“There’s another voice,” Samuel said. “I never see a face, but there’s a voice. A sort of…creepy, slithering voice in every vision I have with the silver-eyed one.”
“What does the voice have to say?” Pare asked.
Samuel searched his jumbled memories. “Nothing nice.”
• • • • •
Colton stood in the mud of the alleyway, facing the door of the small shop at the edge of Morrelton, staring up at a carved wooden sign that read simply Atherton, Artificer. Bales had already knocked on the door twice, but no one answered and now he was trying the knob to no avail.
“He’s not answering,” Bales said, “but I’d bet real money he’s here.”
Colton didn’t move, still captivated by the artificer’s simple wooden sign. Bales looked at him, then back at the sign, then back at Colton, his features twisted in confusion.
“Look at it, Bales,” Colton said, gesturing to the sign. Bales stepped around beside him and looked up with a huff. “Look at the craftsmanship. There’s nothing imposing or ostentatious about it, but the attention to detail is startling. Two words, carved in relief into an ironwood plank, but done with such care you wouldn’t be able to find a tool mark if you tried. The man who carved that sign is an artist.”
Bales shook his head and turned to his partner. “The man who carved that sign has information we need.” He pointed at the door. “I’ve done my part, so just unlock it, would you?”
Colton shot a disapproving look at his abrasive counterpart and moved up to the door, placing his right hand over the knob. After a moment of stillness, a series of muted clicks indicated the lock had been defeated. Colton turned the knob and the door swung inward.
The meticulous neatness of the shop was marred at the back of the room, where several shelves had been knocked out of their brackets, spilling construct parts and other random materials along the floor. There was no light in the room save that which filtered in from the front window and a thin sliver of flickering orange that escaped around the edges of a heavy metal door at the rear.
Colton surveyed the room for exits, spotting three: the front door, the metal door at the rear, and a darkened archway to the left, beyond which he saw a stairway leading up to what was likely the artificer’s apartment. Bales moved in first, intent on investigating the light from the room at the rear, but with more caution than Colton would have given him credit for. When he was halfway through the room, Colton moved in to follow. He only made it a few steps when he felt something cold and hard press against the back of his head, stopping him dead in his tracks.
“Bales,” he said, his shoulders locking up with tension. The dark haired man stopped near the back of the room and looked back over his shoulder.
“It’s not nice to break into another person’s place of business.”
“Atherton, I presume?” Colton asked of the voice that had come from behind him. “You know you could be executed just for owning that iron you’re holding.”
“If I cared about legality, I wouldn’t be holding you at gunpoint.” Atherton asked. There was a flat quality to his voice, a deadness that worried Colton. “You’ll turn around and leave, the both of you, and forget you were ever here.”
“After all the trouble we’ve gone through to find you,” Colton said, “why would we do a thing like that?”
“To avoid a bullet to the brain, would be my first suggestion.” Atherton pressed the barrel of the gun harder into Colton’s skull. “And stop trying to dig around in my head. Whatever you’re trying to do, you’ll never get past my defenses before I can pull this trigger.”
Colton exhaled a disappointed sigh and let his shoulders drop. “You’re paranoid.”
“I like to think of myself as well-prepared,” the artificer shot back. “Hey, you—Bales, is it? Step forward and join your friend here.”
Atherton moved around to the side, one small pistol poised at Colton’s head and another trained on Bales as he moved across the room. Colton noted his sunken eyes and cheeks, his disheveled appearance. If not for the strength in his voice, Colton would have been hard pressed to believe this was the owner of the shop, the man who meticulously carved the sign over the door and who undoubtedly handcrafted the two cap-lock pistols now trained on him and his partner. The man looked like he’d been through the wringer, which made the guns in his hands that much more dangerous.
Colton crossed his arms and turned toward Atherton. “Why would someone with talents like yours even need little burners like those?”
Atherton’s hands drew closer together as Bales stepped behind Colton’s shoulder, staring down the old man like a dog waiting to pounce. “For men just like you, whose talents run wilder than mine.” He took a sliding step backward. “On any other day, in any other life, I might have asked you what you wanted here. But on this day, I’ll be satisfied if you leave. You can do so walking, or being dragged. Makes no difference to me.”
There was dead air between them now, neither one with anything to say and neither able or willing to back down. Bales cleared his throat, and Colton shifted his weight to his other foot. “I’ll walk out of here, old man, but not before you help us find what we’re looking for.”
“I’ve no intention of helping you, son. Leave before I kill you.”
“You’ll help us, Atherton,” Colton said, stepping forward. “Whether you want to or not.” Atherton’s muscles flinched. His guns did not change position even when Colton and Bales moved to the side. He now aimed at the opposing wall of his shop. Bales let out a grating little chuckle as he leaned against one of the racks in the center of the shop.
“Amongst his many talents, my partner here,” Colton gestured to Bales, “possesses an unworldly aptitude as a breaker.” He leaned in close to the frozen Atherton and whispered into his ear. “This little short time we’ve been talking, he’s been worming in behind your defense, chewing at the supports like an overgrown termite.” Bales’s grin drained from his face.
“And, now, you’ll do whatever I tell you to,” Colton continued. “For instance, if I were to tell you to put the barrel of one of your guns in your mouth...” Atherton did just that. “Now, see how easy this is?”
Tears squeezed out of the corners of Atherton’s eyes and he let out a ragged breath, the barrel of his pistol rattling against his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead. His limbs jerked in tiny vibrations as he struggled against Colton’s hold. The barrel of his pistol pulled slowly free of his mouth, but was still pointed at his face. The struggle of it was starting to show, Atherton’s face turning bright red with effort.
“Ho ho!” Colton watched with amusement. “You’re stronger than most! It’s been a while since someone’s had the balls to put up much fight. But…” Atherton’s breath released and the gun was back in his mouth. “Now, I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them, but you can’t very well do that with a gun in your mouth, can you? Go ahead and put them on the shelf over there.”
Atherton lowered his guns. His movements stiff, as though he were walking through mud, he made his way to the wall and set the pistols on a shelf. When he turned back to Colton his struggle had ended. The old artificer’s eyes were dry. He sagged in a look of both exhaustion and sadness.
“That’s good,” Colton said, no longer prodding or smug, just getting down to business. “We heard you had some trouble with a construct recently. Tell me about it.”
“Jacob brought him in,” Atherton said, his voice droning out the words and devoid of any human tone. “Said he needed a shoulder repaired. Seemed legitimate enough to me. Jacob took off on an errand, and he left the construct behind. During his first night here, something happened...”
“What?” Bales asked.
Atherton turned his dead eyes onto Bales for a moment, but then turned back to Colton. “The construct passed out. His eyes went dark and he toppled over. I thought he’d dissipated, but he’d flicker to life every so often and mutter somethin
g incoherent. We hauled him onto the work table, and that’s when I saw it.”
“Saw what?” Colton asked, even though he knew he didn’t need to.
“The inscription on his shoulder.” Atherton said. “Ancient. Almost unreadable. On a plate that’s never been replaced. I couldn’t make out the whole word, but I’d venture an educated guess it said Aesamaelus.”
Bales started. “Impossible,” he spat at the old man. “Your eyes were playing tricks on you.”
Atherton said nothing.
“Are you sure that’s what you saw?” Colton asked.
“Of course I’m sure,” Atherton said, his visage still exhausted, but otherwise blank.
Bales wagged a finger at Colton. “This is horseshit and you know it. There’s no way I didn’t know.”
Colton raised a staying hand and Bales settled, grinding his teeth. “What did you do next, Atherton?”
“We strapped him to the table. There’s an Assessor from Cinth who comes to Morrelton on the regular, and I was going to hand him over, until he tried to help the construct escape.”
“Who?” Colton asked. “Who helped him to escape?”
Atherton’s lips quivered and his shoulders shook, fresh tears streaming from his eyes. His jaw clenched and unclenched, but he did not speak.
Colton pressed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Who, Atherton? Tell. Me.”
“Mmmm...” Atherton still resisted, turning red again. “Mmmm… Mmmichaelll.” He released another explosive breath, tears flowing freely now. “M-M-Michael h-helped him. Repaired his shoulder and freed him. Jacob came b-back while I was trying to stop him, and the construct left with him.”
“Did the construct tell you its name?” Colton asked.
“Samuel. Its name is Samuel.” Colton shot Bales a questioning glance, which was met with a confused look and a shrug.
“Where did Jacob and Samuel go, Atherton?”
“I… I don’t know,” Atherton said, his voice quiet. “M-Michael would know, but… but he’s not here.”
“I want you to take us to Michael,” Colton said. “Right now.”
A pained look crossed Atherton’s face. “I can’t,” he said, his voice still flat. “He’s dead.”
Bales exhaled a whispered chuckle and shot Colton a grin. Colton leaned in close to Atherton’s ear. “That won’t be a problem.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
Colton took small pleasures in making Atherton recount the night of Samuel’s escape, demanding every lingering detail the old artificer could dredge up about the fight with Malthoranic and Michael’s death. Bales sat to the side, closing his eyes and taking in long, blissful breaths as he listened to Atherton’s tale.
Although waiting until nightfall to leave the shop meant fewer people in the streets, bitter cold followed the darkness, so their pace across the small forest town was brisk. Colton had released Atherton from his mental grasp, having demonstrated what would happen to him if he made any move of betrayal. The old man acquiesced, offering to do whatever they wanted so long as they left him alone after this night. In spite of Colton’s talent, Atherton’s strength was a struggle to overcome and the artificer’s broken will suited him just fine. The struggle between them had been taxing and had Atherton’s life not taken the unexpected turn of a few nights prior, Colton knew it would’ve been even worse.
The three of them walked in silence, both Atherton and Bales carrying long shovels. Atherton leading two strangers across town in the middle of the night would have drawn the guard’s attention even on a normal day, but since the deaths of Cort and his men, Morrelton was under a strict curfew. Without the strain of controlling Atherton on his shoulders, Colton was able to focus on any nearby guardsmen as they passed, redirecting their attention and securing free passage across the city.
A small cemetery stood in a clearing near the edge of town, ringed by a low wooden fence and surrounded by trees. Burial grounds gave Colton the creeps, and every sound in the trees overhead pricked at his paranoia. Atherton paused at the gate, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then stepped over the threshold and up the center aisle, turning near the middle of the yard and coming to a stop before Michael’s grave. Atherton’s jaw clenched as he looked at the simple headstone, frozen for a moment with emotion. He held his shovel out to Colton.
“There,” he said, his teeth still gritted. “Do what you need to and I’ll be on my way.”
Colton flashed an unpleasant smile. “I don’t dig. Not unless you want the guard all over us in a matter of minutes.”
Atherton’s face flashed with anger. “I will not do this. I’ve come as far as I will.”
Colton stepped up close so their noses almost touched, then gripped Atherton’s hand and squeezed it around the shovel. Colton felt the artificer’s breath on his face, felt him begin to shake. The scraping sound behind him let him know Bales had already started digging. He was certain Bales was actually looking forward to this part.
Atherton let out a slow breath. “Will you leave me be, then?” he asked, his voice so weak Colton barely heard him. Colton stepped aside and Atherton moved across from Bales, plunging his shovel into the already broken surface of Michael’s grave.
Bales worked like a dog unearthing his favorite hidden bone. Atherton’s work was labored, but Colton didn’t intervene, letting him dig at his own pace. Once the hole was deep enough they could no longer dig from above, Atherton and Bales took turns climbing down into the grave to continue digging. After three solid hours, Bales’s shovel struck the hardwood of a casket with a loud thunk that caused Atherton to flinch. Another several minutes of clearing and Bales exposed most of the plain pine box’s lid.
Colton stood at the edge of the grave, looking down on Bales with a mixture of annoyance and disgust. “Peel it,” he said, his tone abrupt. He often wished Bales could develop a talent for what he was about to do. His greasy-haired companion was always enthralled by the process, but Colton found it distasteful, even when necessary.
Atherton moved to the end of the grave, his curiosity taking over before he realized what he was doing. Bales tossed his shovel up out of the hole and reached down to the edge of the box, prying his fingers under the side of the lid and spreading his feet into the dirt walls of the grave to brace himself. With a mighty yank the nails came loose and the cover hinged open, spewing forth a musty-sweet stench that caused both Atherton and Colton to recoil.
“Out,” Colton ordered.
Bales leaned the coffin lid up against the dirt wall and climbed out, bowing to Colton with a hand upturned at the grave. “Table for one and a half, sir?” he joked, ever the morbid jester.
Colton shot him a disgusted look and climbed down, straddling Michael with a foot on either side of the coffin. The apprentice’s body was bloated, his face still grotesquely swollen with the bruises and cuts from his encounter with Malthoranic. Colton grabbed the edges of the boy’s vest at the armpits and hauled his body upward into a sitting position. Michael’s head lolled to the side at an impossible angle. Colton heard Atherton retch twice, then vomit as Bales snickered. A broken neck would make Colton’s task even more difficult—he might only get a few words out of the boy.
From a pouch at his belt Colton withdrew a small glass vial, inside which white light stirred in lazy tendrils like captured fog. He grasped Michael’s head by the hair and drew it upright. The boy’s face was a mess, all bruises, swelling, and unpleasant fluids. Placing the vial against the dead boy’s forehead, Colton closed his eyes and took a deep breath, which he held for several seconds.
Colton let out the breath and opened his eyes. Michael’s right eye was open wide, his left open and staring but partially buried under swollen flesh. Without blinking or breathing he offered Colton only an open gape, his pupils so dilated they met the whites of his eyes. Colton removed the empty vial from Michael’s forehead, replacing it in his belt pouch before gripping Michael by the sides of his head and looking
deep into his eyes.
“Michael,” he said, rather loudly. “Take in a breath.” Michael drew a long, labored breath through his nose, but did not exhale. Colton knew he would only have this one breath to retrieve his answer, so he hoped his question would elicit something understandable, or at least something Atherton could help interpret.
“Michael. Where did Jacob and Samuel go?”
Michael’s eyes narrowed in a confused expression. His mouth opened and air began to slowly escape, but he did not form any words. Colton couldn’t understand why it wasn’t working and he was running out of time. He’d have to find a way to rephrase the question, or ask another one, before the breath was gone.
“Atherton!” Colton snapped, looking up out of the hole for the artificer, who wasn’t in sight. “Why doesn’t he understand?”
“Kaleb,” Atherton’s weak voice croaked over the edge of the hole. “He never knew Jacob’s real name. Michael knew him as Kaleb.”
Colton snapped his head back around, gripping Michael’s head even tighter. Michael’s mouth was still open and there was a light hiss as the air escaped his lungs. “Michael! Where did Kaleb and Samuel go?”
Michael’s jaw worked up and down twice before his lips started to move. “Bbbear’s hhhhooouuusssee,” he hissed as the last of his breath fluttered into the night air. His eyes were still open, but no life was left in them, natural or artificial.
Bear’s house. Senseless words. Colton shoved Michael’s body back into the coffin and stood, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. Bales held a hand down into the hole and helped him climb out. Atherton sat on the ground, leaned against a nearby tree, his arms dangling in the dirt at his sides as tears washed trails down his dirty cheeks. He looked as though he’d aged ten years in the last twenty minutes. Colton stalked over to him and knelt, grabbing a fistful of his shirt.
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