by C. M. Hayden
He sipped from a nearby cup and some wine dribbled onto his beard. “Before I select one from my own fancy, you can make a request for one copper noble. I know everything and every story. What shall it be? Something from your city’s past? The fall of Isaroth the Cruel? The Banishment of Nuruthil? The War of the Old Gods? Or the founding of Endra Edûn and the first magisters? Don’t be shy.”
When Taro placed a noble into the tray, Nima looked as though she was going to kill him. They were short on money, but one noble wouldn’t make the difference. If they were going to steal anyway, they were going to go for much more.
“And what story would you like to hear, young man?” Leorin asked.
“The first magister.”
There was booing and people called out alternatives.
“Now, now,” Leorin said. “The Magisterium is a part of your history, like it or not. Besides, it gives me an excuse to opine on my travels. You see, last autumn I traveled north to Caelis Enor. It was once home of the tribes of Amín. You think the world has problems today, imagine every nation on the planet living in one countryside.
“Among the drunkard chieftains and idiot kings, one bastard stood out: the vile warlord Sacrolesh.
“When you get to be my age, you learn that even the most honest story has some embellishment. I say this because in my travels I discovered many different stories regarding Sacrolesh, and some contradict one another.”
The crowd had gone completely silent, except for some children adjusting their seats.
“In my father’s stories, Sacrolesh was once a man, but sold his soul to Nuruthil. The oldest of the Old Gods, bound forever in the reach between worlds.”
“Worlds?” Taro blurted out.
Leorin squinted at him. “Speak up, please, my ears aren’t what they used to be.”
Taro felt every eye on him. “Well...there’s only one world.”
Leorin tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong. There are more worlds than flakes of snow in a blizzard. You, however, will only encounter two: our world and the spirit world.” He held his hands parallel to one another, with a few inches of space separating them. “Between these worlds is a void of churning ether. It was here that the Old Gods banished Nuruthil. It’s a domain of beast-like apparitions; hideous creatures of a thousand eyes.”
Taro’s ears perked.
“When we die, our souls must pass through this reach to get to the spirit world. Pure souls pass through without trouble, but tainted souls are doomed to wander for eternity and relive the most terrible moments of their lives.” Leorin looked like he was trying to remember where he’d left off on his story. “Where was I?”
“Sacrolesh,” someone said.
“Ah, yes. In the stories of Helia Edûn, Sacrolesh was a sage that found his way into the Reach through arcane magic. He used his power to scour the tribes until only one remained: the children of Aldor.
“Aldor and his people fled to the Endran tundra. Frostbite and hunger plagued them for twenty grueling days, until they came to this very spot.” Leorin pointed toward the ground. “Here they found the Magisterium tower. The Arclight, at its peak, shined like a second sun, and wherever it touched, the land bloomed and flourished. Here, Sun King Aldor founded his nation. Our current Sun King, Godrin, is his fourteenth-down grandson.
“At the beginning, Aldor dared not enter the tower, lest he defile sacred ground. Years passed, and he began construction of a city that would make the gods themselves envious. But Sacrolesh’s thirst for power never died. Faced with invasion, Sun King Aldor entered the Magisterium for twenty days and twenty nights.
“While there, he encountered the Arclight, high atop the tower. It glowed with the intensity of a thousand suns, but didn’t burn his skin nor harm him. The flames became flesh, and the Arclight itself spoke to him and taught him the ways of magic.”
Apparently, Taro was the only one amongst the group who hadn’t heard this story before, because the others simply nodded and took it in stride. To him, it sounded like sheer insanity. He did his best to not offend Leorin with his tone, but he couldn’t let the comment sit.
“The Arclight...became a person?” Taro said.
Leorin must’ve heard the doubt in his voice. “Is it so hard to believe? Why do you think the magisters reside in that tower? The Arclight is the source of their power.”
“But the Arclight is broken, and they still have their magic, last I heard,” a boy in the audience said.
“It won’t leave them immediately; but given time, I imagine their magic will fade without a source to replenish it. Magic isn’t innate, it’s a gift from the Old Gods. And whereas Sacrolesh hoarded his dark magic for himself, the Sun King taught his knowledge to many, and his magisters defeated Sacrolesh in the Battle of Halric Tur.”
Leorin steepled his fingers. “So you see, without the magisters, this entire nation would never have come to be.”
“Excuse me,” Taro called. “What happened to Sacrolesh?”
“He was captured,” Leorin said.
“And executed?”
“Not right away. Do you recall what I said about a soul passing through the Reach? When this happens the barrier weakens, for a moment. Killing Sacrolesh would’ve cut a hole so large, who knows what could’ve escaped. Instead, the old sinner was bound and placed on a ship traveling to—”
“Little bitch!” a loud, angry voice called from the other side of the crowd. The sound of coins striking the ground rang out. A large Helian man held Nima by the wrist and she fought to free herself.
Leorin pulled himself up with his staff. “What’s all this?”
“This rat was stuffing coins into her pocket,” the man snarled.
Nima punched him square in the eyes and wiggled free. She bolted in Taro’s direction, and he feigned trying to stop her, but positioned himself to obstruct her pursuers.
Once she disappeared into the crowds, she’d be impossible to find.
One of the men helped Taro up. “Are you all right, kid? Some nerve on her, stealing from an old man and attacking a cripple.”
It took Taro a moment to realize that he was the cripple. “I’m fine.”
Leorin pulled his frail body toward what was left of the coins on the ground. The tiny girl helped him collect them back onto the tray. It was less than a quarter of what was originally there. Taro felt something he’d never felt in the past when he’d stolen: shame—a deep, aching shame that stabbed at his stomach and caked his brain.
He spent the entire day listening to Leorin’s stories. By the time he’d worked up the nerve to return to the inn, it was dark. He didn’t say a word to Nima.
“I paid Suri,” Nima said.
Taro slumped onto his cot and stared at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
He couldn’t be angry at her. After all, she was only doing what her big brother taught her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Downings
TARO WOKE BEFORE THE sun rose and left while Nima was still asleep. Crissom Foundry wasn’t hard to miss. With fifty smokestacks, and a layout that spanned two miles, it was a veritable city within a city. Taro wandered in like a stray cat, passing huge caravans hauling plates of steel. The heat coming from the foundry was tremendous, and vast plumes of steam rose like an unending white cloud.
Taro tried to flag down someone who could help him, but had to grab someone by the arm just to get them to listen.
“I’m looking for the overseer,” he said politely.
The worker shook him off and pointed a thumb to a gruff man standing beside a steel press. He was the largest man Taro have ever seen (a full two feet taller than himself), and old warder tattoos covered his hairy arms. His sausage-like fingers were so big he could barely hold onto the pen he was scribbling with.
“Excuse me.” Taro felt like he was staring up at a mountain. “My name’s Taro.”
The man swung around. He stared down at Taro like he was a bug he’d found floating in h
is soup. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
“Mr. Crissom said you’d have work for me.”
The overseer flipped through his papers and scrunched his face. “Another peon, eh?” He grabbed Taro, and was able to wrap his fingers the entire width of his upper arm. “You got no meat on you, boy.”
“I can do any work you give me.”
“You won’t be getting any special treatment here. I suspect that means you won’t last a day. A win-win in my book.”
“What’ll I be hauling?”
The overseer blustered a laugh. “Hauling? Oh no, you’ll start your illustrious career in the blast furnace.”
The blast furnace was as bad as it sounded. It was deep in the heart of the foundry, and it was the source of the steam coming off the building. From hundreds of yards away and through a set of walls, he could feel the heat. Now, only a few feet from the smoldering pit, the heat was overwhelming.
Twelve conveyor belts passed the furnace. Two brought heaps of coal to forty workers with shovels. They scooped the coal up and tossed it into the flames. The other belts were padded with carbon and hauled fresh, red-hot steel plates from the heart of the fire. The plates dropped onto another belt submerged in water where they were cooled. When this happened, a blast of hot steam erupted from the bubbling pool. At the end, they were pressed with CRISSOM FDY and sent to Packaging, most of which were bound for the Magisterium.
“The steam’ll melt the skin off your bones,” the overseer said. “And not that it matters, but you’ll be paid a full noble an hour.”
Taro might as well have been offered a money tree.
“If you slack off, you’re fired. If you stop shoveling during your shift, you’re fired. If you break any equipment, you’re fired. If you slow your crew down so it doesn’t meet its quota—”
“Let me guess, I’m fired?”
The overseer grabbed a shovel from a rack and pushed it into Taro’s hands. Its handle was warm to the touch.
He took a spot beside the other workers and scooped the first load of coal off the belt and into the fire. It was like he’d fallen into the deepest circle of Hell. His fingers burned every time they got close to the open flames and each scoop was harder than the last. Coal dust choked the air, stung his eyes, and filled the cracks in his skin.
Every so often, the overseer would enter the furnace room. He kept his eyes fixed on either his notes or some bit of equipment; but Taro knew he was really keeping an eye on him, waiting for him to screw up or give up.
Four hours into it, Taro’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow. His face and hair so caked in black dust, he’d be unrecognizable to his friends. The next shift came in to relieve him and his coworkers, and Taro followed the men out of the furnace room.
One of them introduced himself as Rin. “Never seen a mite workin’ the furnace,” he said. It was the first time anyone had spoken.
Taro tried to speak, but all that came out was a hard cough. With some effort, he was able to say, “First day.”
“Blimey, Overseer must have it in for you,” an older man said. He shook Taro’s raw hand and introduced himself as Tomin. “Furnace on day one is cruel, even for him.”
A short two corridors away was a locker room where Taro was able to wash up. His clothes were ruined, however, and there was no way to easily clean them here.
Every day for the next month, Taro showed up and worked his knuckles to the bone. This would’ve been bad enough, but he still had his normal duties to attend to in the Magisterium and his trial was fast-approaching.
_____
“Hurry up, Taro!” Ven shouted, as he leaped over gears and barreled around a corner in a dead-sprint toward Magister Veldheim’s class. “We’re going to be late.”
Taro wheezed as he tried to keep up. He felt like he was going to throw up a gallon of soot. “We’re already late.”
When they opened the workshop door, Taro thought they’d made a wrong turn somewhere. The room was completely different from how it appeared yesterday. In the back were a dozen white crates with crosshatches on the front, and bees the size of grapefruits swarmed around them. Veldheim and the others were wearing chain-mail suits and hats with see-through cloth covering their faces and necks.
“Sorry we’re late,” Taro said.
“Shush,” Veldheim whispered. “No loud noises, no sudden movements.” He pointed to more suits, hanging on the wall. Taro and Ven put them on slowly while the giant bees swarmed the room.
“As I was just telling your classmates,” Veldheim continued, “noise is the enemy with the Apocra.”
“Giant bees,” Suri said.
“Wasps,” Veldheim corrected. “Bees are useful creatures that produce honey. Wasps don’t normally make anything useful. But the venom the queen produces can be a potent ink for motion enchantments. Can you guess what today’s task is?”
Suri strafed toward Taro. “Where’s Nima?”
“I thought she was with you,” Taro said.
“Maybe she overslept,” Ven said.
Two hours and eight stings later, class was over. The chain-mail suit had helped catch the half-inch stinger, but the tips managed to graze Taro’s skin. Antherion was waiting in the Conservatorium with a special herb that would sooth it (apparently this was a common occurrence).
Antherion’s class was decidedly less life-threatening. They checked on the plants they’d sowed on day one; Taro’s had budding teeth and was starting to grow grape-like fruit on its stalk. According to Antherion, this fruit was bait for its prey.
As another hour passed, Taro started to get unnerved. Nima was still nowhere to be found. Antherion was busy discussing the finer points of fungal herblore when Taro stood.
“On page seventeen, you’ll note the ten mushrooms that can be combined with the Apocra venom. Please copy these down, as I will reference them later.” Antherion’s enormous amber eyes zeroed in on Taro. “Is there a problem?”
“May I be excused?”
Antherion huffed so hard, it almost knocked Taro backward. “This information could mean life or death for you during your trial.”
Taro didn’t see how that could be possible, but didn’t argue the point. “I understand, sir, but this an emergency.”
Antherion pointed his tail toward a clearing and the exit appeared. “If you must, but I expect you to review the chapter on your own time.”
Taro rushed back to the inn. He half-expected Nima to be inside, still asleep. His other half expected it to be empty and Nima to be elsewhere. Either of these would’ve been preferable to what he actually found.
The room was trashed. Nima’s books, inscriber, and artificing tools littered the floor. Cracked vials of ink had rolled to the corners and the mattress was falling off the bed frame. Just in front of the door were small handprints made in ink, as if Nima had been dragged from the room. Just at the end of the ink streaks was a word she’d hastily scribbled with her fingers: book.
It didn’t take half a second for it to click in Taro’s mind. He dropped his artificing supplies and marched outside. He didn’t go directly to Rashkal’s book cart; first he stopped by a blacksmith. He sat a few pennies onto the man’s hand and said, “I need a knife.”
The blacksmith sold him a six-inch blade, which he slipped into his belt.
The book cart was not in its usual place, and the greasy shopkeeper was nowhere in sight. Taro scanned the area with a burning determination, looking for any familiar face, until his eyes stopped on one of the boys who’d tried to steal from Moira months ago.
Something in Taro’s mind snapped. It was one thing to harm or threaten him, but quite another to harm Nima. He grabbed the boy’s arm with such force that he thought he’d broken his wrist. He yanked him into an empty alley and thrust him against the cold bricks with one hand around his mouth.
He waved the knife in front of the boy’s horrified eyes.
“I know your boss took my sister.” The boy tried to deny it, even w
ith his mouth covered, but Taro shushed him and pressed the knife to his neck. “In a moment, I’m going to take my hand off. If you don’t tell me exactly where she is, I swear you won’t ever talk again.”
When Taro removed his hand, the boy burst into tears. Taro shook him hard and his head thumped against the brick wall. “Where?”
The boy fought to speak through his huffing and tears. “H-h-he took her to the Downings.”
“That’s in the lower city?”
The boy nodded and Taro let him down. “What’s your name?
He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Clyde.”
Taro took the inscriber from his pocket and grabbed Clyde’s hand. “Do you know what this is?”
“A magister’s wand?”
“Very good.” Taro scribbled a bit of nonsense on the back of Clyde’s hand. “You see, I’m a magister. And that girl your boss took? She’s my little sister.”
Clyde’s eyes widened. “We didn’t—"
Taro shushed him. “This mark on your hand is a special kind of magic. If you move more than ten feet from me at any time, it’ll drop you stone dead. Please, Clyde, if you feel like testing it out go ahead and run.” Taro gave him a sinister grin. “Otherwise, you’re going to take me to Rashkal.”
Clyde walked so close to Taro, it must’ve looked a bit strange to the casual observer. The Downings was a mile south, along what looked like the end of the underground. Here, huge dripping pipes and culverts drained into a mushy river below. It wasn’t sewage or storm water, it looked more like an oily runoff from the Magisterium.
This area was much less populated than the rest of the lower city. There were no crowds here and certainly no shops. The only people in this place were the drunkards and destitute. Many had turned boxes and crates into makeshift homes and burned trash for warmth. Others weren’t so lucky and slept directly on the icy ground.
Clyde pointed toward a rusty culvert with the bars filed off. Water was trickling out of it into the oily river. “That’s it.”
They climbed into the culvert and continued for a dozen yards, down a drainpipe with an inch of oily water at the bottom.
