by David Rice
Maesters sneered at Jarls and Kings, and yet they were just as horribly corrupt. Just as selfish. Rulers of this city and almost everywhere thought only of themselves. Olaf’s mind chaffed against the temptation to let his fear imagine the greatest abomination of all. Had the Maesters cut a deal with the Lifebane to waken the Drakes? Was this their plan from the beginning? To use the drakes themselves as tools for even greater avarice? And they had built this monstrosity of wire to summon certain doom to their city so they could prove that they were the most powerful of the races. That was it? That was the best they could choose to be?
Madness, Olaf swore. Madness, if true. Madness even to imagine such a possibility.
Before another thought could intervene, he swung the hatch open to see what was hidden inside.
A sky-blue spark gem the size of his fist glowed with an eerie twisting light as if alive. A blue gem. The Rajalan gem Derby had mentioned? What would Derby give him for this?
No. Olaf stopped that chain of thought. Obviously, this gem was critical component of Halnn’s machine, and it certainly hadn’t been crafted by the gnomes. Olaf continued to stare at the purity of its gleaming light. There was only one other gem that had held such coiled ferocity. The gem in Kirsten’s sword. Olaf’s gut twisted. This blue gem didn’t belong here, purloined from the Rajala and thrust into a mechanism of corruption.
The elves. They’d know better what to do with this gem. Without allowing another thought, Olaf cracked his knuckles and rubbed his hands. With a deft touch, he plucked the spark gem from its nest of coiled wires. He stuffed it into the deep recesses of a leather pouch, took a few hurried breaths to push back panic, and launched himself down the stairs once more. He had to make it out of Halnn before the madmen were successful in summoning a drake. He had to warn his friends about Halnn’s devious plans. Olaf dashed away from every voice and every light, even avoiding his mentor Derby Glintwell. Perhaps the elves would have a use for this spark gem, he pondered. Until that time, Olaf resolved that he should cling like a roach to the anonymity of darkness.
XXI
The first act Koppinger performed as the newly minted Chancellor was to summon every one of the King’s Heroes still in Graniteside, and extend bribes to ensure their loyalty to him. Then he braced himself for the onslaught of visitors who would beg for favours or challenge his authority. He was not the least bit surprised when the first visitor proved to be High-Father
Stigand. Ten of Stigand’s stoic Brothers were met with crossed polearms and forced to wait outside.
“Was this part of your plan, all along?” Stigand railed.
Koppinger let a dark chuckle slip. “Not in the least. In fact, I’m half convinced this was your idea except Lornen’s too proud to listen. But I’m trying to make the best of it.”
“I bet you are,” Stigand sneered. “The entire city is still a panicked mob. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve told people to go to the church and pray and they seem to have listened, at least the ones in the merchant quarter. I thought you’d be there by now. You might even have a chance to take credit for the drake flying away.”
Stigand’s biting response froze on his lips. “What are you up to, Koppinger? Why did Lornen appoint you of all people?”
Koppinger shrugged. “I guess he finally figured out how to appreciate talent. Go ask him yourself.”
Stigand snorted. “Perhaps I shall,” The father’s eye’s narrowed. “What’ve you done with him, Koppinger?”
Koppinger leaned forward. “Me? I’ve done nothing to the King.”
“Not the King. Gothert. He was cast into your sewers instead of being executed. It was stupid of me to let him go but—I was feeling merciful.”
Koppinger laughed. “I think the poor feelow died of consumption after such mistreatment. Never liked him much.”
“Pity,” Stigand snipped. “He died holding secrets that could’ve profited us both.”
“Really?” Koppinger smirked. “Care to tell me more?”
Stigand grinned and bowed theatrically. “Not until I am ready,” he replied slowly. “The King needs those funds for something special but he wishes it a secret for now.”
Koppinger chuckled. “Lornen’s pockets are always burning.”
Stigand raised an eyebrow. “These are dangerous times, Chancellor. Please be careful.”
Koppinger watched the High Father waltz from the room and then called for a trusted messenger. “Bring me Gerr. You know where to find him. And the Archivist Nialle.”
***
Nialle was unaccustomed to raising his voice or losing his temper. “I will not see the new chancellor in his chambers. I can’t believe that he was so bold. And for me to put my faith in his plot? This is part of some larger strategy of Koppinger’s. He is not to be trusted.”
Gerr nodded. “He’s summoned me, too. I’d better go.”
Nialle attempted to force a smile past his frown. “You’ve been invaluable to us all, Gerr. I understand that you want to rejoin your life in the city. You’ve earned it. Just be careful. Lornen still holds power.”
“Aww, you know me,” Gerr replied with a half-smile and a shrug. “The overgrown brat is hiding in his tower from what I’ve heard, and Koppinger has the palace guards in his pocket, now.”
“That is not a comforting change.”
“No harm, no foul, they say,” Gerr quipped as he turned to leave. “A little fresh air would do you good, too.”
Nialle nodded. “Too much to do right here. Perhaps once sanity returns?”
Gerr chuckled. “Won’t hold my breath for that, but I will keep my ears open for trouble.”
“You have all our thanks,” Nialle called after Gerr’s retreating steps. Once the darkleathered ruffian had departed, Nialle turned to Brother Larkin. “The other Blackthorn have returned to Koppinger’s estate?”
“Yes, Archivist. They are assisting with the wounded and with raising the spirits of those who seek guidance.”
“Never a shortage of that, is there?” Nialle briefly smirked. “Have the Rajala departed?”
“They were keen on returning to their people and pressing forward towards elven lands.”
Nialle shrugged. “Say a prayer for them, will you?”
“But the elves are heathens.”
Nialle’s gaze admonished the priest.
Brother Lerkin blushed. “I suppose I could.”
Nialle cleared his throat. “I’m keeping Father Yost and the Starwatcher here in this unassailable part of this dwarven ruin. Get me that courier, and Alain, will you? We need to send a message to Koppinger’s friends before he does.”
“Right away, Archivist.” Larkin’s face knotted with puzzlement but he bowed and hurried away.
Nialle located his quill and parchment and turned up the lantern light. How exactly would he frame this request without incriminating the messengers or the receivers? He rubbed his brow and wet his quill then stared at the empty parchment while his mind buzzed from phrase to phrase. The parchment was still empty when Balinor and Alain knocked on the doorjam.
Balinor’s dog came jogging up behind.
“Can you return a message to those who sent you?” Nialle asked.
Balinor shrugged. “Being away from this city would suit me fine, sir.”
Nialle’s eyes smiled briefly. Then he turned to Alain. “I assume you would rather have departed yesterday.”
Alain nodded. “I must return to my Jarl. I owe him that. And I miss my home. In these troubled times, they will need me.”
Nialle’s eyes sparked with an idea. He began to compose his note while addressing them both. “Would the Jarl be open to a visit here? To see this lost portion of their once vast realm?”
“There’d have to be peace between us all, first,” Alain quipped. Then his eyes also lit up. “Exactly,” Nialle grinned.
Alain and Balinor exchanged glances.
Nialle finished two scrolls and slipped them both into w
atertight cases. He thrust one towards each of the men. “Take care of one another. Make sure that both these messages are
delivered. Allegiances are fluid now so be careful whom you trust.”
“We’re travelling together?” Balinor asked.
“Looks that way,” Alain deadpanned.
“I like to travel light,” Balinor replied.
“Suits me fine.”
“And I hope dwarves like dogs.”
“They’ll like this one.” Alain patted Vargas on the head.
Vargas wagged his tail and whined with impatient glee.
Nialle handed a list to Alain and a coin purse to Balinor. “Have Larkin get you what you need.”
“He could pray for a little luck while he’s at it,” Balinor smirked.
Nialle could no longer force a smile. “Yes. May the One watch your backs.”
“Thank you for your rescue and shelter. You saved our lives,” Alain said. He gripped the scroll case firmly. “We will see these safely delivered.
Nialle flashed a grimace as he watched Balinor and Alain depart.
Nialle rested his head in his hands. The hard part would be waiting. It would be a season or more before he had any word of success. Much less, if the entire plan failed.
***
It was cold in the alley overlooking the docks. Koppinger looked at the rough-edged rogue and the tall polished noble standing before him. Gerr managed to appear as if he was leaning even when he was in the middle of a room, and Lord Theal appeared to be lost in thought especially at those moments when he was most observant. They were two vipers that Koppinger made sure to keep well paid off.
“Brekkit was snooping around for the King?”
Gerr nodded while picking at his teeth. “That’s what I overheard. He figured out where Nialle was hiding but he didn’t get a chance to pass that on to Lornen.”
“And he was planning to have some of our men attack Nialle’s little enclave?”
Lord Theal smirked. “They remembered who pays them best and finished him in the tunnels.”
“Is that how his body ended up under some ship wreckage.?”
“An unfortunate tragedy, High Chancellor,” Lord Theal grinned. “Especially since he was carrying this.” He thrust a bloodied note towards Koppinger.
Koppinger held the note close to the light of the hooded lantern. “What’s this say? Mother of Pearl followed Ocean Steed? I know those ships. I know their Captains. They both sailed on The Evalyn, Engram’s ship. Why’s this important?”
Theal stared hard at Gerr. Gerr smiled and picked his teeth. Koppinger waved his hand dismissively. “Gerr is to be trusted. He worked for Gothert once.”
Theal frowned. “Might still.”
Gerr laughed. “Not likely. Ol’ bugger tried to have me killed.”
Theal’s stare did not soften.
Koppinger repeated himself , “Lord Theal, Gerr can be trusted. Tell me why you brought this note.”
Theal’s posture relaxed and he turned his back to Gerr. “Brekkit was looking for clues about where Gothert had sent Lornen’s reserves of wealth. I let him stumble around until he dug up some useful information.”
Gerr interjected, “A bit too much useful information so we made sure it could never be delivered.”
Theal ignored the interruption. “The Ocean Steed carried Gothert’s cache as far as Port Lornen but foundered when the drakes attacked.”
“Bad timing,” Gerr sneered.
“So, it sunk with the treasure?” Koppinger concluded. “It’s gone then. The waters there are deep and unforgiving beyond harbour.”
“No,” Theal smiled. “It’s not gone. The Steed thought they were carrying the real money but it was a decoy. The real treasure sailed on the Mother of Pearl. Captain’s name is
Hoggert. He’ll know where it is.”
“And his ship came back, didn’t it?” Koppinger beamed. “So why isn’t Hoggert here, now, begging for his life?”
“Was the first ship out of harbour once the blockade lifted,” Theal revealed.
“Told everyone he was fishing, but not back yet,” Gerr added.
Koppinger’s shoulders fell but his eyes still sparkled. “Not coming back either, is he?”
”Not likely,” Theal said. “So, I was thinking—”
“Time to talk to the famous Captain Engram of The Evalyn,” Koppinger announced.
Gerr and Theal were in agreement on that, at least.
***
Engram was happiest at sea, and even happier that he was not sailing south. His old friend Hoggert had made a simple request, deliver some crates of cargo to the logging town of
Splintjack north of the Raelyn, and how could he say no? Now that the blockade had vanished, Hoggert was off to fish for a hungry city, and Engram had no desire to hang about waiting for a drake to return.
And then, when two Rajalan travellers arrived and offered him a fortune in gems for a trip in the same direction, he found it in his heart to pocket his old prejudices for the time being, and accept their payment. After all, one capable servant and one old smiling blind man couldn’t be that much trouble, could they?
]
XXII
“Clear your mind,” Galen repeated. He tossed another pinecone at Kirsten and it bounced off her head.
“I’m trying,” Kirsten replied. “Why can’t you stop with the pinecones?”
“Because Siandros will be using a sword. Or arrows.” Galen’s voice ebbed with patience. “Weapons are infinitely more distracting.”
Kirsten wrinkled her nose and set to weaving her charm. Again.
Another pinecone scuffed across her brow.
“Why can’t I wear my pendant? I’m better at this with it on, you know.”
Galen sighed. “Your father is certainly Muren,” he grumbled to himself and then raised his voice. “You must learn to weave without any help. Then you will be so much better when help is available.”
Kirsten rubbed her forehead and settled her breathing. “You’re just trying to get me angry. I’m not going to let you do that.”
Galen’s eyes betrayed a glimmer of hope. Then he threw another pinecone. Hard.
Kirsten inhaled as she twisted the spark with her mind. The pinecone deflected off a shield of air in front of her nose, bounced along the wooden platform, and fell from the edge like a stone.
Galen and Kirsten shared a brief surprised smile. Then Galen threw another. Kirsten swatted this one away with her hand.
“Not fair,” Kirsten complained.
“Fair does not exist,” Galen replied. His next hand motion ignited flames upon each of Kirsten’s boots.
She let out a brief squeal and then called upon the charm she had learned a day earlier. Water splashed down upon her boots, quenching the small flames and surrounding her with a slippery puddle.
Galen’s next weaving turned the water to ice, freezing Kirsten in place. Kirsten looked down in frustration and then brought her hands up to weave a charm before it was too late. Two pinecones deflected off the shield and bounced away.
“Hah,” Kirsten shouted.
Galen tossed another two pinecones then twisted their spark so they exploded into dozens of barbs. Kirsten’s shieldcharm managed to deflect many of the barbs but a few stuck in her pants and scratched her skin.
“A skilled sparkweaver can make you do exactly what they want until you are tired and vulnerable to surprises,” Galen explained.
Kirsten plucked barbs from her legs and fumed.
“You are improving, child,” Galen added. “Your father could never get past this test.”
Kirsten looked up. “Papa couldn’t do this?”
Galen’s complexion soured. “Not even after a hundred days.”
“Huh,” Kirsten said. “I guess that’s something.”
She called heat from the wood of the platform until the puddle steamed gently and her feet were free. Then she looked at her mentor again with a harder stare. “Did you
give up on him?”
“No,” Galen replied. “He turned to the kindness of your mother for instruction. In truth, it was your father who gave up on me.”
Kirsten’s heart twisted and flipped. There was more in Galen’s words than she wanted to absorb.
Galen collected his staff and took a deep breath, all the while regarding Kirsten with an imperceptible gaze.
Kirsten ventured to challenge those eyes. “Master Galen? Will you ever give up on me?”
