Kaleb nodded and paused, shaking his head with another little smirk before pulling his cloak around his shoulders and lying down to sleep.
• • • • •
That night ran long for Samuel. Fog settled into the forest, swirling between the trees and creeping lower as the fire died to embers. Samuel was at once grateful and saddened that although he could perceive the chill in the night air, he could not feel it the same way Kaleb could. His thoughts alternated between intellectual contemplation of his mortality and irrational fear of losing his tenuous hold on what life he had. For a moment, he was jealous of Kaleb’s vitality; at least he had proof of life and the argument for a soul. While Samuel might not know his creator’s name, he knew some artificer, somewhere could claim the title.
Just as the cold night seemed interminable, the overcast western sky grew lighter and morning approached. As the light crept through the clouds and filtered into the fog through the trees, the sky blazed a bright white, leeching much of the color from the world. The fog remained so thick Samuel couldn’t even make out the surface of the road from their camp.
It wasn’t long before Kaleb awoke, shivering in the chill morning air and wiping a layer of dew from his face. He insisted on building back up the fire for a bit before beginning that day’s journey, “to pour some warmth back into my muscles,” as he put it. Kaleb warmed some bread and dried meat for his breakfast before snuffing out the dying flames and burying it so they could be on their way.
Their morning route was devoid of other travelers, but Kaleb said this was normal for this part of the forest at this time of year. Later in winter, he said, the colder weather and more frequent fog were perfect conditions for ambushes in this part of the forest, which was known as Bandit’s Run. Kaleb mused that some of the Morrelton town guard tried to pass off the name as Bandits Run sans the apostrophe, “because none of ‘em would dare stand up to a Morrelton escort,” they’d proclaim. Their walk was bandit free, and by noon the wind swooped down to chase away the fog. As the road wound further into the forest it crept upwards, deeper into the foothills at the northern edge of the mountains.
“Smell that?” Kaleb said as they rounded a long bend.
Samuel nodded, having noticed a shift in the breeze and new aromas carried along with it. The scents of wood fires and cooking food now wafted through the forest, as well as a sharp, tangy smell. “What is that?” he asked.
“There are a great many artificers in Morrelton,” Kaleb replied. “The town’s location gives it access not only to an almost inexhaustible supply of usable khet, but also to the raw ores and minerals used to make constructs.” Kaleb took a quick sniff and cringed at what he encountered. “That tangy smell is a combination of the by-products from the smelters in town and the adepts saturating cores. When we’re in town, you’ll be able to separate those smells from each other.” He wrinkled his nose again. “But neither is very pleasant.”
Samuel heard the constant rush of a nearby stream, perhaps even large enough to be called a river, ahead of them and into the woods on their right. Kaleb looked up the road to the top of the rise they were climbing, and quickened his pace.
“Come on, Samuel.” Kaleb said with a grin. “We’re almost there!”
Samuel sped up to match as they trotted up the incline. The road took one more bend before cresting, and as they reached the top of the small hill, the forest town revealed itself. He slowed to a stop, marveling at the small artificer’s city that lay before them. Morrelton.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Grey clouds seeped the same miserable drizzle they’d been riding through for so long Colton struggled to remember the last time he’d seen a sunny day. A side benefit was that it kept Bales in just foul enough a mood to keep him quiet—a trade-off Colton was willing to accept. The road to Cinth was busy with merchants and farmers trudging along in the same dolorous silence.
Not long out of Winston, Colton heard the loud clop of a horse at gallop behind them in the rain. They slid to the side and allowed the rider to pass, Colton shaking his head at the stupidity. In weather like this, puddles that seemed shallow could conceal deep potholes or muddy bogs, and a horse at gallop could break a leg and throw its rider. The rain might be miserable, but rushing wasn’t worth a broken neck.
They crested a slight rise at a canter a few days out from Winston and the city came into view, a dark brown pile of debris on the blank horizon of the plainsland. It would remain in view almost a full day before they’d enter it, but the sight of civilization was enough to make Colton antsy. Time seemed to fly beneath his notice, and they approached the outskirts just as the afternoon light was failing.
Cinth's skyline was dominated by a central castle building that served as the governmental seat for the surrounding plains towns as well as the residence of whomever was the current regent. Outside the castle’s walled courtyards, though, Cinth was a disorganized collection of squat buildings, very few higher than two or three stories. The streets were devoid any sort of pattern, continuations of open lanes that once ran between tents and huts. Cinth lacked a defensible wall, so it sprawled into the surrounding plain as though simply spilled there.
Darker clouds rolled overhead and pissed a harsher rain, painting the flat tan of the plains with deep browns and yellows. Colton pulled up his tall collar and hunkered beneath his tricorne as he passed the first small houses that marked the entrance to Cinth. Bales spurred his horse to a trot, and Colton followed suit.
Their destination, a dive tavern called the Roc’s Feather, sat at the edge of the Barrels District. Although the Barrels District was famous for the exaggerated idea it held a tavern on every block, it was not the sort of place suited for well-meaning revelry, instead catering to rowdies and drunkards and populated by all manner of cutpurses, tramps, and disreputable characters. The perfect place for Colton and Bales to handle their business.
The city drowned in the autumn storm, but the going was easier since the rain had driven most folks indoors. As they passed further into the city proper, taller buildings loomed over any idiot still out in the wet. Colton’s nostrils were assaulted by the reek of stale beer and garbage, and a lone prostitute stood drenched by the storm glaring at them from the mouth of an alley, her gaze more challenge than invitation.
They dismounted near a hitching post beneath a large wooden sign in the shape of a feather, coated in peeling red paint that had faded to a dark, brownish maroon. The sign was mounted dead center over the front door and funneled a constant stream of rainwater onto the cobblestones. Neither of them bothered to avoid the waterfall as they entered.
The interior of the Roc’s Feather made the autumn thunderstorm seem cheery by comparison. With no central fire pit and only a few meager oil lamps providing light, the main tavern area was dark enough one had to squint to see beyond the bar. Support beams dipped from the low ceiling, making the large room feel cramped. They stood still as the door closed, water streaming off the shoulders of their riding coats. Bales removed his hat and made a point of shaking off the excess water onto a table of patrons. The lot of them began to stand, but sat back down and returned to their drinks when Colton nudged their minds into forgetfulness.
“Not now, Bales.” Colton admonished his partner. “I’m tired, so leave them be.”
Bales snorted and headed toward the bar. Colton tossed his hat onto a hook by the door and pulled open his tall collar, running a hand over the lower half of his face. After a moment of discussion with the stout bartender, Bales waved Colton over.
“Seems ol’ Pelk here has some news for us.” Bales said. Colton turned to the stocky barman, who paused his task of removing straw from a clutch of new clay mugs.
“Someone here ta’ see ye.” Pelk croaked, his deep voice like sandpaper across the back of Colton’s neck.
Colton raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. Pelk nodded to a booth in the front corner of the tavern, but to Colton it looked empty. He turned back to Pelk. “H
ow do you know they’re here for me?”
“Taeman sent ‘im, looks like.” Pelk said. “Got a letter for ye, wit’ the merchant’s seal. His message to me was he was ‘put in harm’s way.’”
Colton and Bales shared an inquisitive look. “What did the letter say?”
Pelk shrugged. “Wouldn’t let me touch it. Only showed me the seal.” As they turned toward the booth, Pelk stopped them.
“I don’t suppose,” the bartender hesitated, “you’d just let ‘im deliver his message and then let ‘im be, eh?” he asked.
Colton turned a disdainful eye on Pelk. “What business is it of yours?” he said.
Pelk blanched. “None. I just don’t—”
“Seem to know when to keep your mouth shut.” Bales interjected.
Colton shook his head. “You’ve never found cause to poke your head up at the wrong time before, Pelk,” he said. “How about we keep it that way?” The bartender turned back to his task. The two men headed toward the booth. Bales sped up but Colton caught his arm, settling him a half-step behind to a grumbling protest.
As they approached, Colton saw a pair of young hands wrapped around a clay mug of coffee. The boy raised his face when they reached the edge of the table, deep blue eyes framed by a mop of shaggy blonde hair, his cheeks still swimming just beneath a layer of road dirt. Colton wondered how a messenger from Taeman’s caravan would’ve reached Cinth before them, then remembered back to the harried rider outside of Winston.
“I’m told you have a message for me?” Colton said, keeping his voice calm and endearing, oozing charisma.
The boy hesitated, then took a deep breath and puffed up. “How do I know it’s you I’m to give it to?” As usual, a derisive scoff escaped Bales’s lips.
Colton obliged by rolling up his left sleeve to show the boy the inside of his forearm. Tattooed there was a family crest, a shield bearing the silhouetted image of a bird with wings spread upward, behind a dagger with a serpentine blade. At the bottom of the shield was a ribbon into which the word Harms was scribed in flowing script. “My name’s Colton Harms. I’m told that has some bearing on the message you were given by Taeman, does it not?”
The boy visibly relaxed and gestured for the two of them to sit. Once they were seated, he reached into his riding coat and produced a small folded parchment bearing a brown wax seal and handed it over. His eyes gave a nervous flick over to Bales.
“What’s your name?” Colton asked.
“T-Torran.” The boy said, taking another sip of his coffee.
“Introduce yourself, Bales.” Colton said. Bales still did not speak, preferring instead a lazy, predatory grin.
Torran shook his eyes back to Colton. “I’m glad to finally understand what Taeman’s message meant. Wasn’t too keen on being put in danger.”
Colton ignored him and cracked the seal, unfolding the letter and reading the rushed handwriting that terminated in the fat merchant’s signature, a gaudy scrawl laden with the weight of his inadequacies. After a moment to let what was written there sink in, he read it a second time. He took a deep breath and set the letter down.
“You missed one, Bales.” His voice had gone ice cold.
It took a moment for the comment to register with Bales, whose eyes shot to the letter with contempt. “That’s impossible. Where?”
“Winston.” Colton replied.
“Bullshit. There was nothing for fifty miles in any direction from that mudhole.” Angry, he slid around closer to Torran, leaning in to menace him. The boy’s nose wrinkled at Bales’s breath and he recoiled on reflex. “What did Taeman tell you?” Bales said, deadly quiet.
Colton stepped in, placing a hand on Bales’s shoulder and settling him back. “Now, now.” He floated a half-smile at Torran. “Let’s not kill the messenger.”
Bales turned, still defiant. “It’s a load of shit, and you know it. I haven’t missed one yet, in all the time we’ve worked together. There’s a lie here somewhere.” He turned his malice back toward Torran. “And I’m going to figure it out.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Colton placated Bales, whose eyes never left Torran. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.” He jabbed a thumb over towards Torran. “This one can tag along and help us out here in Cinth, before we head back.” A look of confused fear swept over the boy’s face.
Bales’s countenance softened a little bit and he leaned back in the booth, a disturbing smile creeping across his jaw. Colton stared into Torran’s eyes, and the boy’s muscles went taut. Colton leaned back. “You don’t mind joining us, do you?”
Torran’s mouth fell open and a rush of air exited his lungs, but what emerged was barely noise, and nothing like language. He sat back and, in a jerky motion, raised an arm to the top of the booth, leaning like he was having a light conversation with old friends. His head shivered and shook, and tears streamed down his face. Colton smiled.
Bales leered. “Glad to have you on board.” When a pitiful moan was all Torran could manage, Bales laughed like he’d just been told the funniest joke he’d heard in years.
Colton saw Pelk approach the table. “Please, sir,” the bartender said, his tone meek, “I would ask that ye remand the boy into my care. There be no need for him to accompany ye.”
Colton swung a dangerous glare into the bartender, who stepped back as though struck. “Mind your own business,” Colton spat. Pelk’s face slackened as his body went stiff, and he turned and walked away with no further argument. Colton looked back to Torran. “Now, there wouldn’t be anything else you’re not telling us, is there?”
Torran’s eyes closed and squeezed out more tears, a gurgling whimper escaping his throat. His tremulous hand reached once more into his riding coat and handed over a small felt pouch. Colton dangled the coin purse between two fingers and jingled it by his ear. “Ah, that Taeman’s a good man sometimes.” He said, false wistfulness in his voice. “You didn’t think he was paying you this much just to deliver a letter, did you?”
The boy shuddered, and Colton’s smile vanished. “Stop clamoring around in there.” Torran’s inhuman scream careened through the tavern. The other patrons started at the sound and gaped in their direction when the boy’s head hit the table, unconscious. No one found the courage to challenge the glares from Colton and Bales.
After only a few seconds, Torran sat up of his own accord, and grabbed a napkin to wipe his face. It took him a moment before he looked around at the customers, all still staring at him with expressions ranging from concern to contempt. Colton reached his hand into the boy’s field of view and snapped his fingers, and everyone in the bar turned back to whatever it was they had been doing like nothing was amiss. He touched Torran’s jaw and drew his eyes back.
“You’ll come with us,” Colton said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’ll help us, and maybe I’ll let you go. Just remember this: With no chains, no cages, and no weapons, you will stay with me as long as I will it. You’ll never know what happened just now, and no one here will ever remember.” He leaned in closer, his eyes intense. “I can take everything from you whenever I choose. It’s up to you how long you have before that choice must be made.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Looking upon the town of Morrelton, the phrase like nothing I’ve ever seen before crossed Samuel’s mind, but he realized how foolish that thought was in his situation. Morrelton was a fair sight larger than Winston, and woven into the fabric of the forest almost like it had grown there. Low buildings built of rich woods blended into the foliage, taking shape in the least obtrusive ways for the surrounding trees. A central lane, flanked on both sides by tall evergreens, crossed a wide wooden bridge some distance into town. Amongst the buildings, plants of all kinds were allowed to flourish, giving the town natural beauty less like a place people had carved out and more like a sanctuary the forest had allowed them to share.
Shops of all kinds lined the main street, and the town bustled with activity. Amid the clamor, Samue
l noted a construct for every four people, the ratio even higher where hard labor was involved. All moved and conversed freely, some following masters or even families, and some looked to be out on their own. Variations in size and style were as wide amongst constructs as amongst people. Seeing his kin lifted the weight of loneliness and renewed his hope of finding out who and what he might be.
Kaleb led the two of them down the main road and over the bridge. As Samuel examined one peculiar building that wrapped around and between two ancient oak trees, he heard Kaleb mutter a curse.
Ahead in the road, three men cut a determined path toward them. A tall, slender man with dark hair and a heavy moustache led the way. Of the two that followed him, Samuel only had time to take note of one of them, a giant of a man who stood close to seven feet high, with cut granite muscles below the sheen of his bald head. When the trio reached Kaleb, their mustachioed leader held up a hand to stop Kaleb, doing a double-take when Samuel stopped as well.
“I have to ask what you’re doing in Morrelton, Kaleb,” the man with the mustache said, forcing an amiable tone.
“I just have some business with Atherton, Berek,” Kaleb replied, matching Berek’s tone, exasperated. “You know, you don’t need to do this every time I come into town.”
“Of course I do.”
Kaleb shook his head. “Look…I’ll be in and out. I picked up this construct out near Corville, but he’s got a bum arm.” Kaleb turned over his shoulder at Samuel and snapped his fingers in his face. “Karesthetinil, show the man your arm.”
Samuel stood transfixed for a moment, less out of confusion and more of amusement. Kaleb snapped his fingers two more times and made a twirling motion with his hand; come on, get on with it. Samuel shrugged off his cloak, showing his damaged shoulder and the makeshift sling that held his arm in place. Berek stepped forward for a better look.
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