This was not her. Ususi Manaallin did not panic.
Ususi grasped the edges of her fear, wrenched it into halves, and cast its husks aside.
She was a wizard, trained by the Cabal of Purple. A single taker would not bring her down, she vowed. She scrambled to her feet and turned to face down the staircase. Better to confront your enemies than to suffer their attacks at your back, she knew. She counted herself lucky his attack hadn’t already sprung.
Then she heard a strange, reverberating pulse. It was a sound like—yet unlike—the noise of some of her own spells when she cast them—a hum like a rushing torrent heard in the rainy season, mixed with the high-pitched harmony of forlorn, tolling bells. The noise halted as instantly as it had begun, leaving behind silence, the smell of ozone, and a glow of glittering, white reflections that patted at the bottom of the stairs.
The vengeance taker must be casting preparatory spells, readying his advance, she thought. Takers were moderate-ability sorcerers, after all—magic was part of the deadly training they received.
Yet it was no spell she recognized.
“Fugitive … Manaallin!” It was the voice of her pursuer. Yet his tone had shifted slightly. Ususi maintained her silence, waiting for the attack. Her hands were poised to release a torrent of destructive curses.
“Ususi Manaallin—if you can hear me, I pray you pause. I haven’t come so far to lose you now.” The voice sounded strained, and its authoritative blare was dulled—by what? Ususi couldn’t tell.
He was crafty enough not to poke his head through the arch and look up the stairs—he must have sensed Ususi’s spells ready to strip his flesh a nd worse. So instead, he seemed to be trying to draw her into the arms of his attack.
Ususi yelled down the corridor. “It’s a standoff, Vengeance Taker! I will not walk into your trap, and if you follow me up these stairs, it’ll be the last act you ever take!”
A chuckle answered her threat. The voice said, “Will you pretend you did not leave this painful blaze to catch me?” Another chuckle, somehow self-deprecating.
Ususi didn’t have the first clue what the taker was talking about.
“Explain,” she said.
“Your ploy succeeded—you were clever in identifying every dormant trap in this molding ruin with your red dye—but even cleverer in failing to mark the very last one.”
Ususi recalled running low on dye when she entered the hallway of the two emperors.
The wizard cocked her head, wondering. Could it be? Ususi carefully descended twelve or so steps to reach the arch that connected into the room of the annulus.
The inscribed hallway was a blaze of white, syrupy light. Floating in its midst, like a fish in a bowl, was the vengeance taker. His arms struggled to reach a purchase they were not long enough to find, and his legs kicked ineffectually, failing to propel him in any direction at all. The vengeance taker was caught.
Ususi nearly turned and dashed back up the stairs. Now was the time to make good her escape, before the man figured out how to free himself. If he could do so. Or, she could strike him while he was helpless.
But how often would the opportunity to question a vengeance taker present itself? It couldn’t hurt to discover how angry Deep Imaskar was with her for weakening the Great Seal enough so she could take her leave. Or why they’d waited so many years to send someone after her.
Better to ask the vengeance taker. Ususi pasted a conciliatory smile on her face and approached the ensconced agent of those who wished her harm.
“There are questions I’d like to ask you, Vengeance Taker.”
Warian Datharathi disembarked from the sleek watercraft in the city of Vaelan.
The dissolute son returns, he mused.
He turned and watched the small crew as they opened the hold of the courier ship. First out was his horse, Majeed. Despite being on the outs with his family, being a Datharathi had its benefits anywhere Trade Authority offices or embassies operated. As one of the eleven most influential families in Durpar, Datharathi Minerals was partly responsible for paying Trade Authority upkeep. On the other hand, members of the Datharathi family enjoyed free passage on Trade Authority couriers.
Previously known as Vaelantar, and like its sister cities of Ompre and Assur, the city was overrun by monsters flooding out of the Curna Mountains. But Durpar finally expelled the invaders in 1096 DR. In the three hundred years since those tumultuous times, the name Vaelantar was shortened to Vaelan. More importantly, Vaelan grew into the crown jewel of Durpar’s trading empire, and enjoyed status as one of the most preeminent destinations on the Golden Water, or indeed, in all the Shining Lands.
The Dolphin Pier was one of nine piers exclusively reserved for merchant traffic. Of course, many smaller and larger piers filled the coast in either direction: the private piers reserved for the personal yachts of the very wealthy, as well as piers set aside for the highly profitable ship-building businesses. Datharathi Minerals had, like many of the most influential merchant families, maintained interest in the ship-building trade.
Beyond those were the ramshackle piers used by the fishers.
Warian walked down the Dolphin Pier holding Majeed’s reins. Beyond a press of warehouses, innumerable offices, and nearly as many wharfside taverns, the towers of Vaelan pointed proudly at the sky. The towers housed the most influential “chakas,” as trading families were sometimes called. Any family with aspirations to challenge the predominance of the eleven greatest chakas that made up the Trade Authority first built a tower—or purchased the tower of another family whose fortunes were declining. Over a hundred pale towers pushed into the sky, some new since Warian had left the city behind.
Chaka towers were generally confined to the Gold District, and enjoyed the protection of delicate-looking yet strong whitewashed stone walls. Beyond the ordered towers and their well-patrolled boundaries, the larger bulk of Vaelan hummed and buzzed, nearly as loud and well-lit at midnight as at midday.
Aside from the towers, distinguishing discrete buildings amid the mass was a fool’s game in Vaelan. Great connected complexes of white-plastered walls, balconies, stairs, galleries, promenades, and open courts stretched in all directions. Wide streets separated one press of mazelike architecture from the next, but high bridges, held up as much by minor enchantments as engineering, arched over the streets to connect rooftop bazaars.
And the crowd! Everywhere Warian looked, people talked (in diverse dialects and languages), bartered (from countless windows, booths, wagons, and permanent storefronts), sought hard-to-find goods (such as philters guaranteed to bring the buyer true love, or cockroaches whose shells turned blue in the presence of magic), gossiped (about the future of Durpar if Veldorn’s aggression wasn’t checked), and enjoyed themselves (drinking from great glass vessels filled with weak but tasty beer—consumed nearly as fast as it was brewed).
Warian was one of thousands of people thronging the streets, pushing his way forward as quickly and economically as possible. The trick of moving with the ebb and flow of the crowd came back to him with hardly any effort. He was elbowed in the side once, but ignoring such slights was part of getting where you wanted to go in a reasonable amount of time. He quickly found a public stable on the outskirts of the wharf district and paid a small sum to put Majeed up for several days. He hoped he wouldn’t be around that long, but better to pay ahead than risk the stablemaster selling his horse.
Freed of worry about Majeed’s well-being, Warian waved over a rickshaw pulled by a surprisingly short man with hair as red as fire.
“Where to?” asked the redhead, as Warian settled into the seat.
“West Gardens,” Warian told the rickshaw driver. “It’s a tenement district near Kazrim’s Plunge.” The Plunge was a statue commemorating a Kazrim, whose heroics three hundred years prior were considered instrumental in freeing Vaelantar from the monsters.
The driver nodded at Warian and pulled the transport out into the throng. Warian was a little surprised that
the driver did not give his crystalline arm a second glance. He was accustomed, at the very least, to eyebrows raised in surprise, if not outright amazement, and often enough, hostility.
Whoever had ridden the rickshaw before had left behind the redolent perfume of cherry tobacco. Smoking tobacco from a water-cooled pipe was a vice Warian tried to cultivate when he still lived in Vaelan—his family had a long-standing taboo against smoking for some traditional reason, and he’d wanted to prove his independence—but he’d never managed to enjoy the sensation. Probably just as well.
Moving through Vaelan’s busy streets was enjoyable when someone else’s worry and effort forged the path. Sitting back in his seat allowed Warian a chance to absorb the ambience and study the various city dwellers and visitors who strode to and fro, each intent on his own unknowable business. Many were from outside Durpar, having traveled from countries like the Shaar, Dambrath, or Halruaa. Others hailed from even farther shores, such as the nearly mythical Sembia or Cormyr. Warian had never personally met anyone from places so distant, but he’d heard stories.
The sharp, glinting light of sun through crystal caught Warian’s eye. A woman walking out of a stylish saloon on the high balcony to his left carried a prism … no …
The woman’s hand was clear, as if made of glass! More than that, delicate traceries of crystal writhed across her whole arm, and marked her face, too, with an elaborate embroidery. Warian gaped. As he pulled closer, there was no doubt—the woman sported a crystal prosthesis, and then some, just as he did!
Her body art reminded Warian of an intricate tattoo, but never had he seen one laid down in glass. He didn’t doubt the glass of her prosthesis and decoration was Datharathi crystal.
Warian waved to catch the woman’s attention, but she turned and moved down an elevated path, and a bridge intervened as the rickshaw continued to move forward.
“Say,” Warian called to the driver who plodded along ahead of him. “Do you see many people who have crystal like mine?” Warian tapped his arm even though the driver didn’t turn. “Like my crystal arm?”
The driver shrugged without turning, and said, “Sure. Plangents. Too rich for my blood.”
“Plangents?”
“Yeah.” The driver craned his neck to fix Warian with an assessing eye. “Like you.” The driver turned his attention back to his path.
Warian searched his memory, but came up blank.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been gone from Vaelan for most of the last five years. When I left, I was the only one who had such a … um, crystal prosthesis.”
“Hmph,” the driver snorted, and turned down a high but narrow alley. “You’re in good company now, eh? Datharathi’s got the goods. They’ll make you ‘stronger, faster, smarter—better!’ if you got the gold.”
Warian shook his head and said, “But this prosthesis is worse than a real arm. It’s slow, weak, and I can’t feel a thing through it! I have this arm because I lost my real one in an accident. Who’d want that?” But, indeed, what of the flash of potency, the reason he’d returned to Vaelan in the first place?
“Well,” the driver responded, chuckling. “You got a bad deal. The plangents I’ve seen are none of that—you put a plangent against me in a pulling contest, and even though I’ve pulled this rickshaw every day for thirteen years, a plangent’d beat me every time, if he had a brand new overhaul.”
“What’s this word you keep saying—plangent? Anyone who gets a prosthesis is a plangent?”
“Well, yeah, that’s what we call ’em. But from what I heard, you can’t just replace an arm, a leg, or an eye. They replace stuff on the inside, too, stuff we can’t see. The plangents—they’re supposed to live longer—they’re their own thing now. A new thing. A plangent.” The driver snorted, then yelled at another porter who edged in front of him at an intersection.
Warian sat back. Uncle Xaemar and Grandfather Shaddon had been busy. Warian was confident that the crystal of his arm stopped at his shoulder. Since he’d been given his fake arm, they must have refined and expanded the technique. And improved it—no one would give up the limb they were born with for something worse, like Warian’s. Well, it was usually worse. Did all the plangents enjoy the strength and speed he’d accidentally discovered? A scary thought! He didn’t know enough, clearly.
All the more reason to seek out Eined first and get an unadulterated account from her before being propagandized by his elders.
Eined Datharathi lived in a quiet tenement in the upscale West Gardens district. Those who lived in West Gardens paid into a fund that employed spellcasting and sword-bearing sentries to make certain that things stayed quiet and safe. Thus, Warian was doubly surprised when he arrived to find Eined’s door open, and her abode in the process of being robbed.
The awful crash of breaking glass and the gruff sound of men’s voices echoed from within, confounding Warian for only a moment. He dashed through the entry passage yelling, “Eined!”
The entry parlor contained a single intruder, who whirled as Warian came upon him. The intruder, dressed all in gray and sporting greasy hair, held a metal prying bar clutched in one hand. All around the man, evidence of ransacking littered the room. Mirrors that once graced the walls were shattered on the floor. Carpets were pulled up, drapes were torn down, and chairs lay broken.
“Where is Eined?”
“She ain’t here, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shove off, too,” said the man with the metal rod.
Warian didn’t know what was good for him. He willed his prosthesis, “Go!” but it remained as dull as ever. So he punched the intruder with his flesh-and-blood hand. The man’s head rocked back.
“Who are you? Where’s my sister?” demanded Warian.
The man shook his head, rubbing the back of his hand across the cut on his lip. He said, “That was a mistake. Now I got to feed you this!”
The intruder smacked the iron bar into his open palm, leering at Warian. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he glanced down the hallway to the sitting room and yelled, “Hey! Get your butts up front! We got a visitor.”
A voice called from farther in the house—a man’s voice, not Eined’s. “What you talkin’ about, Revi?”
The man facing Warian, apparently named Revi, yelled back. “Just get your ugly mugs out here, will ya? We got trouble—a plangent.”
“I’m not …” Warian trailed off. If they thought he was a plangent, maybe he could frighten them away.
In a more assertive tone, Warian told the man, “Put that bar down if you don’t want to be the one who chokes on it.” Warian raised his prosthesis and pointed it directly at his foe.
Revi’s eyes widened slightly and he backed up a step, but then the man’s friends rushed into the room. One yelled, “Plangents are tough, but not tough enough for one to stand against five!”
“I’m warning you …” proclaimed Warian, feeling foolish.
Greasy-haired Revi swung the pry bar like a sword at Warian’s head. Warian’s arm was still extended from his failed threat, and he needed only to raise and angle it just slightly to deflect the blow, which he felt only dully through his shoulder.
One of Revi’s friends simultaneously kicked Warian in the stomach, something Warian wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled back, and two more rushed up and easily grabbed his arms, one on each.
“Hold him!” directed Revi. “Watch his implant!”
Warian struggled, but as always, his prosthesis was about half as strong as a real arm. Another two goons grabbed him, three on his crystal arm.
“We got ’im,” one grunted. “He don’t seem so tough.”
Warian desperately tried to recall—what had he done to trigger the arm the first time? He’d been in that tavern, and what’s-his-name had gotten him around the throat … he had started to black out. Darkness had threaded his vision, and he was reminded of the dark tendrils he’d noticed within his prosthesis.
“Look at me!” yelled Revi. The man’s lip was swelling
and blood trickled a red streak down his chin.
Instead, Warian concentrated on his memory. If he didn’t figure it out, the lights might go out for good …
Wait—light! What was it about light? As he’d been choked, darkness had pushed in on all sides—he’d mentally tried to push the darkness back, to illuminate it. He’d been pretty muddled as his brain starved for air, and had gotten a little confused on which darkness to illuminate—his tunneling vision or the black hazing in his prosthesis.
Revi wound up with the iron bar. Warian concentrated on the threads of darkness in his arm, willing them to shrivel away, to light up, to be revealed in the clarifying light of the sun.
The prosthesis flashed into bonfire brilliance, lilac in hue. Sensation shot from his shoulder to his crystalline fingertips, as if transformed from an inert sculpture to a live arm, or something that felt even more vital than flesh.
It was alive again, as it had been at the tavern in Dambrath.
His captors’ grip on his arm suddenly seemed as light as tissue paper around a name day present. Lavender luminance lit their faces as they stared at him, alarm slowly overtaking what had been naked glee and the anticipation of a beating. They seemed caught and slowed in the syrupy radiance.
Warian laughed and gave his artificial arm an experimental shake.
He was free. The three on his left arm, his crystal prosthesis, scattered a few paces, yelling warnings with strangely deep, distorted voices. Warian lifted his left arm high, triumphant. He made a fist, thinking to scare those who’d grabbed him with an impressive threat.
The iron bar clipped him on the forehead and pain sawed through his brain. All the quickness in the world couldn’t protect him from inattention. He’d seen the brutal end of the bar at the last instant and managed to flinch away, just enough so his head hadn’t shattered like an egg … he hoped. It sure hurt, though.
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