by Will Panzo
The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern sky was pink. Whorls of steam rose from the wet streets and the wet roofs. Jungle birds cawed loudly as they dipped through the haze, a blur of beating feathers, red and gold and green, colors so bright they seemed more a product of a hallucinating mind than the natural world.
At the Market, Cassius bought a bottle of expensive wine, fried cakes with honey, and a small pouch of strong tobacco. Afterward, he walked back to the bar and ducked into the stables. The previous day, during their stroll, the barkeep had shown him a hidden door that led into the pantry, and approaching it now, Cassius thought it might be locked, but it was not.
In the pantry, he changed into his tunic. The main room was dark, the barkeep asleep at a table near the wall. He lay with one arm covering his face, snoring dryly.
“I’ve brought you breakfast,” Cassius announced from across the room.
The barkeep started. He spotted Cassius and eased back onto the table.
“Goddamn you, boy,” he whispered. His voice was grating, his throat raw from drink. “Can’t a man catch a wink of sleep in his own damn room?”
“You’re not in your room,” Cassius said. “You’re in the bar.”
Lucian lifted his head and scanned his surroundings in disbelief. Cassius sat across from him. He removed the fried cakes from his bag. He set down the bottle of wine and the pouch of tobacco.
“Will you eat with me?”
The barkeep squinted one eye. He looked to Cassius, then looked to the fried cakes.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
Cassius uncorked the wine bottle. He reached for an overturned cup on a nearby table and poured it full.
“This is a good bottle.” Cassius sipped the wine, found it cool and dry with a clear, strong taste. “A nice red from Albatua. I’d hate to drink this alone.”
“I’m being more careful about the company I keep.”
“Drink enough, and maybe the company will seem better.”
The barkeep smiled despite himself. He handed over his mug, and Cassius filled it.
“I’m sorry about yesterday.” Cassius spoke softly. “I should have told you about the fight and how it ended.”
“Yes, you should have.” Lucian drained his mug. “I don’t mean to pry. I’m just looking out for you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” The barkeep shrugged. “It’s not like you need my protection. Especially if I’m to believe what I hear in the street.”
“And what do you hear? You never leave this bar, and I never see any customers in here.”
“I keep to this bar, and still I hear.” Lucian tapped his ear. “Nothing happens in those streets that I don’t learn about. And right now, they’re saying you’re the best killer since the champion Gracchus. That you’re a monster come to life. With enough spells to fight an army.”
“How handsome do they say I am?”
“This is no joke, boy. People are talking.”
“I don’t care.”
“Even when they talk of the bounty on you?” Lucian asked.
“Let them try to collect.”
The barkeep sat forward. “What if they come here looking to collect?”
“Is that a threat?”
“Of course not,” Lucian shouted. “I’ve no fondness for Piso, the bastard. But I have few friends on this island. And no spells to defend myself. I’m saying I can’t protect you. And I’m telling you to be careful. People are asking questions.”
“Maybe I’ve thought of that already,” Cassius replied coolly. “And maybe I’m being so careful they won’t find any answers.”
“Who are you that you’ve planned your visit so carefully?”
“Just a man looking for work.”
“Is that all?”
“What more could there be?”
3
Cassius lay sweating in bed all morning, unable to sleep. He listened to the rain outside his window, and when the rain calmed, to the sounds of the street. Shouts and laughter and dogs barking and children at play. He rose and moved the bed aside and lifted the notched floorboard and settled into the cool dark under the floor. He slept a fitful sleep. When he woke, his legs were cramped and it was night.
He thought he had dreamed of spiders. Or maybe he had dreamed himself a spider. He could not recall clearly. He was certain he had not dreamed of the jungle chase again. Those dreams stayed with him. Those dreams he could not forget.
He fished two massive spell indices from his rucksack. The tomes had thick covers of stretched leather inlaid with gold, their titles spelled in ink made from rare purple pine resin. These were copies of the official codices of runes produced by the Spellwright Collegium, the school of Antiochi arcanists who, in two centuries past, had discovered the ability to codify magic in writing.
Before then, magic was an esoteric pursuit whose secrets were obscured by ritual, offered only to the initiated few. In the primitive lands, they still knew the language of the Primal Ones, and with these shouts and cries, they could command the elements, could rain fire on their foes, call down storms from the vault of the sky, or call up monsters from the belly of the earth.
In Murondia and in the Fathalan lands, noble and ancient families had made terrifying pacts with beings beyond the veil. These contracts granted their descendants great favor. Some learned to craft weapons of immense power, blades whose names would outlive the men who wielded them and the kingdoms they won. Others could change their skins on a whim or bend time to their will. But the most feared were the suzerains, those who could summon the great beings themselves.
In the East, they had discovered the secrets of the lotus flower millennia ago, whose petals, when consumed, turned the mind of the eater into a weapon. Over centuries, botanists and alchemists had purified and enhanced lotus strains until now the great mentalists of the world could move objects with a thought, could invade the minds of their foes, twisting their wills, stealing their memories, trapping them in elaborate prisons of dream.
And in the Southern Kingdoms, the first civilizations had in man’s infancy unlocked the secrets of his blood. Through corrupting rituals and obscene rites, they had welcomed into their veins a blight that could be used to animate the dead, to prolong the span of human life to inhuman proportions, to yoke demons and nameless horrors.
But two centuries past, the Antiochi had discovered the runes, a language that codified all forms of magic. With it, they had dragged the most esoteric of arts into the light, exposing it to all who were born gifted enough to power the strange symbols. Now nobles and slaves alike, men and women, if possessing the proper trick of their blood, could wield the runes. And on the backs of these brave new initiates, Antioch had spread its borders wide and made the civilized world tremble.
Cassius arranged the tomes on his bed. He retrieved from his rucksack a jeweler’s loupe and a pair of tweezers. By candlelight, he donned the loupe and inspected the first jewel he had won from Junius. Etched in the facets of the jewel was the runic symbol he would have to craft in his mind’s eye to cast the spell. Next to this was a notation for the page of the codex that would describe the rune, the effect the spell would produce, the range of the spell, the average casting time, possible counters. Finally, it would name the origin of the spell.
Cassius removed the loupe. He set aside the jewel and opened the appropriate tome and searched for the correct page.
He read. And for a while, at least, he did not recall the nightmares.
• • •
It rained into the next morning, and Sulla arrived that afternoon.
“Cinna’s been looking for you,” she announced. She was sitting at the bar with Lucian, spooning a bowl of thick stew. An open coin purse lay between her and Lucian, a half dozen coppers spread across the bar top. “Sent word, but you didn’t answer. I thoug
ht you were eager for work.”
“I’ve been here all day,” the barkeep said. “I’d have noticed if they sent word.”
“They wouldn’t have come here,” Cassius said. “I told them I was staying at a pension near the city walls. Few people know I’m staying here. I intend to keep it that way.”
“How did you expect them to find you?” Sulla asked.
“Small island. I figured word would reach me eventually.”
“And you have faith I can keep your secret?”
“So long as I’m paying you.”
“Secrets are expensive in Scipio.” She pushed aside her bowl of stew and gathered up the coppers and cinched the coin purse, then tucked the purse away into a fold of her dress.
“Consider this some small compensation.” Cassius drew a pouch from inside his cloak and tossed it onto the bar. “Those are the spells I won from Junius, the ones I didn’t want anyway. I trust you’ll be able to sell them.”
“Damn right I will.” Sulla snatched the pouch off the bar and hefted it to test its weight.
“Be careful with those,” Cassius said. “If you have even dim magical abilities, you can hurt yourself by touching rune-scribed jewels with your bare hands.”
“Rest easy, boy,” Sulla said. “You’re the only damned finger wiggler in this room. And anyway, you should worry less about me and more about Master Cinna. He’s not a patient man.”
• • •
The main room of the Purse was half-filled with patrons. Idle whores lazed in the heat, Antiochi women dressed in sheer gowns, Native girls with large, dull eyes, aggressive ladyboys with painted faces and dyed hair.
Cassius ordered a glass of water and took a seat at an empty corner table.
A pair of spellcasters drinking at the bar eyed him as he waited, their looks both openly covetous of his gauntlets and appraising. Theirs was the natural pose of a spellcaster amongst spellcasters, a type of predatory disdain.
They were wondering if he was as good as the rumors, wondering how many of the jewels in his gauntlets were fakes, there only to project false power. Cassius knew this feeling, had felt it himself at times, and he knew what was underneath it as well.
Fear. Fear that the rumors were true and more than true, that he was stronger than they suspected. Fear that all the jewels were real and that he wanted the curious to find out for themselves.
The spellcasters turned their gaze to a passing server. Cassius sipped his water.
Cinna emerged from the back room and made his way to the table, a long pipe in his hand. His face was sweaty, pasty with old powder. His wig sat crooked.
The sight of him sickened Cassius. He was Antiochi excess personified. Smug, voracious, never sated. Convinced of the rightness and the supremacy of his own hunger.
“The nose doesn’t look so good,” Cinna said by way of greeting. “It might be broken.” He took a short drag on his pipe and blew a smoke ring past his fat, wet lips. The smoke was sweet and pungent, hashish mixed with opium.
“It wasn’t such a nice nose to begin with.”
“My man is blind now,” Cinna said. “The one you attacked the other night.”
“He attacked me,” Cassius said. “He was overconfident and aggressive, and that cost him.”
“Maybe.” Cinna shrugged. “Either way. He’s blind now.”
“Are you looking for an apology?”
“I was looking for a reaction.” Cinna motioned the bartender for a drink. “I saw all I needed.”
“What does that mean?”
“You seem a cold man, Cassius. That’s a shame. It used to be, days gone by, the sons of this Republic were passionate, full of fire.” Cinna grimaced, flexed his flabby arms comically. “Eager to explore and conquer. To change the world.”
“And now?” Cassius asked.
“Young men care only for money.”
“You’re starting to sound nostalgic.”
“What brings you here today?” Cinna swatted at the flank of a passing girl. Cassius knew not if the girl were a patron or an employee, but she gave no reaction.
“I’m here to work.”
“Provided the wage is sufficient, right? Why else? Not out of a desire to serve. Not out of fealty.”
“I have to look out for myself,” Cassius said. “Who would if I did not?”
“In days gone by?” Cinna asked.
“If that’s what you’d like to talk about.”
“In days gone by, it would have been your master’s responsibility.”
“You, then,” Cassius said.
“Am I your master now?”
Cassius finished his water and set aside his cup.
“You’re the man giving orders,” he said.
Cinna chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. “What do you hope to accomplish here?”
“I hope to serve you.” Cassius bowed his head, smiling.
“I don’t like being mocked.”
“I meant no offense.”
“Tell me, boy, if you could snap your fingers and make your dreams come true, where would you be?”
The question surprised Cassius. Not the asking exactly, but the idea that he had never before considered the answer. He recalled a trip along the southern coast of the mainland, a training mission while still an initiate on the Isle. That was the oldest part of Antioch, so old most of its history predated the Republic. You could still glimpse the old world there, could see antiquity hidden in the shape of its buildings, in the odd curves of its roads, in the speech of its people.
He recalled a coastal villa with tranquil gardens filled with orange trees, the calming sounds of the ocean, warm breezes. It seemed a place he might lay his head in peace, without dreams.
In truth, Cassius knew the only place he wanted to be was here. He had dedicated years to his arrival. Cinna would learn that in time.
“I would be living in a palace. With an army of servants. A harem of beautiful women.”
“So young,” Cinna said. “So unambitious. I thought you were made of better stock.”
“I didn’t know I was being tested.”
“You’re always being tested.” Cinna adjusted his wig. When he finished, it still sat askew. “But don’t fret, I have uses for men such as you. Men with shopkeeper’s dreams. There is a storefront on the south side of the Grand Market. It is advertised as a bookstore. The man who owns it pays a tithe to Piso. But after your visit, I will be his master. And he will tithe to me.”
“All right.”
“I sent a man to him some months ago, but still the shopkeeper has not paid. I want you to collect every copper he owes me from that day until today. If he shorts me a single coin, I will hold you accountable for the entire sum. Understand?”
“I do,” Cassius said.
Cinna reached into his coin purse and produced an octan. “This is my symbol. Do you know its history?”
“I’m no history student.”
“They paid soldiers with these in the early days of the Republic. They’re nearly worthless. You’d need a hundred of them to buy a loaf of bread. But they were a promise from a general to his soldiers. It’s a symbol of trust between a leader and his men. I give it to you now, in trust.”
Cassius accepted the coin.
“Now go collect my money,” Cinna said. “You have a shopkeeper’s dreams, boy. So I am sending you to keep shop. Do not disappoint me.”
• • •
At dawn, the shopkeeper opened his store and found Cassius sitting at his desk, his gauntleted hands splayed on the table before him.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cassius said. “Take a seat, and we’ll—”
The shopkeeper shouted, dropped his ring of keys, and sprang at Cassius.
The shopkeeper was a full head taller than Cassius and much heav
ier. They stood wrestling for some time before he managed to hook a foot behind Cassius’s leg and push him over. They fell together and hit the floor hard, Cassius on the bottom.
The shopkeeper mounted his waist and began to land wild punches to the side of Cassius’s head.
Reaching up, Cassius grabbed the shopkeeper’s wrists. The shopkeeper tried to pull free but could not; and then he leaned forward to choke Cassius, and Cassius bit him. He bit the first two fingers on the shopkeeper’s left hand, breaking skin and stringy flesh before reaching a bone through which he could not bite.
The shopkeeper screamed. Cassius lurched into a sitting position and hit him in his throat, and the shopkeeper fell backward.
The shopkeeper rolled onto his stomach, crawling for the door.
A flash of light lit the room, and the air rippled with heat. A coil of flame, wire thin, appeared in midair, then whipped down and struck the shopkeeper across his back, disappearing with a hiss.
The shopkeeper screamed and collapsed. The back of his tunic was split from his left shoulder to his right hip, and the line of skin visible beneath was the purple of undercooked beef.
Cassius climbed to his feet.
“Don’t move,” he yelled, panting.
He stepped over the shopkeeper, straddling him. The man lay unmoving, his breathing slow. Cassius rolled him, and his head lolled backward, his eyes closed.
“Goddamn it.”
• • •
The shop was advertised as a bookstore, but inside, there were no books. The first floor of the shop was a single, spare room, devoid of furniture but for a chair, a desk, and three metal chests chained to metal anchors in the ground.
The shopkeeper sat in front of the desk, his hands tied behind his back with the leather straps of his own sandals. He was crying.