The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  Tyvian wasted no time in cuffing him sharply behind his left ear, then pulled him close and hissed, “Now listen here, you miserable, gutter-­born brat: if you so much as lay a single, grubby fingertip on that collar again, I will heave you headlong off the next bridge. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded, red-­faced. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”

  Tyvian cuffed him again. “No apologies! You are supposed to be an Akrallian attaché, a servant of noble bearing, not some groveling, half-­witted scullery maid! What’s more, you don’t speak bloody Akrallian! Open your trap to say anything more than oui or non and we are finished!”

  The boy held still and kept from flapping his lips. Tyvian sighed. To think that he might have had any number of simulacra conjured for himself in the form of an Akrallian attaché and never have had this difficulty. The thing would have obeyed his every command and looked the part perfectly, and there wouldn’t have been any of this nonsense at all.

  It might not have worked, though. Rameaux was probably a fool in many ways, but not in terms of magecraft—­one whiff of the Ether used to make a simulacrum and the deal would be off. Pressed for time, he had to settle for the best-­looking urchin he could find on the streets of Ayventry instead, and hope that the eight hour journey by spirit engine from there to Galaspin would be sufficient to train the whelp in the finer points of etiquette. With less than one hour to go, his doubts were almost complete.

  From the head of the train the moans of the demons confined within the pistons of the engine intensified as they came to a steep hill. Peering out the window, Tyvian saw that they were now running parallel to the Freegate Road as it wound along the banks of the Trell. Past it, he could see the gently sloping farmland and sparsely wooded countryside of the Duchy of Galaspin glittering under a thin sheet of moonlit snow. He wondered if Zazlar was holding up his end of the bargain; shipping could be slow, especially in winter. Smuggling was usually even slower.

  Turning back to the boy, Tyvian pointed to the closet of their stateroom. “Get my case and bring it to me . . . and for Hann’s sake, stop slouching.”

  The boy frowned. “But I’m not—­”

  Tyvian threw up his hands. “Why are you speaking to me? Is that Akrallian coming out of your mouth? Well?”

  “N-­No . . .”

  “No? Or do you mean non?”

  The boy’s face was alternating shades of red and white, but he said nothing.

  Tyvian shook his head. “I swear, boy, you will be the death of both of us. Case, closet, now.”

  When it was brought to him, Tyvian laid the leather case on the small table in front of the train window and opened it. Lined in black velvet to hide the runes written in quicksilver that covered the interior, it had successfully allowed Tyvian to carry his equipment past the mirror-­men at Ayventry Station without being detected. Any augury directed at the case saw nothing but a few bolts of cloth, a Book of Hann, and a pair of riding gloves. What it actually contained, however, was quite different.

  The boy stood close by and watched as Tyvian reached into the case and slid a ring onto the middle finger of each hand. The one on the right was of mageglass, and its translucent, crystalline design glittered in the warm light of the cabin. The left one was of gold and inlaid with a trio of pure blue sapphires. Into his pockets Tyvian placed a handful of marble-­sized spheres and a short cylinder of ebony inlaid with silver about as long as his hand.

  This last the boy recognized, and gasped. “That’s a deathcaster! Does it work?”

  “Unlike the common footpads and wretched, beer-­sodden fools with which you are no doubt used to associating, I do not commonly carry enchanted items that do not function.”

  The boy had no answer. “It’s just . . . they’re expensive.”

  Tyvian rolled his eyes. “You are an uncommonly stupid boy, aren’t you?”

  The boy grumbled a bit under his breath, but no more.

  “We will be in the city of Galaspin shortly. Remember: say nothing, do nothing until told, and pretend like you are the exact opposite of your actual self.”

  They left the stateroom and made their way through the rocking corridors of the spirit engine until they came to the dining car. It was late at night, and the two of them were alone as Tyvian slid into a leather-­upholstered booth in the corner, his back to the wall. The boy, at his command, remained standing. The dining car, though in reality not much wider than the rest of the spirit engine, had been Astrally reconfigured to multiply its interior space so that it was comfortable and spacious enough to seat the train’s entire complement of passengers—­a sign of the luxury afforded those who could travel in this manner that was, no doubt, lost upon the boy. He merely blinked at the glittering feylamps set on each table and was, Tyvian concluded, calculating just how much each of those would be worth for sale on the black market.

  “Do you ever wonder why you don’t see those for sale on the street very often?” Tyvian asked.

  The boy shot Tyvian a guarded look but held his tongue. After some consideration, he offered a slight nod.

  “It’s because the theft of sorcerous objects is a delicate art. You, like your average lowly criminal, would simply swipe a half dozen of those feylamps, stuff them in your coat, and then try to sell them to some back-­alley, ink-­thralled hustler for one-­fifth their worth. Of course, what you wouldn’t realize is that by touching those things and carrying them around, you’d be leaving a trail even the least competent Defender with a functioning mage-­compass could follow. So, you’d be in the midst of spending your meager earnings when the mirror-­men would find you and drag you away for the Illicit Sale of Magecraft.”

  The boy thought this over for a few moments, and then asked. “How’d you do it, then, so’s you weren’t nicked?”

  Tyvian cuffed him. “There you are—­talking again. To answer you, however, it’s merely a matter of understanding . . .”

  The boy sneezed, and Tyvian interrupted himself so that he could observe the boy’s reaction to his allergic episode. Noticing Tyvian’s eyes on him, he only sat up a bit straighter and did nothing else.

  “Well?” Tyvian asked at last.

  “Well what?”

  “You just sneezed.” Tyvian prompted.

  “Oh!” The boy nodded, and raised the ruffled edge of his sleeve to wipe.

  He didn’t get it halfway before Tyvian, with a paroxysmal lunge, slapped his hand down. “Hann’s boots! Don’t they have handkerchiefs where you come from?”

  “I’m sorry! How was I supposed to know?”

  It took all of Tyvian’s self-­control not to scream. “You should know because that is all I have been talking about for the last eight bloody hours! Fool of a boy! I should have left you in the ditch where I found you!”

  The boy’s face was beet red, and his hands balled into fists. “I didn’t—­”

  Tyvian threw up his hands. “Unbelievable! It’s like trying to speak to a rock! Look at you—­you are standing like someone smacked you with a pole, your fists are balled, your shoulders are hunched, and you can’t stop speaking Trade for five bloody seconds. We’re doomed, and all because I saw that marvelous profile of yours and thought, ‘There you are, Tyvian, a fine young man with a good chin of whom you might be able to make something. Why, he’s got the looks to be an Akrallian duke!’ What a fool I was, to mistake looks for brains!”

  “Stop yelling at me!” the boy snapped suddenly. His teeth were clenched and he stepped back from the table. “Ever since I took this stupid job, you’ve been riding me like a wooden horse on Feastday! I’ve had it! So I can’t learn a whole lifetime of bloody stupid fancy-­folk rules in a ­couple hours—­so what? You’re a bloody awful teacher, you know! I don’t know what kind of job you got planned here or what, but I don’t think it’s half as dangerous as you say it is. I think you just like putting down folks so you’ll fe
el all high and mighty, so I’m telling you now, mister, you cut it out, or I walk!”

  Tyvian stared at the golden-­haired street urchin, eyes suddenly alight. “Don’t move!”

  The boy blinked. “What?”

  “You’ve got a name?”

  “Artus.”

  “Artus, that’s it! You’ve got it!”

  “Got what?” Artus twisted slightly to look around.

  “NO!” Tyvian caught his shoulders and moved them back into place. “Your posture! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night! Just now, when you were carrying on about . . . whatever that was—­I wasn’t really listening—­then, what were you thinking about just then?”

  “How much of an arse you are?”

  Tyvian snapped his fingers. “Perfect! Now, for the rest of the night, I want you to focus on how much of an arse I am and say nothing, understand?”

  Artus nodded, skeptical. “Okay.”

  Tyvian smiled and straightened Artus’s collar. “For the first time tonight I feel like we might pull this off. Now, stand just next to my right hand. We are arriving in the city.”

  As he said this, the mournful wail of demons being released back to their plane of origin shuddered through the night air. The engine slowed immediately, and through the windows of the dining car could be seen the weathered cobblestone streets and sharply peaked roofs of the Newbank district of Galaspin. It was an ancient city, like most capitals in the West, and its writhing streets and narrow alleys seemed to brood at the modern spectacle of the spirit engine as its brass wheels coasted along adamant tracks. It being a cold night, Tyvian saw no one in the streets and precious few lights in windows until they pulled up to the glittering edifice of the Galaspin Newbank Spiritberth and their nonstop journey from Ayventry came to a halt.

  Tyvian slid the mageglass ring off his right hand and placed it on the table. He then placed the palm of his left hand on top of it and closed his eyes. The farsight augury enchanted upon the ring wasn’t strong, but it was strong enough for him to see beyond the dining car and all along the length of the spirit engine as it was unloaded and loaded in preparation for its journey to Freegate. The images came to him as hazy and dreamlike at first, but the more he concentrated, the more detail there was.

  He saw the conductor—­a heavyset man with a broad white moustache in a dark blue coat with brass buttons. He was walking from the caboose toward the engine itself, swinging his feylamp to and fro as he whistled something formless and off-­key. Tyvian moved past him—­he was of no importance whatsoever. Next there were the engine warlocks—­two of them—­who bustled about the adamant pistons and mageglass chambers of their mystical vehicle, applying ritual unguents of warding to various gaskets and reinscribing incantatory runescripts along massive brass spirit-­vessel that formed the heart of the magical conveyance’s power. Soon, their ministrations (which, Tyvian noted, were carried out with a rather pedestrian and casual air) would lead to the reinfusion of Fey demons (“engine-­fiends,” to be precise) to force the hundred-­ton vehicle along its way once more. Though the warlocks’ lack of attention to their job raised some minor concern, Tyvian also moved past them—­they were not what he was looking for.

  Moving his perception past the parade of mailbags and parcels being unloaded by a team of porters, Tyvian at last found his associate, Zazlar Hendrieux. The tall, thin Akrallian was barking orders to various thick-­necked gentlemen who were wrestling several large boxes aboard one of the cargo cars. Observing his dress, Tyvian tsked under his breath, noting that his red breeches were at least four months out of style in the Akrallian court, and that his low-­slung rapier was riding too loosely in the scabbard. If the man wanted them to come off as low-­class penny-­pinching provincial nobility, then he was doing a good job. Still, Zazlar had never been much for culture. It was enough to know that he was here, he didn’t appear to be dipping ink, and he was holding up his end of the bargain. In fact, given the sheer number of crates being loaded aboard, the swarthy thief had outdone himself in acquiring the kind of goods Rameaux was likely to want.

  Finally, Tyvian sought out Rameaux himself. Given that the platform at the berth was mostly occupied by servants and other laborers come to collect the goods and correspondence of their betters, he was easily found. Flanked by a pair of tall, broad-­shouldered bodyguards in long green cloaks, Rameaux was a puffy toad of a man in clothing so exquisite his frame could not hope to justify them. His fingers seemed to be little but hooks for glittering jewels, and his ermine cape wrapped itself around his sloping shoulders like a beast clutching a suckling pig to its breast. He looked exactly as Zazlar had described—­wealthy, proud, and foolish. If they could convince him they were legitimate nobility trying to liquidate their ancestral assets, they stood to make enough money to live comfortably for years.

  The magic in the ring began to fade, and Tyvian lost the vision of Rameaux. He opened his eyes. Artus, he noted with satisfaction, hadn’t moved from his place, but his fingers were fidgeting behind his back. Tyvian slapped them. “Be still! The moment is at hand.”

  The passengers taking the overnight engine to Freegate were few, but they did exist. As Tyvian and Artus waited in the dining car, isolated individuals, bundled against the cold winter night, shuffled past with their cases, packs, and trunks in tow. They looked to be merchants and couriers making the trip for business, not pleasure. Tyvian spotted a few distinctive brooches here and there denoting members of various guilds, but nothing that aroused much suspicion. That the Defenders might get wind of this deal was always possible, but Tyvian found it extremely unlikely. He and Zazlar had been careful.

  Finally, Rameaux appeared in the car, flanked by his guards. The Akrallian looked left and right, eyeing the huddled shapes occupying tables in various corners with open suspicion. Tyvian resisted the urge to roll his eyes—­the man couldn’t have looked more like he was up to no good if he were prancing about with a bloody saber and a bag full of heads. Yawning, Tyvian brought his left hand to his mouth. The sapphires glittered in the gold ring on that hand, drawing the attention of one of Rameaux’s guards. He nudged his master, and they came up to the table.

  Meeting with Akrallian nobility was always difficult, especially when this particular noble—­Rameaux—­was of questionable parentage and doubtful social standing. Zazlar had told Tyvian that the “Marquis” may have had a commoner for a great grandsire, a fact that had recently come to the attention of one of his political rivals. Such an impurity of the blood was unacceptable in the Griffon Court, and punishable by the stripping of titles and land. All of Marquis Rameaux’s fabulous wealth would mean nothing in the face of this disgrace, and so he had scurried here—­a thousand miles from his home country—­to acquire certain artifacts that would establish his line as pure.

  The thing that made this meeting difficult was how, exactly, the rules of etiquette applied to one such as Rameaux. If Tyvian were an Akrallian nobleman of good family but relative obscurity—­which was to be his part for the evening—­how would he greet a nobleman of comparatively higher status and wealth, who might not even be noble after all? Given the volatile nature of Akrallian pride—­a facet of their cultural personalities that had gotten Tyvian into more duels than he cared to recall—­the wrong response could likely result in Rameaux’s guards drawing the blades they clearly had concealed underneath their cloaks and running both he and Artus through without even a pardonnez-­moi.

  Having considered this interaction for some time, Tyvian had concluded that the trick was to find a balance between stroking the Marquis’s pride enough to keep him satisfied, but not so much that he himself would appear overly impressed. And then, of course, there was the ever-­so-­important formal Akrallian greeting.

  When Rameaux came to stand across the table from him, Tyvian lifted himself off his seat just far enough to execute a truncated bow, and extended his left hand,
palm upward, toward the seat opposite him. In flawless Akrallian he said, “I, Etienne DuGarre, Lord of the Blue Lake and guardian of its environs, salute you, the great Marquis Rameaux, Lord of Archanois, custodian of Pont de Mars, and the protector of its ­peoples, and offer you relaxation in my humble presence.”

  Rameaux blinked once, nodded, and sat down. He said nothing, but looked miserable. Tyvian immediately hated him; his response was nothing short of offensive. The very idea that Rameaux would greet a fellow noble that way was preposterous! Granted, Tyvian wasn’t really an Akrallian nobleman, but Rameaux didn’t know that. Were he not about to acquire half this man’s fortune, he would have challenged him to a duel right there.

  Well, Tyvian said to himself, if he’s going to be rude, so will I. He smiled at the Akrallian, “Shall we speak Trade?”

  Rameaux’s accent was slight, which was evidence of a man used to doing business. “Yes. That would be wise.”

  Tyvian’s eyes narrowed—­he didn’t like that answer either. “Forgive me if I seem impertinent Marquis, but you seem preoccupied. Are you perfectly well?”

  “If I were, I would not be here at all. Forgive me if I am blunt, but I wish to handle this affair as quickly as possible.” Rameaux drummed his fingers on the table and looked over his shoulder.

  Tyvian’s heartbeat quickened. This man was not who he said he was. No Akrallian marquis would be so forward. No Akrallian of noble bearing would drum his fingers like a nervous schoolgirl. No Akrallian would feel the need to check over his shoulder when flanked by two bodyguards. Tyvian needed a test, just to make sure. He thought about it for a moment and then said, “I took the liberty of ordering some cherille. Let us drink a toast to your success, and then carry on.”

  Rameaux looked at Tyvian, no doubt scanning him for some sign of deception. The smuggler kept his face impassive, but grinned inwardly; the impostor sensed a trap, and he was right. Tyvian’s statement was, to those well-­versed in Akrallian etiquette, a contradiction in terms. For the first part, it was unpardonably rude to presume to order refreshment for a person you had not yet met—­a custom borne out of centuries of poisonings among the halls of the Griffon Court. However, at the same time, cherille—­an ensorcelled wine that retarded the aging process—­was fabulously expensive and a kingly gift, to be sure. Turning it down would be just as offensive, and, given their respective situations, the likelihood that Tyvian, masquerading as Lord Etienne DuGarre, might be poisoning him was extremely remote. The correct answer would be to drink, but only after a counteroffer of similar expense had been extended and accepted.