by J. S. Morin
Soria kept on wrestling with her own thoughts, and decided thrice to turn back, only to find that her legs had dutifully kept her on a steady course as her mind had wandered halfway to Kadrin and back. She finally arrived in front of a studio door. A painted sign above showed a brush and palette, colorfully painted. The sign was not carved at all to stand against weather and still proclaim its message as wind and rain faded and wore the colors; it was a sign of a cheap sign.
Nothing to be done but to do it, she told herself firmly.
Soria knocked on the door. She heard muffled voices from inside, followed by footsteps. If it were not already squished tight by her dress, her stomach would have clenched with nerves.
“Good morning,” a comely young girl answered as she opened the door.
Celia! The thought struck Soria like an arrow to the heart, but the sensation passed. No, but close enough, I think. Celia Mistfield had been newly appointed as one of Juliana’s least favorite people, ever since she had turned up after the Battle of Raynesdark and started trying to woo Brannis away from her. The girl was built the same as Celia, at least: middling height—certainly not so tall as Soria—but with an ample bosom and hips that did not need a tailored dress to prove their presence. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes, but Celia’s face was more angular. Celia's eyes were also less bright and more cunning than those of the young painter who had just greeted Soria.
“Good morning,” Soria returned in kind after a pause that was just on the borderlands of awkwardness. “I understand that you are an artist. You have been recommended,” Soria spoke airily, and with as Acardian an accent as she could manage. Her brain was feeling just a touch fuzzy and she hoped it was piloting its course well enough without both hands upon the wheel.
“Please, come in. I shall just be a short while longer. I have a sitting this morning, but I can get you a chair if you don't mind waiting.”
The artist—Soria knew her name was Abbiley Tillman, but stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact—was saccharinely pleasant in her manner. Her voice sang better in conversation than Soria or Juliana could manage in song when truly trying. Soria tried hard not to hate her.
She followed the artist inside the studio, and took the proffered seat once it had been dusted off. Soria folded up her parasol and set it point down against the floor like a cane, holding it with both hands lest her idle habits embarrass her. She made a concerted effort to unclench her jaw, which she had not intended to clench in the first place, working it side to side a bit when no one was looking in order to relax the muscles of her face.
The studio had one other occupant, a gentleman of perhaps thirty years of age, dressed in his feasting-day finest. He was seated upon a small wooden stool near the window, well illuminated by the morning sunshine. He was a dashing fellow, with curling hair that hung to just below his jaw and that framed a face with bright brown eyes and a determined nose. Halfway between Soria and the gentleman was a canvas showing a striking likeness of him, rendered in colored oils.
“Tomas Harwick, my lady. It is my pleasure,” the gentleman introduced himself when he noticed Soria looking at him. He was smiling as he said it, apparently taking her casual interest for less-than-casual interest, or at least being in the habit of often thinking such, and reacting flirtatiously by rote.
“Darlah,” Soria replied, startled from her mind’s wandering to the point where she caught a bit of Kheshi in her own introduction. Composing herself quickly, she tried again. “Darlah Silverweave.”
“Feel free to have a look around as you wait. If you like, you might even assure Mr. Harwick that his portrait is nearly finished,” Abbiley—the artist—said, not turning from the canvas to which she had returned and resumed her work. “I have not let him see it yet. It is unseemly for a man to see himself half-finished,” she jested, smiling.
Merciful One, dimples!
Soria let her eyes sweep around the small studio. Every space along the walls was taken up by paintings, not hung, but rather leaning against the walls. Most were portraits, but a few landscapes and seascapes were mixed in. On a whim, and with nothing better to occupy her time, Soria looked into the aether. The dashing Mr. Harwick seemed ordinary enough as Sources go, and the artist girl seemed robust and healthy, but nothing special. She noticed a necklace that the girl wore. It was some cheap jade thing that they sold far and wide in Khesh and shipped by the crate to foreign lands where they would fetch better prices. It was the sort of stuff jade-workers gave their apprentices to practice on. The artist was wearing one that had a bit of aether in it.
Where did you learn to do that little trick, Brannis?
After an uncomfortable half hour of forcing herself repeatedly to try to relax, the sitting was finally at an end. Tomas Harwick was overjoyed at his likeness and promised to send a servant by to collect it later that day. Soria had muttered some platitudes to keep in character.
“So, Lady Silverweave, thank you for waiting. How may I be of service?” the artist asked cheerily.
You can tell me where Brannis is and save me the trouble of beating the information out of you!
“I was hoping you might paint a simple portrait for me,” Soria said instead. She reached into her handbag and removed a scrap of paper. It was the bounty notice of Kyrus Hinterdale, with the written part at the bottom torn off, leaving just the sketched image. “I have made inquiries and I have come to understand you knew the subject of this crude likeness.”
Soria saw the girl’s smile falter. “Aye, milady. Put it away please, if you would not mind so much. I could paint Expert Hinterdale from memory well enough, should I wish to. If you do not mind my asking, what is he to you?” the artist asked.
Aha! The first sign of jealousy, eh? He was mine before he knew you existed.
Soria had done her scouting, though, and had everything prepared. “My father is a dear friend of Expert Davin Chartler, to whom Expert Hinterdale was once apprenticed. I understand that they were quite close, and Expert Davin has taken hard the awful news to have come out about Expert Kyrus. The portrait would be a gift to him.”
Abbiley’s suspicious demeanor melted like chocolate left under the summer sun. “Oh, that is so kind of you.”
I have a talking duck I can sell you as well, Soria thought. How does this girl run a business being this naive?
“Have you any news of Expert Hinterdale that you could share? Any word at all might be some comfort,” Soria crooned, hamming up her performance now that she realized how easily the girl was taken in.
“No, but if you must know, he did admit to me that there was some truth to what they accused him of,” the girl said sheepishly. “Not that I believe for a moment that he meant anyone harm, of course.”
“If you believe he is a witch, why would you not believe he killed two men and escaped with a pirate?” Soria prodded, having heard the same rumors and tales as most folk about the night Kyrus made off with one of the navy’s finest ships, reportedly in the company of Denrik Zayne.
“I am sure he had nothing to do with that,” the artist girl said, raising her voice. “He might have escaped, but he did not do the rest of that awful stuff.”
“I think it just might be possible that you did not know him as well as you thought. If you truly ever loved him, he could tell you that all that happened is true, and it would change nothing. Consider for the moment that every bit of what people say about him is true. Consider that he killed men who wished him ill and took the only means of escape at hand, making allegiance with a pirate. Could you still love him?” Soria pressed, forgetting to keep the Kheshi out of her Acardian. Abbiley seemed disinclined to notice.
“Kyrus isn’t like that! He told me that he had dreams of being a knight,” Abbiley said.
“Then he wishes to be like that. That is the sort of thing knights do.” Soria stabbed the verbal dagger into Abbiley’s heart. Feeling a twinge of remorse, she made a small alteration to her plan. She took some coins from her handbag. “He
re is a thousand eckles,” she told Abbiley, having no idea how much portraits cost and guessing that it ought to be enough. “Have the finished work sent to Davin Chartler, care of the palace in Golis. Paint Kyrus as you remember him, not as you have discovered him to be.”
Soria was sweating and dizzy when she left the studio. She had never expected the girl to have any useful information about Kyrus Hinterdale’s whereabouts, but once she had learned that Kyrus had courted her, Soria had to meet her.
You obviously learned some things from my Brannis, Mr. Hinterdale; you are not figuring out magic all on your own, I would wager. You also obviously have a lot left to learn from him, though, if that girl was the best you could find here.
Chapter 6 - Unfettered
“You sure you oughtta be doing that?” Tod asked, a note of concern in his voice as he peered over his companion’s shoulder.
“You gotta listen close, I think. He says what he means, real exact like,” Jodoul replied, twisting a thin metal rod into the end of the little lock. “He gave us the coffer and said there was thirty lions in it. We find the goblet, we get it back, he says. ‘I do not care how; just do what you need to do.’” Jodoul mimicked the warlock’s voice as best he could. “We gotta get our goal, see, and he won’t care what we did.”
“I don’t think that meant breakin’ his coffer,” Tod said.
“What’s a coffer? Bit o’ wood and iron. He wants that goblet what got stole from the cupboards where they keep the fancy stuff for them feasts. I’m getting the idea that Warlock Rashan ain’t the sort to muck about on small stuff like a broken coffer. Besides, how we gonna spend the thirty lions finding it if it’s locked up inside? We ain’t even counted it.”
“I’m pretty sure gold goblets is small stuff when you’re emperor,” Tod said, attempting to bring some perspective to the conversation. “And how you figure he might short us on just thirty lions? Prob’ly got himself a whole cellar full o’ little coffers like that, filled with lions.”
“He ain’t emperor, he’s regent,” Jodoul said, breaking out in a grin as the lock gave way and the coffer popped open. The coffer contained thirty gold lions, just as promised. “Let’s go buy us some answers.”
The two spent a good portion of the day talking to old acquaintances of the less savory variety. Few men got conscripted into the army if they had a stable trade and enough coin to do all their business in the marketplace. Neither Tod nor Jodoul had been much for apprenticeships or day labor. Tod was from Naran Port originally, and had earned much of his coin at dice and reselling “lost” valuables at a small profit. Jodoul was from Kadris, and used to run errands for the sort of ruffians that thought they had elevated themselves above the less “sophisticated” class of scum. That was before a misplaced delivery had run him afoul of his former employers, and he sought refuge in the spear-and-mail of the Imperial Army as a volunteer; the army never frowned on willing conscripts.
Most folk who had known either of the two had been well-enough informed to know that they were working for the warlock, so getting anyone to talk candidly ate into their supply of the warlock’s lions rapidly. They spoke of old times and common friends, inquired after the health of relatives and offered condolences when hearing of former comrades who had not survived their last job. When the subject turned to practical matters, suddenly a man who had once known where half the goods in the city were heading would not so much as admit to seeing the sun yesterday—“The sun? Never seen it. You got the wrong guy.” It was not that Tod and Jodoul were armed. Their short swords and daggers would avail them little if anyone really wanted them brought to harm. It was that they were now playing for the side of the law.
At length, they found someone who did not know who either of them was, and they were able to at least learn that the goblet had been fenced through someone named Derrel Three-Finger. Then the three-fingered thief had sold them the name of his buyer for five lions, leaving them eighteen after their fruitless efforts chatting with former associates. They were looking for Foxblade.
“Rotten luck. What say we head north, maybe throw in with Megrenn?” Tod jested.
Foxblade was head of the Grey Hoods, who ran an unfair share of Kadris’s less reputable enterprises.
“Naw. Anything goes, right?” Jodoul asked. “I got an idea.” He beckoned for Tod to follow him.
Tod paused for a moment, brow furrowing in thought. “I got a better one.”
The two exchanged suspicious glances, daring the other to divulge his idea first.
In the end, neither told his plan, but they went off together preparing for them nonetheless. They were already near enough to markets that Jodoul’s side trip was short. He purchased some smoke vials, caltrops, and a small jar of mint jelly.
“All right, you got me,” Tod admitted. “I see what ya might want the smokies and caltrops for, if’n you’re thinkin’ this is gonna be a snatch ’n’ run. I’ll be sliced six ways if I know what the jelly’s for though.”
Jodoul had them duck into a side alley where there were fewer eyes about. He drew his dagger and dipped it in the jelly. “Stuff looks like spider venom stuff the Olaks use, if ya spread it on thin. My old man showed me once. To most folk, it’d just seem like jelly, but a smart fella like Foxblade’ll know about spider venom.” Jodoul dipped his finger in the jelly and put it in his mouth. “Tastes loads better, don’t cost hardly nothin’, and won’t rot yer finger off if’n you nick yourself.”
Tod glanced down the alley in both directions, gave a little half smile, and knelt down to pry up a pair of cobblestones from the streets. Keeping his back to the main thoroughfare, he drew his own blade and scratched at the surface of one of the stones, then the other. He then drew a small flask from inside his coat, and upset it over the two stones, washing them clean of dirt with his fingers. There was a strong smell of alcohol.
“Hey now! That’s a waste o’ good firewine,” Jodoul protested.
“Aww, cram it,” Tod replied, not looking up from his work. “I’ll pinch some more when we get back to the palace, leastwise if’n we live.”
Finding Foxblade was not so difficult. He had folk all over Kadris working for him, from the dockside to the markets and back again. It was easier bribing one of his underlings to get a meeting than it was to find out about the goblet in the first place. Tod nabbed a street mouse aged no more than ten winters, and told him he would get dragged to the warlock himself if he did not lead the way to the thief’s lair. Folk were scared of the warlock, seeing as he had executed three members of the Inner Circle as traitors and the Inner Circle was a bunch that none wanted to cross. Considering Tod and Jodoul still both wore imperial uniforms, the threat seemed likely enough; the warlock had his hand in far more of the city’s affairs than previous rulers had ever seemed to. Reluctantly the boy led them down to the sewer level of the city.
Kadris’s sewers were a thoroughfare in their own right. Despite magical wards preserving the buildings, the city was over six thousands summers old, and had been rebuilt in whole or in part a number of times. The ground beneath the great metropolis was not entirely firm, and over time the city slowly sank; it was hundreds of summers before anyone would notice a change, but the city’s forefathers had hundreds to spare. As the city was pushed down into the soil, buildings were filled in, streets walled off and turned into new sewers, and new construction would proceed atop. Thus, when Tod and Jodoul walked down what appeared much like the siding of a main road, it most certainly once had been exactly that.
Various groups made their homes in the layers underneath Kadris. The level more immediately below the city’s surface was foul, but largely habitable. Its streets were wetted with filth, and runoff from storms, but many buildings of the lower levels had been cleared out and repurposed, sharing the underworld with the cellars of more respectable establishments on the topside, and often having passages leading from the world of merchants to the world of thieves—and only the foolish saw the two as such different creature
s. Brothels, gambling dens, smugglers, mercenaries, assassins, and simple thieves shared space below, with room enough that territorial disputes were rare.
The largest hazard faced by the subterranean citizens of Kadris were the wardkeepers. The sewers and sub-structure needed maintenance, and the Imperial Circle sent sorcerers about to make sure nothing got too badly out of shape. Folk who lived below got to learn which wardkeepers would share an ale or friendly conversation and which ones were best not to trifle with. By unspoken agreement, the wardkeepers were off limits to all manner of harassment; the last time one had been so much as wounded in the sewers, a dozen sorcerers and a hundred guardsmen had been dispatched to clear a wide swath of the tunnels of all inhabitants.
They saw no wardkeepers, though, as the young thief led them through the meandering underground city. Folk occasionally passed on one dark errand or another, in both the literal and figurative sense. Torches and lanterns dotted the streets here and there, along with bits of magic for light, but mostly they found their way by vague shadow. Tod was surprised the boy had not tried to bolt and lose himself in the darkness; there would have been little recourse for the two guardsmen if their little guide managed to get more than a pace away and quickly change direction. The stone streets echoed with their footsteps, which would make it nearly impossible to track him by sound. Combined with the darkness, the boy was only a quick twist free of Tod’s grip from vanishing on them.
After a time, they came to a building that had once been part of the tournament grounds some several hundred years earlier. While the exploits of knights, archers, and gladiators would have taken place in the open air, all about the grounds themselves were seating for spectators, preparation areas for competitors, armories, storerooms, kitchens, stables, and offices for administrators. Foxblade’s Grey Hoods had excavated out most of the old structure for their own use as a headquarters. While the thieves’ reputation was dark and sinister, the spot they made for themselves as a home was anything but. Once they were let inside, Tod and Jodoul were met with a comforting amount of light and a strong scent of incense that did a fair job masking the smell of human filth, both from the sewers and from the residents of the Grey Hoods’ abode.
