by Mark August
Kincaid's head throbbed, and his eye would be swollen shut by the morning. Muscles burned and promised agony tomorrow. If Master Barnet didn’t throw him into the street.
In the shop’s silence, Kincaid’s sister made the first move. She stomped up the stairs to their quarters. She wasn’t waiting to yell at him; that wasn’t good. Master Barnet or Liane. Kincaid couldn’t decide which discussion he dreaded more.
Kincaid glanced around the carpentry shop that had been his home for almost four years. The fight disrupted the order of the shop. Drops of blood and snot from the struggle created a paste in the scraps. Tools hung haphazardly in their pegs, and chunks of shattered wood scattered across the floor.
He had nothing else to claim home. Kincaid grabbed a rag and cleaned up the blood. Habits learned as an apprentice didn’t fade, and manual labor focused his mind. Kincaid cleaned the shop to Master Barnet’s standards, and Kincaid drug his burning legs up to his room.
Kincaid avoided eye contact as he entered the living area. The apprentices bunked in a shared room like a barracks. Junior members of the shop were responsible for the room's cleanliness, and Master Barnet didn’t tolerate sloppy work on the floor or in quarters. Kincaid recalled the hours of extra work tidying the quarters after finishing a day on the floor. After the fight today, the lessons in servitude and humility were at the forefront of his mind.
The apprentices remained silent and parted ways as Kincaid approached. None envied his next stop to see Master Barnet.
Journeymen, the next level of laborers in the carpentry guild, lived in private rooms beyond the shared area. Master Barnet ran his business well, and the shop and living space were signs of his success. Other businesses on their island didn’t share the luxury of living quarters. Overpriced rooms across the island and cramped accommodations ensured members of other shops never left servitude to their master.
The private rooms of Master Barnet’s shop had doors and single occupancy. Master Barnet used the doors as signs of the rising ranks of his experienced team and expected his four journeymen to show the skill of their work. Kincaid ran his fingertips across the door to his quarters. Intricate cuts and precise carvings of the tools of a carpenter decorated the oak door. Kincaid never shied away from showing his talents with wood. He balanced the need to highlight his place in the carpentry world with the requirement to save money to buy his own shop as a master.
Starting his own shop was now a distant dream.
Kincaid plopped on his straw bed, ignoring the scratchy feeling on the back of his thighs. The adjacent writing desk was made of pine scraps and was one of his first projects from his personal time. Inkwells, quills, and parchment covered the surface. Spills and scribbles across the piles of work were an insight into his mind and passion. The stout footlocker was another personal project and showed off his mature craftsmanship compared to the writing desk.
If he was kicked out of the shop, Kincaid only required minutes to pack his belongings. Emotions grabbed his heart and brought tears to his eyes. He wasn’t ready to leave.
Kincaid wet a towel in his washbasin. With careful strokes not to bleed again, he cleaned his face and hands. Signs of the fight melted away with each layer of grime. His eyes teared as he wiped away the sins of the afternoon.
As he threw the blood-soaked rag to the side of the room, a knock rapped on his door. At least she let him clean up. Liane must be furious with him.
“Come in.”
No response. He dreaded lectures on his behavior.
Kincaid cleared his throat and projected his voice, sounding more confident than he believed, “Come in.”
Kincaid’s older sister pushed her way into the room. At least she didn’t slam the door, but she did secure the latch. Liane turned toward her brother and crossed her arms. Instead of sitting in the chair, she remained standing.
“Kincaid, what’s wrong with you?”
Words were worthless, and Kincaid kept his mouth shut.
“You think this afternoon was normal?”
“No, but—”
“But, but? You’re justifying this fight?”
“Should I?”
“Don’t you dare, Kincaid. You won’t make me the victim of this.” Liane uncrossed her arms and jabbed her fingers at him, annunciating each word.
“What do you want from me?”
“What I said.” Her tone softened from angry sibling to concerned sister. “What’s happening with you?”
Kincaid couldn’t penetrate the feelings behind those green eyes simmering with the heat of her rage. He broke contact first and stared at his feet. She paced the small room as he tried to come up with excuses. Excuses he didn’t have.
“I’m not leaving until we talk, Kincaid.”
“I can tell.”
She stopped mid-stride and unleashed her anger. “Now you’re smart with me? Now?”
“I’m sorry, Liane.”
“Say that again?”
“I’m sorry, Liane. I hurt you today.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Apologizing is not one of your strengths.” Liane’s arms dropped to her sides. She was small-framed like her brother, hardly an imposing figure. Her anger made her a giant. She lowered her body into the seat against the desk and leaned toward the young man on the bed.
“Kincaid, this is the fourth fight in two months. You’re fighting with everyone over everything.”
“I’m not.”
“Of course you are. Why’d you think I got Master Barnet?"
Kincaid jumped to his feet and glared at his sister. “You got him?”
“Don’t you dare get mad at me because you’re stupid.”
“You got the master of our shop and embarrassed me in front of him?”
“No. I got the master because I thought you would kill Hiram.”
Kincaid looked down at his hands clenched into fists, and he crashed back on the bed.
“What does he think of me now?”
“Hiram? I’m sure he’s cleaning up.”
“Not Hiram.”
“I don’t know. You’re the one that has to walk upstairs and talk to Master Barnet when you’re done with me.” Her smirk didn’t make Kincaid feel one bit better.
“But I…” Kincaid struggled with the words to fill the emptiness flooding his heart.
“Kincaid, what’s going on?”
“Liane, do you ever think there’s more to life?”
“You know I do. We spent our lives moving from place to place to have a chance at something bigger.”
“Is this all there is? Just working in the shop?”
“We have a warm bed, skills we can use to start a life right here, a master who we respect and admire, and a city that pays good money for our craft. What are you looking for?”
Kincaid looked toward the door for a moment to collect his thoughts and maybe even his dreams. “I just don’t think this is all there is. I want more. And I want more for you.” Kincaid’s heartbeat thundered in the silence. Was she going to agree? He brought his gaze level with his sister. “Liane, is this all we want?”
“Of course not. I want a family with children. I want my own shop and create art. I want it here.”
Kincaid looked away from his sister and let his shoulders drop. “I want more. I need more than this.”
Liane dragged the sturdy chair across the wooden floor to hold his hands in hers. “Kincaid, look at me.”
Kincaid wasn’t ready for an in-depth discussion on their future. He didn’t need the lecture again.
“I like Hiram. I enjoyed his advances, and I wouldn’t mind trying more.”
Kincaid’s mouth dropped, and he tried to make intelligent sounds. Liane smiled with a flash of her teeth. It wasn’t often she made her brother speechless.
“It’s okay. And Kincaid, we’re getting older. You will always be my family.” She squeezed his hands for reassurance and let go. Liane stood.
Kincaid looked up. “I’m really sorry, Liane.”
“I know. You should change your shirt before you see Master Barnet. You’ve got bloodstains all over it. I’m sure a lot is yours.” She clicked the latch on the door and walked out.
Kincaid sat for several minutes. He shook his head in disbelief at his sister’s words. Hiram? He pulled off his shirt, and his body resisted the aches and pains. Tomorrow will be tough. If he made it to tomorrow.
Four
Kincaid - A Master's Perspective
Kincaid started his walk of shame through the apprentices’ shared room. Conversations faded from whispers to silence as he locked his gaze forward and maintained a steady pace to the door. He was a journeyman in the carpentry guild, and he’d still be a master within the year.
None of the junior carpenters would exchange places with him now.
The staircase wound down to the shop floor. Oil lamps from the street peered through the shuttered windows and provided slatted beams of light across the wooden floor. Kincaid opened the well-oiled door, stepped into the cobblestone street, and secured the door behind him.
The city of Caesea was an island cluster connected by canals and bridges. The bigger islands had roads for ground travel to docks or bridges, and smaller islands were a maze of alleys and side streets. Master Barnet owned a building tucked in the middle of a row of carpentry shops on one of the larger islands.
Multistory houses piled upward to conserve valuable real estate on the limited landmass. The structures built a canyon of living and working spaces with the only option to expand skyward. Kincaid knew the prices of each storefront and the dimensions of the shop floors.
Sightseeing only prolonged the inevitable conversation. The alley to the north side of the shop led to the external staircase to Master Barnet’s living space. In a city of buildings up to five stories high, staircases were often bolted to exterior walls. In Master Barnet’s case, he didn’t want clients to travel through his workers’ living space to reach his floor.
The staircase was sturdy and demonstrated the reliable craftsmanship of the shop. Climbing the steps to the third floor wound over the canal behind the quarters. Kincaid paused at the top landing that led to the master’s quarters.
The view never got old. Lights dotted the canals and reflected in the waters below, long ships with narrow draft rocked at their moorings, and gulls and ducks paddled in the bay. Painters never tired of capturing these scenes.
Maybe Liane was right. This was a good place to live and even start a family. If he didn’t throw his chances away.
He turned toward the elaborately carved door. Rare woods combined with a deep pattern of browns creating images of woodworkers and forests. The artwork depicted the artistry of a master carpenter. Kincaid checked his clothes one last time and knocked.
“Enter.”
Kincaid walked into a room arranged to impress a visitor. Hardwoods imported from around the world adorned the furniture, and the craftsmanship displayed a master’s skills. It would inspire even visitors unfamiliar with woodworking. Every part of the office was a tool to secure new contracts.
The master dominated the room. Master Barnet was a bear of a man, towering over the people of the city. A thick blond beard and mustache buried his small mouth, setting him apart from the dark-haired natives of Caesea who preferred to be cleanly shaven. Intense brown eyes peered from shaggy eyebrows. The blackwood cane rested in the palm of his calloused hand.
"Please sit, Kincaid." The master gestured to an overstuffed chair.
Kincaid didn't move and held his posture straight. He focused on the back wall of the sitting room, not daring to glance left or right.
Master Barnet sighed. "Sit down, journeyman."
"Sir, I'd rather stand."
The master's hand tightened on his cane and thumped his way closer. “I’m not your opponent, Kincaid."
"You stopped my fight before I finished."
"By killing an apprentice?" Master Barnet’s voice descended to a low growl.
"No, sir. That wasn’t—"
“I’ve never seen you so angry. You were glowing with rage. And for a man with so much talent with wood, you were out of control."
"I apologized to my sister."
Master Barnet stopped in the middle of the stride. "She wasn't the one you tried to kill."
"She’s the one I was defending."
Master Barnet shook his head and paused in front of his chair. He lowered himself into the embrace of the cushions. The first bead of sweat snaked between Kincaid’s shoulder blades down to his waist.
"Kincaid, do you remember when we met?"
"I do, sir. My sister and I had just come to the city. We were hungry, and we had nowhere left to turn."
"Do you know why I took you in?"
"You felt sorry for us."
"No. There's a fire in your belly, and you’re willing to do whatever it takes. I’ve never seen anyone with your talents sitting in the streets."
"I want more."
"I know you do, Kincaid. Always working, thinking, and planning from the moment I brought you in. I respect that."
Kincaid nodded and waited for the conversation to turn.
"I don't understand why you're picking these fights."
"You don't know what it’s like—"
"I do, Kincaid. I'm an immigrant here too, and I've made a name for myself. What's your excuse?"
The young man winced. He didn’t have a good answer and hoped his silence would let him move on.
"Your answer, Kincaid?" The edge to the master’s tone was back. Kincaid owed the man everything.
"Sir, you've been beyond generous. You saved us. I'm sorry you had to intervene today."
"I accept your apology. But that doesn't answer my question. Are you unhappy?"
Kincaid relaxed his rigid stance and looked his mentor in the eyes. "I love carpentry. I see the wealth you build through work and craft. The people in the shop look up to you like a father." Kincaid hunted for his next words and forged ahead. "But I want to be more in life. I want to find my place in the world. Does that make sense?"
Kincaid was startled when the master rumbled out a deep laugh. "Do I understand? I dreamed of changing the world once. I thought I could take on the world by storm and sword." The journeymen never heard this story before. "But I couldn't live with all the blood on my hands. I ended lives when my real passion was to create. I think I've done a good job."
“The men and women in the shop think so." Kincaid gestured around the room. "And the ruling families agree with your assessment."
"I offered you a chance at life when I brought you in. You won’t get another. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Kincaid’s mentor rose from the chair and grabbed his cane. Without bidding the journeyman good night, Master Barnet turned toward the inner rooms of his quarters.
Kincaid took one last look around the entry room.
Is this what he wanted?
Five
Vedette - Magic of the House
Vedette controlled her breathing in the cool morning air. She counted each inhale and let her consciousness claim awareness of her waking body. Eyes closed, she pushed her senses outwards.
Brisk air on her arms and face meant the servants had not been up to her room to start the morning fires.
Perfect.
Unnecessary thoughts evaporated, leaving her mind clean and empty. Disciplined thoughts. The young woman reached out with her mind and soul to beckon magical energy. Power answered immediately, and the flood overwhelmed her. Her soul burned with passion, and her veins pumped with fire. Vedette pulled in a deep breath and narrowed the channel of energy, longing for release. Through the trickle of power, she reached out with her senses to feel the entire room.
Stitched floral patterns from her pillow felt like sandpaper on her cheeks. Even the silk sheets scraped against her bare skin. Darkness in the room was not an obstacle to her heightened vision as her eyes opened to gather her surroundings.
Using magic first thing in the morning was a guilty ecstasy. The flow came easily for her, and she could explore its depths in the morning's silence before her house came alive.
She reluctantly let go of the power coursing through her veins as she climbed out of bed. Cormac, her arcane tutor, spent months teaching her these exercises. He told her she was a natural. She knew it, and she loved it.
But many wizards lost themselves to the allure of arcane power. Vedette wasn’t sure what that meant, but the lesson was always firm. The ability to draw magic when needed and released when done was a fundamental skill.
Vedette pulled open the bottom drawer of a dresser carved with elaborate lions. Buried under fine clothing, she uncovered her favorite clothes. A thick wool shirt with worn elbows came out first. Long pants too tight and too threadbare for the noble household followed. Rounding out her outfit was a plain cloak without the colors and emblems of her house.
She flipped the latch on the shuttered windows and pushed the heavy wood aside without allowing it to bang against the wall. From the fifth floor of the family’s house, Vedette took in the sights of the stirring city. The morning sun brought the first sliver of light to the eastern horizon. A bay fog claimed the dark canals and streets below—her favorite time to escape.
Vedette closed her eyes and opened herself to the powers of magic. No one in her family understood this joy, and she embraced the power.
Vedette stepped up to the windowsill and let the magic surge in her soul. She stepped out into the emptiness five floors above the ground. Air whipped around her cloak and pulled it above her head as she hurled toward the ground. The rush of the pavement flooded her vision. Vedette laughed.
Magic roared in her soul, and the air became a gentle cushion against her drop. She touched the ground with a soft footfall and pulled her cloak around her. Regaining her composure, Vedette glanced around her surroundings. The streets around the ruling family’s complex were still empty.
The jump was an unnecessary risk, but she cherished this time away from the household's controlled scheduling and tutoring. Servants would be in her room to light the morning fire and lay out her clothes. She needed to move.
