Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Security looked pretty tight. The men professional, if not entirely disciplined. Within the first couple properties, Ryle spotted three likely points of entry. In the next half dozen, twice that many. After that he stopped keeping track. Even if one managed to get inside, he didn’t know what the hex you’d do with whatever you found. It wasn’t like you could shove a horse-sized slab of old metal in your pocket.

  The true sights though were high above. Workers swarmed along the towers, some on scaffolds, some on hanging platforms, and some dangling by long strands of rope. A few hardy souls worked without rope or harness, scrabbling about like squirrels without a thread to catch them if they slipped. Ryle’s palms broke out in a sweat, but he couldn’t look away. He half expected someone would plummet to their death at any moment, but no one did.

  Half a league farther, they came to a large opening among the towers. From the cracked stone slabs beneath their horses’ hooves, he guessed it had been a plaza in the forgotten past. Wooden shacks lined the perimeter of the five-hundred pace wide space, all dwarfed by the towers behind them. Ryle soon gathered that the squat buildings represented claim owner’s offices. In the plaza center, tall stages stood in a cluster. Even at this early hour, a knot of people surrounded the first, where a man auctioned off goods. His shouts and the merchants’ proposals occurred in a rushed pseudo-language Ryle missed most of, but the prices came through clear enough, and he whistled to himself. If one sale generated this much activity, an enormous number of coins must change hands here when the square was in full swing.

  Lastrahn led them to the rail outside one of the shacks and swung down. Ryle followed suit. As he surveyed the scene around them, including the people giving him and the champion a wide berth, a voice cut through the din.

  “You don’t see that every day. A champion up with the sun.”

  Ryle blinked in surprise and looked around for the idiot who’d thought it a good idea to raise Lastrahn’s ire at this early hour. It wasn’t hard to find her.

  A young, round-faced woman leaned against the wall, a small book held open in one hand. A strange blue light lit her features, seeming to emanate from within the book itself.

  Ryle had no idea what to make of that.

  One side of her head was shaved close but the rest of her longer brown hair twisted into curls that fell across her forehead. Strange, but it gave her a quirky, playful appearance.

  Her yellow leather jacket and pale blue pants appeared likewise lighthearted for the setting. She stood out like a flower against a dreary backdrop. Ryle’s gray jacket and pants felt drab by comparison. Only her worn boots and the leather satchel slung over one shoulder conceded some practicality.

  She snapped her book closed, blotting out the blue light, and grinning, waved at Lastrahn.

  Ryle winced.

  Lastrahn gave her a long flat look, then shoved his cowl back, and smiled. Ryle followed, surprised, as the two shook hands.

  “Drailey. You’re far from home,” Lastrahn said.

  “Couldn’t I say the same?” Drailey countered. “For that matter, where have you been?”

  That was the question. Lastrahn had been at Helador a year before with his squire at the time, of that Ryle was certain. A number of the survivors had seen them there. Before Vastroth turned a slim chance at peace into a nightmare that sealed everyone’s fates.

  Ryle’s skin prickled at the thought.

  For a while he’d suspected Kilgren and Lastrahn had fallen in the disaster. After all their battles and encounters, it was fitting they would’ve gone out together in some impossible scenario like that. Fighting to the bitter end. He’d almost accepted it as truth. Until a week ago in Pyhrec, when Lastrahn walked back on to the stage, asking about his father.

  Lastrahn combed his hair back and raised one eyebrow.

  Drailey’s grin faltered momentarily as she caught sight of his scarred cheek.

  So his scarred face was new. Maybe a wound he’d taken at Helador?

  When Lastrahn said nothing further Drailey cleared her throat. “Same old, Lastrahn. Well, as I’m not the silent, stoic, brooding, champion sort, I can freely report the cause for my presence in this fair center of industrious activity.” She paused, Lastrahn didn’t react. “I’m here for work, what else?”

  Ryle blinked, unsure if he was more confused or annoyed over her behavior and rambling speech. She didn’t look the part, but she sounded like someone immersed in university. Someone with grand ideas and the desire to make those ideas known to everyone. Ryle had done his best to avoid the well-dressed packs of students who roamed Pyhrec’s streets.

  Lastrahn shook his head.

  “Speaking of silent.” Drailey turned in Ryle’s direction. “Who’s the walking contradiction?”

  That firmly shoved her onto the annoying side of the fence.

  She must’ve seen something in Ryle’s face. “What? You look like a Southerner, but dress like a Northerner. You hold your tongue like civilized city folk but carry yourself like someone straight off a farm. What about you isn’t contradictory?”

  Ryle wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d just been insulted.

  Lastrahn chuckled. Drailey smirked. Ryle ground his teeth and crossed his arms.

  “Is this the new Renault?” she asked.

  Renault was Lastrahn’s previous squire, the one who vanished with the champion after Helador. The way she said his name sounded like someone with more than a passing familiarity. Curiosity grated against his irritation.

  Lastrahn, of course, gave nothing away, saying simply, “He’s my new aide.”

  Aide, not squire. The gap between the titles felt vast.

  “Does this aide have a name?”

  Ryle opened his mouth to answer but Lastrahn spoke. “Aiden.”

  The false name struck him sideways as Lastrahn obviously knew her well, but Drailey accepted it, albeit with a snort. “Aiden? I’m sure. Well pleased to meet you,” she said over a sudden outburst of shouting from the stages.

  “The same,” Ryle answered, still not sure what to think of her.

  They stood there silent and awkward until the shouting died off.

  “This must be some job to bring you from the city,” Lastrahn said.

  Some of the brightness faded from Drailey’s smile.

  “Work’s not so plentiful since you last visited. Recent events dampened trade. I’m sure you’re aware of those.”

  A couple grumbling, dirty faced workers brushed past, and for a moment Drailey’s and Lastrahn’s faces carried equal weight. Grim news had filled the air for years now, but this felt like something more specific. Ryle’s curiosity rose further.

  The workers pushed through the office door, giving Lastrahn a sideways look.

  Lastrahn said, “Tell me your sister is feeling better.”

  Drailey stared down at her boots. “I wish I could. Despite what many will tell you, I’m afraid time does not heal all ills. She does her best, but . . .”

  Lastrahn’s voice was pained. “Sorry to hear that. I’d hoped she would improve. There must be something that can be done.”

  “Nothing in the Del.” She waved her hands around. “Not after all this.”

  The Del. So she was from Del’atre. With that statement Ryle knew her gesture had nothing to do with the town around them. Between endless House conflicts and an impending war (thanks to Vastroth’s avarice) the frontier had been awash with trouble of late. But Del’atre carried even deeper wounds.

  Three years before, a gruesome plague had swept the city. Some said it was carried by the settlers the Directorate forced down the city’s throat. Others whispered that the Praeters, the mysterious people in the west beyond the Cinderveil, had unleashed their power as a warning against further encroachment on their border. Whatever the cause, hundreds had died before the city took drastic action, quarantining the sick and letting things run their course.

  The tragedy was horrific, but the destruction didn’t end there. The deaths bec
ame a spark that set the Western lands ablaze. Soon Xaviel and Murden were at each other’s throats over accusations of conspiracy and collusion. Then talk of retribution against the Praeters sprang up in earnest.

  Only the stringent efforts of the most powerful men and women in the realm had turned the conflicts into an attempt for peace at Helador. A single opportunity to avert all-out war that turned into the greatest disaster since the Rending.

  The situation in Del’atre grew only grimmer after that. As was typical of the Great City of the West, factions snapping for power had exploited the chaos and repeatedly filled the city’s crowded streets with violence. The most recent incident, only months before, required Directorate intervention and a force led by Elderow himself to restore some semblance of order. Ryle could only imagine what state the city lay in now.

  “It’s harder to get her help since Gerad left, but Glad does what she can,” Drailey said softly.

  Lastrahn frowned. “I hadn’t heard he’d left.”

  “You’ve been gone a while, you know. A year, in fact.” Ryle caught her studying Lastrahn’s scarred face again before she looked away.

  The champion half nodded in acknowledgement and fell quiet.

  Ryle’s curiosity was now raging at full force. She might not know exactly where Lastrahn had been, but she knew something. He was more than sure of it, but he was also in no position to find out, not with Lastrahn looking on. That left him standing there, stomach churning, while a long, painfully awkward moment built up.

  Ryle was grateful when a loud crash inside the office broke the silence.

  Drailey roused herself and light returned to her eyes. “What are you doing in Shelling? I hope you’re not here to see old Tillence,” she said and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

  The way Lastrahn’s eyes narrowed made no other reason possible.

  Drailey winced.

  “As you can hear, she’s having . . . problems this morning.”

  From the look on Lastrahn’s face, Tillence was about to have another. Without waiting for further explanation, Lastrahn marched to the office door. Ryle went after him and Drailey followed at a safe distance.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Explain. Now,” Lastrahn said.

  It was clear that Tillence, the subject of his statement, wasn’t often spoken to like this. Streaky red lines of strain stood out across her plump-cheeked face. She clenched her fingers around a piece of paper atop the ancient desk before her and glanced at the two men standing pressed against one wall. They were the ones who’d entered while Lastrahn and Drailey talked outside. Both were short and blunt featured with lips hidden behind bristly beards. Only the color of the beards, one brown and one red, differentiated them. Both avoided eye contact with anyone in the room.

  When they provided no help, Tillence tried again, her voice pinched but level. “I found what you asked about.”

  “Then I’ll take it and be on my way,” Lastrahn said.

  “As I said, you’ll have it soon. I’m sorting out a few details before I can hand it over.”

  “Soon is not now, as we agreed.”

  Tillence worked her jaw a couple times as her face gained a brighter crimson hue.

  Ryle gave Tillence credit for maintaining such control. The waves of pressure slamming between her and Lastrahn had wound up the tension in the crowded office to a state reserved for the rigging of ships. Every face in the room showed the strain. All except Drailey. Her amused expression never wavered.

  Ryle now knew why Lastrahn had stopped in Shelling, but that answer cracked open new questions. What was he after? Ryle doubted it was a clue about his father’s whereabouts, so an old weapon maybe? Or a powerful artifact?

  He kept his ears open and his lips sealed.

  “The agreement was that you’d have the item today,” Tillence said.

  Lastrahn’s eyes narrowed. “Explain why arguing semantics with me is a good idea.”

  “I have no choice when you change the agreement we had!” Tillence snapped.

  The pressure in the room climbed to newfound heights. Ryle confirmed his kenten was near at hand. Just in case.

  Tillence sucked in a breath through her flaring nostrils before continuing. “The situation is in hand, and you will have your item soon.”

  Lastrahn raked his fingers through his hair and maintained a thin veneer of composure. “Convince me.”

  Tillence used another breath to lower her tone. “I know where it is. I know exactly where it is. That is absolutely wrapped up.” She licked her pink lips before continuing. “I’m resolving a small issue with acquisition.”

  “Acquisition is why I hired you.”

  “And I’m getting it!” She caught herself before continuing. “We completed the excavation and located the object. I even brought in an expert to verify the object for you.” She waved a hand toward Drailey.

  The young woman sketched the most grandiose bow with her head Ryle had ever seen.

  How the hex could Drailey be an expert? She looked like she’d only noticed boys a week ago. And how was she so calm? Did they teach high tension quarrelling at university?

  Lastrahn didn’t bother looking in Drailey’s direction, and Tillence continued. “I fronted all those costs. I was happy to. Everything was, is, is on track. You’ll have it today. Just not right at this moment. An unforeseen event has delayed delivery. I was resolving that when you barged in.”

  Ryle thought that last jab might set Lastrahn off, but something had pricked his attention.

  “You didn’t mention any event.”

  “It is being handled,” she said, and her hands clenched again as she worked to maintain control.

  Lastrahn glanced from her to her two men against the wall. His eyes dropped to her hands and the paper crushed between them. His lip curled. “Someone took your claim.”

  “Lastrahn—” Tillence’s voice had gained an octave.

  “You wouldn’t be sitting here on your ass if there’d been an accident. Even for me. And these two rushed over in a damn hurry. To give you that note, I bet. That tells me something’s wrong, but not something you know how to fix. Or you’d be fixing it.”

  The worker’s scared glance toward Tillence gave Lastrahn his answer.

  At this, even Drailey’s smile fell away, and she looked toward the claim owner. Tillence grew redder by the moment, and Ryle became concerned her head might pop like a huge, terrible blister.

  “Tell me what happened. Right. Now,” Lastrahn demanded.

  Tillence licked her lips again. “Everything was fine last night. I was all ready for you.” She scrubbed a fist, still clutching the paper, across her glistening forehead. “This morning everything went to shit.” Her hand fell back to the desk with a meaty thump.

  “Someone really took your claim?” Drailey burst in. “Don’t you have guards to prevent this?”

  At the word ‘guards’ she winced, and Lastrahn snorted. “Her guards are the ones who took it.”

  When she didn’t deny it, Drailey whistled and fell back against the wall. “Ogger said you were handling a situation, but this is . . .” Her expression remained grim, probably shadowed by the realization her pay might not be forthcoming.

  Silence took hold then, while the workers looked at Tillence, and she looked at her desk, and Lastrahn glared at everyone in his field of vision.

  The wheels in Ryle’s head spun. Claims, vague objects, and deals were not his world. Invaders were another matter.

  He moved back through their trip along the street, remembering the guards around each claim, the points of vulnerability, the patrols, the stern looks. Sketches of passages he’d read about Shelling joined these thoughts. By the time Drailey broke the silence, he understood why Lastrahn’s face remained grim.

  “But, you have money,” Drailey said. “Hire men to take the claim back. You could build a small army out there.”

  “That’s the problem,” Ryle heard himself say.

  Five pairs of eye
s turned on him. Ryle’s training kept his head up. He pressed on. “She can’t hire anyone, because she can’t tell anyone. That claim’s unguarded right now. What’s to stop any men she sends in from just staying once they’re inside?”

  Drailey cursed silently.

  Tillence’s voice had no energy left. “I have my last few workers manning the gate to keep up appearances.”

  “And the bastards are armed,” Lastrahn said with disgust, striking the heart of what Ryle already knew was coming next.

  Tillence nodded and waved to the red bearded man. He swallowed before speaking.

  “They cleaned out our armory. Spears, swords, a few bows.”

  Drailey pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Give me a number,” Lastrahn said. His voice was flat but resolved.

  Another swallow. “Fifteen, maybe twenty men. The day shift showed up before dawn, gathered the night shift and the weapons, and they all went inside together.”

  Ryle counted only Lastrahn and himself to face them. And him without a sword.

  Plow sucking muck.

  “Buy them off,” Lastrahn snapped. “Get me my object.”

  Tillence waved the crumpled paper in her hand. “They won’t take anything but the keys to the vault inside.” She licked her sweat beaded upper lip. “The vault where your item is held.”

  Lastrahn’s face hardened. The scars stood out against his flushed skin. “Then this isn’t some random action. They have a plan, a goal. That means a leader, and I bet you know who that is.”

  Tillence winced. “Our head guard. We think he’d been planning it. He shouted that he’d had enough of this town. He said he was taking his and getting out.”

  A sickening feeling slid down over Ryle as she finished.

  “And this asshole’s name is . . .” Lastrahn prompted.

  Somehow Ryle already knew the name she would say.

  “Noffa,” Tillence said. “The bastard. Someone must’ve set him off last night.”