the complete ship's inventory and been able to check the contents by feigning a startled sense of wonder at how fine everything was and how venturesome and capable the t'skrang were. Jerenn had learned long ago that flattering t'skrang was a useful survival skill. They usually saw through it, of course, but they liked it all the same. Back in the filthy streets of Bartertown, where his mother had abandoned him, a c
hild not blessed with great strength had to learn how to survive by insinuation rather than imposition. It had made him resourceful, and he had gotten his work done, but it was nearly an hour past noon by the time he dragged himself, breathless, through the l>ack door and slumped down in the cool of the kitchens. He could hardly get down a glass of cold water laced with lemon before Berelas appeared from the hall beyond.

  Jerenn began instantly to babble about the inventory. And here the maize is good, but two sacks seemed to be afflicted with the beginnings of purple rust," he gasped, still not recovered from his exertions. "Perhaps the master should see it in the next two or three days before it has taken hold, and it could be saved. Then, in the first barrels—"

  Berelas laughed at him, not unkindly. "It's all right, boy. We have some time in hand. We have a guest arriving, and as it happens noon was the time of his arrival at Sky Point in the Ascendancy."

  Jerenn sat bolt upright at the mention of the Overgovemor's own airship. It was rare for it to ever leave I he city's Basalt Spire mooring point, where it hung as if in I he clouds, a potent symbol of Theran dominion, a dramatic statement of the Empire's intention to inhabit, dominate, and conquer all of Barsaive in due course. Anyone sent for in that ship could only be a person of uncommon importance. High-ranking guests from distant cities and lands were rare, and Jerenn was intensely curious. Perhaps the man would have exotic slaves, maybe even one of the huge mastryliths with which the first Overgovernor of Vivane was said to have shattered the city walls, a war-beast so huge it stood higher than a house and weighed fifteen tons, or so he had heard; perhaps the visitor would come dressed in Cathay finery, wafting a trail of Indrisan incense and herbal scents behind him.