by Devin Hanson
“The balai follow you?” Ryan shook his head, confusion plain on his face. “Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Andrew said firmly. “What does matter is we deal with these rogue alchemists before more people lose their lives.”
“Deal with,” the constable repeated. “You mean kill. The duke is not over-keen on vigilantes operating in his fief.”
“A fate they were bound for at your hands, had you managed to subdue them,” Andrew said reasonably. “Consider it a service rendered.”
“And frankly, Constable,” Iria said wryly. “You could not stop us were you to try.”
Ryan frowned, staring at Iria. The warden had the lazy look of a predatory animal, danger in every line of her form. “Are you threatening me?”
“Stating fact. I have eleven wardens in your city, not counting myself. We number more than enough to take Ardhal by force. These rogue alchemists are too dangerous to let live. If you try and stop us, I will have no choice but to eliminate you as a threat to the citizens of this city.”
Andrew stared at Iria in surprise. He didn’t doubt her claim, nor disagree with her when it came down to it, but this was not Nas Shahr. The local law didn’t bend knee to threats, however well meant.
Ryan’s face darkened and one hand fell off the table, no doubt going to the hilt of his sword.
Jules cleared her throat and Andrew found her staring at him, a significant look on her face.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Jules threw back the hood of her cloak. “Enough of this sham.”
The constable glanced at her and did a double take as he took in her features. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair over. “Lady Vierra!?” he gasped.
“I see introductions aren’t necessary,” Andrew said. He forced cheer into his voice, but formed alchemical Sayings, preparing to subdue the constable should he make a move toward Jules. From the corner of his eye, he saw Iria and Adnan reach for weapons as well, their faces guarded. Andrew recognized the look of concentration on Iria’s face that always came before she started killing.
The constable dropped to a knee and bowed his head. “My lady! Forgive me for not recognizing you sooner!”
Andrew closed his mouth and looked a question at Jules.
“That’s enough of that, Eric. Stand, please.”
“Are you in danger?” the constable demanded. “Are you held against your will?” His face was set in grim determination. Against two former balai, his odds were poor, but his face said he intended to make a stand if it came to that.
“Relax, Eric. These are my friends.”
“I– I don’t understand. Why are you here, my lady?”
“It is as Andrew explained,” Jules soothed. “Every word is true. Andrew, Eric Ryan was my guardian and weapons teacher when I was young.”
Andrew relaxed. “Oh. Small world, Constable.”
Ryan picked up the chair and set it back into place, looking at the others in the room as if trying to make sense of what he saw. “And you are here for the same purpose? To destroy these murderers?”
“I am. And I’m sorry to say it, Eric, but Iria’s position is right. These men are too dangerous to allow to live.”
Ryan shook his head. “And I cannot allow vigilantes in Ardhal, my lady.”
“Then we have come to an impasse,” Jules said sadly.
“You misunderstand me,” Ryan said, one side of his mouth quirking up in a grin. “It is only vigilantism if you aren’t deputized first. So: by the authority of the Duke of Ardhal, Lord of the Westmarch, I duly appoint you, Lady Jules Vierra, and the men and women in your service, as agents of the law during this time of crisis.”
“Do we get badges?” Andrew asked. “Just kidding. And thank you, Constable.”
“Just don’t make me regret it, Deputy Condign.”
“Well,” Jules said, “I didn’t expect to see you again under quite these circumstances, Eric.”
“Likewise, my lady.”
“Please, sit.” Jules pointed at the chair the constable had recently vacated and dragged an extra chair around to sit next to Andrew. “If we are to be pedantic, Eric,” she continued once she had made herself comfortable, “your deputizing wasn’t wholly accurate. The wardens serve Andrew, not me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Andrew assured him. “It’s the thought that counts.”
Ryan adjusted his sword to a more comfortable angle and shook his head. “I must admit, I’m having a hard time understanding everything you’ve told me.” He looked askance at Iria. “And I’m not really comfortable with the ultimatum given by… sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Iria Mian,” Iria said bluntly, skinning her teeth briefly without much humor. “Lately of the Emperor’s balai.”
“Think of it as a difference in culture, Constable,” Andrew said. “In Nas Shahr, the balai had complete freedom to pursue their duty. Trying to block them with administrative details would probably be taken as an admission of complicity.”
“I… ah… see.” Ryan turned to squarely face Iria and gave a seated bow. “You have my blessing to track down these murderers and bring them to whatever justice you see fit.”
“Thank you,” Iria said, a small but genuine smile slipping through. “Let us to the matter at hand. You came here for aid, did you not?”
“I did.” A shadow passed over the constable’s face. “I sent ten men to their fate. If any still live, I would go to their aid.”
“Your men are dead, Constable,” Adnan said, shaking his head. “Now all that can be had is vengeance.”
Ryan’s face paled and his lips tightened, but he nodded. “Then vengeance is what they will have. We know the position of the alchemists–”
“Incantors,” Jules interrupted him.
“What?”
“The men we hunt are Incantors.”
“From the stories?”
“The same.”
“The ones that eat the flesh of men?”
“Just the hearts,” Andrew corrected. “But yes, those Incantors.”
Ryan swallowed. Disbelief and fear warred on his face, with the later winning out as he saw the complete lack of amusement on the faces around him. Fear was conquered in turn, but it left him shaken. Alchemists were dangerous, but known. Fighting Incantors was like fighting the boogie man. There was nothing that could prepare you for it because they weren’t supposed to exist.
“Right. We know where they have their lair. We can strike now before they run.”
“That would be base folly,” Adnan said, at the same time as Iria’s, “A suicidal move.”
“Then what, burn it!” Ryan slammed his hand down upon the table, making the dishes jump. “How do we fight this foe?”
“On our terms,” Jules said. “We could no more fight them within the Old Hollow than you could draw blade against the wardens and win. We must isolate one of them. Fortunately, one of the Incantors we know of matches the description of one that you mentioned. Bircham Lameda. We know his face, we know his name. We should be able to track him down, wherever he went into hiding.”
“And vengeance for my fallen men must wait?”
Iria flicked her fingers at him. “If you would throw your life away in that pursuit, the Old Hollow would be a perfect place to do so. Those of us who would live to see morning light need make other plans.”
Ryan gritted his teeth together in frustration, but as much as he hated to admit it, Iria was right. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But I have to do something!”
“We wait, and we watch,” Iria said firmly. “We get one of them alone and we strike. If surprise is on our side, we can succeed. If the Incantor senses us coming, only then do we fight, but the odds on our survival in a straight fight are slim to none.”
“The Incantors have built up an enormous amount of power through the consumption of their victims,” Andrew said. “We face not only alchemists, but men who can heal from wounds in secon
ds. A killing blow is through the heart or removal of the head. Or both. Nothing else will be enough.”
Ryan nodded, but his eyes were a little wild. “Incantors,” he growled. “If it was anyone besides Lady Vierra telling me this, I would discount it out of hand.”
Jules smiled tightly at the constable. “Eric, when you tell the duke of this it might behoove you to leave that part out and avoid mentioning any of us while you’re at it.”
“But, my lady–”
“Take the credit for catching the ‘cult’ yourself.”
Andrew stood and rested a hand on Jules’s shoulder. “We should post a watch around the Old Hollow. Iria, what do you suggest? This is your field of expertise.”
“This is an unfamiliar city. It is folly to post a watch without knowing escape routes. I would pair each warden with one of the constable’s men. Do we know how many Incantors we face here?”
“I have discerned the existence of at least six murderers through their methods of killing,” Ryan said. “There could be more, but at least six.”
“Then one spear should suffice.”
“That’s five wardens,” Andrew translated for the constable.
“Only five? What if they split up?”
Iria slashed her hand, rejecting the argument. “It is no matter. If they split up, they will return to each other. It is the way of alchemists to seek the company of each other, and these Incantors will be no different.”
Jules shook her head, a wry smile on her face. “It is… illuminating,” she said, “hearing of the habits of alchemists from the eyes of a hunter. But she is not wrong. There is safety in numbers. They may be confident after killing your men, Eric, but not so much that they would risk being alone. Even an Incantor may die from an unseen crossbow bolt, and they know this.”
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Ryan said. “I have my men watching the Old Hollow as we speak. I will bring the wardens to them and explain matters.”
“I will go as well,” Jules said.
“No,” Ryan said.
“Excuse me?”
“No. It’s too dangerous.” Ryan held up his hands as Jules surged to her feet. “It’s not that I doubt your abilities. Tiny gods, my lady, you are a better swordsman than I am. But we’ll need your alchemy for the strike. Let the wardens do their job.”
“I will go,” Adnan said. “I will explain the task to the wardens.”
Iria shook her head. “I think not, Hakhim. Your place is by Andrew’s side, now more than ever. There are no wardens better versed in hunting alchemists than I am. I will go.”
The wardens stared at each other for a moment until Adnan dropped his eyes. “You are correct.”
“Good.” Iria stood and clapped Adnan on the shoulder. Even with Iria standing, the two were of the same height. “Take heart. It will probably be a very boring night. Come, Constable. We have work to do.”
Chapter 8
The Airship Manufactory
The great iron foundry of Ardhal was the core of the airship construction yard. Enormous kilns brought iron ore up to melting temperature. Rune-carved crucibles held tons of liquid iron in roaring blast furnaces. The heat and noise were enough to drive out casual observers, and even Travis’ brief stop in the foundry was more than he could bear.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Bellwether,” Vernan Howell said, patting Travis on the shoulder and cackling to himself. “Most people find the foundry to be overwhelming.”
Travis wiped the sweat from his brow. The skin on his left hand, the side that had been closest to the furnace, was flushed pink and tender to the touch as if he had spent the day outside in the blazing sun. “How do your workers stand it?” he asked.
“They don’t go in wearing that,” Vernan laughed, gesturing at Travis’ light cotton jacket. “Leather and alchemically-shielded garments, my boy. But have you seen enough, or do you want to continue the tour?”
The shock of the foundry was starting to wear off, and Travis discovered he still had an itching curiosity about the rest of the construction yard. “If you have time, I would love to see the rest.”
“Good lad. I usually show the foundry first to scare off the lightweights. Come, let’s go to the next building. The Replicary.”
The cool and quiet of the Replicary was at stark contrast to the foundry. Light streamed through carefully concealed windows and mirrors reflected it so the workers could have their tables illuminated from all sides. Travis had never seen individual parts of an airship engine before, and it took a few minutes for his eyes to make sense of what he was looking at.
On each table were enormous blocks of wax in varying sizes, with the largest being nearly eight feet on a side. Workers chipped and sawed at the blocks, using tools as crass as picks and lumber saws, down to tiny rasps and blades no larger than a finger nail for precision carving.
As Travis wandered among the tables, he realized that each block of wax was being carved to replicate a model engine. The carvers returned to the model over and over again, taking measurements and referring to diagrams, then going back to the wax and carving a little bit here and a little bit there.
“It takes years to train someone in the art,” Howell explained quietly. “And requires a special kind of person to be able to accurately replicate an engine. The journeymen do the rough work and the masters do the final smoothing and measuring. Each engine might take a year to carve.”
“And then what?” Travis asked. There was a wax engine that seemed complete, all tool marks smoothed away, each orifice and curve geometrically precise. Workers were nailing together a wooden frame around it.
“It is cast in clay, and then when it is dry the whole thing gets fired in a kiln for several days. The wax gets poured off for reuse and the clay mould is sent to the foundry to be cast in iron. You are fortunate, today we have one complete and ready to be broken free. Follow along, that’s in the next building.”
The engine that was finally released from the hard clay mould was rough-surfaced, but the precision of form was abundantly clear. Travis watched the workers swarm the engine with brushes and tiny rubber-coated hammers, working the last bits of clay out of crevices and cavities.
“It seems… unfinished,” he finally remarked.
“Oh, very much so,” Howell agreed. “What you see here is merely the rough core of the engine. The surfaces will be smoothed down to a mirror polish, and then the moving parts are cast separately and precision-fit to the core.”
“Will we see that part of the construction?”
“No.” Howell smiled slyly at him. “What you’ve seen is common knowledge. Wax replicas are often used in casting of metals, but the details of manufacturing the pistons and cams are a carefully kept secret. I appreciate your employer, but not enough to reveal everything!”
“Oh, my apologies. Of course not. I have to say, I found the tour fascinating. I never imagined such work went into creating airships.”
“Son, the engine may be the heart of the airship, but the rest of the construction is every bit as detailed and involved. The airship has to be balanced fore and aft, and the weight of the construction material must be kept to a minimum. The whole thing is built by master carpenters and smiths. Airships are not cheap, and customers expect the surface appearance to match the coin spent.”
“It sounds very involved.”
“Incredibly.”
Travis hesitated, unsure what to say next. The Master Engineer had slung the conversation right back at him without an easy segue. “Well. Again, thank you for the tour. You must be a busy man, so I won’t take any more of your time.”
“You are welcome. Give the baron my best.” Howell turned on his heel and moved off into the boiling confusion around the newly revealed engine core, leaving Travis on his own.
Feeling abandoned, Travis made a few pivots, trying to remember where he was in relation to where he had left Trent, and ended up having to flag down a passing worker and ask directions. Reorie
nted, Travis made his way back to the building where the younger Priah was working on transmuting the engine cores from base iron to alchemical airon.
With new appreciation for the work that went into crafting the enormous engine cores, Travis took his time, wandering around the building and admiring the craftsmanship. This building, it seemed, was partially storeroom, partially assembly line. Half of the building was brightly lit with sun shining through regularly spaced skylights, the other half, isolated by tall rows of shelves, was dim and shadowed.
Travis approached the central worktable in the brightly lit portion, where an engine core was undergoing a complex construction process. The enormous core, six feet on a side, sat monolithic in the center of the table. On one surface, polished flat for the purpose, intricate swirls and crosshatched lines formed the Airweight Saying.
Like most men who made their living around airships, he knew the Saying by sight, but had no illusions about being able to duplicate it. They were hideously complex. He, like many others before him, had tried sketching it out with zero results. There was a reason why alchemists attended the Academy Alchemic for years before becoming capable of crafting runes.
Tentatively, he reached out a hand and touched the core. The metal was cold to the touch, and rocked gently when he leaned his weight into it. He knew it would happen, but it still surprised him. It was amazing. The core before transmutation required a team of oxen and a series of pulleys to move. As airon, assuming he could somehow find a way to balance it, it was light enough that he could lift it on his own.
Several pistons had been added to the assembly, and the cam shaft hung partially connected. None of those pieces were transmuted. Airon had greater durability than iron by far, but the pistons wouldn’t work if they didn’t have weight to them. As such, the pistons were replaced periodically as wear made them less efficient over the years.
A distant crunching noise caught Travis’ attention, and he realized that he was alone in the illuminated half of the building. Trent should have been here somewhere, along with a few workers assembling the engines.