The Dark Ability

by Holmberg, D. K.

  “So… are you going to come with me tonight, or do I have to tell Brusus that we lost you? Again.”

  Rsiran turned and looked at her. She held him with earnest eyes that flared a dark green. One finger absently twirled in her hair, and she chewed at the corner of her mouth.

  If he went with her, was there any way he didn’t get caught up in whatever Brusus did?

  Did it matter?

  Jessa tapped her foot as she waited for him to answer.

  Rsiran laughed softly and smiled. “I’ll come.”

  “Oh good. For a moment, I thought I would have to force you into the Wretched Barth. Now I’ll only have to force you to have a drink.”

  Rsiran laughed as he followed her as she started up the street. “I’d like to see you try.”

  She turned and punched him again. “Don’t start thinking about running away now that you’ve promised me you were coming.”

  He held out his hands in a gesture of peace.

  They walked back down the street running along the waterfront. She veered up sooner than Rsiran would have expected, taking a different path than the one he knew. “You haven’t said what you thought we were doing.”

  Rsiran lagged a little behind her, wondering where she was leading them. “I thought… I thought maybe Brusus was part of a rebellion.” He flushed as he said it, feeling foolish.

  Jessa glanced back at him. “There’s no rebellion. You really think the Elvraeth would allow something like that? Damn, but their Seers would pinch that out quicker than anything.”

  “It was only something I’d heard,” he said softly. What had he overheard with his father, then? Maybe nothing more than guild business. “Where are you going?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I have to make a quick stop,” she said when she turned and saw him watching her.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Errand for Brusus. Not the rebellion,” she said with a smile.

  They turned onto a smaller side street where no light from the streetlights reached. Shadows lengthened and darkened, but Jessa moved easily, comfortably. Either she knew the way well or she was Sighted, he decided. He’d thought her a Reader, but maybe he was wrong. Along this street, the smells changed. No longer did he smell the heavy odor of fish. Now an oily and thick stench seemed to cling to his nostrils.

  “Where are we?”

  She spun and slapped a finger to his lips, hushing him. “Be quiet!” she hissed. “We can talk more when we get closer to the Barth.”

  Jessa moved slowly now. Her head turned as if on a swivel, peering into the darkness and shadows. Then she stopped, placed a hand on his arm, and held him in place. With her other hand, she motioned for him to stay.

  Without saying another word, she crept toward a shadowed door. Rsiran could not see what she did—not from where he stood and not without additional light or Sight—but a soft metallic sound pierced the night, as if she scraped at something. Or poked. Then a click.

  The door opened, and Jessa slipped inside, leaving him standing in the darkness.

  Long moments passed with him standing alone. After a while, he began wondering if this was some idea of a joke, Jessa leaving him standing in some hidden alley, lost in a city he thought he knew well, like he had left her and the others wondering about him after he Slid away from the healers.

  A cat hissed down the alley, followed by another low growl. Something stirred nearby, a soft swish and the slight shifting of shadows. Another cat likely. Rsiran wondered at their significance. Cats were felt to be both lucky and unlucky depending on their numbers. The two he had heard growling at each other were felt to represent balance. Neutral. If there was a third, that meant luck.

  Too much time had passed. Jessa clearly played a joke on him. He turned and thought he saw two other pairs of eyes down the alley. They seemed to be watching him.

  Rsiran swallowed. Tradition held that five cats were unlucky. Once he knew why, but right now he couldn’t remember anything.

  He shuffled quietly back down the alley the way he came. He considered Sliding but wanted to save his energy for the return trip to the mines. Too many attempts in the night might leave him without the strength to return. He didn’t want to consider what would happen if he suddenly was gone from the mines.

  As he moved closer to the two pair of eyes, they stared unmoving. Should he simply Slide back now? Jessa would be angry, but he didn’t owe her anything, not really.

  Just his health.

  And if they had healed him out of friendship, rather than a desire for anything more, didn’t he owe it to her to wait? If she was going to play games on him, well… he probably deserved it for leaving the healers the way that he had.

  As he stood debating, something touched his arm, and he jumped.

  “Damn, Rsiran!” Jessa hissed. “Easy!”

  She held a long box tucked under one arm. Pulling him along with her, they moved quickly toward the street. Under lamplight along the street, he noted the clasp of the box was bent and broken. A sheen of sweat coated her brow.

  Rsiran struggled to keep up. “What is that?”

  She shook her head, and her short brown hair swished slightly. “For Brusus, I said.”

  Rsiran glanced back the way they’d come. “Why are we hurrying?”

  She slowed at the next intersection and led him up the slope toward Upper Town. “I’m late.”

  “I thought you were getting back at me,” he said.

  She turned toward him and smiled slightly. “Aw, damn! Wish I would have thought of that. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to do that another time.”

  She continued up the street, and Rsiran hurried to keep up. At each intersection, Jessa paused, hanging back and away from the streetlamps, before hurrying across. It almost seemed as if she intentionally took the narrowest streets as they wound their way through a section of Lower Town that Rsiran did not know.

  A few scraggly trees attempted to grow in the rocky soil. Fewer than were found higher up, though those were groomed and watered in an attempt to mimic the twisting delicate branches found within the Elvraeth palace. Small pale flowers bloomed on some of the trees, the petals damp and glistening in the moonlight. They had a soft sweet aroma that mingled with the usual scents of Lower Town. In spite of their hurry, Jessa paused and plucked one of the flowers. She slipped the one on her shirt out and replaced it with the one from the tree.

  After wandering for a while, she finally led them back onto a main street and one that Rsiran recognized. A large statue—worn and weathered by years of salty wind—stood overlooking a small square. Telvrath Square, named for one of the first of their kind who left the trees of the Aisl and dared to brave the waters of the bay. The sculpture made him appear thin, his narrow face pointed like his hand pointing at the water, and Rsiran wondered how any with the fortitude to venture out onto the vast water could looks so frail. Probably the effect of time wearing away at him, leaving him less than he really was.

  Rsiran felt a little nervous about seeing the others. How long had it been since he last diced with them? How long had he been working the mines, toiling away like the other criminals for the crime of being given the ability to Slide? Would they ask him to explain? Or would they—like Jessa—simply be glad he was unharmed and welcome him back?

  “You coming?” Jessa asked.

  “I’m coming.” He glanced up at the sky, noting the position of the moon. Another hour, possibly two, before he would have to Slide back and try to get whatever sleep he could before the morning whistle blew and he had to return to the mines.

  Outside the tavern, a hint of nerves rolled his stomach as Jessa pulled open the door and slipped inside. Rsiran paused, again debating whether he should return to the mines, but decided that he did not want to leave Jessa feeling abandoned again. He understood all too well the hurt look on her face when she asked him why he left. It was the way Alyse made him feel about returning home.

  Chapter 14

  T
aking a deep breath, Rsiran stepped nervously into the tavern. Flickering light from the fire in the hearth at the back of the room gave a warm glow. The tavern was busier than the last time he visited. A steady chatter of voices hung over the room, punctuated occasionally by a loud laugh or, once, a fist slamming onto the top of a table. A flutist played softly in one corner, giving the room a lively feel. The smell of roasting meat wafted out of the kitchens mixed with the spice of the ale. Both smelled inviting.

  When Rsiran entered, Brusus looked over from talking quietly at a table. Tonight he wore a shirt of deep green embroidered with strips of blue that matched the stone of his ring. Jessa slipped the long box over to him, and he stuffed it under the table, trapping it between his legs. When Brusus saw him, he stood and hurried over, leaving the box unguarded by the table, an unexpected expression drawing tight lines around his wrinkled eyes—concern.

  Had he really misread him? Rsiran wasn’t accustomed to anyone worrying about him, not even his family. Were he simply to disappear, leave the city like one of the Forgotten, he suspected they wouldn’t spend even a moment thinking about him. So for this man, essentially a stranger, to worry about him…

  He swallowed back a strange lump in his throat.

  “What happened to you? Della said you were pretty badly hurt. Some sort of poison? Who would try to poison you? Are you mixed up in some kind of trouble?” His words all ran together. “I tried to see you, but by the time I got to Della’s place, you had already left!”

  “I’m sorry, Brusus.” Seeing the mixture of relief and anger that crossed Brusus’s face as he spoke made Rsiran feel even worse. He didn’t really have any answers for him, either. It was not like he really understood what happened to him, only that someone had wanted the lorcith he mined for himself. “I…”

  Brusus sighed and clapped him on the shoulder, his pale eyes flashing a dull green, barely deepening any at all. Again Rsiran wondered about Brusus’s ability but such things were not polite questions. Almost as bad to comment on someone’s relative strength—a mistake Rsiran had already made with Brusus.

  His mind crawled with the sense of someone trying to Read him but it passed quickly. Rsiran glanced at Jessa, but she seemed more interested in the cup of dice.

  “Say no more, Rsiran. I’m pleased Della could heal you. Maybe later we’ll get you relaxed enough to tell us what happened. The way Jessa explained it, you damn near died from some sort of knife wound to your back. You have to anger a man pretty badly for him to want to stab you in the back! Even Haern hasn’t managed that.”

  Haern looked up, a serious look on his scarred face. He idly spun a fork on the table. “What haven’t I managed?” His deep brow furrowed as he looked from Brusus to Rsiran. He spoke slowly and deliberately, his half empty glass of ale sitting in front of hands steepled together on the table.

  “To get stabbed in the back,” Brusus said, sliding back onto his seat near Haern. His feet cupped the box under the table again.

  Another man sat at the table next to Haern and smiled at the comment. Rsiran didn’t recognize him.

  “As far as you know,” Haern said. “Of course, I know better than to come to you for help with something like that. Poor Rsiran has much to learn.”

  Rsiran smiled and sat in the free chair Brusus offered. Jessa watched him, a satisfied look on her face.

  Brusus motioned to the other man. “This is Firell.”

  Firell nodded. He had long black hair, pulled back behind his head. Unlike most others in the city, he had a small patch of hair on his chin. His eyes were a moderate green and stared at Rsiran intently.

  “Hear you let Jessa save your life,” Firell said. His voice was soft and lilted with a deep musical quality.

  Jessa flashed him a smile. “Worst mistake of his life.”

  “Probably doesn’t even know what a mistake that is,” Haern said.

  “She’s already promised to get me back,” Rsiran said.

  Firell’s eyes widened. “Careful with this one,” he said, nodding toward Jessa. “Even Brusus don’t want to tangle with her. That’s why I prefer to keep out on my ship, away from dangerous girls like her. At least there you see them coming.”

  Brusus nodded seriously. “Nearly slit my throat the first time I met her.”

  “On accident!”

  “Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. The Great Watcher knows that another finger more, and I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  “But you are. Unfortunately for us,” she said.

  A small smile pulled on Rsiran’s lips, listening to the quiet banter. The teasing felt different from the criticism he usually experienced, all good-natured instead of hurtful. He looked around the table: at Jessa who had saved his life though he had only met her a few times, at Brusus who was making a joke with Firell and had been so concerned about him, and at Haern who watched him closely, a faraway look on his face, his eyes flaring deeper green. Rsiran realized he felt comfortable.

  Yet, should he be comfortable? They accepted his injury without too many questions. Brusus dressed like one of the Elvraeth but hung out in Lower Town. He wanted lorcith knives, so maybe feigning concern was his way to convince Rsiran to help. And from what he could tell, Jessa had stolen that box for Brusus. As far as he knew, they were criminals, the kind his father warned he would become with his ability.

  Why, then, did he feel at ease?

  “Now that we have the boy back, should you tell him your news?” Haern asked, the distant look to his face now gone.

  Brusus shrugged, a laugh trailing off as he motioned to one of the servers to come to their table. “Not so much news, but a possibility. And only if our Rsiran here were so inclined.”

  “What possibility?” he asked.

  Brusus pointed toward his glass of ale when the server approached the table, motioning to everyone at the table. The server was thin and with a round face, her black hair curling around her shoulders looking much like Alyse. She smiled fondly at Brusus before turning toward the kitchen.

  “Ah,” Brusus started. “Well… it has to do with that knife of yours.”

  Rsiran shook his head. “Not mine. You bought it.”

  Brusus smiled, twisting the ring on his finger. “And then sold it. Got a fair price, I might add.”

  Haern snorted.

  Jessa punched him in the shoulder.

  He looked at her, feigning a hurt expression. “What? He got triple what he paid!”

  Brusus’s smile deepened. “Two talen! Could probably get more once the quality is known. As of now, Rsiran’s mark isn’t well known. But with enough time and a few more blades like that, I’m sure that will change.”

  “Wait,” Rsiran said, understanding where this was leading. “I’ve already told you that I can’t make any more like that.”

  Brusus nodded, taking a long drink of ale. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you keep your cut of the profits.” Firell snorted, and Brusus turned to glare at him. “Not like I can cheat him now that he knows what I got, right?”

  Firell shrugged. “Not like you wouldn’t try.”

  Rsiran shook his head. “You don’t understand—”

  If his father learned of that, he would lose his apprenticeship for sure. And he would never be a smith.

  “Hold on before you answer. Think on it. You make a dozen of those knives, and we can sell them for ten each. Let’s say you keep half. I figure for a longer blade we might be able to get that to five talen. Possibly even a guilden. That kind of money adds up. How long it take you to make one of those knives? Couple of days?”

  Rsiran shook his head, realizing now which of the two men he’d overheard that night Brusus was. He owed someone money. “No more than a few hours.” Even that was probably a long estimate. With enough focus and the right lorcith, he could probably make one of the knives in less than an hour. And pocket a talen each. That was more money than his father made for some of his most intricate work, but what Brusus asked was forbidden by the smith
guild. Too many knives and he would surely be discovered.

  “A few hours!” Brusus said too loudly. He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Damn, Rsiran, if you can make them that quickly we could turn out a couple dozen a week!”

  “I can’t, Brusus.”

  “I think if we can make a few longer blades, we can drive up the value even more,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard Rsiran.

  “I can’t,” Rsiran repeated.

  Haern watched with deeply green eyes, still spinning the fork. Jessa chewed her lip, head tilted forward as she softly inhaled the smell of the flower. Rsiran wondered if he was the only one to notice.

  Brusus kept talking for another moment before what Rsiran said seemed to register. “What do you mean you can’t? That knife was simple. Elegant.” He shook his head. “Nothing like that is made anymore!”

  Rsiran swallowed. His father would argue that knives were no longer made of lorcith for good reason, though Rsiran never really understood the reasoning. Iron or steel were fine but only for eating or decoration. Never for weapons. If the guild discovered, he wouldn’t have only his father to fear—he would be forbidden from working in a smithy by the guild.

  “I’m not exactly in good standing in my apprenticeship.”

  Brusus’s eyes widened. “Still can’t believe you’re just an apprentice. Damn, Rsiran, that knife was…” He trailed off. “How did you manage to make the others?”

  “At the end of the day. My role is to keep the shop clean, manage the forge, run supplies.” He shrugged. “I don’t really get much actual time working at the forge. That’s more for the journeymen.”

  “Life of an apprentice,” Firell said and smiled.

  Haern nodded as well.

  “So we go a little slower,” Brusus said, his enthusiasm not waning. “You make one blade a night. Even that production is more than has been seen in several centuries.”