Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Chapter 28

  The day dawned not to the cock’s crow, but to the sound of laughter as children poured from their homes, dragging their half-awake parents behind them. All around the city, shopkeeps who had been up for hours threw open their doors and stood on their steps, eagerly watching the sun rise above the mountain tops to the east, setting their eyes to gleaming brightly, though none would ever know if it was the morning sun or the anticipation of a tidy profit that made them shine so. Not that it mattered.

  The Festival of Harvest had arrived.

  Even at that early hour, the streets began to fill with shoppers looking to haggle out a good deal before the first rush of the morning hit, and competition drove the prices up. People rushed to and fro, gathering their friends and heading toward one of the three city greens, where they found vendors already at their stalls, crying their wares. Gaming booths came to life with the promise of easy winnings. Even the pubs were turning a decent profit, the proprietors having set up shop near their front doors to tempt passersby with the notion of enjoying a frothy pint while they browsed the stalls.

  Having stationed his team at the Archive an hour before, Sal took some time to roam around, view the various sights, before assuming his post.

  No stranger to state fairs and the like, Sal was still in awe of the sheer immensity of the festival. The vendors, rides, and gaming booths spilled off the greens and into the city streets. One really couldn’t tell where one section of the city stopped and another began. The Commons spilled into the wharves. The wharves ran over into the Manors of the Patriarchs. The Academy flowed out into the Thoroughfare. And Sal’s Ranks were on every corner, in every shop insomuch as possible, policing the people as best they could. It reminded Sal vaguely of Mardi Gras, only more intense, if that were possible in this medieval world. As he thought of how the various districts would respond to the Festival, he felt a stab of pity for Tribean. He was sure that the Commons, the crime-infested southern district of Bastion, had turned into a real Mardi Gras, fraught with every perversion known to man.

  His pity was soon lost to the wonder of the festival, the sights and attractions—and miscreants—more than enough to keep his mind occupied. Just after reveille, he’d directed the sapphires to raise a cage of ice large enough to hold at least three hundred prisoners, and gave the “honor” of guarding it to those recruits still loyal to the Highest—or at least, those not known to be sympathetic to the Cause. They were content, given the cushiest job in the security detail. And they were out of Sal’s hair. It was a win-win situation. Besides, with almost a quarter of the entire Camp of the Unmarked stationed there, it made for the most secure jail setting he could hope for in these conditions. But by noon, he was wondering if it would be enough.

  “This is amazing,” Tribean breathed, the turmoil of the Commons districts surging around him.

  “Amazing,” Sal parroted, looking askance at his Onatae friend. “Please don’t tell me that you’re actually enjoying this.”

  Tribean shrugged, adjusting the sword that he wore at his belt, secured tightly to avoid inadvertently drawing steel on the odd drunk. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the thrill of using my new-found skills with magic and sword to thwart the frivolity of evil-doers.”

  “No more ale for you.”

  Tribean laughed, then frowned his disgust. “No, I’m not enjoying this. Not the ‘sidelining’, as you call it. I’d rather be in a pub, downing a pint, or walking the greens with a staked quarter of chicken, or—”

  Across the street from them, two men burst through a shop window, one of the few in the Commons district that did not have bars over them. They hit the cobbled street with a huff, but barely noticed. They were too intent on killing each other.

  “On the other hand,” Tribean said as he and Sal loosed their bundled-reed practice swords from the holsters on their backs and rushed to engage the miscreants, “it’s not without its perks.”

  ***

  Jaeda stumbled as the rocky surface of the slope gave way beneath her feet yet again. Since waking up on the near bank of the river, she and Nestor had made it a point to get as far away from the rushing water as possible. They made the bottom of the crevasse about an hour ago—time was difficult enough for a sun-blind granite to judge without that strange heat pouring over the waterfall from the north—and had been making their shaky way up the slope ever since. Whenever Jaeda gave thought to stopping to rest, she looked up the slope, spied the opalescent aura, and trudged on. Curiosity, it seemed, was stronger than mere fatigue.

  Rocks skittered from beneath her boots yet again, painfully bringing her to her knees once more. She swore an oath, and pushed herself up again.

  “Let’s stop for a min—”

  “You stop if you want to,” Jaeda snapped. “But I’ll see the top of this goat-kissing slope before I even think about rest.” Nestor looked her long in the face, shrugged, and turned back uphill.

  She was glad he didn’t mention melting again. He could have, like he had twice before—it was probably on the tip of his goat-kissing tongue even now—but he didn’t. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that she would make her way as he did, climb the same slopes he climbed. When this was all over, she would not have him seeing her as weaker than he, taking advantage of magic that he no longer had at his disposal. She was sure he didn’t understand, but she was glad he could take a hint. He didn’t have to understand, Crafter take it! He just had to...

  Her forward handhold leveled off significantly, and she cast her eyes up. She saw Nestor a few paces ahead of her, standing at the edge of a river-banked meadow, hands on hips, lungs heaving. They’d made it! Finally!

  But what she saw beyond him made her lose her footing once more, and almost sent her sliding back down the slope. Beyond the meadow, just barely peaking over the high-canopied forest, she saw her opalescent aura again, hanging close to a great, black mountain like a cloud.

  She couldn’t see the patterns of the mountain from that distance, but whatever it was made of, the precision of the angles suggested that the mountain was not natural. It had a symmetry about it that was uncanny. Too symmetrical. Almost...

  “Man-made,” Nestor breathed, echoing her thoughts. “It’s man-made! Have you ever seen the like? Look at how the river seems to flow right to it!”

  He was right. The river still snaked away into the dense forests of the Garden, but it unwound in the general direction of the mountain. If she were a betting woman, she’d have bet that it flowed from the very side of the mountain itself.

  In a daze, as if he was a child again, gazing at a toy-bedecked tree dressed up for the Festival of New Year, Nestor ambled off toward the meandering river, aiming to follow it back to its source. Huffing her exhaustion, but unwilling to give in to the temptation to become one with the earth, Jaeda pushed herself up and stumbled after him.

  ***

  The hours passed slowly and the Festival raged. Periodically, an Unmarked could be seen escorting an offender to the makeshift prison, which stood just outside the city walls. Rumors began to circulate about the jail made of ice, and the amethyst mages who would electrify the bars should an inmate wander too close. At first the rumors served as an effective deterrent, and the crime rate lagged. But with time—and increasing quantities of ale—the criminal element enjoyed a renaissance, and by dusk, the sapphire jailers were erecting new rooms to accommodate the influx of prisoners.

  Dusk.

  From his vantage point in the alcove leading into the Archive, Sal had not seen the sunset, hidden as it was behind a row of cramped houses. But a whistle from the roof of the Archive reported that the sun had set, and Sal’s stomach knotted reflexively.

  That’s it. Here we go.

  He turned to the sentries above him and nodded. The ruby nodded back. A moment later, a ball of fire launched from the rooftop, streaking across the darkening sky. Reaching its apex, it burst, sending down streamers that would wink out, then flare back to life. B
astionites could be heard, applauding what they took to be the first issue of the night’s fireworks display. Sal’s Ranks knew differently. They knew it to be a warning, a reminder that the sun had set. All across the city, Sal’s forces replaced their wooden swords on their backs and eased their steel in their sheaths. True, it was only the first night of Harvest, but anticipation of the Festival had been building among the populace for some time. If there would be a time for chaos and confusion among festival-goers, it would be tonight. And if Reit chose to capitalize on that chaos, Sal would be ready.

  ***

  “Do you think we’ve been spotted?” Retzu asked, hand resting casually on the hilt of his dagger. Reit knew that Retzu felt naked without his gold-hilted katana strapped to his back and at the ready, and he sympathized. Any other time, a sword would have drawn little or no attention, but a gold-hilted katana? During a Festival? Reit could imagine the stories even now, of how one patriarch was plotting against another patriarch, and had hired a Silent Blade to handle the “negotiations”. No, the risk of drawing attention was too great, and tonight of all nights. He’d just have to wait until he was in place, and pray that he not need his sword until then.

  “Doubt it,” Reit answered. But even as the words fell from his lips, he began to wonder. That fireball, its remnants just now dying, had been a signal flare if he’d ever seen one. With its explosion, the Earthen Rank patrols had come alive, bristling like a guard dog at the snap of a twig. It struck him as eerie that the Ranks would send up a signal flare, especially as he was waiting on a similar one himself. Did someone know their plans? Suddenly, his disguise seemed woefully inadequate. He tugged reflexively at the hood of his moth-ridden cloak. “Just in case, why don’t you take to the rooftops.”

  “Done, el’Yatza.” The assassin uttered the honorific as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Reit and Keth to wander the crowded streets alone. Reit might have wished his brother luck as he vanished, but he knew better. Retzu du’Nograh made his own luck.

  The pair continued down the street, playing the “gawking peasants” role for all they were worth. But they weren’t interested in the shops, the vendors, or the exhibits. Though they ogled all the proper sights, they only had eyes for the squat, horseshoe building at the end of the street.

  At only two stories, the Archive was easily distinguishable from its wealthy neighbors. The building was marble, with a columned walkway leading through its fenced courtyard to the entrance. On either end of the building, side wings swept forward to form a U. Even from three blocks away, Reit could see the marvelous filigreed trim of the eaves, and the carved ivy relief of the columns. Even though he couldn’t see the magical wards that sealed every door, window, and vent from the outside world, the building still impressed him. The Archives looked every bit a palace, fitting in near perfectly with its neighboring houses.

  Near perfectly, he thought to himself, spying the Earthen Rank sentries, spaced out around the base of the structure, and on the roof. He quirked up an eyebrow as he took in the defenses. He’d be hard-pressed to find any of the patriarchal manors garrisoned as effectively.

  Spying a familiar landmark, Reit wove his way through the crowd, pushing toward an alleyway a block or so to the northwest of the Archive. Keth had to move fast to keep up with him. But the crowd largely ignored them. Having pushed, prodded, and bullied their own way through the crowds since sunup, there wasn’t a single Festival-goer that saw anything of interest in the Reit and Keth, just a pair of Commoners who couldn’t afford more decent garb. The two slipped into the alley without drawing so much as a glance.

  The alley was so cluttered with broken crates, moldy sacks, chamberpot leavings, and other assorted filth that Reit almost missed the trap door. But there it was, partially buried under a rubbish heap, piled high by the keepers of the tunnel to dissuade the curious, or just those unfortunate enough to call the alleys of Bastion their home. Turning to make sure that no one was watching, he posted Keth as sentry and set about clearing the trap door of its camouflage. Thankfully, the keepers of the tunnel were courteous in their disguising of the trap door, setting decent limits to the “realism” of the rubbish that he had to push aside. The trash fell away almost as a single piece, revealing the seemingly rotten planks of the trap door below. Reit snaked a finger under one of the planks and gave a tug.

  The door swung upward with barely a creak from its well-oiled hinges, revealing a narrow, steep series of steps descending into pitch blackness. He cast an eye down both legs of the alley one more time, then tapped Keth on the shoulder. The big granite ducked into the tunnel and disappeared without so much as a word. With more excitement than he could show at such a moment, Reit followed suit, shutting out the sounds and light of the Festival as he let the trap door close behind him.

  ***

  Retzu left his brother’s side and slipped down a narrow side street to his right, ducking behind a flatbed wagon that was nearly falling apart with age and abuse. In the darkness of the deserted alley, he doffed his peasant garb, revealing the night-black leather armor of his trade beneath.

  He removed his katana and sheath from a holster under his arm and strapped it across his back. The assassin sighed his comfort as the katana settled into its accustomed place in the groove between his shoulder blades, with the hilt canted slightly to the right. Last, he pulled a black mask from his belt pouch and donned it, enveloping all but his eyes in shadow.

  He stooped down and peeled back the turned down cuff of his boot, revealing a row of glittering gems beneath, set in silver. He stroked the gems and replaced the cuff, then repeated the motions with the other boot. The boots practically hummed with energy as the last gem was stroked and the magic of the boots was activated.

  Standing, Retzu ground the balls of his feet on the cobblestone to test the magic. The ground, normally firm and unforgiving, seemed to slide away easily at the pressure. Long accustomed to the effect, Retzu knew that it wasn’t the ground that was sliding away. It was him.

  Satisfied, he leapt into the air, catching the alley wall with one foot and rebounding to the opposite wall, skipping weightlessly up the walls to the rooftop, clearing the eaves with barely an effort. He came down on his side and rolled to his knees, hand on his katana, ready to draw. He scanned the shadows of the rooftop, searching for a target. Finding none, he sprinted lightly across the roof to the far alley and jumped it, landing nimbly atop the neighboring building.

  Retzu made his way towards the Archive, skipping cluttered alleys and skimming the wooden, tiled, and sun-baked clay rooftops of Bastion, his eyes searching the darkness as he ran. Reaching one rooftop in particular, he paused and cast a glance across the avenue to the set of buildings that he’d seen Keth and Reit push toward. He found the alley just in time to catch a glimpse of his brother ducking into the trap door.

  Retzu cursed as he saw a man stumble into the alley, and his hand went reflexively to the stars that he had in a pouch on his belt. The stars were silent and efficient. He had no doubt that they would kill even from so far away, but it would attract attention that they really didn’t need at the moment. There would be plenty of dead in the morning for the emeralds to sort through, and dispose of, but a shol’tuk star would surely raise a few eyebrows. Thankfully, it never came to that. Before Retzu could act, the Festival-goer tripped on a box and fell flat on his face, lifeless. Just a drunk, he thought as he let his hand drop with a sigh. He waited a moment longer, then continued on his way, remaining on each rooftop only long enough to reach the next.

  He worried about his brother, and Reit’s role in the plan. He’d argued that it was too dangerous, that they should send someone else, but Reit had been steadfast. It was Reit who had made contact with the Archivists, who convinced them that his Cause was just. It was Reit they knew, Reit they trusted.

  “Thirty minutes older than me, and he thinks he knows everything,” the assassin grumbled, not for the first time. At least the goat-kissing minta’hk had agreed to ta
ke Keth with him. An adept mage and a budding shol’tuk adherent, the boy would be more than sufficient to protect Retzu’s twin—protect el’Yatza, he amended—from anything short of a troop of granite guards.

  Angling to the southeast, he launched himself over one of the broader avenues. His magical boots held him suspended in the air just long enough to clear the street, then dropped him heavily on top of a bakery. His soft-shod feet slapped painfully on the clay roof, and he somersaulted into a ready squat. Glancing around first to make sure he was alone, he fell to his rump and threw off his boots, massaging his soles vigorously and praying for the pain to subside.

  He looked over at the chimney. There was no smoke, which meant no fire. And that probably meant that the baker was out enjoying the festival. More power to him, Retzu thought. The impact had not really been that loud enough to be heard form the street, but he took no chances. Loathe to waste a second, he donned his boots again and reactivated the magic. He stood quickly and made for the next roof, doing his best to ignore his complaining feet.

  It was full dark by the time he reached the house he wanted. It was a wooden house, with a clay shingled roof, about five blocks east of the Archives. Smoke billowed up from the chimney, evidence that the owner of the house had lived up to his end of the deal. Perfect.

  Retzu jumped the final alleyway, careful not to dislodge any shingles. He scurried up the gentle slant to the roof’s apex, then glanced around once more. The streets were all but deserted here, abandoned in favor of the activity in the city parks or the wharves. So much the better. Satisfied that he’d gone unobserved, he straightened and reached into his belt pouch, producing a fist-sized linen bag.

  “All this trouble, just to drop a sack of dirt down a dusty chimney,” he snorted, chuckling at the seeming irony. But he was far from stupid. He didn’t have a clue what the mixture in the bag was, or how it was supposed to cause a distraction—the Archivists had said nothing regarding the formula, except to offer an explicit warning to not experiment with it—but whatever it was, Reit’s escape hinged on it.