by Mark August
Kincaid got up and ran his hand across his desk. His fingers absently traced the lines in the wood as his eyes looked over the sheaves of paper on the flat surface. Bottles of ink waited for his most profound thoughts, and quills were ready to scratch the surface of the sheet. His plans and daydreams were sketched on these papers. Drawings of new work, calculations of income and expenses, and personal goals of what life might become. Everything would change. Everything already had.
This morning, Kincaid didn’t pay attention to the rising sun or watch the people walking to the market. He was on a mission, and his legs made purposeful strides toward his destination. Hiring a boat would be faster, but Kincaid feared he wouldn’t find one on a side dock to meet his timeline. Besides, he didn’t want to waste the money. The walk would do him some good.
The smells of metalworkers hit his senses before the forges began their clatter. Apprentices stoked fires to reach working temperatures for metals. Voices carried across the water and echoed down alleys as journeymen supervised the setup for a day’s work.
True to her promise, Sholeh waited for him in the entry room of her forge. Kincaid didn’t like the determination on her face. She wasn’t done with her argument.
“I promised to help you. But remember, you gave your word.”
“I will honor my terms, Sholeh.”
The formal exchange was awkward with his friend. Her stoic expression changed to reveal her emotions.
“By all that is right and good, are you sure you wish to do this? You could take your concerns to the guard.”
“We’re past that, Sholeh. If the guard was serious, thugs wouldn’t be taking money from merchants. Everyone looks the other way."
“I understand. But I do not see how your personal war changes anything.”
“I saw in the hospital I’m not fighting alone.” His heart felt his words were true. This was one reason he had to make this effort.
Sholeh didn't take the bait. “Even if all three of us arm ourselves and hunt the criminals of the city, we would never win.”
“But how does change start then? A law from the Duke? A decree from a king? What about one person who won’t accept everything is inevitable? I believe change starts with a decision. If I’m right, we won’t be fighting alone against these bullies. The districts will pull back together and push them off the Grand Docks.”
“That is not what I am saying.”
“But you are. I need more in my life, and this is the way to make change. This is my time, and this will be my mission.”
Sholeh shook her head but held her tongue. Even his best speech wasn’t enough to draw her into his crusade.
“Sholeh, did you get me the blade?”
“Yes.”
“You did?”
“Of course, foolish friend. Did you think you will walk into the shop with me and browse for weapons?”
“I hoped I could choose the right blade.”
“You would not know a good blade if it fell on your head.”
Kincaid pushed the rush of emotions aside before his heart could overwhelm his mind. After he collected himself, he said, “Can I see it?”
Sholeh reached under her leather smock and pulled out a short blade. The length was about two feet long, thick enough for slashing but sharpened with a fine point for stabbing. Kincaid couldn’t hide his disappointment. This wasn’t a warrior’s weapon. It was a backup sword for a sidekick.
“I thought—”
“No, friend Kincaid, you dreamed. If I came to you for carpentry, would you bring me your best work? Would you show me the years of skills you practiced and earned?”
“Of course, but—”
“Listen. You will not fight men in armor. Heavy swords with long blades are designed for cutting through armor and killing with hammer blows. But an open battlefield is required. But they are not practical for you.”
“Okay. What about—”
“You are not tall enough to wield a bigger sword. You would drag the sheath in the dirt behind you, or you would have a poking tail under your cloak. The weapon matches the swordsman. Besides, you are not fighting people with swords. You're after thugs with clubs.”
“All true, but this is my savings. This is the worth of my carpentry shop, and I want a weapon that will let me live and fight into my adult life.”
"You need a short blade that works in close quarters. You need a sword that will hold its edge in a fight against one or more people. This is that sword.”
The bag of coins in his hands weighed on his soul. The clink of each coin represented days of work in the shop. The bag was his future.
Kincaid turned over half his life’s savings.
Kincaid gripped the blade Sholeh handed him, and he passed off the blackwood cane. The wrapped leather on the grip didn’t warm to his touch. He held his breath and secured the wide belt around his waist. Sore ribs groaned in protest from the effort. The weight hung awkwardly at his hip. The experience was not what he imagined.
Kincaid pulled the blade from its sheath with what he thought was a flourish. The hilt caught in his cloak in his chest exploded in pain. After a moment of fumbling, he held the naked blade. The craftsmanship was superb. The edge reflected the morning light, and the weight balanced in his hand. His wrist burned after a few moments.
“Thank you, Sholeh.”
“This is only half of my agreement.”
Thirteen
Vedette - Prisoner
“I wish to see him, Father.”
The lord of the ruling house of Caesea did not look up from his morning meal. Her siblings shot her looks of horror. None of them talked to their father this way.
“Magi Cormac might know something about my attack, and I should question him. You agreed.”
He looked up at Vedette. She guessed the wrinkles around his eyes showed amusement.
“I did. But we did not agree on a timeline. Even being the sorceratti does not empower you to make demands of your own family.”
“Then you misunderstand my intentions, Father. I do not wish to see the one who taught me the power of magic. I wish to question the prisoner who threatens our house.”
Her father paused and stared into her eyes. Vedette didn’t fidget under the scrutiny. To show weakness would push back her request at least another day. None of her siblings dared to breathe.
Her father’s laughter boomed across the room and echoed off the high stone walls. “Now that is my daughter, heir to the ruling family and sorceratti. We will go this morning.” Everyone breathed again as the tension passed.
During breakfast, Vedette avoided small talk with her brothers and sisters. She made polite excuses about preparing for the interrogation and returned to her room.
Two servants waited outside her door to answer her needs. After the fight with the wizard and her reconciliation with her family, her status gave her access to the trappings of power. In the quiet moments of her life, she wondered if she lost more freedom each day.
She needed time alone now, and she dismissed the pair. What does a sorceratti wear? The same gown she wore to greet her family? But she was also visiting her former master, a teacher of all the ruling families.
Vedette chose family colors in a plain shirt and cloak. Descending into the family dungeon in a full gown didn't feel right.
Ruling family homes often covered several street blocks. Each one was a fortress of stone and high walls to defend themselves from attack when the city was young and growing. As wealth soared, the houses expanded to include additional blocks. Key servants and artisans lived within the defensive positions. Over time, the capital built up around these mansion fortresses. The families maintained the tradition of an inner courtyard of grass and trees to enjoy the day without venturing out. Within these courtyards, the nobility maintained their prisons, safe from scrutiny and review.
The water table was too high on the islands to dig deeper than the multistory houses' foundations. Instead, the prisons were blockhouse
s with thick walls, resistant to escape, and discretely maintained away from the public eye. House Atros was no different.
Political prisoners were always the most difficult ones. The City Council created laws and funded a city guard to enforce them. Debtor’s prisons and jails for crimes against the city were run by the City Council. But there were private citizens in the game of power and even foreigners that demanded extra attention. The family prisons were outside the jurisdiction of the city laws.
A pair of guards in the courtyard changed their patrol pattern to meet the Duke and his youngest daughter. The patrol leader stopped ten paces away from the royal party and rendered a salute. Without exchanging words, the guards formed up behind the Duke and accompanied him to the prison door.
The patrol leader stepped to the front at the iron-bound door and withdrew a long key from his belt. The lock clicked three times, and interior guards exchanged a challenge and counter-challenge. The lock clicked three more times from the inside. With the door unlocked and the appropriate passwords exchanged, the pair of guards removed the external crossbar from the frame of the door.
Vedette checked her posture and tried to imitate her father. Nobility had a flair that took practice.
The door swung inwards, and two prison guards stood ready at the door. They came to attention and gave a salute to the nobility. The ruling family walked into the dark structure.
Vedette was pleased their dungeon didn’t have dripping water pooling on the floor and vermin scurrying from their path. The floors were clean and dry. Oil lamps flickered and provided a soft glow to the dark corners where natural lighting couldn’t reach.
But this building was not a hotel for the guests of the family. Thick steel bars sunk into the floor and ceiling divided the structure into quadrants. To her left was a block of sixteen cells, each small enough to only allow a prisoner to stand. Fortunately, that block was empty.
As she turned to her right, the next quadrant had four larger cells. Each cell had a wooden frame for a bed, a chamber pot, and steel rings bolted in the floor to chain the most dangerous prisoners. Only one cell was occupied.
A man was chained hand and foot to the rings in the floor. His clothes were once meant to match nobility. Now they bore the filth of poor hygiene in a prison environment. Vedette remembered the kept beard and now marveled at the ragged mess with untended growth. Straw and dirt darkened the once blond hair. But the blue eyes maintained their fire and intensity Vedette recalled.
He first looked up to the Duke of the city and nodded his head with respect. When his gaze transitioned to Vedette, the man rose to his feet. Chains stretched and clanked, preventing him from rising to his full height. The bow was awkward with the weight at his wrists and legs. He settled back in the middle of the cell with chains coiled around him on the stone floor.
“How do you find your stay with us?”
“My Lord, if you wish to taunt me, I accept. However, I find my wit to not be the equal of yours, given the circumstances.”
“Your mind is still sharp, Cormac. I do not see you wasting away in your cell.”
“I told your guard to use my pay for food and drink. I share. These funds keep me alive.”
“I wonder if you expect me to punish the guards who should be watching you.”
The shuffle of feet behind the ruler and daughter was loud in the confines of the cell blocks. Neither Vedette nor her father shifted to look at the guards.
Cormac turned his gaze to the young woman in the shadows of her father. “Sorceratti.”
He’d been her teacher for two years. Even though he trained the sorceratti for all the families, Vedette thought they had something special. Something changed.
“Magi Cormac,” she said.
“I’m proud of you.” Despite the filth and the chains, his eyes held a twinkle.
“How did you know, Magi?”
“I felt the power. I felt the struggle of wills, and then his magic was gone. Only yours remained.”
Duke Atros stepped between them. “I’m not sure that story is true, Cormac. I think you knew more about this man than you are letting on.”
“Lord, I can see the flows of magic from the arcane world to our own. But I can’t peer into the intentions of men.”
“You knew this man.”
“I did.”
“And you left him alone teaching my daughter while you were away.”
“I did not know what he intended.”
The lord of the city considered these words. Vedette took a full step forward from her father to approach the prison bars.
“Why weren’t you there?”
“Your father had me finish an assignment. It’s not uncommon for the city to bring in new mentors, tutors, and practitioners to round out a student’s education.”
“Then, why attack me?”
“Opportunity? Betrayal? Pride? I don’t know. I was with your father finishing an arcane project, and the timing was good to have another instructor take the role of your training.”
“Magi, what was the project?”
"Silence." The command growled from her father's chest.
Magi Cormac spoke over him. “He had me working on chains that could bind a wizard and cut him or her off from the arcane plane.”
Vedette gasped. Her father’s response was a guttural growl. She spun halfway around toward him.
“You accuse him of treason when he was forging the chains of his own prison?”
“Vedette—”
“I am this family sorceratti, and I fought another wizard to death. Were the chains for me?”
“Of course not.” Her father’s gaze didn’t leave her eyes.
“For another family sorceratti?”
“No—”
“Did you think another family would find out about your experiment with the city’s most renowned wizard and your goal to imprison wizards? And you think they wouldn’t respond to the threat to their power?”
“No, Vedette. You don’t understand.”
“I’m afraid I do, Father. I am a pawn in a game of power. We now have too many suspects within the city.”
“He knows far more than he is letting on.” The Duke hid his emotions behind his practiced mask of power.
Vedette turned toward her former teacher with a suspicious look. “You may be right, father. I think he knew more about all this.”
It was Magi Cormac’s turn to be surprised. “What…”
“Someone had to reveal the nature of your plans to others. The families would respond to a threat to their sorceratti in unpredictable ways.”
“I trained the sorceratti of this city.”
“Magi Cormac, I’m not sure who to trust or believe now. Each question is a new piece of the puzzle. What I do know is this family is not in charge of the outcome, and I fear we may have lost control.”
Without waiting for her father’s permission, she turned toward the prison door. Her boot steps thundered with the impact of rage. Guards scurried toward the prison door to retract the locks. Her temper smoldered as she waited.
“Vedette, wait.”
“I’ve waited enough.”
Fourteen
Kincaid - Training
Sholeh lived up to the second part of her agreement. Leaving her forge behind, she took Kincaid across the bridges and canals of the island city. The bustle of morning activity at the start of another workday was a comfortable environment for a craftsman.
This morning, Kincaid looked at every person on the street and tracked their eyes. If their gaze lingered on his left hip, he was done. His pulse raced as he passed each group.
His heart stopped when they approached the city guard training grounds. Kincaid couldn’t believe Sholeh would help him by turning him in. She placed a hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. The blacksmith guided him forward.
The training ground was an open patch of ground in a city with limited land. The ruling families recognized the need to train forces withou
t sending them to the mainland. Blocks of houses surrounded the open square and walled in the dusty field. The ground was too small for horses but wide enough to allow for unit-level training with spears. Straw targets waited for bow work.
Children flocked to the training grounds by midday to cheer on their favorite warriors. Kincaid remembered those days fondly. Sunlight flashed off polished weapons and armor, and the crash of steel in exercises drew out the longing for adventure. This morning, the forces were still awaiting their roll call.
Their timing was deliberate. Sholeh led him past the edge of the training ground. A figure stepped away from one of the gathered platoons. Her motions were efficient, and her eyes never broke contact with the couple. The olive skin of a native Caesean bore old scars, and her dark hair was cropped short and pulled back with a cloth headband. Kincaid noted the insignia of a squad leader pinned to her right shoulder. The warrior stopped exactly four paces away from the pair, rested her left hand on the pommel of her long blade, and sized up Kincaid.
“Small to be a warrior.”
Kincaid’s left hand jumped to his blade's sheath. Sholeh’s iron grip held his arm in place.
“Tiberia, I am glad you agreed to this.” Of course, Sholeh knew senior members of the guard from her work.
“I could use the extra coin. This one isn't ready.”
Enough. Kincaid pulled his arm away from Sholeh. He took two steps forward, hands twitching with nervous energy. “I’m ready.”
“Just words. Draw your blade.”
“What?”
“Draw your blade, or I will cut you down where you stand.”
Kincaid looked down to his left to place his hand on the hilt of his new sword. At that moment, Squad Leader Tiberia leaped across the distance and clamped a hand on Kincaid’s wrist. He struggled to release his weapon from its sheath. Her hot breath in his face distracted his efforts, and his face grew red as he couldn’t draw his sword.
