The Silver Thief

by Edward W. Robertson

  The soldiers neared that afternoon. Dante sent a moth to observe. They were eighty strong, accompanied by four gray-robed monks. They walked through the streets of the lower town like a winter wind, freezing the farmers and traders around them. As the Mallish moved up the road to the top of the butte, the shops carved into the cliffside closed their doors.

  A platoon jogged ahead, taking the top of the butte. The body of soldiers joined them there and marched into the city. Civilians watched, joined by a number of fit men and women with ribbons dangling from their elbows. The Mallish soldiers passed through them in silence, filing into a large stone building with iron-banded doors and slitted windows.

  Dante posted the moth outside. The soldiers stayed put all night. In the morning, they emerged into the streets, traveling in groups of four. They stopped everyone they passed, questioning them briefly before moving on.

  "The Mallish are searching for something," Dante said to Blays. "But the moth I'm following them with can't hear a thing. Think you can find out what they're after without getting jailed?"

  "Probably not." Blays stood. "But I bet Cord can."

  He left the room. Dante continued to watch through the eyes of his moth. He couldn't hear what the soldiers were asking the citizens, but the locals replied almost uniformly with a shake of their heads.

  Blays was back within an hour, a funny look stamped upon his face. "You know those soldiers out there? Turns out they're looking for us."

  "Us? By name?"

  "There's no mistaking it's us. They were looking for the handsome Collener, the tall fellow from the southern lands, and the ugly Mallishman."

  "How do they know who to look for?"

  Blays shrugged. "One of them must have survived the Spiderfields. Went back and told the others who'd done them wrong."

  "Too many people know we're here," Dante said. "It only takes one of them to expose us. Then Narashtovik's implicated as well. Even if they don't know exactly who we are, if they find us, we'll have another fight on our hands. How much more of this recent violence do you think Mallon will tolerate before they march on the Basin?"

  "Little to none," Blays said. "What are you thinking?"

  "We know Gladdic isn't a demon. He can be killed. I say we get out of here before we accidentally set off another war."

  "Just so I'm clear on this, your plan is to avert war by assassinating one of Bressel's highest-ranked priests."

  "Gladdic seems to be spearheading operations here. Removing him from action could shut down hostilities."

  "Or provoke the king into jumping up and down on Collen like an enormous mattress," Blays said. "But I suppose there's no getting around that."

  "In any event, Narashtovik will stay in the clear. Get your things. We should get out of here before the Mallish think to post guards at the top of the trail."

  Naran folded his arms. "You mean to leave now? I thought you had more to learn at the Reborn Shrine."

  "I don't think she knows how to hurt the demons," Dante said. "As for the bones, they may be irrelevant—and Narashtovik will know how they work. Our loon should be there by the time we've arrived in Bressel. We have to get out of here before Narashtovik's connected to the destruction of the shaden."

  While Blays and Naran packed, Dante jogged to the Reborn Shrine, employing his moth to ensure the way forward was clear of soldiers. At the shrine, he wrote a message to the Keeper, which Hodd sent down in the small dumbwaiter they used for such things. The Keeper replied with a note stating that she'd found nothing more regarding how the demons could be fought.

  Back at the inn, Blays and Naran had their packs assembled, including food for the trip to Bressel. The three of them left their room and headed through the city, detouring around two groups of soldiers on their way to the switchbacks. By early afternoon, the city of Collen receded behind them. Ahead, the road cut a straight line through the irrigation ditches and the patches of green farms around them.

  Dante reached Jona through the loon to inform them they were on their way and to confirm Gladdic was still in the city, which Jona thought was so but pledged to double-check. The season was edging into fall, the sunlight far less brutal than it had been during their trek from Bressel. A steady wind buffeted their backs. Tiny tornadoes spun through the parched and dusty fields.

  That night, with the butte far behind them, Dante wondered if he'd left too rashly. Blays and Naran might have kept themselves cloistered in their room while he spent more time in the shrine. But the risk would have remained. As much as he wanted Gladdic dead, Narashtovik had already fought too many wars during his tenure. It was time to finish this.

  Two days later, with fifty miles behind them and another eighty ahead of them, they crested a rise and stopped in their tracks. Two miles to the west, hundreds of men traveled east along the road, dressed in uniform, blue banners fluttering above their heads.

  Mallon was marching on Collen.

  13

  The news of the attack on Cobb's Fort was like rain in the desert.

  With the Eldor's blessing, Gladdic went straight to Truman. Gladdic took only his secretary Horstad. As usual, the Minister of War attended the meeting with no fewer than a dozen of his generals and advisors. The coterie was supposed to make him appear formidable. As if he commanded armies not only in the field, but within the halls of the palace as well.

  Yet to those who saw keenly, his assemblage displayed weakness. The inability to stand by himself. And the irregularity of his numbers—Truman included, they made thirteen—seemed a deliberate piece of hubris. As though his men mirrored the dozen of the Celeset. And Truman commanded them all.

  Gladdic seated himself, Horstad taking the chair to his right. Gladdic folded his hands on the table, nodding to each of the dozen men Truman had brought with him. He took his time about it, allowing the greetings to stretch into a silent criticism of Truman's habit of surrounding himself with so many unnecessary bodies, but ensured his expression remained courtly at all times.

  "Lord Truman," Gladdic said at last. "Thank you for arranging to see me on such short notice."

  Truman wore a trim goatee and a perpetually pained look, as though one of his old wounds had never healed. "It's as they say. When the Eldor asks, the crown bows."

  "Did the Eldor's entreaty mention the nature of today's discussion?"

  "Let me guess. There's been more trouble in Collen."

  "Would that come as a surprise?" Gladdic replied mildly. "The Colleners carry rebellion in their blood."

  "Their blood. Would you say the same of hornets?"

  "Hornets, milord?"

  "Hornets," Truman nodded. "When one throws a rock at a hornet's nest, one expects to get stung. I begin to dread that our meddling in Collen is no different."

  A few of his attendants chuckled. Horstad's quill worked as he wrote this witticism down. Gladdic had the urge to snatch the plume from him and jam it in his ear.

  "Hornets are mindless." Gladdic kept the edge from his voice. "The Colleners have minds. Free will. Souls. Yet they choose disobedience. Rebellion. Heresy. This is not a one-time event, the product of poor fortune or a silver-tongued despot stirring them to unwise action. Rather, their warring is as endless and predictable as the Celeset. For such a cycle to persist across so many centuries, I fear their moral failure can only be explained through a flaw of the blood."

  "Could be. So what has this flaw caused them to do now?"

  "They have attacked a butte known as Cobb's Fort. A number of very important and powerful resources were destroyed. Fifty of our men died in the fighting. Including two of my monks."

  "What incited this latest skirmish? Did the wheat-pickers decide you were trespassing?"

  "Prior to our encampment, Cobb's Fort had been unoccupied for decades. It held no value for the Colleners in terms of resources or strategical location. And those who attacked it were no mere rabble of farmers." Gladdic paused. He shaped the tone of his next words like a master potter. "They were nether
mancers."

  This drew alarmed looks from several advisors. Truman grunted, scowling. "You're certain of this?"

  "A handful of witnesses lived to tell the tale. As well, the attackers left evidence of their unnatural powers. There can be no mistaking their taint."

  The minister ran his thumb over a burn scar on the back of his other hand. He grunted again. "Sounds like a task for your priests. Faced with nethermancers, my soldiers are no more than grist for the mill."

  "But you agree it must be addressed. By force, if necessary."

  "I agree that it must be addressed by those most capable of addressing it. This isn't a military matter, Ordon. It's a religious one."

  "All things are of the gods, Minister Truman."

  "Including these impure-blooded rebels? And their nethermancers?"

  "Indeed," Gladdic said. "They are the work of the god we must oppose with every grain of our soul. It is vital to stamp out every last ember of his faith in Collen. If that is not done, the fire of his blasphemy will spread to Bressel. Just as it has done every other time. Horstad. Are you taking notes?"

  The portly young monk looked up in surprise. "Every word, Ordon."

  Gladdic maintained eye contact with Truman. "Then when the flames reach from Collen to Bressel, it will be noted who lies at fault. And it will be asked why, when faced with the choice of restricting the fighting to Collen, or allowing it to spill into Bressel, that man chose to bring the fight into our home."

  The room went as still as a winter night. All except for Horstad's quill, which scratched across his ledger like a puppy outside the door on a cold winter's eve.

  "Milord." A man leaned forward, murmuring into Truman's ear.

  Truman worked his jaw, glaring at Gladdic from across the table. "How many men do you need?"

  * * *

  In life, there were few things as satisfying as taking that which another man didn't want to give you.

  Gladdic had his army two days later. Eight hundred men. Insulting. He deserved at least twice that. It would not have been unreasonable to provide him with five times as much. It was clear that Minister Truman had given him the bare necessity to pretend that he took the cause seriously. And arranged matters such that, when the token army failed, blame for that failure would fall firmly on Gladdic's shoulders.

  Minister Truman was conniving. Gladdic charged his monks with combing the archives for all mention of past battles in Collen, particularly sieges of the basin's capital, as well as the men required to take it. Before departing, he then assigned Spalder Baldric to draft an essay to the king stressing the difference between what was needed and what Truman had given him. The essay came to the subtle conclusion that Truman was either incompetent at his job—or deliberately sabotaging both the holy duties of the church, and the Mallish military Truman was ostensibly protecting.

  This accusation would be undermined by Gladdic's upcoming victory. Yet following Baldric's analysis of the hopelessness of the situation, that victory would be little short of a miracle. The only explanation would be that Gladdic was a tactical genius, or the favorite of the gods—or both. Whatever the consensus, he would use it to seize greater authority to enact his next step.

  Their troop left at dawn, striding down the king's road, scouts ranging ahead on horseback, blue banners waving above the infantry. It was ten times the size of the largest force Gladdic had ever commanded. Yet he knew his next command would be ten times larger still.

  Horstad rode beside him near the head of the column. The sun was just up and his secretary was already sweating like a pig. Did Horstad drink in secret? That would explain the discomfort on his face.

  Gladdic cleared his throat; Horstad jolted. Gladdic said, "Does something trouble you?"

  "It looks mighty." Horstad twisted in the saddle, surveying the line of troops. "But will it be enough to seize the city? It's said that with a few hundred men at its defense, the butte can hold off an entire nation."

  "Do you lack faith in our mission?"

  Horstad sputtered. "I have faith in Taim's cause. And in your leadership. But my faith in the resources provided to you to achieve your mission is…less robust."

  "Less robust." Gladdic chuckled. "You're correct, Horstad. We don't have enough soldiers to take the city."

  "Er. Then I wonder—and I hope it is natural to do so—why we intend to try?"

  "Can you guess?"

  The younger man twisted his face. "Because that's what the gods demand of us. It's not our place to question them. Only to obey."

  "That is what we tell the soldiers. The congregants in our temple. It is true, of course, and helps sustain our strength through dark times. But battles aren't won through duty alone. What do we have that they don't?"

  "Faith?" Horstad sighed. "I'm sorry, Ordon. I have no experiences with armies and tactics and the ways of war."

  "That is a good thing, Horstad. War is the symptom of a land broken beyond repair. We are healers, yes. But it's best that the land is never sick enough to need ministrations such as these."

  The secretary nodded, bobbing in the saddle. "Still, if these are the times now upon us, I'd better learn to serve you through them. What do we have that the Colleners don't?"

  Gladdic smiled. "Ethermancers."

  "They have no priests?" Horstad squawked. "They truly are heretics!"

  "They have priests. But none have Taim's bright spark. They're of common blood."

  "But all realms produce men with the talent. Is it some kind of curse?"

  Gladdic shook his head slowly. "Some Colleners are born with the spark. But those men are promoted to other temples. Bressel, Whetton, Dormand, and so on.

  A frown crept over Horstad's face. "Is this removal of talent intentional, Ordon?"

  "Are you starting to think strategically, Horstad? This is part of a long-standing treaty with Collen. A chance to educate their brightest minds in places free from the ideas that have corrupted those who came before them. Now, if this opportunity we grant them happens to diminish Collen's ability to resist us…well, they shouldn't be resisting in the first place, should they?"

  "That is a very clever arrangement."

  "A good ruler solves crises as they arise. A great ruler prevents them from arising in the first place."

  Horstad pulled back his chin, visibly impressed. His expression turned thoughtful. "But once we take the city, Ordon. What then? How do we prevent the next crisis? It seems like we're always conquering Collen only for Collen to rebel again as soon as we turn our backs."

  "It seems that way because that is the truth." Gladdic was silent for a time. "Have you heard the story of Sedwick and the Five Fountains?"

  "Yes, Ordon. It's most interesting."

  Gladdic blinked, annoyed. Horstad was far more competent as a secretary than his humbleness implied—and Gladdic would not have taken on an assistant whose grasp of theology was frail—but the stories of Sedwick were one of the obscurities held back by spalders and ordons for the express purpose of humbling younger monks. It irked him that Horstad had discovered them on his own.

  "But I haven't heard it in some time, Ordon," Horstad hurried to amend; his sensitivity to Gladdic's moods was one of his chief virtues as secretary. "It would be best if you were to refresh my memory."

  Gladdic sniffed and cleared his throat. "Sedwick was a priest in the city of Masdow of the nation of Fellan, in what is now the Middle Kingdoms. He was born 497 years ago and died in his 78th year. Though the Fellanese Celeset differed from fact in unfortunate ways, Sedwick was virtuous enough to devote his life to Taim.

  "In Masdow, the city's greatest pride was the Five Fountains. These were centuries old—the precise age is unknown—and had provided plentiful water for the entire city. Sculpted from Heddish marble, their beauty was said to rival the Odeleon. This opinion, however, may have been biased by Fellanese pride, as each fountain had been built by one of the five families who founded Masdow in misty antiquity."

  Gladdic glanced
at Horstad to confirm the secretary was listening. Horstad wore an appropriately attentive look.

  "The Five Fountains were utterly beloved," he went on. "To the brink, perhaps, of idolatry. But after some time, the fifth fountain, built by House Winsten, grew tainted. Those who drank from it grew sick. There were many deaths. Masdow's priests purified the waters and all was well. However, in time, the taint returned, bringing sickness and death, requiring a new purification. Year after year, this process repeated. Offers were made to move the Fountain of Winsten, but it had become too holy to be removed from the other four.

  "This cycle of sickness and purity endured for two hundred years, at which time its care fell into the hands of Sedwick. After the first bout of sickness under his watch, Sedwick devoted himself to purifying the fountain once and for all. However, these efforts proved fruitless. When the next illness arrived, spreading to claim hundreds of lives, Sedwick petitioned his order to build a new Fifth Fountain.

  "They denied him on the basis that the grounds themselves were holy. Sedwick redoubled his efforts to permanently purify the fountain. After the next sickness, he petitioned his order again, only to be rejected. A third plague came, followed by a third petition—and a third rejection.

  "Sedwick went to his temple and prayed to Taim for answers, who rewarded him with a vision of a fountain that flowed more clearly than any stream. This fountain, however, was not the Fountain of Winsten. Knowing what he must do, that night, Sedwick came to the fountain, called upon every mote of ether he could command, and crumbled it to pieces.

  "Sedwick correctly guessed that he would be vilified for his crime. He fled the city he had protected for so long, living as a hermit in the wilderness. In Masdow, they built a new Fountain of Winsten. Year after year, it flowed as purely as a mountain stream. The sickness was gone forever. When thirty years had passed without a single death from the fountain, the city's leaders pardoned Sedwick and invited him to return to the Masdow. He did this, and when he died, he was buried in the city. The city he'd loved so much that he chose to heal it and be exiled from it rather than to allow it to go on festering."