by Ari Marmell
Ceremonial. Right. Caje knew a whole lot better.
“Factory delivery,” he announced, hoping they’d take the heaviness in his words for boredom rather than lingering traces of sleep. As always, the guards studied him unflinchingly from broad-visored helms and demanded a sequence of pass phrases, all of which he dutifully offered.
“Cargo?” This from the leftmost sentinel, casually stepping forward.
“Rynyr Red, unprocessed.”
The guardsman flipped back the canvas to expose the coarse grit, shifting heaps of powder, and unbroken crystalline chunks. Caje felt his eyes begin to water and his stomach churn with the rotten odor; the damn stuff made more traditional red powders positively appetizing!
The armsman grunted something that might or might not have been related to an actual word, let the tarp fall, and waved at his partner. The second soldier, in turn, called to someone beyond the gate.
A hiss of steam, the clatter of well-oiled chain, and the heavy bars retracted into the stone above.
Caje drove through the heavy shadow of the barbican. A few quick turns along pebbled pathways, another exchanged pass phrase or two, and he finally halted his vehicle inside a large open structure, part stable and part warehouse.
Dondy and Nosli he dealt with immediately, unhitching the roans from their traces and rubbing them down with a gentle yet efficient touch. Then, lips pressed together in bitter distaste, he glared at the wagon full of red powder, the small wooden compartment into which he was supposed to empty that powder, and the heavy spades that he had gradually come to despise as tools of Thamar, the Dark Twin, herself.
“Bugger this!” he declared emphatically—presumably to the horses, since the guards outside certainly weren’t likely to hear him. “I’m getting me something to drink first.” And with a final poisonous sneer at the shovels, he stomped from the storehouse to do precisely that.
***
The heap of unprocessed powder shifted beneath the tarp, bulging in tiny dunes. Garland crawled, gasping and gagging, from beneath the canvas. She lowered herself to the floor—that is, tumbled headfirst from the back of the wagon, much to the puzzlement of two tired horses—and barely had the strength to drag herself out of sight behind the wheels. She yanked a hood of fox fur from her head, and then bent every iota of strength and training toward not choking out her lungs or vomiting everything she’d eaten in the past week.
Her tools had done their jobs admirably enough. The canvas bodysuit kept the astringent grit from irritating her skin; the tiny puff of sleeping gas had put the driver out long enough for her to bury herself in his cargo; and the thick reagent with which she’d drenched the inside of her stole, before pulling it over her head, had served well enough as a filter that she’d been able to breathe.
Sort of.
She was lucky, damn lucky, that the driver had wandered off before unloading. Her plan had been to knock him out again if he’d discovered her, but in her current state, she wasn’t certain that she could best an irate gopher two falls out of three.
Finally, once she’d wrangled her rebellious stomach and lungs back under control, she slid from underneath the wagon, reached back into the powder, and extracted the bundle that had once been a fancy gown. Again she ducked under the cart and unrolled her prize. The fabric was damaged beyond repair, but it had done what it had to: It had protected the goodies still stashed throughout several internal pockets.
Garland took a moment, thanking Morrow that full, layered skirts were the current fashion. One could practically fit an entire household in the bloody things, if one had the skill to attach the inner pockets and didn’t mind walking a little funny.
From within she produced more tightly folded cloth, this time in drab brown. A simple smock and leggings, it was just the sort of thing one might see on any menial servant. She peeled the canvas from her body, careful not to smear any of the clinging powder on herself, and slithered into her third outfit of the evening. Lastly, she withdrew a pouch, which she clipped to her waist, and a pair of leather bracers—each loaded with a few useful surprises—that slid on beneath her sleeves.
The ruined canvas and savaged skirts found their final resting place a few inches beneath the dirt floor, where the constant passage of wagons had turned up enough earth that nobody would notice signs of a shallow excavation. Finally, Garland was just another servant, running some late-night errand through the grounds of Thunderhead.
It took only a moment to orient herself, thanks to the knowledge she’d gleaned from her drugged alchemist admirer. The central keep, a ponderous block of stone, made for an effective polestar. She wished briefly that her objective actually lay within that primary structure—the military museum occupying much of the lower levels was supposed to be among the most complete in all five Iron Kingdoms.
Ah, well. Stick to business, love.
Within the outer ramparts was a campus of additional buildings, huddling like nervous children around the skirts of the inner keep. Most were, like the fortress itself, squat, ugly things: stone constructions of little aesthetic value, rarely more than two stories in height.
Made sense, she supposed. While some were mere warehouses, or dormitories for the use of on-site apprentices and those alchemists involved in late-running experiments, others contained personal laboratories and workstations, along with umpteen storage chambers for all manner of volatile powders and sensitive reagents.
When almost any accident, then, could lead to fire, explosion, or fiery explosion, buildings of any real height—and thus vulnerable to collapse—would prove an unwise choice indeed.
The pebble-paved walkways between those buildings, which had been built at need and not according to any preplanned design, were as twisted and random as any maze. And while the buildings weren’t identical, they were not only remarkably similar in overall build, but unlabeled to boot. A stranger could, unguided, spend days wandering aimlessly without stumbling across the precise structure she wanted.
As it was, thanks to Lyrran’s slurred directions, it only took about two hours.
She encountered a smattering of other servants and laborers on her way, most fully intent on their own errands. She passed by wandering guards as well, half of whom ignored her, half of whom demanded pass phrases proving her right to be there. Fortunately, while they’d never have gotten her through the main gate, Lyrran’s codes held up within the walls. By the time she reached her destination—tired, shivering, reeking of the chemical smoke drifting constantly across the campus—she’d regained her full confidence that she could pull this off.
Through the heavy door (locked—but thanks to a few quick prods with the tools she kept in her pouch, not for long); along a hallway of drably institutional beige and gray, lined with nigh identical chambers; up a single flight of stairs; and there it was. Third door on the left.
The personal workroom of senior alchemist and vile betrayer, one Idran di Meryse.
This door, too, was firmly locked. It was also, Garland realized as her first lockpick was snapped in half by something that chimed within the casing, mechanically warded against tampering.
With a soft sigh—she’d hoped to leave no hard evidence of her presence—she produced another ceramic vial from her pouch. Twisting her face away until her neck protested with a loud pop, she poured the contents over the lock.
Then, once the potent acid had done its job and there was no lock anymore, she pushed the door open and slipped inside.
If she’d been asked to sketch her idea of an alchemist’s laboratory, she’d have produced a close rendition of what lay before her now. A forge sat in the far corner of the lengthy chamber, ready to melt metals, burn herbs, and what have you. Between it and her huddled several slab-like tables. Some held beakers and alembics, some racks of tubes and jars of colorful powders, some a wide array of tools whose uses Garland could only begin to guess. Quills and paper lay scattered all over, for the jotting down of notes no matter where they might manifest; a va
riety of burns and stains across every available surface suggested that some reagents had not reacted as anticipated.
The obvious spots—drawers, cabinets, the stacks of notes, even the books on a small shelf along the leftmost wall—she searched almost unwillingly. No chance di Meryse would actually keep her prize anywhere so obvious, but she had to be thorough, had to be certain.
That done, she scoured the room for more creative hiding places. She looked under the tables, between the cushions and the frames of various stools, even under the charcoal in the forge. Finally, built into the rear of the bookcase, a sliding panel revealed a hidden compartment.
But not what she’d hoped to find within.
A single envelope, wax-sealed and addressed only with a large G, sat within the hollow. Teeth grinding, she removed it and cracked it open.
Lady Garland,
Really, what do you take me for? After our discussions took such an unpleasant turn, why would you believe that I would leave the formulae anywhere you might think to look? I do hope you did not unduly harm anyone while effecting your illegal entry.
Rest assured, the documentation is quite safe—from harm, from discovery, and from you. It is not on me, and I shall be going nowhere near it, so even if we should cross paths, do not think to follow me.
You know my price, and you can imagine how eager certain other parties would be to acquire such a prize. May I humbly suggest, then, that you cease wasting time you do not have, and instead set about gathering some funds?
Sincerely yours,
I.
PS: I have made arrangements, if anything should happen to me, to send the documents to the aforementioned other parties. Just in case you were contemplating expressing your displeasure upon my person.
PPS: Whatever bargain we eventually make, you owe me an additional one-hundred-and-twenty goldheads for the lock.
Garland whiled away several long minutes swearing in a manner not merely unladylike, but terribly unprofessional. All the work, the risk, the sheer misery of infiltrating Thunderhead . . . Just so the bastard could taunt her. Again.
It had been wise of the alchemist, she admitted grudgingly, to safeguard himself against retaliation. Had the option remained open, she very well might have arranged for a suitably painful “accident.”
Garland cracked open the door, making certain the hallway remained empty, and ventured out. It was a struggle, holding herself to a casual pace; she needed to be outside the fortress walls before anyone noticed the melted lock. With every step, new profanities resounded in her head, even if she now refrained from giving them voice.
She had a lot of thinking to do—but it required no thought at all to recognize that she, the mission, and quite possibly her country were in very serious trouble.
***
Even more trouble, she learned some short while later, than she’d initially thought.
Exiting Thunderhead had proved far simpler than entering. The Crucible Guard weren’t particularly concerned with people leaving the installation, and while sending a servant outside the walls at this time of night was abnormal, it wasn’t unheard of. After a perfunctory exchange, the portcullis had slid upward and she’d been ushered on her way.
Nor had anyone questioned her presence among the suites and apartments of the rich and powerful, despite her new lower-class garb, considering how many servants said rich and powerful employed.
No, it was only as she returned to the fifth floor and neared Tolamos’s door that she discovered her night wasn’t done going wrong.
Although it had been pulled to, the door hung loose in its frame. Splinters bristled in a starburst pattern where the bolts had been kicked free of the wood. Mangled as the latch was, Garland saw enough fresh scratches in the brass to suggest that the intruders, whoever they were, had tried to pick the thing before resorting to more direct methods.
A quick flick of both wrists, and the springs in her leather bracers replied with a joyful snap. A razor-edged blade now jutted several inches past her right fist, and the fingers of her left hand clenched the smooth handle of a dusky, snub-nosed pistol.
Silent as a snake on silk, she swept from room to room, alert for even the slightest hint of an intention of movement.
She found none. Whoever they were, they’d come and gone, leaving a wake of devastation that might have been the envy of a twelve-pound cannonball. Drawers and cabinets hung open, their contents tumbling in miniature avalanches across heavily trampled carpet. Furniture had been smashed apart, paintings torn from walls, shelves tipped over. Wines, inks, and colognes formed abstract patterns, their combined odors a miasma that might have been stomach-turning had Garland not recently experienced far worse.
The more portable valuables she’d noted her first time here—gold furnishings, jewelry, some fancy clothes—were conspicuously absent. All in all, it looked very much like a burglary.
To Garland, it looked too much like a burglary.
The damage was a touch too deliberate, too extensive. Beyond even that, the idea that some random crime would occur in just this suite on just this night was too ludicrous to seriously consider.
No burglary, this, but something costumed as one.
Garland crossed back across the suite, bits of wood and glass crunching beneath her. Only now, certain that no enemy lurked in wait, did she slide her weapons back into their sheaths and look in on the old alchemist.
“Oh, damn . . .”
Lyrran Tolamos hadn’t enjoyed a pleasant end. Deep bruises and shallow gashes mottled his flesh. Dried blood traced a rough map from the corners of his lips, his slack jaw displayed multiple missing teeth, and even a cursory examination revealed a variety of broken bones.
Again, a beating that could have occurred in the course of a robbery—but hadn’t. Garland could only hope that the lingering effects of her drug had dulled the pain and the fear of his last moments.
She hadn’t particularly known the man; hell, she’d been prepared to force some information out of him herself, if need be! Still, she couldn’t quite suppress a swell of guilt.
“If I brought this on you,” she whispered to the broken body, “I’m so sorry.”
What had they wanted from him? Information on the Golden Crucible? On Garland’s own activities? Had they gotten what they were after? How long had they been watching him—or her? How badly might her mission, her identity, have been compromised?
The only question Garland didn’t ask herself was “Who?” Of that answer, she had a disturbingly good idea. Swift, brutal, and impossibly well-informed . . .
Khadoran intelligence. Leryn’s been infiltrated by Khadoran bloody intelligence!
Section Three, most probably; this seemed a bit far from the Khadoran border to fall under the purview of the more domestically-focused Prizak Chancellery. No, she couldn’t be positive, but it seemed probable—and it was certainly the worst-case scenario. If Section Three were onto her, if they had even the slightest inkling of her mission, she couldn’t put it off any longer. Garland had really wanted to complete the assignment on her own. But now?
Now it was time to scream for help and, for the sake of king and country, pray to Morrow that she hadn’t left it too late.
The vanguard of the pirate flotilla swarmed over the open shore.
Longboats, steel crenellations bolted to the hull to offer the crew protected fields of fire, sliced through choppy surf to fetch up on the sands. Each disgorged over a dozen men. Cutlasses and war-axes, most mundane, a few vibrating in time with some internal mechanism, occupied many fists. Heavy pistols, blunderbusses, and the occasional harpoon gun filled the rest. Boots and the tails of a few greatcoats carved patterns in wet sand, and the cries of bloody-minded men drowned out the crashing waves.
Farther up the beach stood one of four separate command positions, recently occupied, ready to defend this stretch of barren coastline. A contingent of soldiers—numbering fewer than two dozen—crouched behind makeshift fortifications of packed
sand and iron shields, staring down the gullet of the oncoming horde. Heavy leathers, brass-hued cuirasses, and deep blue coats all sported the Cygnus—the golden swan of noble Cygnar.
“Hold . . .” This from a severe-looking, cinnamon-complexioned brunette, her officer’s coat hanging open over scarred and battered armor. One hand pressed a spyglass to her right eye; the other was wrapped about the haft of a heavy carbine. “Hold . . .”
Hold they did, these men and women of the 4th Platoon, 7th Division, Second Cygnaran Army. Only the occasional creak of palms on weapons and the shifting of feet in sand belied their stoic façade.
Finally, Sergeant Benwynne Bracewell lowered the spyglass and turned. Far behind, atop the most distant and largest of the command positions, she saw the faintest flash of a green-tinted lantern.
She nodded, then, to the man beside her. “We have the lieutenant’s permission. Give the go signal.”
He, in turn, flipped a switch on a peculiar iron tripod, roughly half his own height. The result was a burst of steam, and a whistle so piercing it could have been heard a mile off. From both sides, she heard similar whistles of varying pitch, as the other two squads went active as well.
The beach erupted before the sound had faded.
Halfway between Bracewell’s command position and the advancing pirates, a series of sand-hued canvas tarps were flung aside to waft away in the ocean breeze. From a wood-and-iron reinforced trench emerged over a hundred men, bristling with barrels of steel. Swiveling on iron posts dug deep into the ground, chain guns screamed their pent-up fury, multiple barrels blending into a single, constant note. The air before them turned to lead, and freebooters disintegrated into chunky stains.
Stationed behind the chain gun crews, long gunners cranked the cylinders on repeating rifles, picking off lone targets beyond the range of the automatic weapons, or crouched behind the fortified landing craft. Additional trenchers hefted bell-barreled scatterguns, ready to greet any foes who managed to win through the opening barrage.
