Soul of Magic: Book 1 of the Chronomancer Series

by Mark August

  Lunch was first on Kincaid’s list. He perused a few stalls and bartered for a good deal. Loaves of bread and sweet pies were in demand, but so many merchants sold these foods that Kincaid could pass by a high price. The sticky sweetness felt good as he licked his fingers. He kept the bread until he reached the Grand Pier.

  Kincaid tore a piece of bread and remembered the moment he stepped onto this pier. He and Liane spent every saved coin for transport, and they took the cheapest ship to any island. The journeyman once looked up with awe and wonder at the buildings. Now he wondered about his place in the city.

  He viewed the ships at anchor differently. Once, he couldn’t wait to get to the city and away from the mainland. Now they were transports to far-off lands. Emptiness returned in his heart, and Kincaid turned away from the piers for a different destination.

  Small streets and alleys led to small bridges. Once away from the wealth of the major islands and their merchant districts, the blocks' character changed. Instead of bright paints and elaborate art, simple plaster and sturdy doors graced the buildings. Workers and servants lived in these parts, crammed into small spaces they could afford on their salaries. Kincaid wondered if dreams came here to die.

  One place always welcomed solid coin, and dreams could be left at the door. The Lucky Rooster was a local bar for workers from several districts. Wood was too expensive to ship from the mainland to burn, so the Lucky Rooster had a coal stove and oil lamps for heat and light. In mid-afternoon, the shutters were thrown wide.

  Heat from the stove reached Kincaid’s face as he pushed through the oak door.

  “Ah, the prodigy graces us with his presence. What do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  Kincaid grinned for the first time in three days. “Prodigy? Hardly. Prodigal son is more likely.”

  The barkeep was a middle-aged man, a native Caesean. His black hair was thick with shocks of gray, and his brown eyes held the wisdom of years working in a bar. None of the patrons remembered a time when the Lucky Rooster didn’t have Carelli minding the shop.

  “The prodigal son, then. Are you squandering your wealth, drinking, finding ladies, or fighting today?”

  Kincaid snorted. “Let’s start with the beer, Carelli. I’ve done enough fighting for now.”

  Carelli turned away from the young man to grab a mug as Kincaid pulled a high stool up to the bar. He glanced around the room to gaze at each of the patrons. No regulars at the bar yet. None of them paid him attention either. Good.

  Carelli brought out a large mug of his local beer. Kincaid placed his copper coin on the bar top and grabbed the handle.

  “Hard drinking tonight?”

  “That obvious?”

  “Does Liane know you’re here, Kincaid?”

  “No, she’s mad at me.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I beat the crap out of a guy who wanted to be her boyfriend.”

  “Seems normal for a brother.”

  “Well, she likes him.”

  “Beating up the man who might be your future brother-in-law and all, not good for the family.”

  “No one in the shop will talk to me now.”

  “Is this the point you expect me to start with all the philosophical stuff I’ve learned tending bar since before you were born?”

  Kincaid wasn’t ready for the quip and laughed in his beer. Foam went up his nose, and beer spilled down his chest. He laughed and said, “Sure, this would be the time for that.”

  Carelli shook his head and smiled. “Not that type of bar. How about the priests? They’re supposed to be good at that.”

  “Not for me.” Kincaid took a long pull from his draft. He placed a silver coin on the bar and calculated it would do for the planned evening. This was the right place to unwind for the afternoon.

  Oil lamps flickered to life as Carelli made his rounds to the growing crowd of patrons. The workday was over for most regulars, and they found their place for food and drink. Immigrants and natives pooled together to share moments at the end of the day. And Kincaid didn’t care as long as his mug stayed full.

  “By all that is holy, you look awful, Kincaid.”

  Without looking up, Kincaid knew the voice. This wasn’t someone trying to pick him up; it was the one woman who would try to save him from himself. “I’m not feeling particularly holy, Sholeh.”

  Kincaid tried to swivel in the barstool toward the speaker. His hands gripped the bar for balance. As he stabilized his falling body, he admired the woman sitting next to him. Sholeh had darker skin than the locals and long, straight black hair. Her hair was pulled back away from her face to reveal the sharp angles of a hard-working woman. Her clothes smelled like the fires of the forge, and ashes darkened the colors. Sholeh had the strength of a metalworker without the stocky build that accompanied many of her trade. At least she wasn’t taller than the young man.

  “How long have you been drinking, Kincaid?”

  “Why are you here, Sholeh?”

  “For you, foolish one. I will buy the next round. Then we talk.” The young metalsmith gestured to Carelli with two fingers and pointed to her couple of coins. Foaming mugs made their way over to the pair.

  “To you, my friend, Sholeh.”

  “To us and all that is holy, friend Kincaid. To a life worth living.”

  “You talked to my sister.” He didn’t mean for the words to come out as an accusation, but his mind was too foggy to filter his thoughts.

  “What have you done to your sister?”

  “I need to stop drinking. I’m making this too easy for you.”

  Sholeh took a sip from her mug. Kincaid knew she rarely drank. Some special occasion he gave her. She relaxed on the stool and waited. Sholeh had the patience of a craftswoman of the hardest materials, and Kincaid couldn’t wait her out.

  “I got into a fight.”

  “By all that is good, again?”

  “Again.”

  “This must be the fourth one.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling and let out her breath in a long sigh. Kincaid wondered what gods pitied him now.

  “Keeping score?” Kincaid set his jaw and gripped the mug with white knuckles. He didn’t need this from her as well.

  “No, but maybe you should before you lose your job, livelihood, and sister.”

  “Some things are worth fighting for.”

  “Ah, Liane.”

  “How’d you figure that out?”

  “I know you, my friend.”

  “Yes, Liane. She’s interested in a man from the shop, and I didn’t know that. I thought he was after her for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Our friendship started in a similar way. Good thing I do not have a brother.”

  Kincaid blushed and tried to hide it from his friend by taking another long drink from his beer. “This is different, though. This is my sister we are talking about.”

  “Yes, I am aware of the relationship. This is your older, unmarried, attractive, intelligent, and talented sister, Liane. Am I correct?”

  “Of course. You just like to make me admit it.”

  “Only when you are drunk. But I do enjoy being right. This does not happen as often as you think it does.” Her smile defused his anger. “Everything is not a matter of honor that must lead to a duel.”

  “I’m struggling, though. I have a skill, a place to work, money saved, and… everything.”

  “Not everything. But your friends will help you find it.”

  “Have dinner with me?”

  “Dinner, yes. Then I will get you home. You are buying, though.”

  Carelli brought over two steaming plates of stew and generous hunks of warm bread to go with dinner. The couple didn’t need to talk over their food. They enjoyed the company without meaningless banter. Sholeh knew him well.

  Eight

  Kincaid - Nighttime Encounter

  Kincaid’s head cleared after a hearty meal and a walk along the canals to Master Barnet’s shop. He hated leaving Sholeh at
the door to the carpentry shop, and his emotions clashed as she returned to her quarters. The longing to spend the night drinking his funds away disappeared in the right company. More time with Sholeh would be fantastic, but he needed to talk to his sister and Master Barnet.

  As he reached for his key to open the shop door, Kincaid heard scuffles from the alley next to the stairs leading up to Master Barnet’s quarters. Master Barnet turned in early, and the workers didn’t bother the owner once the shop closed for the day. Kincaid pocketed his key and turned toward the alley.

  Voices hushed, and footsteps mounted the stairs. The stairs' structure was sturdy work, as anyone would expect from a master, and Kincaid couldn't determine the number of late-night visitors.

  He took the stairs with caution, listening at each turn. A night of drinking wasn’t good for climbing stairs, but he kept his balance in the ascent. As he reached the top landing that led toward the master’s chambers, he noticed the door cracked open. Master Barnet was a man of precision and skill, and a door left open to leak warmth into the night air was out of character.

  Voices carried from inside the sitting room—definitely a man talking to Master Barnet. Kincaid crept to the door to make out the words.

  "You owe, Barnet."

  "I paid your bill ten days ago. I don’t owe anything."

  "That's not what the book says, old man.” A thumping sound on a wooden surface followed the words. “Your shop is bringing in money. It's time to change the tax rate for you and your merry band of carpenters.”

  "I don't have it."

  “But you haven’t heard my offer yet.”

  “I mean it. I don’t have more money in the past ten days. Carpentry takes time.”

  "Those are my favorite words. See, if you give me the money, I have to go away. I have nothing to do for the rest of the night. But when someone with wealth tells me they don't have it, I get to do two things. First, I get to tear the place apart and show you do have it. And then I get to show you what it means to lie to a person of my profession. I like that."

  "Wait—”

  "I'm done waiting."

  Kincaid shifted his position on the landing to get a line of sight into the sitting room. Sounds of rustling drawers and the clink of coins reached the silence of the landing. Were there others going through the furniture?

  "This is all I have right now."

  "Not enough, old man."

  “I’ll get you more. I can’t tonight.”

  Kincaid placed a hand on the stout door to push the opening wider. He peeked around the corner to find three people confronting the master of the shop.

  "Hey—”

  Unfortunately, one was guarding the door.

  Kincaid burst into the sitting room and tried to slip past the door guard. He didn't make it one step when she put a calloused hand on his shoulder and stopped dead in his tracks. "Not a good move, boy."

  Master Barnet looked with wide eyes and dropped the coins from his hands. "Kincaid, no."

  "One of your—” The man confronting Barnet turned toward Kincaid.

  “No, leave him."

  “Ah, teacher’s pet.” The thug’s grin creeped up his face.

  Kincaid interrupted the discussion. “Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you in full. Leave the master alone."

  "I think I will take what I want now and teach this old man a lesson in courtesy. Then I will teach you a lesson about how this city works."

  Kincaid’s hands crushed into fists, and his heart pounded in his ears. "No, you aren't—”

  No sooner had these words left his lips when hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him into the wall. His head bounced off the surface, and stars filled his vision. He pulled his hands underneath him and drove back to his feet.

  Kincaid turned toward his attacker and faced off against the woman. She had the poise of an athlete and the stance of a warrior. A sharp jab landed in his gut and dropped him to his knees. He had no options against these three thugs. The woman was a hired warrior. He had no chance.

  But that hadn’t stopped him before.

  He bounced to his feet, sprinted the three steps to the fireplace, and grabbed the iron poker from its rack. Even against a blade, he’d have a chance with the piece of iron in his hands. The weight was awkward, but Kincaid spun toward his foes.

  The door guard’s eyebrows frowned with scorn as she looked down at the tool in his hand.

  “Well, Barnet, he has spirit. Take him down,” the leader of the thugs said.

  “Please. Don't.”

  The woman unleashed a long club from her belt. She made deliberate swings and made his eyes follow the trail of the weapon. The ironwood was well-used from the deep scratches to the surface. His trained eyes caught the dark stains at the end of the weapon.

  The second man in the room worked a club from his belt. He positioned himself closer to the door to prevent a rush to escape. Out of options. They were intent on delivering a message. Kincaid needed to send his own.

  Kincaid took one quick lunge toward the exit while pointing the poker like a fencing blade. He imagined a warrior would do the same with steel in his hands. The man blocked the blow with a sweep and knocked his arm toward the woman.

  She slammed her club down on his wrist with a crack. Pain flooded Kincaid’s vision with tears, and he could not will his hand to grip the improvised weapon. The carpeted floor muffled the sound of the falling iron. He bit back his scream.

  Kincaid pulled back from his lunge and found his rage through the pain. He could win, just like he pummeled Hiram. Kincaid needed to catch them off guard for a moment. He bent over while holding his wrist to get the pair to lower their guard.

  He pulled both feet in position and launched himself into a flying tackle in an all-or-nothing surprise attack.

  Kincaid missed.

  The warrior pivoted her feet away from the headlong attack. Instead of a collision of bodies, Kincaid only caught the edge of a shirt. The ironwood club slammed into the back of his knees. Before his mind could register his failure, his face plowed into the carpeted floor. He pushed himself over to his back.

  The club arced downward, slamming the bridge of his nose. Blood splattered his face, and fire exploded through his eye socket.

  The last thing Kincaid remembered was the man winding back for a kick to his ribs. The crack collapsed his vision to a tunnel. Kincaid found the welcoming arms of blackness, taking him away from the pain.

  Nine

  Vedette - Family Gathering

  After four days, Vedette viewed her living area as a prison. Guards stomped their patrols with scheduled regularity in the hallway outside her door, and her windows were barred and shut. Her arcane battle with an assassin wizard changed everything.

  Time passed with her books and studies. Education was a lifelong pursuit for the noble members of House Atros as any member of the family could represent the house in the City Council. None of the children studied trades, but they would be experts in warfare, economics, languages, cultures, philosophy, and history. The rigors of her education schedule kept her mind from reflecting on the arcane powers she wielded.

  The excitement of waking up early and sneaking to the market was gone. Instead, Vedette practiced controlled breathing and inner calm. She read until her eyes drooped in fatigue. Sleep was a reluctant friend. At least she didn’t dream of the man she tore in half with her magic.

  Hours of sleep didn’t wash away the fatigue in her body. The fight took something out of her, and Vedette couldn’t figure out how to get it back. Bones ached, and her muscles protested any exertion. She wanted to know why.

  She puffed her goose down pillow so she could sit in her bed. Servants brought fresh candles in daily.

  Just a few days ago, she would practice magic and light the candles from across the room. Master Cormac’s instruction in using the smallest flow of magic to create the flame whispered in her mind. Now the thought of practicing her magic scared her.

&nbs
p; Vedette went to the fireplace with a wick and used a mundane method to light her candles. She grabbed her book, climbed into bed, and propped it up on her knees.

  As she read the treatise on the history of the Empire of a Thousand Spears, she heard a gentle knock. Company was better than another history lesson.

  “Come in, please.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a please, sorceratti.” Giomar slid into the room and closed the door as to not make a sound.

  “I prefer Vedette.”

  “I know you do. You've earned your title in our house.”

  “Just a prisoner.” She regretted the harshness of her tone as the words left her mouth. Her older brother visited her daily, and she hadn’t seen her mother or father since the fight. Since she used magic to kill another wizard.

  “I don’t think House Atros has the power to restrain your magic. If you’re a prisoner, it’s by your own choice.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “The guards aren’t here to stop you, Vedette.”

  “They are keeping others out.” The thought hadn’t occurred to her. The smirk on her brother’s face confirmed her suspicions.

  “You are the House sorceratti, Vedette. You are always under scrutiny. That also means under protection.”

  Vedette wondered if her family needed protection from her. With her brother in a giving mood, she pushed her luck. “There is one person I need to see.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Magi Cormac. He would understand everything that happened and continue my training.”

  Clouds crossed her brother’s face, and he considered his next words. “I can’t help you. I haven’t seen him, even before your fight.”

  “He’s not here after a magical assault on House Atros? On the family sorceratti? Imagine my skepticism.”

  “Dad told all of us that Cormac is working on a special mission for the family.”

  “What does that mean?” Vedette couldn’t keep the frown off her face. The logic made little sense. With a wizard attempting to kill Vedette, her father sent a Magi away?