“That doesn’t pain me,” Cyrus said, making his way toward a group of workers a couple hundred feet away who had stopped and were watching them as they made their approach. “We should probably warn this lot before we blow up the coal yard, right?”
“‘Blow up’ is accurate,” Vara said. “With all this coal dust in the air, the explosion will be audible for miles. Windows will shatter all over the city.”
“Perhaps we should leave this one standing, then?” Cyrus asked, pausing in his approach toward the workers.
“I think not,” Vara said. “It will send a very loud signal to the Machine, one which I believe we want them to get. The workers can be cleared, and there are no apartment buildings around here. I expect the explosion, while loud, will do little more than minor damage to the buildings on either side.” She pointed behind them. “Some sort of metalworks,” then to their left, “a mill,” and finally to their right, “and that place looks to be an empty yard, the building long demolished. If ever there was a locale ripe for making an explosive statement, I believe this is it.”
“All right,” Cyrus said, then turned back toward the workers, “there’s a fire in the building over there,” he pointed toward the shack. “Fire!”
That did the trick; the workers scattered without any further question, running as fast as they could toward the exit, taking up his call and screaming it to the heavens. Others came running from back of the coal yard, legs pumping as they blew past Cyrus and Vara, calling it for themselves. “FIRE! FIRE!”
“Seems everyone knows what a dangerous place they work in,” Cyrus said, tacking toward the gates of the coal yard wall. He could see movement out on the street, and peered ahead before sighing.
“It would appear some of your admirers have followed you,” Vara said with a barely concealed smile. “And look—they’ve multiplied.”
They had indeed. There were far, far more of them here than there had been at the candle shop. It was the milling mob they’d hoped to avoid, though larger and more sedate than the original unruly bunch. Cyrus caught sight of a few familiar faces—among them, the man in the long coattails, the woman with the hoop skirt, still minding their charges from the candle shop.
“I thought I told those two to take care of the women we rescued,” Cyrus muttered under his breath as they approached the open gate. “Yet here they are, following in my wake like a disobedient dog, with their rescuees in tow.”
“But such loving pets they are,” Vara teased. “You must promise me that even after they declare themselves completely and totally for you that won’t leave me for one of them. Especially the fellow in the long-tailed coat.” She snorted. “I couldn’t abide losing my man to someone dressed in such a ridiculous manner.”
“It’s all right,” Cyrus said, “I’m more drawn to blue women in leather pants.”
Vara’s eyes narrowed tightly. “Do you recall those relations that you had hoped to have with me later?”
Cyrus blinked. “Well, I’d been thinking about it, yes—”
“Consider them cancelled. I have a sudden headache at the mere thought of that harlot.”
“And here I thought you’d forgiven her after all the help she gave us,” Cyrus said.
“I have,” Vara said stiffly. “Mostly. It’s you who needs to watch your step.”
Cyrus muted any reply he might have made, instead shifting his attention to how he might deal with this crowd. “I suppose we’d better disperse them; the men yelling ‘FIRE!’ outside a coal yard don’t seem to have done the trick, after all.”
“They’re blinded by their love for you,” Vara said.
“Who isn’t?” he asked with a smirk, but her rolled eyes told him that he might be pushing too far after having already crossed the bounds once. “Other than you, you most clear-headed of souls.”
“Idle flattery will not win back what you have already lost for this evening, Lord Davidon.”
“Such a shame,” Cyrus said. “I had a feeling Alaric was going to keep us running all day anyhow.” He raised his voice. “Did I not tell you—”
Vara clamped a hand down upon his wrist, silencing him. “Don’t be angry at them.”
“Why, because you have the current monopoly on anger and don’t want any competition?” He smirked, and once more she rolled her eyes, though a small smile played on her lips her and annoyance had clearly broken. Cyrus raised his voice to address the crowd once more. “How nice to see you all again,” he said, unable to keep the irony out of his words, “especially so soon after I thought you would all go home to await my word.”
“We await your word, Lord Davidon!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
“Very well,” Cyrus said, stepping out of the gates. “The word is this: Run.” He aimed a thumb behind him. “This coal yard will explode in mere minutes, and I want all of you out of here before it does. Grievous wounding could follow for any too close to the explosion, and so …” He gestured, pushing his hands toward them. “Run.” When no one moved, he sighed, then stared down the cross street that met the gates of the coal yard in a T. “At least go over there,” he said, pointing to a corner a block away, in front of a butcher shop. “If you’re standing here when this place blows up, you’re likely to catch a mouthful of brick, and that’ll ruin anyone’s day.”
“Nothing can ruin this day for me,” came a voice laced with fury to his left. Cyrus leaned out from behind the gate and caught a glimpse of an elf dressed in the old style; a tunic covered in runes, ears pointed at the heavens. His face was youthful; if human, he’d have been in his thirties, with perfect teeth bared in a furious grimace. When he saw Cyrus, he drew a sword from beneath his brown cloak. Chain mail glittered at his neck and at the edge of his sleeves. The blade he carried was a broad sword of the old style, the kind of craftsmanship that made any human blade look like cheap garbage, fit only for practice swordplay. The elf stepped forward, keeping his blade low. “For this day, I have found another impersonator of the great Lord Davidon.” He brought the sword around, pointing it right at Cyrus’s face. “And for this insult … it will my very great pleasure … to remove your head from your shoulders.”
22.
Shirri
A crowd had gathered once more, and Shirri was watching it with a wary and jaded eye. Her pulse ran at a rate far above normal, the coal dust crowding her sinuses and making her want to sneeze or cough.
She’d been waiting outside the coal yard for what felt like an hour but was probably just a few minutes. Every moment seemed like an eternity when she perched outside a Machine business or safe house, as though she were dangling herself in front of a feral beast that wanted to eat her.
No, Shirri didn’t much care for that, and kept her cowl up. It was the flimsiest of disguises, but many people wore cowls in this city to keep the ash from the smokestacks from falling on them. At least it allowed her to blend in.
“You seem uneasy,” a soft voice came from beside her, and Shirri nearly jumped from her skin. A moment ago she’d been alone, and now—
Now, Alaric stood next to her, his grey beard having lost the thin layer of ash that had accumulated during the walk. It was as though the coal dust and ash she’d seen upon him when they’d parted at the gates a few minutes ago had been washed clean.
Except … that wasn’t how it worked. He didn’t look wet, as though he’d splashed his face. It was simply … gone, the normal grey of his beard returned.
Shirri shook her head at him. He’d also come out of nowhere. “I don’t know how you do that,” she said, and she wasn’t sure to which mystery she referred.
“They call me the Ghost,” Alaric said with a smile, “for obvious reasons.”
“Mm,” Shirri said, a non-committal grunt. “My mother?”
“Not here.” Alaric grew slightly stiffer. “I left Cyrus and Vara to ask more pointed questions of one of the Machine’s servants than I felt comfortable doing.”
Shirri frowned. “But …
if they follow your command and you’re the leader—”
“I am not.”
“Well, they seem to want to make you the leader,” Shirri said.
“So they do,” Alaric said, still stiff. “It is a misapprehension on their part; my leadership would call for greater scruples than they currently wish to employ. If they don’t desire to follow that …”
“Well, you kind of left them to do whatever they felt called to do, so …” Shirri looked at him out of the corner of her eye, trying hard not to insult him given that he was one of a very, very few people actually available and willing to help her. “Doesn’t that mean you sort of … condone what they’re doing?”
Alaric let out a deep sigh. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I have.” A weary look washed over him. “Perhaps I simply see the world moving in a direction that suggests honor is a thing of the past … as am I.”
“That’s pretty deep,” Shirri said, rubbing her eyes, “for so early in the morning.”
“The day grows strong,” Alaric said with that same faint smile that hinted at just the barest touch of mocking. “You cannot run forever without wearying.”
“I’m not doing much running right now,” Shirri said. “The walking is killing my feet enough as it is.”
Alaric grew quiet for just a beat. “Are you safe on these streets?”
Shirri broke into a frown. “What do you mean?”
“This Machine …” Alaric said. “They seem to take a great number of women.”
Shirri lowered her head. “Yes, they do. It’s one of their chief trades, I guess. Shipping them out from here to … wherever. Lots of trade for them. But not just women.” She looked up and shrugged. “Pretty men, too, I hear, though fewer of them.”
“How do they go about this?” Alaric asked, and his countenance had grown stony.
“You name it,” she said. “Grab them off the streets, if a Machine agent sees one they like the look of. Follow them back to their house, make a sport of it, rob the place, threaten or kill their family. I hear they like to find one young woman and then check her sisters and mother, see if they can make a package sale out of it.” Shirri shuddered. “Sorry. These are the things you try not to think about.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever been more revolted in my life,” Alaric said. “Where do they send them?”
“All over the world,” Shirri said. “Firoba, Imperial Amatgarosa, Coricuanthi. There’s demand for us light-skinned backward savage sorts everywhere.”
Alaric frowned. “Beg pardon?”
She stared at him. “Savages. Arkarians.”
“I don’t understand,” Alaric said.
“We’re the least developed place on the globe, Alaric,” Shirri said. “Arkaria is a mess. Any one of the nations of Firoba could probably conquer the livable part of Arkaria if they weren’t so busy fighting among themselves. And Imperial Amatgarosa and Coricuanthi—they’ve set up colonies before west of the Perda and abandoned them. We’re not worth the trouble of maintaining a supply line, I hear.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Alaric said, looking at Reikonos around them, smokestacks in the distance chugging out a steady stream of ash. “This city … it seems ever so much more prosperous than when I left.”
Shirri laughed, but the sound was dull and ashen, like her cloak. “Oh, no. It’s overcrowded. It takes fifty ships a day of food at minimum just to keep the populace from starving and rioting. People are the only resource we have in this city. The mills, the factories … they’re all driven by supplies coming from Emerald Fields, from Firoba—cut those off, this city withers and dies. We’d starve within the fortnight. No one lays siege to us because—who would want us? It’s disgusting and dirty here, and the labor is already dirt cheap. No jewels, no minerals—even across the Perda, where they do have land and some resources, it’s not worth the conquest. Everyone would rather fight for the golden cities of Amatgarosa or the green veldt of Coricuanthi or even the bickering principalities of Firoba—though they tend to unite pretty quickly if anyone outside of their continent turns an eye toward them. We’re not worth the trouble,” she said, still smiling ruefully. “So everyone leaves us alone to rot, and just takes our best export—people.”
Alaric stood very still for a very long time. “I find this … disturbing.”
Shirri shrugged. “Anyway, you asked if I was safe on the street? Outside my little difficulty with the Machine, I’m perfectly safe from anyone but a cutpurse or a pickpocket. And they’ll mostly just take your things, not your life. I’m too short, too thin, too unappealing for the Machine’s skin traders. They want tall and lustrous, with good teeth and ample bosoms.” She shrugged. “I’m perfectly safe on the street. Safer than you or your lot.”
“Why would you say th—” Alaric turned his head as Shirri raised a finger to point at the gates of the coal yard across the way. He followed her finger to where Cyrus was being faced down by an elf dressed in the old style, a sword pointed at the warrior in black. “Oh,” the Ghost said, and faded into mist before disappearing.
Shirri just stared at where he’d been a moment earlier, her eyes frozen, now staring at a shop halfway down the block. “How … the hell … does he do that …?” she muttered under her breath. And yet, of all the mysteries she’d encountered, somehow this one didn’t cause the pressing sense of anxiety that the others provoked. After all, she reflected, turning back to watch the Cyrus Davidon impersonator’s confrontation with the elf with the sword, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen any sort of magic before these strangers had shown up …
23.
Cyrus
“Wait,” Cyrus said, peering at the elf as he closed, raising his ornate blade in a high guard. Cyrus let his hand fall to Praelior’s pommel, felt the power run through him. The elf slowed; he was quick but lacked the enhancement bestowed by a godly weapon. Particles of dust seemed to freeze in the air before Cyrus’s eyes, and the thick smell of ash and ruin that lingered in this place paused within his nose, settling as though it would never leave.
Cyrus stared into the elf’s face, peering at him. It truly was youthful, which could mean anything for an elf. He could have been 5900 years old or less than forty; it would be impossible for him to tell, though Vara could likely make an accurate estimate of it.
“I will not wait to strike you down, dishonorer of the memory of the great one!” the elf said, swinging his sword high and preparing to bring it down on Cyrus.
Cyrus merely sidestepped out of the way and let him swing through to find nothing in his path. The elf staggered, the resistance he’d expected in the form of Cyrus’s body merely gone.
The elf swung his head around, evincing surprise at Cyrus’s sudden movement. He brought his blade back up, face contorting with anger. “Trickery, is it? You show your lack of honor—” And he came at him again.
“I know you,” Cyrus said, sidestepping once more. “You used to pal around with that idiot dwarf—the one that stayed in the Southwest tower. I had to go up and visit him once because of a complaint about the smell in his quarters—”
The elf froze, then rage split his countenance. “You—lie!”
“No, I assure you the smell was quite real,” Cyrus said, “like old leather boots soaked in brine—”
“You—are—not him!” The elf swung wildly once more, blade dancing just a foot from Cyrus’s nose as he watched it slide slowly by. “Cyrus Davidon is dead!” The elf drew back his blade. “Humans do not live a thousand years!” And he swung his sword again.
The elf’s blade clashed with another, ringing out. Cyrus watched it impact and took a step back; it had met Ferocis in midair and was easily turned aside.
“What about me?” Vara asked, holding the Warblade before her, her eyes locked on the elf’s. “Do you find me similarly afflicted in lifespan … Hiressam, wasn’t it?” The elf’s mouth fell agape. “I recall you from the year of the siege. We manned the bulwarks together one cold night when the dark elves pressed i
n. You told me you were from … Traegon, wasn’t it?”
“But … you died?” The elf—Hiressam—sounded as though his voice had turned to ash.
“Yet I stand before you,” Vara said, as his blade withdrew and she kept hers at guard before her. “As does my husband.”
The elf stood there, utterly still, for but a moment. His eyes flicked, wide, from Vara to Cyrus, and then back again. He moved, swiftly—
And fell to his knees, grabbing his weapon by the blade and thrusting the hilt between the two of them.
“My Lord Davidon … my Lady Shelas’akur,” he croaked, head bowed. “I beseech you—forgive me. So many imposters have besmirched your names these last thousand years. I have but tried to do my part to keep the stain of these usurpers from your honor.”
Alaric appeared out of mist, his own blade drawn. “This … is a curious spectacle.”
Hiressam looked up, and his mouth fell even wider. “Lord Garaunt?”
Alaric cocked his head. “I recall you … you came to us after the fall of the Dragonlord.”
Hiressam nodded and bowed his head once more. “I served loyally for many years.” He looked at Cyrus. “I was with you in the Trials of Purgatory … in Enterra … at Termina … and at Livlosdald and Leaugarden. I fought in your Gradsden Savanna campaign and …” Here he looked down once more. “I failed you … after that.”
Cyrus felt a small tingle. “You left when I was declared heretic, didn’t you?”
Hiressam seemed to bow his head so low Cyrus did not know how he managed to keep from snapping his own spine. “It is my greatest regret.” He raised his head, tears in his eyes. “I abandoned you at your hour of greatest need. And when you went to fight—to save us from the gods gone mad—I was not there.” He swallowed; Cyrus could almost imagine the lump in the elf’s throat. “It is my bitterest regret. I was a fool who made a terrible error—one I have a spent a thousand years trying to atone for.”
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