by Devin Hanson
“There is the one that my warden captured,” Andrew pointed out.
“Yes… I have heard mixed things about that. Tell me true, Condign, what are your plans?”
“I asked you here,” Andrew pointed out mildly. “This is your city and your rules. We have him bound and stripped of weapons, but have not laid a hand on him otherwise.”
The constable relaxed and sighed, rubbing his face. “These are foul times, Condign. I apologize. This isn’t easy for my men. Or for me.”
“No apology is necessary, Constable. If you will follow me, we were about to revive our captive.”
“Is it safe?” Ryan asked doubtfully.
“Quite. He is an alchemist most likely, but no Incantor.”
“You can be sure of this?”
“Quite,” Andrew’s reassurance carried the weight of experience and the constable nodded.
“Well. Lead on, then.”
Andrew led the constable to the private room and handed Iria her satchel. The constable raised an eyebrow at the body laid out on the table.
“My men did not mention a second,” he said.
“They didn’t know,” Jules said. “We thought it best to avoid parading a body past them while they were in that mood.”
Ryan grunted noncommittally but didn’t press the issue.
“Before we wake him up, Constable,” Andrew said. “You should be aware that even bound, alchemists can be deadly. We will do what we can to prevent him from striking out, but be on your guard.”
Ryan nodded, his face grim. “Do it. These men have much to answer for.”
Iria uncapped her vial of hartshorn spirits and waved it under the alchemist’s nose. He gasped awake and groaned before trying to sit up. The realization that he was bound came slowly and he struggled against the bindings for a moment before sagging weakly back into the chair.
“This is the end of the road,” the constable growled, stepping forward.
“Easy, man,” Andrew cautioned him, holding out an arm to block Ryan’s advance. “Have a care.”
“You’re an alchemist,” Jules said suddenly. “I recognize you now. Egren, or Eagen. Something like that.”
The alchemist focused on Jules’s voice and recognition made his features sag in despair. “Jules Vierra? You are here too?”
“Your name, man!” Ryan snapped.
“Eagen,” he said, “Eagen Ferny.” His gaze wandered then snapped to the body lying on the table. His face whitened.
“I would know,” Ryan demanded, “what your business was in the Old Hollow.”
“That madman,” Eagen cursed bitterly. “We followed Priah out of the hope for a better life. We wanted more power, more money. Without the restrictions of the Guild, we thought it would be easy.”
“Until you ran out of vitae,” Jules guessed.
“Not everyone has your father’s wealth funding their ventures, Vierra. I brought with me a store of dragongas, enough, I thought, to last me for years. Very few of us had fluxes of our own. You know how rare they are.”
“My father didn’t fund me,” Jules returned evenly, “But let’s not debate the point. What happened to your dragongas?”
“Trent and his cronies! They drank it!” Eagen shuddered. “Do you have any idea what happens to a human body when it drinks dragongas?”
“Enlighten us,” Ryan suggested angrily.
“They die. Systemic failure. The body just shuts down as the organs dissolve.”
“That didn’t happen with Trent,” Andrew guessed.
“No. It seemed to empower them. The things they could do…”
“They were Incantors,” Jules said.
“What!? Incantors…” Eagen slumped. “How can that be? They’re just a myth, a story told to first-year students to frighten them.”
“They are quite real,” Jules confirmed.
“And Trent… is he one of them?”
“As far as we know,” Andrew said.
“You knew of the murders?” Ryan interrupted.
Eagen groaned. “How could we not? Yes, we knew of them. We didn’t approve– how could we? But without a source of vitae we were powerless. Those that tried to fight back or run, turned up dead, their hearts torn from their chests.”
“So you did nothing? You allowed hundreds of innocent lives to be taken while you hid?” Ryan’s face was darkening, fury and disgust plain in his voice.
“What could I have done?”
“Anything! Run into the streets screaming, like any normal, sane person would do! At least then we would have known where you hid. At least then we might have saved some.”
“You don’t understand,” Eagen shook his head. “When you attacked the Old Hollow, they were waiting for your men. They never stood a chance. They died and their bodies strengthened Trent and his… Incantors. Without her,” he nodded toward Jules, “there would be nothing you could do.”
“I seemed to have managed,” Iria said wryly.
Eagen laughed bitterly. “You’re not from here. These lawmen are clods, unimaginative and poorly trained. You’re Maar, aren’t you? A ranger?”
“Balai, but no longer. We serve the Speaker now.”
“Balai! Hah! I don’t feel so bad now. Is the Speaker here too?”
“Enough of this,” Ryan growled. “The only one who is going to be speaking is you. Where are the rest of you lot hiding?”
Andrew exchanged a glance with Jules, and she shook her head minutely. Iria caught the look and shifted her eyes upward, not quite a roll. Iria’s approach to dealing with Andrew’s title was to shout it from the rooftops and burn the consequences.
“Jules Vierra is a foe I’d not wish to face,” the alchemist said, “but you’ll need more than her and a single balai to overcome Trent and the others.”
“There are a dozen balai here,” Iria said mildly.
“It’s too bad you don’t have a dozen alchemists instead. Or the Speaker. I hear he has power to spare. And he’d need it against Trent.”
“Just give us the location,” Ryan said. “Let us worry about the rest.”
“They scattered. All I know is where Lameda is hiding. We were supposed to meet up. There was one of Trent’s inner circle with each group of alchemists, to keep us in line, I suppose.”
“Why did Lameda split from you and Emery?” Iria asked, jerking her head at the corpse.
Eagen laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Emery wanted whatever power Trent had. He was their yes-man. Lured his share of victims to the others, in hopes of gaining favor. They trusted him with a flux. I guess that’s lost now. Emery was my watchdog. We were friends, once, but I saw what the lust for power did to him. I don’t think Emery was capable of having friends anymore.”
“How many in Trent’s inner circle,” Andrew asked. “How many Incantors do we face?”
“Eight, including Trent.”
“And Lameda’s hiding place?” Andrew prompted.
“An old grain tower, near the south gate that’s fallen out of use. Trent and Bircham have that location set aside for their bolt hole.”
“I know the place,” Ryan said.
“Then I’ve told you everything I know,” Eagen said.
“And what do I do with you?” Ryan asked him.
Eagen shrugged. “Like I care what your provincial laws dictate.” He nodded at Jules. “She knows the right of it. I broke faith with the Guild.”
“There is only one punishment,” Jules confirmed.
“This man is guilty of mass murder,” Ryan growled. “Lady, this man should face justice in the duke’s court!”
“And you are confident in your ability to keep him secure until then?” Jules shook her head. “I would not risk leaving the room, let alone leaving him in a cell to await trial.”
“Your father taught you better–”
“Burn my father!” Jules snapped. “The man has no sense of justice or honor.” Ryan stiffened, and Jules sighed. “You know the truth of it, Eric. Y
ou left his service, just as I have forsaken his name.”
“It’s okay,” Eagen spoke up, making everyone turn to look at him. “The moment I saw Jules here, I knew my fate. To be honest, I’ll be glad for it.” He swallowed, his face pale. “I am not a brave man, Constable, but neither am I cruel. The last few weeks, I have done things I cannot live with. I have cooperated with you. Give me a quick death at least.”
“The duke’s court would bring torment to this man,” Jules said softly. “It may satisfy the bloodlust of the mob, but you would not enjoy it any more than I would.”
Ryan gritted his teeth, matching Jules’s gaze, then averted his eyes with a sigh. “I would not.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Eagen moaned.
“Be silent,” Ryan ordered. “Your Guild… they would have you do this thing?”
Jules matched his look and nodded firmly. “The watchers in this city are dead. I have acted in their capacity before, and can do so again.”
“It is a hard thing, killing a man like this, in cold blood,” Ryan said doubtfully.
“And it would be easier for you?”
“I would do it to spare you,” he said.
“Tiny gods,” Andrew said, “Come on, Iria. Let’s leave them to it. When you’ve finished in here, we need to plan our next move. Bircham and Trent won’t stay at the grain tower forever. We won’t get a better time to strike.”
Chapter 11
The Grain Tower
Travis fled the scene of Trent’s crime blindly. He had no other goal than to put as much distance as possible between himself and Trent. Over and over, he saw the dark, glistening pool of blood spreading on the floor and the jerky movements of Trent’s shoulders as he ripped the girl’s heart from her chest. Horror gripped him, and he ran without thought.
It wasn’t until he was halfway up the mooring tower to where the Black Drake was docked that he slowed his headlong rush and started thinking again. His first impulse had been to run to the baron and tell him of the horrors committed by his son. Travis remembered the conversation between the baron and his son, and the lack of surprise on the baron’s face as they discovered the death-filled Old Hollow.
The baron knew. He knew and did nothing about it. Perhaps could not do anything about it. What would happen if Travis reported to the baron? Corvis Priah had already demonstrated what he would do. He would protect his son.
Travis had no illusions about who the baron would side with. If it were Travis or Trent, the baron would side with his son. And in that scenario, Travis was expendable.
Suddenly weak-kneed, Travis leaned against the wall and slid to a seat on the steep stairs of the mooring tower. The mid-afternoon sun shone through the peep windows that spiraled up the tower giving illumination to the stairs. Outside, birds sang as they flitted about, searching for food. It was a stark contrast to the fear and shattered loyalties within Travis’ mind.
What was he to do? The very thought of returning to his duties assisting Trent sent shivers running down his spine and a cold fist closing about his heart. No, that wasn’t an option. The cheer and sense of accomplishment of yesterday felt like something that had happened to another man. What he wouldn’t give to wind back time and spend another day on the airship with Iria. Even that merchant, Condign, and his cold-eyed guards would be welcome companions.
By the gods, Iria! She was in Ardhal arranging for shipments of goods to Andronath! Some of what Trent had said to the baron was suddenly driven home. It wasn’t just Trent who was a murdering cannibal. He had a whole crew of psychopaths with him, people every bit as dangerous as Trent was.
He had to warn her. It might cost him his position under the baron, but if he was being honest with himself, Travis didn’t think he could continue anyway.
The airship construction yard was a few miles outside the city, a trip of only minutes by airship, but would be nearly an hour by foot. With a last look up the tower where the Black Drake was docked, Travis turned around and made his way back down to the ground. He had a long jog to Ardhal ahead of him and it was starting to look like rain.
Every step away from the construction yard felt like weights were dropping from his shoulders. For the first time since reporting to the baron, Travis felt like he was doing the right thing.
By the time Travis reached the Dancing Horse, he was soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. His jacket had been on the Black Drake, but even if he had risked getting it, the driving rain would have soaked it through.
As he staggered up to the door to the inn, panting and shivering, a bulky man with the swarthy face of a Maar slid out of the shadows. Lantern light gleamed off a drawn blade and Travis forced himself to a halt, his hands well clear of his sword hilt.
“Who travels in the night?” the guard demanded.
“My name is Travis Bellwether,” he gasped, “I need to see Iria!”
Recognition came over the man’s face, to be replaced by a guarded look. His eyes narrowed. “You have chosen a bad time to come, Bellwether,” he growled. “Return on the morrow and the Spear might have time for you.”
The Spear? Travis was confused. Despite the man’s accent, he hadn’t mistaken the title. But why would the petite woman have a martial title like that? “It’s urgent,” Travis pleaded. “I’ve just come five miles through the rain. Please, just tell her I’m here at least.”
The guard hesitated, taking in Travis’ blue lips, his lack of a jacket and the shivering that was starting in earnest. “I cannot promise you an audience,” he said, “but come in by the fire and warm yourself. I would not have your death on my conscience.”
Travis mumbled his thanks and staggered into the common room, eyes only for the brightly burning fire. Crouching down on the hearth, Travis got as close to the blaze as he could and luxuriated in the warmth. Steam rose off his clothing in a cloud and his shivering slowly got under control.
“Travis? What are you doing here?”
He turned to find Iria behind him, an oiled cloak over her shoulders. He caught a glimpse of what looked like leather armor beneath it. Over her shoulder, he belatedly noticed that the guards were moving about quickly, organizing for something. Iria had an impatient look in her eye, like she had been pulled away from something important to meet with him. Seeing that she was unharmed was a great relief. On the forest road with the rain hammering down, he had imagined arriving in Ardhal to find Iria dead at the hands of Trent’s murderers.
“Iria! I’m so happy to see you’re safe.”
“Yes. Thank you. The… guard told me you had something urgent to tell me?”
Briefly, Travis wondered what she had been about to say instead of guard. “Tiny gods, yes. It’s a bit of a long story, and one that might test your belief. I can only ask that you trust me, or at least take my words as the truth that I’ve seen with my own eyes.”
Iria turned at looked at the bustle of the guards’ preparation and sighed. A tall woman in armor came down the stairs, saw Iria was with Travis and immediately turned and went back up the stairs again. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t put his finger on it immediately.
“You might find,” Iria said, her tone flat and devoid of humor, “that I am ready to believe all sorts of things this night.”
Travis nodded. “First I should say that, before a few hours ago, I worked for Baron Priah of the Salian court.”
Iria made an impatient, hurry-up gesture. “This I know.”
“You know?” Travis blinked, looking at her clearly for the first time since she showed up behind him. The soft, gentle tradeswoman he had thought her to be was completely gone, replaced by the hard-eyed appearance of Condign’s guards. The oiled cloak she wore hid much, but he could see the bulges of weapons beneath, and the casual, cat-like readiness of a trained soldier. “Who are you, Iria?”
Iria’s mouth twitched up in a half-smile. “It seems neither of us have been completely honest with the other. I am Iria Mian. I am a warden, and sworn S
pear of the Speaker. You are Travis Bellwether, lieutenant of Baron Corvis Priah, charged with gathering vitae for the construction of airships to rebuild the baron’s fleet.” She ticked off the points on her fingers as she spoke.
Travis stared at her. A warden! The merchant guards busy behind her suddenly seemed far too competent to be simple hired muscle. They must be wardens too!
Since the catastrophic attack against Andronath and the Academy, rumors had stirred among the surviving mercenaries–rumors of fighting men and women that had come from nowhere at the moment of their victory and routed the mercenary forces. The numbers varied, but even the highest claims never put more than fifty wardens in the Academy that fateful night.
Fifty wardens against several hundred mercenaries and the private soldiers of the Priah house guard, seasoned soldiers in alchemical armor, and the forces of the rebelling alchemists! Fifty wardens against an army, and that army had crumbled like a pack of first-year greenhorns.
How many wardens were in Ardhal now? Condign had brought a dozen guards with him. Travis had the sinking feeling that even were all the forces in Ardhal arrayed against them, the wardens would win through, regardless.
He looked at the petite woman and saw the same person he had grown to care for. She might be a warden, but she had been one as long as Travis had known her. Knowing the truth of it didn’t change anything. Did it?
Travis nodded, more to himself than to Iria. “Yes. Right. I did work for Baron Priah, but no longer.” He shook his head. “After what I witnessed today, I can no longer offer him my loyalty or service.”
Haltingly, then speaking faster as he saw Iria wasn’t interrupting him with protests of disbelief, Travis relayed the events of the last two days, ending with fleeing from Trent’s bloody feast in the warehouse.
When he had finished, Iria was silent, her gaze unfocused as she thought. She no longer tried to conceal her garb from him, and he was a little taken aback by the sheer number of weapons Iria had on her person. Finally, she stirred and gave him a small smile. “Well! That is a story, Travis.”