Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “It is so rare for us to have armed guests at the table, Rakashi old boy,” the professor commented. Stooped and gaunt, with a fluffy fringe of white hair about his head, he was hardly one to be commenting on his guest’s age.

  “I travel much. Just as a merchant ship carries cannons or a diplomat travels with men at arms, so I carry my half-spear. One day, I may have a nice position in a university, as you have here in Acardia, but I must earn my way first. And just like a merchant or a diplomat, my travels may take me places that are not so friendly,” Rakashi said.

  “Might I have a look at it?” Professor Whitegull asked politely, peering over Rakashi’s shoulder at the handle of his weapon.

  “Of course,” Rakashi replied smoothly, drawing the blade and setting it down gingerly next to the professor’s plate. He was not normally of a habit of handing over his weapon in an unfamiliar setting, but no man who served cucumber and minced-pork finger sandwiches as lunch was a threat to take up his blade against him, no matter his age or apparent infirmity.

  The old man gave the half-spear an appraising look and ran a fingernail across the blade to see the mark it left. “Very nice. Very nice. Good workmanship coming out of Takalia these days, it seems. You keep a good edge on it too. Looks about a dozen years old, to judge by the condition of the leather on the grip. It ought to last another dozen at least before it needs any serious repair.”

  “I use it gently. I have never killed with it.” Rakashi indulged in the pleasant lie to keep the luncheon more congenial. Not every non-warrior was comfortable in the presence of one who had killed. “Twice in my travels I have been accosted, but never have I had the misfortune to shed my attacker’s lifeblood. Most of the nicks and marks you see upon it are from practice. It takes years to learn to use a half-spear well, and the learning keeps the body in good health.”

  “So what then brings you to Scar Harbor, sir?” Professor Whitegull inquired.

  “I am looking for a man named Kyrus Hinterdale,” Rakashi told him, glad to have the professor broach the change of subject so that he had a proper reason to bring up his search. “I have heard that you did business with him.”

  “Hmm, a bit, yes. Mostly with his former employer, though—Expert Chartler. Kyrus seemed like a good enough lad. You know … quiet, bookish, professorial … one of my own kind, so to speak.” The professor chuckled lightly at what he must have found to be an amusing observation. Rakashi did not patronize him by pretending to understand the jest, but merely listened respectfully. “Anyway, that whole witch business was a bunch of poppycock! Magic does not exist. If folk were less inclined to their cups, there would be fewer troublemakers claiming it did.”

  Rakashi nodded through the professor’s little tirade, as if to agree with all he was saying. With the aether-vision in his patched eye, however, Rakashi could not help but notice that the drawing room in which they ate contained no fewer than three items imbued with aether. The Society of Learned Men were either better collectors than they realized, or someone among them was more “Learned” than the others.

  “Well, whether he is a witch or not, I hope to find him. I would very much like to meet a witch if they exist. If they do not, I would like to see what sort of man would earn such a reputation,” Rakashi said.

  “Be a bit off, by most folks’ reckoning, and have the misfortune to be around some odd happenstance that a drunken mind might not wrap itself fully around. By my best conjecture, in the absence of any personal connection to the facts, that is most likely what befell Expert Hinterdale,” Professor Whitegull pontificated—pontificating being a special privilege of academia.

  Satisfied that he would find little of practical use in speaking with the professor, Rakashi instead spent the afternoon in a stimulating discussion of foreign politics.

  * * * * * * * *

  Zellisan had eaten a hearty breakfast in the common room of The Little Manor, but was intent on another morning meal with his choice of investigative subjects. The witch had apparently been friendly with one of the local bakers, and Zell was planning to sample his wares if he got naught else from his assigned task.

  Greuder’s Pastries was a tidy little establishment, not a bad walk from where he had just parted ways with the others. Apparently the Hinterdale fellow was a regular customer and friend of the proprietor, so Zell was going to see what he could learn about him.

  Business was brisk; there was room to move in the little shop. There were tables filled with late breakfasters and a small line waiting at a counter to purchase sweets to take away. They were city folk, peasant merchants, and tradesmen from the look of them, with night workers predominating the lot of them, if Zell was any judge. A large man to begin with, Zell stood out all the more for being armed in a bakery in a rather safe little Acardian seaport. The docks might have had pretentions of roughness, but the interior portion of the city stank of sweets and flowers.

  Zell played nice and waited his turn in line. Despite a number of customers in front of him, it did not take long before he made his way to the front. There was an admirable efficiency to the operation; he hoped the food was admirable as well.

  “What would you like today, sir?” the baker asked when Zell was left with none between him and the counter.

  “You know a fellow named Kyrus Hinterdale?” Zell asked, skipping to his reason for coming without preamble.

  “Haven’t got any of those today. Try a scone, perhaps?” the baker replied without pausing so much as a heartbeat.

  “You Greuder, ain’t ya?” Zell said, not to be dissuaded by an impertinent baker.

  “If I’m not, I’ve been doing him quite a favor running his bakery all these years,” Greuder replied. “Now are you going to buy something? I have customers waiting, you know.”

  Zell glanced over his shoulder, and noticed that there were indeed people who had come into the shop behind him while he was not paying attention. It was the sort of mistake that could get him killed in a place like Darkwater or Marker’s Point, but Scar Harbor was the sort of place that lulled one with its idyllic seaside charm. The name made it sound a bit rough at the edges, but the “scar” it referred to was just a sandbar that cut through the harbor on maps and looked a bit like a facial scar—if you were a cartographer or navigator with too much imagination who stares at maps all day, seeing in them shapes and objects like children do pointing up at the clouds.

  “Give me two of those little puffy ones, and two of the twisty ones. Oh, and I’ll have one of them big cream-topped ones, too.” Zell picked out whatever looked tastiest, a hard task since it all looked and smelled wonderful. He waited a breath until Greuder was busying himself about wrapping up his order, then set back in on his main line of questioning. “So you know this fellow Kyrus the Witch, or don’t ya?”

  “You another purveyor of justice for hire, then, I take it?”

  “Close, but way off,” Zell answered, not even realizing the paradox. “You’re a friend of his, I hear, so I think I can give you the back alley on this one. I’m a coinblade, and I could use a fellow like him, if rumors be true. Only a madman would go chasing a witch if he meant to do him harm. So either this Kyrus is a witch—and I’d be crazy to tangle with him if he was—or he isn’t, and I got no use finding him or trying to hire him. So now since I’m playing cards-up with you, how ’bout you tell me this: you think he’s really a witch like they say? If’n he is, any help you can give me findin’ him is no trouble to him. Either he likes my offer or he doesn’t; no one is takin’ a witch to jail twice. Even once is probably fool’s luck.”

  Greuder gave Zell a hard look. He was near to Zell’s size, but not quite, and there was far less hard muscle under his own fluffy outer layer than the coinblade’s. “Eighty-six eckles, sir,” he replied evenly.

  Zellisan fished in his pockets, and slowly counted out no less than two hundred eckles, then a few more for flair, and slapped them down on the counter. Greuder started to hand him his purchase, but noticed that Zell was not re
moving his hand from atop the coins.

  “It was a simple enough question,” Zell stated, looking Greuder square in the eye with as little menace as he could manage to keep from mustering.

  “All right then, yes. I think Kyrus pulled the hat down over our eyes and was a witch all along. He was a good lad, though … amiable, pleasant, thoughtful, bit of a wit to him. Never had I heard a word against him until suddenly they said he was a threat to everyone. Do I think he attacked constables who sought to arrest him? Of course! Back a spinster’s lap cat into a corner, and it will remind you that it still has claws; it is your fault for forgetting, and provoking it. It defended itself the only way nature provided. If they had left Kyrus alone, he would still be working at his shop, bothering no one.”

  “Fair answer. Sounds like a man who could use a new home, somewhere folk respect that everyone’s got claws o’ their own. Where you think he might head, in case someone wanted to see about offering him work?” Zell asked.

  “I doubt Kyrus has ever been outside Acardia before,” Greuder said, then sighed. “If he has any sense in him, he should find a nice quiet place to make himself a new home, and never be heard from again, at least not as Kyrus Hinterdale. If he has somewhat less sense, he might have headed to Golis; his mentor lives there now as scribe to King Gorden. I could see why he might try to have him intervene with the king.

  “Of course … if he has no sense at all,” Greuder amended, looking away as if pondering, “he might sneak back to Scar Harbor to whisk away his lady.”

  “Your friend always been the sensible sort, would ya say?” Zell asked, smiling amiably.

  “Thoughtful, perhaps. Smart as a kick in the shin. But sensible? Couldn’t rightly say.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Of course he drew the docks. It was the most dangerous assignment of all the places they meant to ask around about Kyrus Hinterdale. Zell looked toughest of all of them, and Rakashi was no clean-bladed virgin, but Tanner had magic to fall back on if things turned that special reddish version of “ugly.” He was no proper sorcerer like Soria, but he could manage to cast a shielding spell in the morning—out loud, since he could not manage silently like she could—and keep it going weakly as he went about the day. He would be fine so long as he did not doze off or become too distracted by something and let it lapse, and if he got into trouble, he could draw a bit of aether to strengthen it.

  Soria, that quick-talking horse merchant! She should be the one down here badgering longshoremen, Tanner groused internally. Anyone could walk around the docks as they pleased and not worry too much. It was when you started asking lots of questions that you had to watch for knives out of the corner of your eye. She wouldn’t even have to threaten or bribe ’em, more than likely. Pretty thing like her can just lick her lips and sway her backside, and this lot’d tell her anything and not know it.

  Tanner caught himself, and tried to remember to leave Soria’s backside out of his thoughts. Her little threats used to be cute when she was a lass. He would comment on her womanly assets, or “accidentally” walk in on her in the bath. He was getting the growing impression, though, that his leash was being pulled taut and that the next thing he said that offended her might be his last. That fellow in the bar had not been half so forward as Tanner had been on more than one occasion and she nearly killed him. It was as friendly a warning as he was likely to receive from her.

  He eased himself into his task by making casual talk with a few of the locals. They were a pathetic lot, and were more informed about parochial matters than what transpired in the greater world around them, despite working at one of the major entry points for foreigners visiting Acardia. They had all heard of the trial of Kyrus the Witch, though, and one even claimed to have been there, but none had heard of him since his escape from jail. It seemed to be common wisdom down by the waterfront that Kyrus had fallen in with the notorious pirate, Denrik Zayne. Zayne had escaped the New Hope penal colony shortly before Kyrus Hinterdale’s trial, and was unaccounted for, up to the point a navy ship was commandeered under bizarre circumstances. Folk claimed that the witch had used magic to swing a gangplank about, knocking navy sailors into the harbor as they fought to reclaim their vessel. Then one of the ships nearby had been set ablaze, burning a fair bit of the piers with it.

  Tanner was impressed. If half what the longshoremen told him was true, then this Kyrus fellow was a true sorcerer. Soria knew her business when it came to magic, but she trusted to her fists or daggers when trouble came, not fire and telekinesis. It sort of raised the question of just how Kyrus Hinterdale had gotten himself stuck in jail in the first place. He was either new to sorcery—which would have made the feats described to Tanner all the more impressive—or he had been trying to avoid confirming everyone’s suspicions that he was a witch. Of course, it was also possible that the longshoremen were having a lark with him, spouting fisherman’s tales when it was nothing but a simple daring raid on an understaffed navy frigate.

  Tanner finally found some more worldly sea-folk to talk to. Many offered ill-mannered suggestions about his parentage, gender, looks, or skin, but a few were willing to talk over free ale, which Tanner grudgingly supplied. He had a better plan than asking about some accused witch whose fame likely ended at the water’s edge. Instead he talked to them about the pirate.

  “Ya. Zayne. I heared of him,” one thick-tongued mongrel garbled in response to his query. The man chewed some pungent mash of roots that bulged one side of his mouth. “He crew his new ship in Marker Point. I think of going too, but … ahh … bad leg, see?” The man flexed one leg as if to prove it gimpy, but Tanner could see nothing wrong with it.

  Coward or liar, more like. Tanner did not challenge him, though.

  “They say where he was headed from there?” Tanner asked.

  “No’ tha I heared. Was a big powder ’splosion. Burned down lotta houses. Lotta ships left afta that. Zayne ship left too. Nobody like to stay and get blame, maybe,” the man said.

  “How’d they know it was a gunpowder and not just a fire?” Tanner asked. He had a hunch.

  “There was a big boom. No lamp oil or cookin’ fire make a boom when it burn,” the mongrel answered.

  Maybe Marker’s Point ought to be the next place we look, Tanner thought. If he could burn down ships, maybe Kyrus Hinterdale could burn down houses, too. I’m startin’ to wonder if this fella is gonna be worth the trouble he causes if we do convince him to join us. Winds, maybe we don’t wanna take the chance of him not caring much for our offer. Tanner did not like the idea of fighting a real sorcerer.

  * * * * * * * *

  Why did I do this to myself? Soria asked herself for at least the dozenth time as she strolled across Scar Harbor with a tranquil, aloof smile painted over her face. I should have traded with Rakashi; he’s more delicate with these sorts of things anyway.

  “Soria Coinblade” had been left behind at The Little Manor, and she had gone as “Darlah Silverweave” instead. Darlah was far from her favorite persona, but it was one that seemed appropriate for the day. She wore long, honey-blonde tresses, tumbling front and back of her shoulders in ringlets, and had turned her eyes a striking blue. The curls were from a ratty old wig she kept for long-haired disguises, magically tinted to whatever look suited her purpose; it was a comfortable bit of her disguise, having had it for years. The dress was less comfortable. Juliana was accustomed to dresses, but they felt weird and awkward to Soria, Darlah, and any other names she cared to take. Her muscular thighs rubbed together for lack of the proper undergarments to accompany her attire—she was not a pack mule to be carrying all that fine ladies would wear as she traveled. The warm spring breeze tickled the tops of her bosoms, which were left open for the world to see in ways that armor never would, nor her traveling gear.

  There were times when Soria looked into a mirror before going out in disguise, and could feel no connection to her reflection. Kji-Tala, her southern Kheshi persona, had never seemed so alien to her as Darlah, wh
om she had copied from a Hurlan nobleman’s daughter that she met once. Bright blue eyes looked unreal to her. Dark, Kheshi eyes had looked at her most of her life, and her own darkish green ones looked back at her often enough in reflections. Her figure seemed foreign to her as well. Her muscled arms lay hidden below a wispy layer of delicate pink fabric, and the lacings of her dress pulled it tight at her waist, making her hips seem wide when she really had very little of them to speak of. The low cut in the front, and some trick in the making of expensive dresses made it appear she had the bust of a grown woman, rather than a newly flowered maiden.

  She had almost changed her mind before leaving The Little Manor. I lie better than any of them do. I can just say I got no useful information, or make up some banal blather and take a strong liking to some lead one of them turns up. In the end, though, curiosity drove her out into the streets dressed as a lady of wealth and style (the latter being more a hope of hers, with little fashion sense of her own to count upon).

  Soria purchased a parasol from a little boutique on her way. With only a small handbag to carry, her hands itched for something to do, and she knew it would not be ladylike, whatever her idle hands did while she lost track of them. She was liable to end up cracking her knuckles or tugging at the awkward-feeling bits of her dress, possibly something worse.

  Doubts nagged at her as she crossed the city. It does not mean anything. I would bet heavy coin that Brannis did not even know of the connection until just recently. Whatever his twin did, he did on his own. “What works in one world, works in the other.”

  She reminded herself of the Rules of the Twinborn, as taught to her by Rakashi. She had known of Juliana since they were little girls together, but if Brannis had just met his twin, it would take time for them to learn from each other. Soria sat a horse better than any Kheshi-raised city girl had a right to. Juliana would give a good accounting of herself in a Takalish dagger fight, despite being a spoiled princess of a sorceress. If someone were to shout “Juliana” across a crowded room, Soria’s head would turn. It would only be a matter of time before Brannis and his twin shared the same bond.