by J. S. Morin
It was so simple, or at least it sounded simple the way he explained it. The act of using aether cleansed the body. “It’s like fire in your veins,” was how he had put it. Chipmunk had never felt the fire. Apparently, empowering simple rune structures wasn’t enough to have a noticeable effect. She needed something that channeled more power through her.
For a moment, Chipmunk had forgotten about Madlin, but she found her thoughts drifting to her twin’s circumstances. Madlin was asleep fully clothed with the exception of her boots and gun belt, locked in a room with a thirteen year old madman. It was hard to think of Dan as anything less after his display at the gambling hall. There had to have been fifty people killed in the fire, and for what, to test her resolve? It had almost worked in deterring her, but she wasn’t willing to give up on curing herself so easily. Chipmunk touched her forehead and rubbed away at the memory of Dan’s fingers on Madlin’s skin.
“I can wake up at any time, just you remember that,” Chipmunk whispered to the darkness. By his description of the spell, Dan would be able to see and hear through her, but that would be all. She kept her hands away from her sensitive areas, in case he had lied. Madlin was at the whim of Dan’s self-restraint, which was scant comfort.
She found the curtain to the cabin’s window and let in enough moonlight to see by. In the washed out light, she found her right boot and her crutch; she planned to keep off her infected foot entirely. It was more awkward than using the foot for balance, but less painful.
The corridors of the Jennai were guarded, but only by sleepy soldiers with little concern that they might find trouble. Chipmunk had little to worry about from them, since she was in command. If anyone could wander the ship at night, it was her.
“General Chipmunk?” one guard whispered at her approach. He spoke Acardian. “Is that you?”
“Anyone else stumbling about on a crutch around here?” Chipmunk replied.
“Anything I can help you with, ma’am?”
“Bucket of water,” she replied. It was hard to make out the soldier’s reaction in the scant light from the corridor windows. “For my foot,” she added.
“Of course, ma’am,” the soldier said, sounding relieved. Chipmunk couldn’t imagine what else he might have thought she needed a bucket for, unless perhaps she was planning on scrubbing floors in the middle of the night. She stood and waited as the soldier went off to find her one. There were a great many demands placed on her in her position as General, but at least there were certain perks as well.
The soldier came back minutes later with a steel bucket in one hand and a jar in the other. The bucket looked like it was from the coal room, rinsed off. The jar she had no ready guess for.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Biggest bucket I could find. Hope it fits your foot. Oh, and I found some epsom salts. Thought it couldn’t hurt.”
“Thanks,” Chipmunk replied. “Bring it to my cabin, will you?” She gritted her teeth at the slip, and hoped the soldier didn’t notice that, either. She was still in the habit of asking for things, rather than giving orders. She caught herself doing it too often, habits long ingrained in her because she had always been a follower, and in Madlin because she had grown up in equality-conscious Tinker’s Island.
The soldier didn’t make use of the offered option to decline her request, and followed after her halting gait. To the man’s credit, he didn’t patronize her by offering his shoulder or arm for support. Chipmunk used a corridor wall to help balance.
“What’s your name, soldier?” she asked just as they arrived at her cabin.
“Calair, ma’am. Renfry Calair.” It was a Hurlan name, which made the Acardian understandable. Hurlan had its own language, but few spoke it outside their borders. Acardian was a sister tongue and taken up by most Hurlans who traveled.
“Well, Freeman Calair, thanks for your help.”
“If you need anything, I won’t be far,” Calair replied.
Chipmunk shut the door and set the epsom salts aside. It was a thoughtful gesture, but she had no intention of putting her foot in the water. She sat down on the bed and took a few deep breaths to steel herself. She went over Dan’s lesson:
“You don’t know any real spells, so you’re going to need to try the other way. Remember how I said I keep warm with aether? Well, it’s like that, but you’re going to go a bit hotter. You need to burn the rot out like a fever. Draw in aether and hold it. Let that burning sensation thrash around inside you. It’s going to hurt, but that’s how you know it’s working.”
The bucket was for the aether when she was done with it. She hoped it would be enough, but she was willing to risk melting metallic walls and floor panels if it came to it.
Another steady breath: air in—hold for two beats—air out. Chipmunk let her muscles relax. Lying back in bed with her back to the wall, she picked up her left foot and crossed it over her knee, where she could see it in the pale light. She hadn’t noticed before, but there was an odor to it that shouldn’t emanate from living flesh. The safety pin came away easily and Chipmunk slowly unwound the bandage, dreading the sight beneath.
The foot was dark, far darker than Sosha’s skin, a deathly hue that benefitted from insufficient light. The surface was wrinkled and puckered, like something beneath the skin was eating away at it—which she supposed it was. Chipmunk closed her eyes, reminding herself that in a few minutes, the rot would be gone. Dan might have been many things, but he had never set her amiss on magical matters. It had to work.
Chipmunk calmed herself until she felt adrift, risking falling back to sleep, but needing the freedom from distraction so she could concentrate. She drew in aether, just a trickle. There was no cause for rushing things. A little warm glow welled inside her, like the feeling of gulping hot cider on a cold day. The cool inrush of the aether chilled her around that growing ball of heat in her core. It wasn’t long before the heat began to spread throughout her body. She was no expert on anatomy, but it didn’t feel like it flowed through blood vessels, but poured down her limbs like they were made of dry sponge, soaking in water.
There was no concept of time. She wished that she hadn’t left her pocketclock with the ship’s navigator, so that she would have something to ground herself. Brushing aside that unhelpful thought, she kept up the flow of aether as she warmed. The chill of her draw was no longer enough to overcome the aether already within her. The pleasant warmth had grown to the heat of a steam room, of standing too close to the boiler. She cut the flow and waited to see what happened as the stored aether worked its way around inside her.
The tinker’s brain in Chipmunk’s head told her that with the inlet valve closed, the system should maintain a steady temperature, less heat lost to the air over time. The principle held for any liquid or gas—aether was neither of those. Despite containing the same amount of aether, the burning sensation kept growing. A furnace door opened, and Chipmunk stood right in front of it, unable to back away from the waves of heat pouring forth. Instinctively she put a hand over her mouth to protect her lungs from the blistering air she imagined around her, though the cabin was cool everywhere but inside her body.
The furnace cracked and split; lava spewed forth, washing over Chipmunk. Her whole body felt like it burst into flame.
She had waited too long, she knew at once. The fascination with the process and a struggle to understand how it could defy all the physics she knew had cost her time she should have spent mitigating the effect. Chipmunk’s eyes snapped open and sought the water bucket. A scream tore itself loose from her throat as she forced the aether into the bucket. The surface steamed instantly, and within seconds it was boiling so violently that the bucket shook and danced along the floor.
As she struggled to force the aether from her, black spots swam in her vision, rimmed in purples and greens. There wasn’t enough light for her to have seen such colors. Everything in the room was shades of grey. Until it all went black.
Chapter 7
“Great power and knowledge makes them wanton as children. Would that the mighty sorcerers held the wisdom of a common shepherd; to each look after his own and leave the greater world in peace.” -Tallax
The audience hall of the Imperial Palace of the Kadrin Empire murmured with conversation and lilted with the harmony of flute and lyre. There was no pressing business on the schedule, just a series of minor matters to bring to the empress’ attention. The audiences were spaced out to stave off the boredom of the court hangers on. During the ample breaks, servants with trays of delicacies drifted among the self-important and important alike—and were wise enough to tell them apart. Knowing whether the last goblet of wine should be given to Lord Allard’s daughter or one of the empress’ knights was a key to long, fruitful employment. No one got rich serving in the palace staff, but few servants were better off.
A slim black hurricane threw open the doors of the audience hall, sending the door guards scrambling. He strode through the polite gathering with the grace of a pig farmer in his own sty. The servants who knew their business would sooner offend the empress than earn the ire of Danilaesis Solaran, the future warlock of the Kadrin Empire.
On the dais, Empress Celia conversed with the high sorcerer, Danilaesis’s grandfather, Axterion. The two carried their conversation in low tones, with Axterion craning his aging body over the throne to maintain a semblance of privacy.
Axterion looked up, his bushy white eyebrows knitting themselves into one jumble of scruff in disapproval. “What do you want, boy? You should be in ...” Axterion paused and scratched a finger at his bearded chin. “Astronomy, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Clear the hall, I’ve got more important things on my mind than stars. Nothing this rabble needs to concern themselves with,” Danilaesis replied. He continued to the base of the dais, but didn’t set foot on the steps.
“Since when did I say you could go about dressed up as a warlock?” Axterion asked. “I thought I had them put your last outfit in the hearthfire.”
“Letter of the law, Marem did. I cast a ward over the fabric to keep it from burning. I just picked it out once she was gone and sent it to the wash woman to get the smoky smell out. Now just order the hall clear so we can talk about things that matter.”
Axterion looked sidelong at the empress, who had watched the exchange impassively. “Very well,” Empress Celia said, her voice carrying throughout the hall. “Clear the room.”
Guards slipped in from the corridors and helped usher courtiers through the doors. There was muttering and grumbling, but no open protest. Danilaesis knew he was despised at court; it was a goal of his. He could no more stand the fawning, vapid noble proxies than they could tolerate him.
“Send the listener away as well,” Danilaesis said, once the hall was empty of all but himself, Axterion, and Empress Celia. “I’ll fetch him when we’re done.”
“Kaelmar, you may go,” Axterion said. Though there was no sound, Danilaesis could see the aether shadow of the man, even through the warded palace walls. Normally he would remain on hand to summon the courtiers to return once a private audience was ended. Danilaesis wanted no Fifth Circle sorcerer involved in hearing his news.
“Warlock Danilaesis, what would you speak of?” Celia asked, drawing a frumpled glare from Axterion at the use of Danilaesis’s title. Danilaesis had always liked her. She was brutal and shrewd, taking over true rulership of the empire from Emperor Sommick, who did nothing but drink and eat and sire heirs. Celia was young enough and comely enough that despite being more than twice his age, Danilaesis could still harbor boyish fantasies about killing the emperor and taking her for himself. Her sorcerous ability to keep her youth certainly helped.
“I saw it.”
“That other world you mentioned?” Axterion asked. “Korr?”
“It was only a glimpse, but it was enough. It’s real,” Danilaesis replied. The gleam in his eye would have spoiled his deception had he tried any.
“Why is this so urgent?” Celia asked. Her hands clung to the arms of her throne, like claws. Danilaesis could never decide if it was anger, impatience, or just the desire to get up from the throne and pace about in un-empresslike fashion that made her do it.
“This is a world where you’d be a formidable sorceress, Empress,” Danilaesis replied. Before taking the throne, Celia had been nothing more than a Sixth Circle sorceress with a prominent patron. Danilaesis could twist her like a cloth-knot doll. “They have airships that fly on the barest hint of aether, based on designs far cleverer than the Daggerstrike, or the sea ships we’ve converted.”
Axterion took two shuffling steps with the aid of his staff, and lowered himself into his cushioned chair near the royal thrones. “Yes, I can see how that could come in useful. Ghelk still fears to move against us, but the rest of the Megrenn Alliance is pulling themselves together faster than we are.”
“Even if they make their own airships, they won’t be able to make them like these,” Danilaesis said. “We’d rule the skies, maybe even pin the dragons in their lairs and keep the goblins in check.”
Axterion shook his head. “No, much as I like the idea, your grandmother always cautioned against the pollution of the worlds. Unintended consequences. Maybe the goblins get a hold of one and make five for every one we build. They could, I reckon.”
“Quit being death’s herald,” Danilaesis said. “Think of it: we sweep the Megrenn Alliance clear, then drive the goblins to extinction.”
“Dragons would never allow it,” Axterion said. “I know Rashan killed one, but you’re no Rashan—”
“Yet,” Celia said.
“Thank the winds!” Axterion added. “There’s ways to deal with folks besides killing, or are you skipping those classes, too?”
“‘Never suffer an enemy to live, once they offer violence,’ my uncle always said,” Danilaesis replied.
“Look where that got him,” Celia replied. “I saw that desperate paranoia firsthand. Anything you saw from him but madness was a painted facade. In the end, he was only happy when killing.”
“Yeah, two hundred forty two years, and we can’t even be sure he’s dead,” Danilaesis said in mocking tone. “Saved the empire in four wars. What a waste of a life.”
Axterion’s eyes narrowed. “Just how did you see Korr?”
Danilaesis smirked. “You got me. Yeah, it was one of the tricks Rashan showed me. He never could say no to teaching me spells. Said I was one of the few bright hopes in the empire. I can only assume he included the two of you in that sentiment as well.” He slathered on the sarcasm at the end, lest the dullards misconstrue him.
“Whose eyes did you use?” Axterion demanded.
“Twinborn girl named Madlin. All fully consensual,” Danilaesis swore, holding a hand to his heart.
“What price are they demanding for knowledge of these airships?” Celia asked.
“I don’t plan on paying them anything,” Danilaesis replied. “I’m going to convince them to build them in Tellurak and in return for empowering them, I’ll get to see the plans.”
“So you would arm one world with devices and teach magic to another?” Axterion asked, pointing an accusing staff at Danilaesis.
Danilaesis spread his hands. “I keep telling you, I only taught them enough to draw aether and vent it off. I’m no fool.”
“Good.” Axterion grunted. “You’ve got as much business teaching spells as you do leading troops into battle.”
“You didn’t need the hall clear for this,” Celia said. “You could have come to me later, in private.”
“Neither of you has ever flown on an airship, have you?” Danilaesis asked.
“Blasted things aren’t safe,” Axterion grumbled.
Danilaesis grinned. “These are. The stories I’ve heard, they have hundreds of troops aboard, like little cities. How can I keep that to myself until classes end?”
“In the future, you will find a way,” Celia said. “Go bring back the listener and have the court se
nt in.”
“You’ll see one day,” Danilaesis said, holding up a finger. “These airships will sort out our Megrenn problems, and you’ll be kissing my toes.” He spun on his heel and stalked off.
It seemed for a moment that he was going to have the last word. The door was within his reach, when Axterion’s gruff voice echoed across the black marble chamber. “And take off that costume. You’re no warlock yet.”
There were few pleasures sweeter than subverting his grandfather’s edicts. After Danilaesis found the listener and gave him leave to refill the audience chamber with its usual complement of toadies, he searched among the courtiers. He had caught the eye of Lord Allard’s daughter on his way in, and sought to find her again. Sybissa was close to him in age and fair as a spring flower. He parted her from her chaperone as the herd flowed by, and extracted her from the mass of rich, pompous slackwits. She was no better than the rest in that regard, a blushing mess of giggles and shy glances that he led to less populous palace halls. Keeping Dan’s promise to Madlin not to take ungentlemanly advantage as she slept had taken an act of willpower that required repayment. He needed a willing vessel for his yearnings just as urgently as Madlin’s twin had needed a bucket of cold water for her trapped aether. The difference was that Danilaesis knew how to handle his own dilemma.
Chapter 8
“I have felt fate’s kiss, that I had friends who would act from their hearts, rather than do what I asked of them.” –King Jouron, in The King’s Lament
Chipmunk sat in bed with a makeshift drafting board across her lap. She wore her kuduk-made spectacles and a woolen nightshirt that reeked of stale sweat. The curtain was closed, but an extra light installed by the head of the bed provided plenty of light to draw by. A side table was littered with sheets of paper. Some were reports or manifests, but most were her own sketches. The blankets were littered with pencil shavings from the small knife she used to sharpen it; the knife itself lay amid the shavings.
Time was forgotten. The heel of Chipmunk’s hand was grey with graphite dust, and her eyes were heavy with uncounted hours of staring.