Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Ryle caught bits of flotsam amid the kid’s flash flood of words, but he’d heard enough. Who the hex was this kid? “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “That’s what Simeon says, too. But I don’t know. I’ve seen lots of big guys, but none like him, I don’t think. I saw his eyes. He has to be a champion.”

  And persistent to boot. “Sorry, kid. We’re travelers passing through, same as everyone else, just like you said.” When the boy didn’t say anything else Ryle grabbed a new handful of straw, and worked his way forward along Grey’s side.

  “I bet y’all are champions here on a secret mission and you can’t tell me. That’s what’s going on, isn’t it?”

  So much for that. Ryle peered under Grey’s neck. The kid looked at him expectantly. As if even if they were on a secret mission, his insightful deduction meant Ryle would have to reveal their true purpose. “Look, um, kid . . . What’s your name?”

  “His name’s Ebi,” a new voice said from the stable doors.

  Ryle leaned around the edge of the stall. A thin teenager wearing a button up shirt under an open leather vest lounged against the stable wall between hanks of rope and tack. He was the one who’d come for their horses when they entered the inn.

  “He goes on too much. Don’t you, Ebi?”

  “But Simeon, they might be champions.”

  Simeon rolled his eyes. “Last week old lady Verna’s dog was a rendbeast in disguise. And you swore there were Praeters hiding in Del’atre because you saw a bald man across the street. And you were sure the young woman who fixed Oliver’s matikforge was a sorceress because her eyes looked funny.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t? Have you ever seen one?”

  Simeon cocked his head and gave Ebi a flat look.

  The boy’s face fell.

  “Why don’t you run along, and let this man finish his work.”

  Ebi looked up at Ryle, hopeful he’d give him permission to stay.

  “Get going,” Simeon said, flicking a bit of straw from his shirt, “Oliver needs help unloading bales.”

  Ebi turned away, and trudged out. He looked so exaggeratedly crestfallen it was all Ryle could do not to laugh.

  As he disappeared through the doors Ebi muttered, “It was two bald people.”

  Simeon pushed off of the wall with another shake of his head. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said. “Ebi holds an unceasing curiosity of all things.”

  “It’s no problem,” Ryle said, though he was glad the kid’s questions were interrupted.

  Simeon leaned against the corner of Grey’s stall. “So, are you champions, or what?”

  Ryle blanched and spun, his back screaming at the sudden motion.

  Simeon grinned, and winked. Ryle, feeling stupid that he’d been baited so easily, turned back to Grey.

  “Kidding, only kidding. We get all sorts in here. We’re told not to ask questions. Comes with the territory. This being the Everything’s Oh So Secret Land of Del’atre. Ebi isn’t such a quick study on that rule.” My name’s Simeon.” He offered his hand.

  Even if Ryle’s hand hadn’t been full of straw, he would’ve paused. Lastrahn’s talk of secrets had him on edge. Ferrel knew Lastrahn, but did the same go for her stable hands? Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard her use the champion’s name.

  Still feeling uncertain, but with the moment stretching toward an awkward duration, he went with Lastrahn’s orders. He dropped the handful of straw and dusted his hand off. “Aiden,” he said as shook Simeon’s hand.

  Grey was done. He stepped out of her stall, closed the gate, and walked out into the inn’s now shadowed central courtyard. The still warm air felt more comfortable than it had all day. He stretched his back, and his spine cracked like dry logs in a fire.

  Now what? Laundry? Some other task he didn’t know about?

  After they arrived in the inn, Lastrahn’s orders had been, “Stay here. Take care of things. I’ll be back,” and he’d disappeared into the inn with Ferrel. Not exactly a task list.

  Ryle wanted to grab a few minutes shut eye in his room, but if he lay down he wasn’t getting up again. He felt worn thin, inside and out, and stifled a yawn. His breath tasted like vinegar. He grimaced. He’d been grateful for the plate of cold sliced meat and pickles one of Ferrel’s servants had delivered while he curried Lastrahn’s horse. It was better than anything he’d scraped together since Taggerloft, but those pickles must be an acquired taste.

  Horses’ hooves on stone and shouted greetings across the courtyard drew his attention. Men were climbing up from the tunnels. Their clothing, expensive but worn, labeled them as small time merchants or low level nobles. Behind them, the darkness under the city lay thick and heavy. He looked away.

  “First time in the underground?” Simeon asked.

  “Yeah.” Ryle had to guard his expressions better.

  Ferrel emerged and greeted the arrivals as warmly as she had met Lastrahn. The men seemed indifferent, and walked inside with a cursory wave of their hands while Ebi rushed over to collect their horses. She followed after them.

  “It takes getting used to that’s for sure.” Simeon’s eyes followed the men as he spoke. Probably gauging how much work they’d make for him. He looked like someone who’d track such things.

  Ryle’s mind slid back to his trek through the dark. The packed, shadowy streets, then the winding, echoing tunnels, their mute guide their only hope of getting out again.

  “Our guide was blind.” The mysterious figure’s blank expression lit by the strange pink light burned in Ryle’s memory.

  “They all are,” Simeon said. “The Porters control the deep passages, the ones below the Underground. Have for years. They protect their clients by not knowing who goes where. Hard to find a more secretive group.”

  Ryle wondered if they were blind before or after they took the job. “That seems like a lot of . . . commitment.”

  “More than one deal has turned on knowing that so and so went into such and such’s home. Like those gents that just rode in. They look well off, on the surface.”

  “Their bridles need repair,” Ryle said, “and their horses need shoeing.”

  Simeon paused, head cocked. From the way his eyes darted around, Ryle didn’t think he missed much, but he bet the stable hand was used to others paying less attention.

  Ryle’s mother had taught him better than that. For a hard second he wished he was back with her in the courtyard of some other inn, sizing up potential marks.

  Simeon continued, “Maybe they’re lazy, or maybe coin isn’t as available as it once was. Few bones remain to pick clean in The Del these days. A misspoken word, a single misstep can spell calamity.”

  “Never seen any place like it.” Ryle was irritated with himself for admitting such a thing. It made his growing sense of ignorance with this place prickle all the more.

  Simeon’s face changed. “Let’s see if we can’t do something about that. Look here.” He went to a sealed barrel against the stable wall. There he produced a nub of a pencil from inside his vest and swept marks across the wooden top.

  “Del’atre.” He pointed to the grasping shape he’d sketched. Like a two pincered claw reaching south and west. “And here’s the Vita.” He added two wavy lines around the peninsula, and then a thin bent line leading up from the city to the bank above it. “The Neck.”

  A dark mass took shape on the right side of the city. “Father Anvil.” Then two smaller blots at the tips of the pincers on the left and bottom. “The Sister and Brother Anvils.”

  Between the pincers, more wavy lines.

  “The Great Bay.”

  It felt surreal watching him map out places Ryle had only read about, and knowing the places were minutes from where he stood. It felt even weirder if he let himself consider his father might be in one of those places.

  Simeon’s hand kept moving, drawing boxy shapes along the land stretching from Sister Anvil on the west back to the bulk of the city.

&
nbsp; “The factories,” Ryle said, and Simeon nodded.

  Ryle had seen all of this before on various maps, but then Simeon’s pencil whipped back and forth a few times, slashing through the remaining space, and Ryle leaned forward with interest.

  “Okay, short version. The Del’s made up of twelve informal districts. West of Father Anvil is the Hammer. Original, don’t you think? That’s where all the high muckity mucks live, where the government offices, courthouses, tax houses are, blah, blah.”

  Ryle doubted their target would dwell there.

  Simeon’s finger moved to the sections south and north of the Hammer. “Surf and turf.” He winked as if it was a joke, but Ryle didn’t get the punchline. The stable hand cleared his throat and continued on. “Military barracks, training, and such. North are land units, they run the city gate, man the walls, and south is the official port and river units. Stay out of both, they’re not friendly to visitors. Especially now that they’re full of white caps.”

  Ryle doubted they’d venture anywhere near those areas. Not with the level of caution Lastrahn had maintained. But he noted them in his mind nonetheless.

  “The Directorate forces causing trouble?”

  “When do they not?” Simeon moved to a triangular section west of Surf. “The Purse, where all the Merchants set up shop. Rich and uppity. Expensive goods here, high end stuff. And speaking of high end.” He moved his finger further west now to the center of the city. “You saw the hill at the center of town? Yeah that’s where all the money sits. Banks at the bottom of the hill, riches at the top. The Houses keep estates up there. Called Gates for obvious reasons.”

  These seemed like slightly better possibilities for locating Hartvau, but still felt off if he was an underworld figure as Ryle guessed. At least the Houses of Del’atre were something Ryle did know about. A shifting array of them ruled the city and surrounding country. A baffling series of elections and appointments dictated which House controlled each aspect of the city and its various offices. All beneath the supervision of the Directorate. Especially now he was sure.

  Knowing who was in control in the current environment might prove useful. “Which House is Primary?” he asked.

  Simeon gave him a strange look. “Adelto, since last year.” He didn’t say since Helador, but Ryle knew this must be the case. The stable hand tapped Hammer again. “Their estate is up on the hill, but if you’re looking for Adelto they’re probably in the Hammer in their official capacity.”

  The House name meant nothing to him, but they must’ve remained loyal, or proved less troublesome to gain the position. He’d pass the information onto Lastrahn. Ryle shook his head. “Just curious.”

  Simeon shrugged. North of Gates, and curving down to the west. “Hearths, where what passes for good, upstanding, normal people live. Gates likes to keep a nice buffer between themselves and anything ‘coming in.’” He shook his head.

  Ryle crossed that one off. No way Hartvau would fit in there.

  “West of Hearths and east of the Factories are the Flats. On account that everyone living there is flat broke. And flat miserable.”

  “Settlers?” Ryle asked.

  Simeon nodded. “Streets are crowded as shit. It’s twice as bad in Flats and not getting any better.” His eyes hardened as he spoke. “A new barge shows up every week. Half of those less than thrilled bastards want to squeeze in next door to you where your neighbors are already sleeping four to a bed. And the other half will rob you blind given the chance.”

  Ryle hated to think it was worse in Flats than what he’d already seen. Those poor souls in the underground were cheek to jowl in the dark. He suppressed a shudder, but also removed the area from the list of places to search. Hartvau was powerful, he wouldn’t reside there.

  Simeon turned back to his map. “So those are the outer districts. The rest lie around the Great Bay.” He tapped the wavy lines to the southwest between the two pincers. “That’s where all the ships dock, where the ‘wealth of the west make landfall,’ or so they say. On the west of the Bay are the Yards where ships are built and repaired. Next around, below Flats and Gates are the Warehouses.”

  The areas were possibilities. Lots of commerce and traffic meant lots of smuggling and all that went with it.

  Ryle was still pondering this when Simeon’s finger moved east of the Warehouses and south of Purses. “And last, but most certainly not least, is the Strip. All the fun stuff’s here, if you get my drift.”

  Ryle did and his eyes locked onto the thin strip on the map. Of all the attractions in Del’atre, the Satin Road was the most infamous. He’d never heard it called the Strip, but there was no mistaking his meaning. Rumor said you could find anything there without looking too hard. Maybe even Hartvau.

  “Right here?” Simeon pointed to a spot between Gates, Purse, and Strip. “That’s us. Right in the sweet spot.”

  The location looked ideal to rake in the coins. From the state of the inn, Ferrel certainly did that.

  The Del remained a jumbled mess, but he felt more oriented. He guessed their search would focus between the docks and the Strip. That was a hex of a lot less ground than he’d first thought. Simeon’s count was off though.

  “You said twelve. What’s this?” Ryle pointed to a black band the stable hand had smeared with his thumb along the eastern and northern sides of the city where the neck connected.

  Simeon wiped his thumb on his trousers as he answered Ryle. “That’s Ashes. That’s where they shut the sick in. They didn’t last long after that,” he said. “Don’t count for much now. Not since the burned it afterwards. Folks never wanted to move back in.”

  “I didn’t see that when we arrived,” Ryle said.

  “Oh, they repaired the main road. No reason to spoil visits with a mass grave.”

  A few dozen blocks get levelled, and they slap some paint over it so life can go on in Del’atre. Just like that. Ryle shook his head. “How’s the city been doing? Since Helador.”

  Simeon waved a hand. “Helador was an excuse. Hell, that damned plague was called a spark, but things were brewing long before that. Xaviel and Murden have been feuding for years. They were just looking for justification. The Del’s no different. Build it up, tear it down, and try again. Someone would find a reason to make a mess. It’s the Council’s favorite pastime.”

  That was a grim way to look at it, but Ryle couldn’t argue. He’d seen too much greed first hand. Those in power only wanted more of the same. His mother had called it the unquenchable thirst.

  “Like I said, nothing changes. They’ve been rebuilding as long as I’ve been alive. Hell, what do you think makes up the Underground? There’s level upon level of old city down there. All paved over, sealed up, and built on again. A hundred years ago Del’atre was almost level with the river. The crater walls high overhead. A couple floods, a couple fires, and here we are, standing on the bones of failed ideas.”

  Blast this place was grim. His statement did raise a question though. “Are the districts the same down there?”

  “Some sections are sealed off, or collapsed, but pretty much. Less rich, more poor. But more interesting experiences if you know where to look.” He tapped the Satin Road. “The Road’s at least three levels deep. Topside is the shining face visitors write home about, but the real fun’s below ground.” His grin was amused and leering at the same time.

  Ryle cleared his throat, then the wind shifted and he smelled something awful. He sniffed at the air and with horror, realized it was himself.

  Simeon chuckled. “I’m around livestock half the day, and out in the crowd the rest. I’ve smelled worse,” he said.

  Ryle’s face heated. Here he was in the middle of this spotless inn and he smelled like a terrible amalgamation of horse, smoke, week old sweat, and whatever the hex had rubbed off from that blasted cloak.

  “We have wash tubs on the second floor, you could—” Simeon’s brows drew together and his eyes focused over Ryle’s shoulder. “Perhaps later.”


  Ryle turned to see Lastrahn and Ferrel crossing the courtyard. The champion’s dirty cloak billowed behind him.

  “I’ll save you some soap,” Simeon said and wandered off.

  Lastrahn ignored him, but Ferrel observed her stable hand’s departure through narrowed eyes.

  “And you verified that, report. You’re sure,” Lastrahn said to her.

  Ferrel nodded. “He rode south a week past with a half-dozen men. In a hurry too. If you need his assistance, I’m afraid you won’t find him here.”

  Ryle couldn’t tell if Lastrahn took this information, whatever the hex it meant, for good or ill. Rather than reacting, the champion produced a sheathed short sword from within his cloak. He shoved it into Ryle’s hands.

  “Leave your gear in your room, bring your cloak and put on gloves. We have work to do.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Lastrahn shouldered through the crowd, and Ryle did his best to stay on his heels while watching their backs, keeping an eye out for tails or threats. The streets had emptied a bit as evening descended, but remained the most exotic quilt of faces and clothing he’d ever seen.

  Light haired Northerners sweated in wools and leather. Pale skinned Easterners glared in dark tailored suits and dresses. Brown skinned Southerners flashed grins in loose fitting shirts and pants, and flowing skirts. The last kept surprising him. Ryle had never seen so many bearers of his own, darker skin tone in one place before. He’d never traveled this far south, so maybe he should’ve expected it, but it made the place feel more foreign. Which felt backward, like everything he’d seen thus far in Del’atre.

  Outside of those groups were others in smaller numbers. People, wrapped up in the colorful scarves and huge shawls worn by inhabitants of the far frontier. Only their pale eyes were left exposed. They peered at everyone as they moved quickly about their business.

  At least a half dozen other unknown cultures flowed past as well. Dark skinned and light. Tattooed, branded, and braided.

  Ryle did his best to focus on those around him, trying not to ponder the vastness of the crowd stretching in every direction. He couldn’t afford to get overwhelmed again. His concerns over travelling on foot had proven correct. If he’d carried anything of value, he would’ve been paranoid about sticky fingers or sharp knives intended for purse strings. Del’atre’s streets were ripe with opportunity for the wrong sort.