by J. S. Morin
Jinzan was a sorcerer of fire, water, wind, and stone. The Megrenn High Council counted among their members a man named Varduk Steelraven. Varduk was a sorcerer of coins. Folk said that he could sell a man a gold hex—the six-sided coins the Megrenn mint turned out, along with silver squares and copper circles—and charge him two hexes for it. As minister of finance, Varduk had been responsible for Megrenn’s economic success. He set taxes, tariffs, duties, and a hundred other means of controlling the flow of money. He worked coins like an expert glassworker, slowly and methodically forming a bubble of molten glass, shaping it to his vision, and sure-handedly skirting the edge of ruining his piece without ever doing so. It was the same with coin. Men saw what Varduk did and tried to emulate him, but always they were missing something: a deftness of hand, a keenness of timing, and the understanding of the roots of why men spent their coin or did not.
Varduk had seen the demonstration of the cannon and saw it not as a specially formed piece of cast bronze, but as a rather large pile of gold hexes. He had been the one who saw victory embodied in the cannon’s novelty and utility. Jinzan was asked to sell its virtues to the visiting dignitaries and make them wish to own them. Jinzan was a patriot, and he hated the Kadrins as much as any of the Council. With some trepidation, he was persuaded to play the role of a street hawker.
“What price will you ask for these?” asked one of the more practically minded of the visitors.
“Ten thousand gold hexes and after the demonstration, you will consider it a bargain,” Varduk spoke up from the back of the assembly, where he had been waiting to chime in once the discussion inevitably turned from show-and-tell to buy-and-sell.
* * * * * * * *
The Fehr Estate had extensive gardens with lush green grass. Fruit trees and flower beds were scattered about in whimsical arrays, with trellis-covered walkways wending their way throughout.
The assemblage of foreign allies was congregated at one end of the vast central lawn, clustered on the breech side of the cannon. They had already taken a brief walk to inspect the mortared stone wall that had been built some three hundred paces distant. A trio of foreign-born sorcerers had been hired to inspect the cannon, the wall, and all the accoutrements that went along with the demonstration and to verify that there was no magic at work.
It had amused Jinzan to watch old men leaning against the wall with their shoulders and rapping soundly at it with walking canes. You are the ones here to buy. You need convince none but yourselves. Perhaps as youths you might have truly tested the wall with such efforts, but you could not have toppled a wall of loose bricks.
When everyone was settled into their seats in a great semicircle, with no line of sight to the target obscured, Jinzan went through the process of loading and readying the cannon. He was grateful to the goblin tinkers who had improved on the Acardian design when they made it. The pull-chain mechanism that sparked the powder was something he never would have thought of, and it made for a more predictable demonstration than lighting the cannon with a brand would.
“Honored guests, the moment you have all journeyed here to see. I give you the Fehr Cannon,” Jinzan announced grandly, flourishing with his left hand as the right gripped the pull chain, facing his audience and not the target. With a quick motion, he tugged the chain.
Kthooom!
There were screams of surprise as the shock wave of sound tore through the spectators. Jinzan had given them no warning of the sound it would make: a deep, sonorous cracking that shattered the very air. Battle-hardened veterans had heard the blasts of arcane magic that some sorcerers used in battle, but those were a kitten’s whisper when held against the sound of a cannon’s report from three paces away.
Those steel-nerved enough to have kept their vision downfield on the target saw nothing of the projectile that flew from it, only its impact a heartbeat after the report. A great cloud of dust obscured the wall immediately, but as the wind slowly parted the stony curtain of debris, the wall could be seen to be in a sorry state. An arm’s length thick, twice the height of a man and four times as wide, a massive chunk was missing, turned to rubble and dust, with the larger chunks presumably having fallen on the far side.
As the assemblage gaped at the stricken wall, Jinzan was already at work cleaning the bore. He did all the work manually so that none could accuse him of altering the cannon’s performance through the use of magic even for something so simple as cleaning the gun. He also wished them to see how quickly it could fire a second shot. Once he had cleared the bore and reloaded it with powder, wadding, and one of the remaining two shots, he nudged the cannon’s aim over just a fraction.
Taking up the chain once again, he deigned to issue a warning: “You may wish to guard your ears. It gets no quieter than the last.” And with that, Jinzan pulled the chain again, wincing as he thought of the damage that was being done to his gardens.
Kthooom!
Jinzan knew enough of the showman’s trade to understand that you do not demonstrate something against a challenging target. Build something impressive enough, but leave enough room for the result to be spectacular. The wall had stopped neither of the shots, and no doubt the cannonballs were now lying in some devastated flower bed.
“If you all will be so kind as to follow me, we shall have a look at the damage that we have wrought.” Jinzan stooped to pick up the one remaining cannonball. “And we also have a bit of a puzzle ahead of us. Somewhere in the gardens, there are two more of these. Familiarize yourselves with the look of them, and let us see about finding where they have gone.”
Jinzan then passed the cannonball around, and let everyone have a turn examining it. He had little doubt the shots would be easy enough to find; it was just more showmanship. Let them see the cannonball, and wonder that such a small thing had caused so much havoc.
At the head of the assembly as they walked down toward the wall, Jinzan smirked.
* * * * * * * *
That same evening, after the various foreigners had departed with dreams of cannons in their eyes, Jinzan sat on his own terrace with a glass of Halaigh wine in his hand. He was accompanied by Varduk Steelraven and his wife Tuleen, as well as his own three wives, Nakah, Frenna, and Zaischelle. It was a small, reserved celebration of a great many promising deals ahead with the trade nations of the Aliani Sea.
They dressed warmly against the cool evening air, but the smell of the nearby sea made it pleasant despite a bit of chill. Down below in the gardens, Jinzan’s children played with Varduk’s. The children laughed and shouted, making the palatial estate feel homey rather than intimidating. Of all the sounds that Jinzan associated with Zorren, it was the one he had missed the most during his time away among the goblins.
“Listen to them down there,” Jinzan remarked. “Did we make such riots at their age? I think not.”
“Perhaps we did, and do not remember,” Varduk answered. The black-bearded mercantile genius had known Jinzan for over twenty winters, when they had fought together in the Freedom War. There were few men in the world Jinzan knew or trusted so well.
“I think not. I think we laughed and shouted, true, but those are the sounds of freeborn children, who have never lived under Kadrin rule,” Jinzan said. “There is no fear in them. There are no secrets to keep. Should any man take issue with their manner of dress or how they address some soldier, a magistrate will stand between them and brutal punishment, not some Kadrin lord. They could never tell you the difference themselves, but I hear it.”
“Jinzan, you should drink more often. We can make a poet of you yet if you loosen your tongue more often,” teased Nakah, Jinzan’s second wife.
With the population of able-bodied men vastly depleted by the Freedom War, the Megrenn High Council had decreed that men might take two wives each, except for the Liberators. The Liberators were the heroes of the rebellion, and might take as many wives as they could find women who would have them. Despite their hatred for their Kadrin oppressors, they had learned the lesson that s
trong blood begets strong blood. Nakah Fehr was born in the faraway Painu Islands. Her father had been one of the merchant princes who threw in with the Megrenn when it seemed clear they would win their freedom. He had offered his eldest daughter as a gift to strengthen relations between Painu and Megrenn. Nakah had skin the color of walnut wood, with striking green eyes like a cat’s, which stood out from her dark skin. In the sixteen summers since, she had barely aged in Jinzan’s eyes.
“As you prefer,” Jinzan replied, taking a large swallow from his glass, drawing a chuckle from his companions.
“What will the world be like, once Kadrin surrenders?” asked Tuleen Steelraven, a plump woman who ran a third of Varduk’s trading empire for him. She had been a beauty in her youth, but traded the primping and preening of her vapid contemporaries for a life of ledgers and business dealings after her marriage. She loved her husband for teaching her his trade rather than expecting her to just tend to babes and look pretty.
“Better, once it has been watered in blood,” suggested Frenna, Jinzan’s first wife, though not his eldest. He had wedded her as a barely flowered girl, taking her into his protection after her parents died in the war. She had been heir to a large fortune and lands—on which they were now gathered—and the arrangement had been largely political. In no rush for heirs of his own, Jinzan had waited years before consummating their vows, leaving her in the hands of tutors, and eventually Nakah’s care, before finally making a proper wife of her. He kept largely away from her in the meantime, not wishing to form too strongly the image of his wife as a child. She was a bitter one, though, Frenna was. Any mention of Kadrin reminded her of her slaughtered parents—it was, sadly, something she had in common with her husband.
“It will be better once the harmless, beleaguered peasants realize they have been freed from the yoke of the Imperial Circle and the noble houses,” Jinzan corrected. Jinzan had lived in Kadris as a youth while training as a sorcerer. Possibly the most valuable lesson he had learned in his time there was that peasants were all largely alike. They worked, they fell in love, they raised families, and they died. If left undisturbed, they would do the same under any ruler who wished to claim dominion over their homes, in any part of the world where crops could push their way up through the soil or fish could be wrested from the sea.
“To the sword with all of them, then?” Varduk asked, goading Jinzan just a bit.
“By and large, I suppose. Most are too invested in the current system to embrace real change that would not have them pulling the puppet strings from safe in their fortresses. A few might see reason and join in truth, and not just say the words to keep their neck employed holding head to shoulders.”
“What of the warlock?” Varduk asked. “Is that staff of yours enough?”
“The Staff of Gehlen is our best answer to that threat, yes. I suspect we will have a game of Guards and Cutthroats on our hands, and I do not know yet who will be who. Certainly it ought to be enough to overmaster any of the rest of their sorcerers, but I will always refrain from making assumptions where it relates to Rashan Solaran. One day, I think, fate will pair us across a battlefield and the river of history will be diverted to a new path.” The warlock was a problem to be sure, but the staff ought to help with that. Jinzan was more worried about Kyrus Hinterdale and his counterpart. He knew of cannons as well, and might think of other inventions to bring to Kadrin from the other world.
He is too clever by far. Cannons were the best weapon I could think to bring, but that does not mean he will not match me. Who can say what pieces of Tellurak I might find cropping up among the Kadrins?
“Councilor Jinzan,” one of the young pages of the estate interrupted the conversation apologetically. “There is a goblin to see you. He seemed polite enough, so I allowed him in to wait in the front sitting parlor.”
“Hmm?” Jinzan disengaged his mind from the philosophical, and re-emerged in a more suspicious state. “Did the goblin give a name?” Goblins were not unheard of in Megrenn, and Zorren had a few small goblin enclaves. Jinzan suspected that any goblin calling on him personally was not local.
“Gut me if I know, sir,” the page answered. “He understands Megrenn just fine, but I could not say he speaks it. He had a go of it, but it sounded like someone was hurtin’ him, so I begged him to stop. If he had a name somewheres in there, I sure did not catch it.”
Jinzan smiled at the irreverent page. Among his own people, it felt good to hear honesty for a change. He heard so little of it outside Megrenn borders. He suspected he would hear little from his new guest as well, given his recent experiences with the goblin folk.
* * * * * * * *
“You?” Jinzan’s first word of shock greeted his guest.
Unafraid of assassins or other treachery, Jinzan had shortened the rest of his evening with his wives and guests, and gone to see the goblin visitor. He was a wizened little creature with grey-green skin and thin grey hair, sitting in a human-sized chair with his feet dangling halfway to the floor. He peered up at Jinzan through a thick pair of spectacles.
[Ha-ha, Sorcerer, I see life among your own kind treats you well. That is good,] K’k’rt greeted his one-time ally.
Jinzan understood goblin-speech perfectly well, and did not ever remember hearing the goblin butcher his own language. Until shortly ago, he had not known whether this goblin understood Megrenn or not. During his time among their people, Jinzan had spoken the more widely understood Kadrin dialect of human.
[I could not help but hear the sound of one of my cannons earlier today,] K’k’rt said. [It is good to hear that at least one was saved.]
K’k’rt was the goblin tinker responsible for converting Jinzan’s sketches of an Acardian-style cannon into the working devices that had been used in the Battle of Raynesdark. Though the cannons had been successful, and Jinzan had escaped with the Staff of Gehlen, the rest of the battle had gone far beyond poorly for the goblin side.
“I did not know that any of your people survived the battle,” was all Jinzan could think to reply. With the death of their dragon goddess, there was little hope for the goblins when faced with the demon the Kadrins had dredged up from somewhere in their history books. Rashan Solaran, by all accounts, had massacred the lot of them.
[Ha-ha, I do not hear any joy in your voice at finding that I am alive. How unsurprising. Still, I think you will be happy to see me before long,] K’k’rt said.
“Why would that be?” Jinzan asked, not bothering to dispute the goblin’s suggestion that he was indifferent to K’k’rt’s survival. The tinker was useful, but could be grating at times, with his flippant and condescending attitude; he was also too observant and too often correct, traits that annoyed Jinzan in others.
[I hear you need to make cannons,] K’k’rt answered, smiling a wide toothy smile. [I could probably be of some help.]
* * * * * * * *
While the rest of the children had been out playing, one of Jinzan’s brood had slipped away unnoticed. Anzik Fehr was an odd boy who never fit in well with the other children. Many children learned to dislike sport, or their studies, or any subject they began to find tedious or difficult. Anzik disliked everything.
He did not throw tantrums or pout. He did not cause trouble. He did … not. He did lots of not. Anzik looked at things, and seemed to think a great deal, but by and large did nothing. Sometimes he would refuse to take his lessons, only to be found later to be engrossed in the same book that his tutors had tried to get him to read. On the occasions he could be drawn into conversation, he seemed remarkably bright, as if all that he had appeared to ignore had been absorbed and tucked away in his mind.
Despite being just shy of eleven springtimes old, he would sometimes be found playing with blocks meant for children young enough to still soil themselves. He would ignore all attempts to persuade him to more appropriate activities, not even looking at those who spoke to him. Calls to mealtime might well have been spoken to the stones of the wall.
But ma
gic was somewhat different. Anzik did magic. No one seemed to approve when he did, though. Jinzan had discovered when Anzik was very young that his son saw the aether all the time. It was a debilitating thing to a young child, seeing always what most folk cannot see at all. It must have been like living in another world from everyone else. But the time he spent looking there had given him insight, and made magic easy for him. While there seemed to be no malice behind it, his workings in the aether always seemed to cause mischief.
The worst was when one of the Fehr dogs died. Distant as he was with people, Anzik seemed almost on the level of the dog when they were together. The dog was old but playful, and it reacted simply to Anzik’s commands in a way that people never did. He had been despondent when the dog had died. Days later, he seemed happy again. His mother Frenna had been relieved, but Jinzan had been suspicious. They had found the dog stationed out near the kennels, awaiting commands, animated from the dead by Anzik’s magic. He had fixed his broken pet and been so proud. It crushed his spirit anew when Jinzan had destroyed it as an abomination, much more so than the beating and reprimands that had followed.
Thus it was no surprise that none of the other children had wished to play with him or even gave him a thought as they played. The governess who was looking after the children that night usually paid him little mind; none of his worst offenses had occurred during her watch.
