Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  The monolithic guards within the main hall took over escort duties from the rather relieved juvenile street-thief. There was a brief mention of a warlock and a message, and two grumbling Grey Hoods took them within Foxblade’s sanctum. Mention of the warlock scared folks. No one was sure quite how far he would go to dispatch petty nuisances; the dark parts of the city were quieter than in the days before his coming, taking care to remain out of even his peripheral vision. Tod and Jodoul knew that the mention of who sent them likely saved them a knife in the gut, and they followed Foxblade’s lackeys through the complex, grateful for their uniforms that day.

  Foxblade’s offices had once been the retreat for the royal family when they were in attendance at tournaments. Outdoor competitions were most often held in the warm summer months; such traditions had changed little since the ancient tournament grounds had been the center of Kadrin festivities. Another fact that had changed little over the centuries was that as one grew more powerful and influential, one grew less tolerant of being stranded out in the summer heat. The suite of rooms was lavish, though aged. Hand-painted stonework was chipped and flaking, but still showed splashes of the color and beauty of an older Kadris.

  Foxblade himself sat behind a much newer desk of dark, polished oak. He was a pudgy man, with chipmunk cheeks and eyes twisted into a permanently annoyed and suspicious expression. He wore a grey square of cloth tied about his head to obscure his (likely receded) hairline. His fat fingers sported rings of gold and silver, with many colors of jewels among the stones they held. He puffed absently at a pipe made from the twisting horn of a ram. It was hard to picture him as the nimble sell-sword who had earned the nickname “Foxblade.”

  “Spit it. I don’t have all day. What’s this about the warlock havin’ a message for me?” Foxblade demanded without preamble. If not his body, at least his voice seemed both quick and sharp.

  “He sent us here, yeah,” Jodoul replied, stalling as his eyes scanned the shelves about the room to see if he could spot the stolen goblet among the myriad gaudy trophies the thieves had stored all around the room.

  “You boys gonna try my patience?” Foxblade snarled. “I don’t care if you work for the warlock or not. Nobody wastes my time.”

  “Well, there’s two things, ya see,” Tod said. “First off is a small matter of a pinched goblet from the palace. He’s wantin’ that back. Sent us with coin, mind ya, fer yer trouble.” Tod was trying very much to sound like the street-savvy urchin he had grown up as. He felt himself almost forcing it, having noticed that hanging about first soldiers and then imperial guardsmen had been elevating his speech a bit.

  “You mean to tell me that Rashan Solaran gives a pile of rat scat about a stolen goblet?” Foxblade sounded incredulous.

  “A bit, yeah. Not so’s as he’d send us down fer it, mind ya, but while we’s here, he made a point o’ mentionin’ it. Naw, real reason we’s here is he wants to talk to ya,” Tod bluffed, hoping that he did not look as nervous as he felt. He could feel his stomach twisting and the room felt much hotter than when they had arrived just a moment earlier.

  “Hah. Warlock wants to see me?” Foxblade asked, but looked all around the room where his guards and advisors lurked, eavesdropping openly. “Catch this load o’ vomit! Thinks I’m gonna march myself up to the warlock and talk to him. I’d be on the end o’ his blade afore—”

  “Naw, you don’t needs t’ go nowheres,” Tod interrupted, reaching into a pocket and taking in hand the cobblestone he had scratched false runes upon. He reached up and—

  “What’re you—” Jodoul began, but Tod warned him away with an gesture.

  “Naw, fair’s fair an’ all. You done the last three and more’n paid back yer debt,” Tod said, hoping that Jodoul would take the hint and shut up. Tod finished raising the stone to his forehead and held it there, just between his hairline and eyebrows.

  “Greetings, Foxblade,” Tod spoke, using his best imitation of Rashan’s voice. He had always thought he did it better than Jodoul’s impression, which had given him the idea in the first place. He tried hard to keep his expression neutral as he spoke, unlike his more animated natural demeanor.

  “What’s this now?” Foxblade replied, startled by the sudden introduction of a magically controlled thrall to the conversation, conveying words in the warlock’s own voice, it seemed.

  “I am Rashan Solaran, Warlock of the Empire, High Sorcerer, and the blood-stained right hand of the emperor.” Tod hoped he either remembered that bit all correctly, or at least that Foxblade knew it no better than he. “You are Foxblade, once known as Harton Mrull, leader of the Grey Hoods and orchestrator”—Tod knew the warlock liked using big words like that one—“of more than his share of trouble in Kadris.”

  “Hey, I am a valuable mover of coin in Kadrin and we’re no worse—and a lot better—about it than the noble houses. If you—”

  “Enough,” Tod interrupted, hoping that he was not pushing his luck beyond reason. If he were to get run through for his ruse, it would not be for lack of gusto. “Spare me your perspecations. It is not the trouble you cause that interests me, but the things that you hear in the perpetration of your dealings. I want to know what happens in Kadris and I want you to find out for me.”

  “Wait. You’re trying to hire me?” Foxblade sounded skeptical.

  Jodoul had a hand in his pocket, fiddling with the tiny smoke vial in case things went badly. The opportunity to bluff their way through with a jelly-poisoned blade had wandered off the road a few lies back.

  “You misunderstand. I do not intend to pay you; I am recruiting you into the service of the Kadrin Empire.” Tod wanted to get around the idea of having to explain why they were now paying coin to the Grey Hoods. Besides, it was much the same argument Rashan had made to him when pressing him into service as a guard at the Tower of Contemplation, though his job involved a modest salary. “Let us just say that while in service to the Empire, certain deeds may go overlooked … certain deeds that I may start becoming disconcerted with should you turn down my offer.”

  “Umm, what would that involve, exactly?” Foxblade was sweating. He clearly had little desire to work for the warlock, but even less desire to be thought to be working against him. He was happy being entirely ignored by the warlock, the Imperial Circle, and anyone with more blades at their command than he did for that matter.

  “Plots, alliances, the movement of aggravated amounts of coin,” Tod explained, trying to think what Warlock Rashan might possibly want with a gang of thugs that mostly ran protection shakedowns and petty-theft jobs. “If you know these tunnels, you know that there is one that runs beneath the palace kitchens. You will meet me there personally at midnight on each date that ends in five.”

  “Well, I guess,” Foxblade responded meekly. He was unaccustomed to being confronted. Normally he would have killed a man who spoke to him thus, or at least ordered someone to do so on his behalf. Yet he seemed unwilling to risk harming the warlock’s lackeys.

  “Oh, and see that these imbeciles are sent back with that goblet. I tend to all details, large and small. Do not become a detail,” Tod finished and then took the stone from his forehead. “Sorry,” he apologized to Jodoul. “Weren’t me sayin’ it. He was callin’ me one, too, so’s it’s not like I was havin’ a jape at ya.”

  “If you just hand over that goblet, we’ll be on our way, fellows,” Jodoul said, taking over the conversation from a relieved Tod.

  They left shortly thereafter, goal achieved.

  * * * * * * * *

  “Excellent work. I am proud of both of you,” Rashan complimented them, goblet in hand. “There is a small gathering tomorrow morning just after sunrise. You two shall attend. You have earned it. We will be gathering in the emperor’s suites.”

  Jodoul whistled. “Sounds fancy. We gotta dress up at all?”

  “No. Your uniforms will serve,” Rashan replied, turning to leave.

  “Hey, don’t you wanna know how we got the goblet?” T
od asked after him.

  “I told you when I gave you the task that I did not care how you went about it. If I now ask of you how, you might think that in the future you will have to answer such questions as well, which I do not want,” the warlock replied, pausing just long enough so he could finish before leaving earshot of the two guards.

  “Umm, well, just be expecting a visit from the leader of the Grey Hoods night after next at midnight, beneath the palace kitchens. He works for you now as an informant,” Tod shouted after Rashan, who did not turn, but closed his eyes, lowered his head, and chuckled beneath his breath.

  * * * * * * * *

  Tod did not belong in the emperor’s chambers. Every scrap of fabric, every little plate, every odd little trinket decorating an alcove was worth more coin than he would ever earn in a lifetime. He sat next to Jodoul on a divan and tried not to touch anything, even trying to keep from putting his full weight on his seat.

  Around the room, some of the other guests appeared uneasy as well. A hairy ogre of a man dressed in a peasant’s feast-day best stood trying to avoid leaning against the wall he stood next to, the painted image of Emperor Tameron hovering over him disapprovingly. A reedy thin man with a merchant’s look to his eyes kept his hands folded in his lap as his eyes bought and sold each item in the room. A stunning young sorceress dressed in black sat perched at the edge of her chair, studiously ignoring the rest of them. The one who seemed most at ease, aside from their host, was the long-haired dandy of a sorcerer—nearly as pretty as his female colleague—who lounged in a high-backed chair with gold arms.

  “Welcome, all of you,” Rashan greeted the assembly. “Some of you may have some inkling of why I have called you all here, but not all. You should know that you all have one thing in common: you have each passed a test I have set out for you.

  “When I returned to Kadrin, I found that it had been left in a shambles. Our armies had grown soft and shrunken to the point where Megrenn now stands at our borders awaiting the spring thaw to attack. The emperor was revealed to be nothing but a puppet of aether, controlled by the Inner Circle and a few key lackeys. The nobles began quarreling as soon as they found out that there was no clear successor to Emperor Dharus and I spend hours a day listening to them petition for bastards, eighth cousins, and outright frauds to ascend the throne. I found the highest positions in the land filled by arrogant, comfortable imbeciles and ruthless, conniving traitors. Against these foes I had little: a few chance companions and my kin. I was entirely certain of neither.

  “But this is where you come in, all of you. I have taken your measure and learned you for your strengths and faults. For every one of you, those faults could have cost you your life, had another sort of man come in my stead. You are rule breakers, truth benders, opportunists, and by some measure, traitors yourselves. I not only cast you free of these rules that would threaten your very lives should you come under the power of someone other than myself, I cast you free of all rules entirely.

  “You are now my Unfettered. You answer to no law but my orders. The tasks given to you were given with the understanding that I cared not how they were completed. This will be the manner of future assignments as well. If you must steal, cheat, kill … whatever you need to do, do it. Should you get caught by any Kadrin, demand to see me. I have already alerted all the noble houses and the army that all such requests must be honored. If any besides you Unfettered use this privilege, I will deal with them individually.

  “One other thing I ask is this: that nothing be withheld from me. I do not slay underlings for failure, or for bearing ill news, nor do I vent anger against those who disagree with me. I value loyalty and honesty. Deal with your enemies how you like, but deal truly with me and you will never have to fear.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” Rashan paused, waiting for his carefully rehearsed speech to sink in.

  “So … you mean, you don’t care what we do?” Jodoul asked slowly.

  “So long as you do what I tell you, all else does not concern me. Allow me to suggest something. I notice that most of you seem uncomfortable in these lavish accommodations. That is ridiculous. There is no living emperor to offend and I just told you I do not care what you do. Go ahead and break something,” Rashan suggested.

  No one in the room moved.

  Rashan frowned. “Like this, see?” The warlock moved to one of the glass-paneled doors that led out to the wintry cold of the balcony. With one finger, he poked a pane hard enough to break it, shattering both the glass and the eerie silence that fell over the room each time he stopped talking. “Now one of you. I will not force you, but feel free.”

  The pretty sorceress reached out to a porcelain vase on a small table next to her and gave it a gentle shove. It toppled to the floor and smashed into a thousand pieces, each piece likely still worth more than a gold lion. She winced at the sound, but Rashan clapped.

  “Well done. Everyone, this is Celia Mistfield, Fifth Circle. Her task was to prevent Sir Monfred Halleigh from keeping his appointment to present his case for imperial succession. He did not appear at his appointed time for an audience and has not yet petitioned for a new one.” Rashan looked around the room expectantly.

  The huge man by the painting of Tameron turned and regarded the dead emperor’s likeness, then gently lifted it by the bottom of the frame with one finger, loosing it from the cord by which it hung. The man’s finger was not enough to balance the portrait and it toppled sideways to smash on one corner against the floor.

  “Tameron was the least favorite of the emperors I served and that likeness of him brought me no fond memories,” Rashan proclaimed, beaming. He was clearly enjoying the little acts of vandalism he was inspiring. “I present you Sanbin Colvern, a weaponsmith from Raynesdark. His task was to forge a weapon from a dragon’s tooth, a feat he has not only achieved, but duplicated. I shall not go into details now, but it is quite a tale in its own right. Now who would be next?”

  Jodoul leaned forward to reach an exquisite crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid. He unstoppered it and took a sniff. Nodding in approval, he poured it sloppily across a half dozen small matching crystal goblets until there was none left. Then he took the empty decanter and casually dropped it over his shoulder to smash on the floor as he lifted one of the goblets to his lips.

  “Marvelous. Our brandy connoisseur is Jodoul Brect, one of my personal guards in the Tower of Contemplation. He and Tod Hellet …” Rashan paused for a moment and looked at Tod, who took a moment to pick up on his cue. Tod then snatched up the stopper to the decanter, and pitched it through yet another pane of the glass-paneled door, prompting Rashan to continue his introduction. “He and Tod navigated Kadris’s underbelly to find and retrieve an object stolen from the palace.”

  Not waiting to be prompted, the lounging sorcerer casually tossed a small wire cage containing a beautiful songbird across the room. “Catch,” he called out to the thin nervous man who had heretofore avoided contact with anything in the room. Aghast, the man lunged to catch the bird, which was just close enough for him to reach before it crashed to the floor. He caught nothing but air, however, and knocked over a display case of ornamental daggers in the attempt. The bird cage, being nothing but an illusion, disappeared entirely.

  “Wonderful. Full credit to our resident illusionist, Faolen Sarmon, Third Circle. Should anyone tell you that the smuggler ship Song of Night ran aground due to rough seas or a drunken helmsman, he is lying. As for his cat’s-paw in the destruction of that display of daggers, meet Aelon Beff. Aelon also fought at the Battle of Raynesdark as part of the militia. He was a great help in finding a trading company that does business both here and in Megrenn. We had need of such men.

  “Other than the items that would be irreplaceable, it would likely cost the Empire thousands of lions to repair the damage we have just done here. I never liked this sitting room, and since my previous tenure, it has only grown a hundred winters uglier in my eyes. Once I leave you, I suggest you acquain
t yourselves with one another and feel free to continue ravaging these tasteless furnishings. Before then, though, there are two matters. Firstly, any questions you might have …” Rashan waited expectantly.

  “We passed your tests. Did all? Were there others who failed and if so, what became of them?” Aelon asked.

  “Fair questions, both,” Rashan replied. “In fact, no. Not all whom I tested were successful. Through no action of mine, two died and the rest returned to whatever duties they held before, with no blight in my eyes.”

  “Did everyone accept your offer?” Celia wondered.

  Rashan smiled. “Nearly all. One suggested I attempt a rather painful anatomical contortion when presented with my offer.”

  That drew chuckles from everyone.

  “And is he still alive, too?” Celia followed up.

  “I brought no harm to anyone I tried to recruit. That is one thing you are simply going to have to see for yourself over time. I am not wanton or capricious in how I bring violence, even to those I may dislike. Fail me and I trust that you will learn from your failure. I do not like failings, but I understand how they can be taken to advantage. Killing those who fail or dissent is utter foolishness,” Rashan said. It bothered him how history had taken the detailed nuances of his life’s work and painted over them with a thick brush, turning him into a caricature. It would take time, he knew, to alter those perceptions.

  “Any others, besides us?” Faolen queried, having some inkling as to another who might be kindred to them.