Iron and Blood

by Auston Habershaw

  She flung open a closet in the front hall and fished out a heavy purple cape with a hood. For that split second, she wondered about Artus. If she left now, what would become of him? Could she leave the boy in Reldamar’s care?

  And yet . . . Artus had been saved. By Reldamar. Somehow.

  Maybe, against all reason, Reldamar would take care of him. Maybe the ring would make him. Maybe . . . maybe he even wanted to.

  Myreon shook her head. She couldn’t wait any longer. She turned and threw open the door.

  Reldamar stood on the threshold in front of her, key in hand. He looked at her with a kind of resignation. “I thought as much.” He was filthy, bloodied, and seemed to sag under his own weight. His nose was broken, and it made his voice sound oddly high-­pitched. Hool towered behind him, an unconscious man across her shoulders.

  Myreon raised her hands for a spell, but the specters seized her from each side and dragged her off-­balance.

  Tyvian shook his head and entered his home. “Purple really isn’t your color, Myreon. You’re too pale.”

  There were a lot of things Myreon wanted to yell at him at that moment, but only one came out. “You saved him. How?”

  Reldamar didn’t meet her gaze. “None of your business.”

  The specters kept pulling her along. She scrambled to get purchase on the smooth floor. “You aren’t fooling anybody, Tyvian Reldamar! You aren’t fooling me for a second!”

  Reldamar scowled at her as he followed her into the living room. “Get back in your cell, go to sleep, save your strength—­tomorrow is a big day.”

  Myreon was pushed over the threshold of her cell. “Why? What’s tomorrow?”

  Reldamar said nothing. He merely gave her a cold, steady look as he slammed the door in her face.

  CHAPTER 5

  BAD DEALS

  Sahand watched the Artificer’s face carefully, waiting for any sign of deceit or evasion. Instead, the leathery-­faced monk merely nodded. His Trade was surprisingly unaccented. “I will do it.”

  They were standing on a wooden platform erected over a circular pool about ten yards in diameter. The water, originally clear as a mountain spring, was now murky and crimson—­the color of blood. The underground chamber in which the pool lay reeked of death so strongly that the men who worked here wore kerchiefs treated with pungent oils over their noses and mouths to keep from retching. Sahand had made it very clear that any man vomiting in or near his pool would pay with his life. This rule had resulted in one elderly alchemist with a weak stomach and whiny voice being suspended upside down from this very platform, his wrists slit, and left to drain until empty. No one else had vomited.

  In retrospect, Sahand rather regretted exsanguinating the alchemist. It had been relatively early in the process, and he hadn’t fully anticipated how complicated the preparations would be. Not only was the man talented, but the addition of his blood to the pool had caused a number of problems that set back the entire project by weeks.

  A trio of soldiers wrestled a cage with a snarling baboon up to the platform as Sahand and the Artificer watched. Sahand motioned to his men as they worked. “I came up with the idea of utilizing vicious animals to enhance the effect some time ago, but full implementation took longer than I expected. Too many of the same kind would calm the energies in the waters by too much, as would collecting the animals in any kind of predictable pattern. I’ve needed to employ an individual with a wide range of contacts to acquire the beasts almost at random. This baboon comes from the jungles south of Hurn—­very aggressive, I’m told.”

  The baboon snarled and whooped as the soldiers positioned its cage over an iron grate, beneath which swirled the deep red waters of the pool. The men looked to Sahand, and the Mad Prince nodded. In unison, the three men drew iron skewers about three feet long and stabbed the beast over and over until its screams turned to wails of pain, then whimpers, then deathly silence. The beast’s blood ran in rivers down its ruined corpse, raining into the pool below.

  With each drop, Sahand could feel the burning power in the pool grow stronger. The cavernous chamber, though located high in the mountains in the depths of winter, grew hot. Sahand’s hair stood on end with the sheer amount of the Fey pulsing through the room. He did his best to suppress a smile. “I have been giving this project a great deal of my personal attention, but my duties are many and I have need of another skilled hand to take over certain final preparations.”

  He started down the ramps the led up to the platform. The Artificer followed, his head bowed. “You are having difficulty releasing the energy?” the old monk asked.

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking. We can siphon out some of the energy held therein—­the ancient warlock kings who built this place were masters of such power sinks, and the release of a measured amount of energy has not been a problem. I am not interested in a measured release of energy, however. I want to release it all at once. I want to tap it in its entirety.”

  Sahand waited for the shocked reaction from the Artificer as the gravity of what he had said sunk in. Again the Mad Prince was pleasantly surprised—­the old monk only nodded slowly. “I see. This is to be a weapon.”

  Sahand grinned and put a finger to his lips. “The reputation of your noble order is not exaggerated, sahib. You are one of only two human beings besides myself to figure that out. The other one is dead. We had . . . a difference of opinion.”

  The Artificer bowed deeply. “We of the Artificers are seekers of knowledge only. We are not blinded by the West’s notions of propriety or custom.”

  Sahand pointed to the hunched, gaunt form of Hortense the thaumaturge. The man had been working practically nonstop all week, and the elaborate systems of focusing crystals, channeling rods, and power funnels he had erected around the edges of the pool looked like the work of some desperate madman. “There is my lead warlock. He is a thaumaturge by trade and has skill with the Low Arts, but he lacks the knowledge of the High Arts to complete the preparations. He is highly motivated, as you can see, but he will require your assistance to complete his work.”

  The Artificer’s sharp eyes narrowed at the frantic activity of the warlock. “What is his motivation?”

  “His daughter’s virginity. I trust you needn’t be motivated in a similar fashion?”

  The Artificer looked back at the vast, ancient power sink. “No. To see this thing done and to carry the tale back to my order will be enough.”

  Sahand nodded. “A simple enough price to pay, sahib. I will leave you to your tasks.”

  The Artificer bowed again and made directly for Hortense. Sahand watched him for a few moments more and then nodded to one of his men. The man ran up and saluted. “Keep an eye on the Kalsaari,” the prince said, pointing to the soldier’s crossbow. “If he makes any move to leave this place, shoot him in the leg. Don’t let him bleed out, though, or I’ll have your balls.”

  “Yes sire!” The man clicked his heels and returned to his post.

  Satisfied, Sahand took his leave and wound his way through the icy tunnels and crumbling galleries of the ancient ruined palace to return to his tent overlooking the slumbering city of Freegate below. It was snowing more heavily than before, and a squad of soldiers were clearing the snow away from their tents and defensive positions, building snowbanks that would slow down potential attackers, not that any were likely. Sahand had full confidence now that nothing could stop him.

  Inside his tent, Carlo diCarlo was waiting for him. Sahand knew better than to act surprised that the old master thief was able to steal past his guards, but the intrusion hadn’t been expected. His hand flew to the hilt of his dagger—­a dagger infused with a particularly brutal enchantment. Carlo, though, had already leveled a wand at the Mad Prince.

  “I didn’t come here to kill or be killed, Your Highness,” Carlo said, his crystal eye reflecting the firelight in circular patterns. “I have things to
discuss.”

  Sahand removed his hand from his dagger and shrugged off his cloak on the rack beside the pavilion entrance. “Out with it.”

  Carlo settled his bulk into a chair—­not Sahand’s chair, sensibly enough—­but one close enough to the brazier to heat his hands. “You were right—­both of your League associates are in the city or will be shortly. One of them used me to hire Hacklar Jaevis to nab Reldamar for his own purposes, and the other is—­”

  “Angharad tin’Theliara Hanim. I know; I’m not an idiot. Her whole reason for being here is to provide me with the animals I need, and now the Artificers—­this is hardly useful news.”

  Carlo shrugged and removed his crystal eye to polish it with a cloth he produced from a pocket somewhere. “Your little pissing match with the city watch isn’t winning you any favors either. Hendrieux is extremely unpopular in the Phantom Guild and the Guildmaster is making plans to destroy him.”

  Sahand sat behind his desk and poured himself a drink of straight oggra from a genuine ogre horn. He didn’t offer Carlo any—­the harsh liquor would probably kill the fat swine. “How do you know that?”

  Carlo grinned. “Because I am the Phantom Guildmaster, obviously.”

  Sahand nodded. “Hmph. That explains a great deal about your resources; why the confession?”

  “Because I want you to know that I have to act a certain way in the next few days that will result in your operation in Freegate being shut down. There is a troop of Defenders on their way here on the next spirit engine that Reldamar is going to play like puppets, mark my words, and I will aid him. Furthermore, neither Theliara nor your other conspirator believes you are working on Rhadnost’s Elixir anymore—­”

  Sahand nearly choked on his oggra.

  Carlo held up a hand, “Don’t ask how I know—­I just do. I don’t know what you are working on, and neither do they. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell them, since you are an enemy I don’t relish having. I’m only here to tell you that trouble is coming, and whatever happens, I don’t want to be held responsible for it. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Sahand nodded. “I won’t forget this, Carlo. You can rest assured that I will pay you exactly what I owe you.” The Mad Prince swirled the harsh, clear alcohol in his mouth. “I will pay you with interest, even.”

  Carlo bowed and slipped out. It was amazing how stealthy a fat man could be.

  Tyvian watched the Artificer’s face carefully, waiting for any sign the old Kalsaari was trying to dupe him. The old monk met his eyes firmly and nodded. “I will do it.” His Trade bore no trace of accent. Tyvian wondered if that had anything to do with the bone talisman the Artificer wore around his leathery neck.

  Tyvian grinned. “Excellent. Believe me when I tell you that you will be well compensated for this, Mr . . .”

  “I am called Dohas.” The Artificer’s dark eyes scanned Tyvian’s dining room, noting the mageglass chairs and table, the fine chandelier lit by the warm glow of tiny feylamps, the lush embroidered rugs. He nodded again. “I will have the mage’s staff.”

  Tyvian snapped his fingers. “Done. How long will it take you to remove it?” He held his right hand out and pointed to the plain iron ring. “There’s the bastard. Work your arts, sir, and be quick. Time is of the essence.”

  Dohas removed a small flat stone from some hidden pocket in his robes and waved it over the ring. Tyvian felt a slight tug in his innards, as though somebody had just yanked a string running from the stone through his arm and tied around his liver. He grimaced.

  The Artificer looked at him. “You felt that?”

  “Just a mild tug. Is that good or bad?”

  “Ah.” Dohas put the stone away and turned Tyvian’s hand over and back again, his delicate fingers stroking the ring as though cleaning it.

  Tyvian drummed the fingers of his free hand on the table and tried to keep from tapping his foot. He took a glance at the spirit clock—­three in the morning. He face was still throbbing from Jaevis’s attentions earlier, despite the salves he had applied. Hool had been “kind” enough to pop his shoulder back into joint with a savage tug, but his left arm still felt as though it might fall off. He ached, stank, and had no doubt he looked like an Illini mud-­barker during monsoon season. He also guessed he only had a matter of hours to get everything ready for tomorrow.

  He tried to catch Dohas’s gaze, but the Kalsaari now had a different stone out. This one was on a string, the old monk dangling it over the palm of Tyvian’s hand and watching as it jerked from side to side or up and down, depending on how close it was to the ring. “I’m sorry, but did I mention I was in a bit of a rush.”

  “The Art will not be rushed.”

  “The Art doesn’t realize there will be a troop of Defenders of the Balance kicking in that door in a matter of hours.”

  The Artificer stared at Tyvian, his whole body suddenly rigid.

  Tyvian forced a laugh. “Sorry, sorry—­forget that last. I spoke out of turn. Please, continue at your leisure, sir.”

  “Ah.” Dohas returned to his work, but this time he seemed to be bobbing his string-­on-­a-­stone a bit more urgently.

  Hool lumbered into the room, a tub of beef jerky under one hairy arm. Dohas froze again, his eyes locked on the gnoll. She ignored him. “Artus is waking up. I think he is feeling much better.”

  Tyvian looked over his shoulder at the gnoll. “Hool, I’m busy.”

  Hool sniffed the tub of jerky. “Is this for eating or wearing?”

  “Whichever you please. You didn’t sit on the couch, did you?”

  “No, that is where I put your dirty clothes.”

  Tyvian heaved a sigh and did his best imitation of Dohas. “Ah.”

  A weak voice called from the guest room. “Reldamar . . .”

  One of Hool’s ears swiveled to listen, but her copper eyes stayed fixed on Tyvian. “I told you. He needs to tell you important things.”

  Tyvian looked at Dohas. “Can you do this while we walk?” The monk frowned, and Tyvian jerked his free thumb toward the front door. “Defenders, remember?”

  “Ah. As you say.” The Artificer rose, his hands cradling Tyvian’s hand as though it were fashioned from glass. They walked in this way to just outside Artus’s room and Tyvian poked his head in the door.

  Artus had propped himself up in bed. The boy was pale, his eyes only half open, but he still looked worlds better than he had yesterday. “You . . . you took me in.”

  Tyvian stepped inside the room and stood at the bedside, the Artificer trailing along like some sort of tattooed manicurist. Tyvian shrugged, “The least I could do.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know if you would . . .”

  Tyvian took a deep breath. “Yes . . . well . . . I did, didn’t I?”

  Artus smiled at him. “I knew you weren’t such a bad guy . . . knew it . . .”

  “Look, let’s stop talking about me. What happened to you?”

  Artus frowned at the Artificer. “Who’s that guy?”

  “Focus, Artus—­what happened to you?”

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Hann’s boots, boy! Tell me what happened!”

  Artus blinked for a moment, as though dredging his memories. Then his eyes flew open. “Saints! I almost forgot! I’ve got a lot to tell you—­somebody is trying to capture you! They hired Jaevis—­he’s not dead, you know—­and there was some younger guy and your friend Carlo . . .”

  Tyvian pulled up a stool and sat down. “All right, slow down. Give me the whole story, and don’t leave anything out.” Tyvian thought about that for a second. “Let me amend that statement—­leave out any of your own commentary on the events in question. Just give me the facts.”

  Artus reported. It took a while, since Hool kept interrupting with critiques of Artus’s decisions and Artus took to defending those decisi
ons, starting a gnoll-­on-­boy argument that Tyvian would have to break up. Still, Tyvian was pleased with the level of detail Artus could supply, and made a mental note to add this skill to the list of things the boy could do if properly focused. It then occurred to him that he was beginning to think of Artus in terms of a working assistant.

  Was he? Tyvian felt there was a distinction between using someone for personal gain and employing someone as an assistant. He was certainly planning on the former—­Artus was indispensable to his plan, somewhat regrettably. Was the boy worth keeping around, though? He certainly seemed loyal, if Artus had risked his life just to find out information regarding Tyvian’s own problems. That was something he could certainly exploit, if nothing else. It was half the reason he had saved the boy’s life, after all.

  Right?

  While Tyvian listened and mulled this over, Dohas continued to work on the ring. He now held a fine-­tipped ink brush and was painting delicate runes all over Tyvian’s ring finger in neat little circles and meandering rows. Tyvian tried to figure out what the fellow was doing but couldn’t follow it all—­the complexity of the monk’s work was far beyond his own working knowledge of magecraft. Myreon could probably explain it to him, but he had made sure she was secured in her room before waking the Artificer up. He didn’t want the two of them to meet.

  Whatever Dohas was doing, he could feel alternating pulses of cold and heat coursing through his hand and halfway up his arm. There was a faint odor in the air, too—­something Tyvian couldn’t identify but that immediately caught Hool’s attention.

  “Someone is doing magic in here,” she announced, glaring at the Artificer.

  “Hey! I was just getting to the part where Jaevis was going to stab me in the back of the head!” Artus had a bowl of soup in his lap, brought by the serving specters. The color had returned to his cheeks.

  Dohas, who had frozen at Hool’s statement about magic, now sat staring at the gnoll, his ink brush shaking gently in one hand. Tyvian nodded at him. “Don’t worry about her. She hasn’t eaten a sorcerer since I’ve known her—­please continue.”