by Devin Hanson
“And you think this is good? What you are doing now? How is this going to make the lives of the people better?”
“The Emperor is dead. Has been dead for weeks now. After your little insurrection has been put down, there will be nobody alive who has a claim to the throne as great as mine. I will be the new Emperor of Nas Shahr, and a new age will rise. Under my rule, the people will not dare to rise against me and peace will hold in all the land.”
Iria shook her head.
“I do not care what you say!” Mohandi snapped, his head jerking to the side, his eyes wild. “I am the righteous!”
The alchemical shield shrank by a few inches. Iria poised herself for another dodge, but Mohandi’s attention seemed to have been caught by something else.
The Colonel’s head turned the other way. “Be silent! I know you. You were weak! Foolish! Trusting! I am the one with the power now!” He was starting to salivate, foam building up in the corners of his mouth as he screamed.
Outside the shield, the balai grew quiet, watching in horror. The shield shrunk further, then flickered and went out. Mohandi fell to his knees, his eyes rolling, his limbs twitching as he seized. He was shouting still, but fragments at a time, never more than a few words of a sentence before switching to something else.
Iria strode forward, feeling the weight of the combined gaze of the surrounding balai. She struck once and Mohandi’s head rolled from his shoulders, blood gouting from the ragged end of his severed neck to mix with the rock dust.
Iria stood over the body of the Colonel for a moment, her head bowed, then she looked up and addressed the balai. “This is what we fight against. The dragons call it a corruption, and I say they are right. This abomination, this stealing of life from others for personal power, it is the worst crime.
“Mohandi confirmed our fears: the Emperor is dead. Without him, we are balai no more. I am sworn to the Dragon Speaker, and he fights against this corruption in whatever land it may appear. I say this is a worthy cause, to fight against the Incantors, to bring peace to all lands by removing the corruption at its heart.”
Iria looked over the assembled balai. “But I am just one woman and the Incantors are many. The Dragon Speaker has power, but he is still just one man. Who will stand with me?”
Sergeant al Din was the first to step forward. “I am with you, Iria Mian. I will fight for the Dragon Speaker!”
“And I!” Adnan Hakhim cried, stepping forward as well. “The Speaker’s Guard stands with you.”
More balai stepped forward, proclaiming their agreement and allegiance, until every balai present had done so. Iria bowed her head. “I thank you. We have fought hard this day, but it is not over yet. The Incantors still flee the palace, and until they are all caught and killed, the dragons will not allow us to live.
“We must hunt them down until we are sure none are left alive. Spread the word to the other balai, tell them what you witnessed here today. And if you see a black-robed traitor…” she nodded. “You know what to do.”
The balai, or ex-balai now, filtered away, forming squads and preparing to search through the palace from top to bottom.
Iria felt a presence behind her and turned to see Jules behind her. The Salian’s face was split with a wide grin. “That was cleverly done! Apparently nobody told Mohandi about the limits of his new powers. Andrew’s going to love this. His own private army.”
“I do not think so,” Iria said. “He will likely be upset with me for doing this, but it is the right thing. The only thing to do. What of you? Do you stand with the Speaker?”
Jules’s smile faded away, replaced by dead seriousness. “I do. I have always, since the moment I learned of it.”
“He is lucky to have you,” Iria said. “Not all his battles will be fought with steel and alchemy.”
“Tiny gods, I hate politics,” Jules sighed. “But you’re right. Someone has to do it.”
They shared a smile, then the ground shook and the world seemed to tilt over on end.
Chapter 21
Besieged
Aaron Milkin woke early to a disturbance. Someone was shouting the next street over, and he heard the crashing tinkle of glass breaking. With a groan, he rolled out of bed and started getting dressed. Every day, the simple routines of preparing for the day grew more and more painful as his knees and back limbered up from the night’s rest. These days, he rarely got more than a few hours of sleep a night anyway, between his aching feet, his bladder constantly having to be emptied, and the droning thoughts that never seemed to clear out of his head.
By the time he made it out the front door and limped his way over to the next street, a thoroughfare that ran in switchbacks up the hill to the Academy, the single malcontent had grown into a small riot. Thirty or forty people were standing a short distance from the Academy gates, shouting, throwing bottles and waving placards. A dozen city guards stood a short distance off, batons and shields at the ready, but unwilling to engage such a large mob unless they started damaging property or hurting people. At the same time, the mob wasn’t stupid enough, or worked up enough, to assault the Academy directly. The Guild was known for taking direct punitive action against people who threatened them physically.
Milkin made his way up the hill until he could make out the words on the placards. He wasn’t particularly surprised to discover they were condemning the Guild’s eviction of Trent Priah. The professor approached the group of guards and waved to get the attention of one, who jogged over.
“Good morning, Professor, what can I do for you?” the guard asked.
Milkin recognized him as a beat guard who worked in his neighborhood. “Good morning, Bales. What’s the disturbance about?”
“Protesters, sir. They’re bent about Lord Priah, they say. Won’t leave until he’s been reinstated.”
“I see. Why aren’t there more of you? I’d expect the guard to run these lads off sooner.”
“We’re working on it, honest. This here ain’t the only group, though. Got a score more, just like this one, one at every entrance to the Academy. The Captain’s calling in the militia, but it will take some time to get them all mustered.”
“I see. Well, I need to get inside. If you fellows wouldn’t mind giving an old man an escort, I’d appreciate it. Wouldn’t want to get brained by a bottle by accident.”
“Of course, Professor. Two shakes, I’ll let my Sergeant know.”
“Thank you, Bales.”
Milkin wasn’t worried about the protesters or their bottles, but in his experience, people reacted strangely to alchemy being employed, even if it was only a shield to deflect a thrown bottle. Long-time citizens of Andronath wouldn’t bat an eye, but he would bet a copper common to a gold crown that none of the protesters were natives.
Trent had called in agitators from Salia. It was a move that Milkin didn’t really understand. What was he hoping to achieve? The Guild wouldn’t change its mind because of it; if anything, those guild members who were on the fence about the decision would be coming down firmly on the side of banishing Trent. If it was an attempt to get back in the Guild’s good graces through a clumsy show of force, it was a poorly conceived one.
Bales came back with an escort, and they walked Milkin into the Academy grounds, themselves and their shields providing cover against bottles, brickbats or other potential projectiles. Jeers following Milkin as the protesters recognized his robes, if not his identity.
He hadn’t made it halfway to his office before running footsteps caught up with him, and Michael Esterforth fell into step beside him, breathing heavily. “There you are, Professor! I came by your house a few minutes ago, but you had already left. One of the guards told me they walked you into the Academy.”
“Well, here I am,” Milkin said, struggling to keep his voice bland and the gnawing anxiety out of it. What news did Michael bring? He wanted to shake him and demand answers.
“There are Salian soldiers in the city. Hundreds of them! I saw them come in th
is morning on airships. I, ah, have a hobby of watching them dock at the mooring towers.”
Milkin frowned. Andronath had a policy of open borders, relying heavily as they did on trade with Salia. While the city was a state in itself, and was not beholden to Salia, the fact of the matter was that Andronath was entirely reliant on the larger nation for trade goods. Andronath didn’t have the farming infrastructure to support the city, and it was only through constant imports of food and supplies that the city functioned at all.
Given the constant flow of people in and out of the city, Andronath didn’t bother monitoring who was coming in or who was leaving beyond gathering taxes. Salian soldiers weren’t strangers to Andronath, often coming by on leave or using Andronath as a stopping point on some longer journey. The presence of the soldiers, in such numbers, wasn’t a coincidence.
“I see,” he said, patting Michael on the shoulder. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He continued walking down the hallway.
“That’s it? Professor, isn’t this a bad thing?”
“What do you expect me to do, Michael?” he asked. “Don my armor and grab my flux?”
“Well, no.” Michael said sheepishly. “I guess not.”
“Being an alchemist is about using your head,” Milkin said, turning at the next corner. He took a right instead of his earlier intended left, away from his office. Michael, expecting a left turn, was wrong-footed for a moment before recovering. “We could fight off these Salians, but what would it achieve? And at what cost?”
“I don’t know, Professor. But with those protesters outside, the soldiers arriving can’t be coincidence.”
“It’s not,” Milkin said. “And I would be surprised if those protesters were not actually soldiers themselves, or at least mercenaries… though these days with Salia, they tend to be one and the same.”
“What do we do? Professor, what is going on?”
“To answer your first question, we use our heads. To answer your second, it seems Lord Priah didn’t take expulsion kindly.”
Michael shook his head, frustration in his eyes. “But what do we do?”
“You think this is the first time Andronath has been attacked?” Milkin chuckled. “This might be the first time an invading army is already inside the walls, but we have contingencies for this. Alchemy, my impatient friend. Alchemy is what we do.”
The sun was still stretching toward its zenith when the shields went up and the Academy Alchemic turned into a fortress. The massive stone walls and buttresses of the Academy were custom-built with the Academy in mind, and the stones themselves were laid in place with runes and alchemy. More than that, the foundation blocks in a full circle around the crown of the hill that the Academy sat on were inscribed with a runic Saying that called into being a shield that formed a full dome over the entire sprawling structure.
This shield was not reliant upon vitae or fluxes to keep it powered, rather the runes themselves produced the shield. All along the foundation the runes crawled, forming a complete circle but for a single cylindrical stone the size of a man’s fist. That last stone, the keystone, was kept rotated out of alignment on a semi-permanent basis. When the shield was required, the keystone was rotated into alignment, the last phrase of the Saying was completed joining the two ends of the circle together, and the shield sprang into existence.
It had been two hundred years since the last time the shield was raised, and not every mason and builder who worked around the Academy was aware of its presence or the plane of its existence. Upon raising the shield, several towers were shorn off at a clean, crisp curve, the upper portions of which slid off the shield to crash to the streets below.
The gates to the academy had their own secret and hidden runes which produced a portal through which people and goods could pass. Attempting to force such a gate destroyed the runes and snapped the portal shut instantly. There was no known force in the world that could penetrate that shield, short of a tremendous geological upset to the crown of the hill itself. Each of the foundation stones was finished with master Tan runes, rendering them immutable. Destroying the shield would involve cracking the bedrock itself sufficiently to displace one of the massive multi-ton foundation stones.
Milkin was in his classroom, pretending to read, but keeping half an ear on the conversation of his students. They were discussing various combat sayings, debating their usefulness and consumption of vitae. They were highly spirited but inexperienced and had come to several wrong conclusions that Milkin was thinking about correcting.
The door burst inward and a messenger boy ran through, out of breath from his sprint to the classroom. “Professor Milkin, sir, you’re wanted at the gate.”
Milkin raised his eyebrow and nodded. His students had fallen silent and were watching him wide-eyed and expectant. “Oh, you might as well come along then,” he said and smothered a grin at the enthusiasm on their faces. As if he could have kept them back, anyway.
The walk to the gate was a long one, and seemed to get longer every day. Milkin was tired. He hadn’t managed to find anything he wanted to eat at lunch and his appetite was only good for complaining about the lack of food. Just the thought of eating a sausage or slice of cheese was enough to make him queasy.
He finally made it to the gates, which were flung wide open, providing a shielded opening through which he could see a figure pacing back and forth impatiently. On the Academy side of the shield, most of the professors and alchemists that worked in the Academy were arrayed. Milkin stepped up next to Kilpatri and nodded at the other professor. This close, he could make out the aristocratic features and fixed sneer of Trent Priah on the other side of the shield.
“Didn’t take him too long to show up, did it,” Milkin muttered.
“Good, you’re here. He’s been waiting for you to show up, seeing as how you and Mr. Condign are such good friends.”
“I wonder how he found out about that.”
“Does it matter? Come on.”
Trent saw them approaching and halted his pacing. “Aaron Milkin!” he shouted, striding up to the shield and stopping only when he was inches away. “I knew it was you behind all this.”
Milkin exchanged a glance with Kilpatri and cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed?” he asked. “Tell me, what is ‘this’ that you refer to?”
“Having me thrown out of the Guild!” Trent roared, spittle flying from his mouth and hitting the shield, where it slid off to the ground in glistening droplets. “Tell me, were you the one who coached that dung slinger through naming me a Ranno Kossar?”
“Dung slinger?” Kilpatri asked quietly.
“Andrew worked as a dragon dung collector for several years before finding his first scale and meeting Avandakossi,” Milkin replied, before raising his voice again to Trent, “I’m afraid it was your own actions that prompted that title, my lord.”
“By doing what? I took no action against the Guild! The title means nothing! Nothing! A relic from the forgotten past, dredged up to settle a score. It was the only way for that miserable wretch to strike back at me, and I hold all of you accountable for following along with this travesty!”
“Ranno Kossar does have a meaning, Priah,” Kilpatri said evenly, “A meaning of which you are guilty.”
“No! It means nothing! My father swore to tear down the Guild for this insult.” Trent was breathing heavily, his eyes slightly out of focus and wild with rage. “I told him it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. The Guild is nothing but a doddering collection of hidebound imbeciles, blind with age and the echoes of power. I have found a new source of power, a boundless font which will grant me endless vitae!”
“Don’t tell me,” Milkin groaned.
“All you need to know, old man, is that the laws of the Guild no longer apply to me. We are blockading this city. Soon, the strength of the Guild will fail and your laws will mean nothing. That which has been forbidden is now sanctioned. You will see what an army armed with alchemical weapons can accomplish!”
/> “You’re a fool, Trent Priah,” Kilpatri said loudly. “History shows what happens when someone follows your path.”
“History?” Trent laughed, loud and mocking. “I will write history as I see fit.” He raised his voice, shouting to be heard clearly by those watching behind the two professors, “Those of you who would throw off the yoke of this decrepit Guild and form a new Order are free to join us at any time. There will be no ill will held against you if you do, excepting those who stood against me at the hearing.” He spat at the shield and spun on his heel. In a few strides, he joined a cluster of robed figures that had been hanging back, their hoods low over their faces. Together, the group pushed through the protesters and vanished from sight.
“Professors,” someone said, clearing his throat. “If you do not mind, I would have a word.”
Milkin turned to see a nondescript fellow, his sandy-brown hair brushed to the side in an attempt to cover an early bald patch. He had watery brown eyes and the slender-bordering-on-frail frame of a habitual bookworm. He was vaguely familiar, and after trying to put his finger on it, he finally placed the fellow as one of the group of alchemists who had given a blood sample weeks ago.
“Of course. What can I do for you?” Kilpatri asked.
“Alone, please.”
“Certainly.” Kilpatri took a step to the side and raised his voice, addressing the crowd that had gathered to witness Trent’s outburst. “The show is over. Please return to your duties. At nightfall, we will hold a general summit in the Oratory to discuss plans for the weeks to come. Please spread the word.”
In a minute, the courtyard was clear and the two professors were alone with the slender man. “Well, what is it?” Milkin asked.
