“Paundon won’t give him a chance,” Ryle said. “If he’s not the top bidder, he’ll be near the top. He’ll offer a contract way before your father has a chance.”
Casyne shot him a flat look. “So turn it down. Keep turning down all the contracts until my father has a chance to offer you one.”
Ryle sighed. “I can’t do that to your father.”
“He won’t care.”
Ryle wanted to shake his head. They’d had this conversation before during many a late night. “Maybe not, but I can’t do that to him. Paundon would be pissed. Even if he couldn’t do anything about it officially, he’d lay pressure on your father and his suppliers. You know that as well as I do.”
Casyne rolled her eyes but didn’t object.
“Besides . . .”
Casyne crossed her arms. “You don’t want to work for him.”
Ryle looked away to the armory. “Cas, I’d be grateful for the work, I would, but you know that’s not why I came here. Not why I’ve worked so hard.” He almost laughed. The bitter sensation in his chest was strong. The closer the trials got, the more pointless it all seemed.
“My father needs good men. You know with him at least it will be honest work.”
Ryle didn’t know if she’d meant it to, but the words felt like a slap. He clenched his jaw.
She laid her hand on his arm. He wanted to flinch away and lean into it at the same time, but he didn’t let himself react. He worried she would say the words that would hook him. That if he worked for her father, then they could be together. But this was Casyne, and no matter how much she wanted that very thing, no matter how much he wanted it, she would never use it against him. Because she knew what held him back.
Blast he loved her for that.
“There is still no sign then. No word of Reckoning.”
Ryle ground his teeth, pressing back the frustration that buzzed through his skull. Not at her, but them. The House of Reckoning. The reason he’d come to Pyhrec. The reason he’d entered the Professor’s school. His single hope to redeem his past and give himself a chance at a future.
They’d been elusive for years, but since the disaster at Helador they’d turned to rumors, ghosts, whispers in the dark. Elderow had been sighted in Del’atre, and then disappeared. Everyone said Lastrahn had perished in Helador. Of Nahra there had been no word.
So many deaths. So many people never heard from again. If he was lucky his bastard of a father– Ryle cut that thought off and cleared his throat. “No. No sign. Nothing.”
“Then maybe–”
Before she could finish that sentence, a boy rushed up to them. It was the same student who had darted into the practice hall minutes before. He lifted a folded bit of paper to Ryle.
Ryle’s heart sank, but he accepted it and the boy darted off.
For a moment Ryle stared down at the paper in his hand; he sensed his carefree evening with Casyne slipping away. Her face showed the same concern as she returned to the bench and collected her sketchbook, leaving him to read over the message she knew she shouldn’t see.
The words on the paper were short, to the point, and confusing. Ryle read them a second time to make sure his eyes hadn’t fooled him.
Korvey’s Studio. Go now. Take a sword. – The Professor
Ryle blinked.
“What is it?” Casyne asked.
That was a good question. Why the hex would the Professor send him to an artist’s house? Korvey was a friend of Casyne, and a fellow classmate studying art under Delago . . .
Oh, hex.
“Come on,” he said and headed for the gate, buckling the sword belt back into place.
He rushed through the entrance hall, ignoring the startled look of the attendant.
“What is it? Where are we going?” Casyne asked beside him.
Ryle pushed through the front doors of the school. The bustling world of the slapped his senses. Carts and wagons rattling on cobblestones. The cries of barkers and merchants. The smells of manure and coal smoke. Those on the street who noticed him emerge edged away, leaving openings in the crowd of people. One advantage carried by the Professor’s school, especially at times like this.
He started forward, quickening his pace.
“Ryle!” Casyne said.
He glanced back. Concern clouded her usually shining eyes.
“Korvey’s,” he said. “The Professor is sending me to Korvey’s.”
He looked ahead, searching for the next opening through the crowd, and Casyne darted past him. Smooth and fluid as always, as she wove through the crowd and Ryle had leap after her to keep up.
Casyne’s pace told him that the rumors he had heard about Delago were almost certainly true. That while the man was a master painter and artisan of many disciplines, he also involved himself in pursuits of a less . . . artistic nature.
Casyne darted around a wagon causing the horse pulling it to rear and the driver to curse. Ryle used the distraction to leap up the side of the wagon, vault over the canvas tarped load behind the driver, and down the other side. The man was still cursing as Ryle dove back into the crowd.
Delago had gained some renown of his paintings during the First Northern War. Especially his series depicting the final battle at Gull Breach. In general, Ryle didn’t care much for art, but most of the realm’s famous warriors had fought in the conflict and that did draw his attention. So, he was aware of the painter even before he met Casyne and learned she was studying under the master.
Casyne spun past a man trudging along under the weight of a coal pack. The sides of the metal bin strapped to his back as smudged and grimy as his clothes. She danced past without missing a beat and kept running. Blast she was graceful.
With Delago’s renown had come admiration, coins, and access. To many courts, barracks, and back rooms. All filled with the rich and famous who wanted to rub shoulders with the great artist and hopefully attract his attention toward placing them in one of his works.
He took up more than one offer, produced many great works, and exhibited far and wide. But rumors soon sprang up that he produced other less public works intended for more private audiences. The kind showing who talked to who in those back rooms, and what they discussed.
Casyne charged over the wooden arch of the Yagalt Bridge. The metallic smell of Sulphur rising from the steaming surface of the Gankan River below filled Ryle’s nostrils. He’d been here for five years and he still hated that smell. The ever-present hot water bubbling up from beneath the city wasn’t so bad. Especially through the long cold winter nights that filled many months in Pyhrec.
The bridge meant they were entering the southeast corner of the city and would soon reach the artistic quarter. The place where most of Delago’s students dwelt. The ones Ryle often saw all about the city. The ones with the access afforded by being Delago’s students, and the ones who were always sketching everything they saw.
Here the streets narrowed, and the crowds thinned. The buildings packed in closer to one another, their walls not quite so straight, but brighter and more interesting than the others they’d passed. Most of the artists here might be poor, but that didn’t mean they lived in some drab, rundown slum. Almost every surface was splashed with color; filled with paintings of flowers, and animals, and portraits big and small. Amongst them were more than a few carvings in various stages of completion. And other abstract projects Ryle could only guess at.
He usually loved the liveliness and energy of the place. A spirit shared by Casyne and her friends, but as they neared the block where Korvey lived, the tension he had felt since reading The Professor’s note grew only stronger.
He drew even with Casyne.
She continued charging forward but she was breathing hard and her pace had slowed.
“Cas,” he said. She kept running. “Cas!”
Her head came around, eyes scared and angry.
He motioned for her to slow down. Her eyes narrowed, but after a moment she slowed to a brisk walk, tryin
g to control her breathing while proving she could keep going.
“Easy,” he said, staying at her shoulder. The last turn toward Korvey’s place was coming up. He needed her to start thinking this through and not go charging in. His stomach was churning with concern for their friend, but running into a possibly dangerous scenario wouldn’t help anyone. For once he would have to be the one to tell her to take a moment and think.
They reached the final corner. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder and urged her to stop. She resisted for a moment, but whether fatigue or common sense took over, she finally came to a halt against the corner of the building. She slumped against it breathing hard and glaring at him.
He waved his hand to give him a moment while he sucked in a few deep lungfuls of air to bring his breathing back to normal. When he accomplished that after a few seconds she stuck her tongue out at him while her chest kept rising and falling in rapidly and sweat ran down her cheeks.
He shook his head and forced a smile that he didn’t feel at that moment. The next part was going to be fun. “Okay, listen–”
“I’m not staying here,” she gasped between breaths.
“I need to check on Korvey,” he said.
“So do I!”
“I know, but the Professor is rarely wrong. If he sent me here, something is going on and I need to see what we’re dealing with.” She opened her mouth but he pressed on. “And I can do that faster, if I go alone. This is about the fastest way to get to Korvey.” And keeping you from charging fearlessly into a situation you won’t think twice about if your friend is in danger. It was just another of the many reasons why he loved her so blasted much. “Okay?”
She glared at him while panting, but finally nodded. “But as soon as it is safe you let me know.”
“I will,” he said. “Besides, I need someone to watch my back. Stay here, but if you see anything, make that loon cry you taught me.”
“The mating call one?” She smirked at him.
His cheeks heated and he swallowed. “I’ll return as fast as I can.”
She grabbed his jacket and pulled him in for a quick peck on the lips. “You better come back to me.”
“I will,” he said and slipped around the corner of the building.
A narrow street led to an open-air plaza with a gurgling fountain at its center that fronted several tall buildings, including the one where Korvey lived and had his studio.
Thanks to the clouds, only weak light made its way down to the street, with the deepest shadows lying along the far wall. Ryle strolled to them then headed toward the plaza, moving as slow as he could without appearing suspicious, one hand on his sword belt near the hilt of his sword.
The plaza was a hundred paces wide with streets entering from three sides. The dwellings surrounding it were all three and four stories tall with rickety wooden staircases twisting up along their brick faces.
As was typical, the plaza was busy. At least twenty or thirty people milled about, some painting, some sculpting. A few others were doing more mundane tasks like carrying groceries home, or sweeping the bricks before their home. A handful of children darted among them, chasing a clattering wooden ball across the paving stones. They looked like the typical sorts Ryle had seen in the neighborhood. He recognized a few faces from parties Korvey and others had thrown here.
All except the stubble-cheeked man in the heavy brown coat on the second story landing of the building across the street. The one trying to stand nonchalantly beside the door that belonged to Korvey. The one everyone else in the plaza were studiously ignoring.
Muck sucker. So much for the slim possibility of a false dispatch from the Professor. Ryle paused at the end of the street, staying back in the shadows of the buildings.
The neighbors probably thought the man was a debt collector. Hex knew that artists weren’t known for having the most stable finances. Ryle wondered how long the man had been here, but nothing in the scene before him revealed any clues. He did at least know he was dealing with at least a few men. The man on the landing was clearly a lookout, which meant more men waited inside. He’d guess at least a couple of them.
More importantly, the man was in a good spot to keep an eye on the whole plaza and all three entrances. At least the obvious ones.
Ryle didn’t yet know who he was dealing with, nothing in the man’s nondescript clothing revealed any clues, but either this group wasn’t expecting trouble, or they didn’t regularly frequent the district. Any local loan sharks would’ve known that in the warren of old buildings down here there were always multiple ways in.
When the lookout turned to watch three women cross the other side of the plaza, Ryle slipped around the corner, then ducked into the first doorway.
A burly man in a stained apron looked up from the clay pot he was spinning then smiled as he recognized Ryle.
“Ah, the swordsman in our midsts again. Hopefully Casyne is right behind you. It’s been too long since I’ve the lass’s smiling face.”
“She’s around,” Ryle said. “I’ll have her stop by and say hi. You mind if I duck out through your back room?”
The potter frowned with surprise. “Sure, have at it. Something going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. And thanks.”
Behind the small pottery studio was a narrow room lined with racks of finished pots, plates, and cups. All fine work with intricate engravings along their rims.
The room led to small library filled with surprisingly well crafted bookshelves of some polished dark wood. Each shelf was full. Ryle took a big lungful of the wonderful aroma of old pages and bindings, and pressed on.
He passed through an ad hoc gallery, a communal space full of young men and women dressed in light linen pants and shirts contorting their bodies into amazing poses, an eating space full of empty trestle tables, a blacksmith shop with a tiny forge glowing red hot in the corner, and then through a room full of piles of coal and split firewood. An old creaky man with only a couple teeth still in his head manned the space. Ryle thought his name was Geve. He eyed Ryle suspiciously as he stepped in through the back door. Ryle smiled, nodded, and left through the front door before the old man could ask any questions.
Here he flattened himself against the wall and remained as still as possible. The staircase up to Korvey’s door was only a few paces to his left. The bulk of the second story landing should block the lookout’s view of his spot, but he peered upward to be sure.
While his eyes searched, inwardly he cursed. He’d joined the Professor’s school to stop climbing drain pipes and hiding in shadows. In fact, he was certain a more direct and honorable way existed to handle the situation before him. A way that would receive the Professor’s approval, rather than this sneaking about. He was sure of this, but after a moment’s pondering, he wasn’t seeing it. So rather than stoking his shame any higher, Ryle took a frustrated breath and started for the stairs, pulling all his mother’s training to mind.
He hit the stairs and started up, staying to one side to keep the old boards under his boots as silent as possible. As he climbed, he took another calming breath and pushed his thoughts away, making space for his kenten. He hoped to avoid any sort of actual battle but he also wasn’t taking any chances. He felt the technique ready and waiting, and pulled it a bit closer.
At the first switchback, rather than continuing up, he crossed the platform, stepped up on the railing, pivoted around, and grabbed the edge of the landing overhead. Once he had a good grip, he pulled himself up until he could just peak over the edge.
For once, Ryle’s luck held. The lookout was over on the far side of the landing, attention absorbed by something down in the plaza. Ryle wasn’t about to let such a gift pass him by.
He vaulted up to the railing and swung his legs over. Smooth as a breeze. His mother would’ve been proud. By the time the guard saw the motion, Ryle was already closing on him.
“Hey–” was the only word the man got out before Ryle slammed a fis
t into his throat. The lookout stumbled back, gagging. It would’ve been easy to end the fight by tossing him down the stairs or over the railing, but Ryle couldn’t afford the noise. Instead he resorted to bouncing the man’s temple off the railing and then lowering him to the landing while he gurgled his way into unconsciousness.
Ryle’s father would’ve been disappointed in his son’s lack of follow through. Survivors were witnesses. He did his best to shake off the thought. The ambush was bad enough, there’d been no honor in it, and shame already burned the back of his throat.
At least he’d gotten the job done. Ryle crouched beside the man, the hand on the hilt of his sword, and waited for a slow five count to see if anyone inside raised an alarm. When no one came bursting through the door, he stood and glanced down into the plaza.
No one had noticed the action, but he did immediately see what had absorbed the man’s attention.
Casyne lounged on the edge of the plaza’s fountain, blonde hair waving in the breeze. He scowled at her. She smirked and swung her feet off the edge of the fountain then shooed him toward the door.
The doorjamb was splintered, the door itself cracked around the handle. He pressed his ear to the rough wood surface and listened hard. Two voices conversed inside, their words undecipherable, but neither sounded like Korvey.
That made the situation even more complicated. The lookout was clearly trouble, but maybe not the kind he had guessed. For that matter he didn’t know if his friend was home. They might be rooting around, looking for items of value, or were trashing the place to send a message. Neither case necessitated that he rush inside into hex knew what kind of danger.
Then he saw the blood smudged along the bottom edge of the door. The kind that had been there just long enough to darken and turn sticky.
Ryle whipped his sword free, grabbed his kenten, and kicked in the already damaged door.
The door banged off the wall and rebounded but Ryle was already through, his mind pulling together every memory of the apartment from his past visits while his senses reached out ahead of him.
Harbinger, A Gearspire Story Page 2
