Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “The ship is ready to fly. It just needs aether to get it started. I will empower it momentarily. I just wanted to wait until you were ready to depart. I … um … think it may draw a small amount of attention. I will show you everything you need to command the ship; it is as simple to use as I could think to make it. As for the captaining part … you already run a small crew of mercenaries in Tellurak, plus you have been aboard a number of ships; you have seen how captains act.”

  “But what do I do once I leave? I am not a battle commander.”

  “No, but you are a mercenary. I do not want the Daggerstrike within a cannon’s range of a real battle. I want you to cause havoc. Ambush supply caravans, pick off scouting parties, strike remote garrisons, that sort of thing. I shall leave the details entirely to your judgment and discretion.”

  Juliana got a quick tutoring on everything she would need to know about the controls for the ship, how to steer it, how to make it climb or dive. Everything from the gangplanks to the hidden hatches in the sides to disgorge corsairs was all commanded by the captain from one of several points on the ship that would accept commands. When he felt she knew all she would need to get her started, Brannis shooed her off the ship.

  “I will need to draw a lot of aether to get this monster started. Best not to be too close,” Brannis warned.

  Juliana retreated to the ground, where she found her crew gathered, awaiting orders. She met her new first mate and officers, all of whom were army, not navy. They made introductions as Juliana felt alarming amounts of aether flowing to the interior of the ship. The nearest sensation she had ever felt was being there in the mines of Raynesdark when Jinzan Fehr had used the Staff of Gehlen. As the draw ended, the ship began to crackle with energy, and a throbbing, pulsating hum emanated from the steel hull.

  “Everything is ready. It took,” Brannis called down to her as he descended the gangplank. He looked haggard. “You should all get aboard and get going. Head out to sea a bit before looping around out of sight of the city. I have to get back to the palace before my presence is too sorely missed.”

  “Brannis, you never promised me a ship of any sort, or a command of my own. What promise were you referring to keeping in your note?”

  “Bran—I gave you Adventure and Freedom,” he said, nodding in the direction of where she kept her dragon-tooth daggers. “It might have been a sweet gesture, but it was ultimately a hollow one. It was cheating. Now I am giving you adventure and freedom—the proper sort this time.”

  She did not care that it was in front of her entire new crew; she crushed Brannis—Okay … Kyrus—in her arms and kissed him before she took her leave.

  The Daggerstrike lifted effortlessly at her command, holding the ship’s wheel just as Kyrus had shown her. The thrills of adventure and freedom awaited.

  Chapter 30 - Intentions

  The morning sun brightened the sky over the islands of Kapish, where the Fair Trader sat at anchor, but did nothing for the mood of her captain. Denrik Zayne was a patient man but he was being sorely tried. The Sea Dragon had already come and gone, paying their tribute to Zayne as the owner of the vessel and liege of her captain. That had been two days prior. Stalyart’s Merciful had been due around the same time, but there had been no sign of him or his ship.

  “Another day, Cap’n?” Holyoake asked, approaching Denrik as he stood at the ship’s port railing, staring out into the northern sea.

  “Aye, Mr. Holyoake. Another day,” Denrik concurred. “Captain Stalyart stood by for three years, and got me off that miserable hunk of rock the Acardians stuck me on. The least I can do it pay him the courtesy of waiting three days.”

  “And tomorrow, sir?” Holyoake asked. “Men are grumblin’. Not me, mind you. The men. I’ll handle ’em sure nuff, don’t you worry. But you know … the men.”

  Marfin Holyoake finished saying his piece, and clamped his pipe between his jaws. He dug in the pockets of his jacket until he found a small cloth bag. Reaching in, he took a pinch of pipeweed, and stuffed the bowl of the pipe with it. When Denrik looked his way, Holyoake angled the pipe in his direction, and gave a wink.

  Smiling, Denrik focused in the aether, managing to draw enough of the stuff to get the pipeweed to smolder. The first mate of the Fair Trader took a few quick puffs to get the flame burning properly, and returned the smile. It was reassuring to Denrik to find that sort of acceptance. Too few men knew of his powers, paltry though they might be. Holyoake would never understand what it was like to be twinborn—Denrik would never reveal that secret to anyone who was not twinborn himself—but him even knowing that he was some sort of witch or wizard or shaman, whatever he chose to perceive it as, was comforting.

  “Round up a few of those men for me, Mr. Holyoake,” Denrik said over his shoulder as he looked back out to sea. “Put together a game of Crackle. That ought to occupy their time.”

  “Aye, sir. Mind if I count myself among ’em?” Holyoake asked.

  “Unless your eyes have gotten a fair sight better since you served on the Honest Merchant, you shall do no good out here, watching the horizon. Of course you may join in.”

  If there was anything that was likely to draw Stalyart back to him, it would be the presence of a game of Crackle. Fill that game with amateurs like Holyoake and the crewmen, and how would he be able to resist? Despite a thorough understanding of the workings of magic, there were still some forms of it that defied explanation.

  Come now, Mr. Stalyart, you know you would not want to miss such a game.

  * * * * * * * *

  On another ship, in another part of the Katamic, a ship called the Sand Piper carved a line through the water. It was a Takalish vessel with a mostly Takalish crew, charting a course around the northern side of the small continent. It was similar in design to the Acardian galleon, but smaller and lighter in the water.

  The Sand Piper was a passenger vessel, first and foremost. Any cargoes she carried were incidental. Most of the passengers were Takalish, with a number of light-skinned Acardians mixed in among them. In every direction, there was evidence of wealth, from finely tailored suits to jeweled necklaces; passage on board a vessel such as the Piper was not for the weak of purse. Brannis squirmed in his newly bought outfit, trying to keep the seams from rubbing in the wrong places. The sleeves were cut too narrow for his muscles to flex comfortably. Juliana—Soria—had insisted on outfitting him to match the cover story she had arranged for them.

  “There you are,” Soria called out.

  Brannis turned to see her appearing more feminine than he had realized she could look. The Takalish were fine, by and large, with the concept of warrior women, but unwed couples traveling together was looked down upon. Soria had the playful idea to pose as husband and wife for the trip to avoid drawing both scorn and attention. She had decided to look the part of an idle kept-wife to some merchant, who in this case would be Mr. Brannis Hinterdale. A low-cut pink gown outlined her figure—gave her a figure, it seemed—distracting Brannis from all else he had been thinking about. Her hair seemed more golden and less reddish, curled into an elaborate knot at the back of her head, stabbed through with thin wooden skewers in a Kheshi fashion. Breaking up the expanse of bare skin from her chin to her bosoms was a gold chain and diamond pendant, flanked by emeralds; a pair of dangling diamond-strand earrings paired with it, each one appearing to drip from a single emerald. The jewels appeared so extravagant as to make one assume they were fakes. Brannis suspected they were real, stolen, and worth more than the Sand Piper.

  “About time you woke up. I thought that was my exclusive purview,” Brannis said, managing with effort to look her in the eye.

  “I was having the most wonderful dream,” Soria replied, unable to remove the grin from her face.

  Brannis had overlooked it as he gawked at her, but she carried a spitted rabbit haunch, soaked in some sweet-smelling sauce that hinted at honey and ginger. She took a bite, leaning forward over the ship’s railing to keep the oozing sauce from dribbl
ing onto her dress. She wiped away the excess with a finger, and sucked it clean.

  Brannis eyed the morsels until she held it up for him to try. He bit in, and savored the sweet, spicy flavor. He found his tastes to be more suited to Tellurak’s food than Kyrus’s had proven toward Veydran fare.

  “So where did you end up taking it?” Brannis asked.

  “Sure you want me to tell you?” Soria teased. “They can’t torture you for my whereabouts if you don’t know.”

  “You had fun with it, I take it?”

  “Oh, how I wish this pretty little bucket we’re bobbing along in could take wing, and soar like my Daggerstrike!” Soria exclaimed, looking up into the sky and twirling around once, billowing her dress out like he had seen Juliana do so many times. It had the same effect on him now as it had when she did it in their youth.

  “How were the crew? They warming to you at all?”

  “They seem like they’ll be all right. I think once they get their air legs, it will be a bit better, with less vomiting. A few took to it right off, though. All those harnesses around made it seem a lot safer, being tethered to the decks and walls when it goes upside down.”

  “You … flipped it over in midair?” Brannis asked, looking at her sidelong, eyes wide.

  Soria nodded, her mouth occupied with tearing a chunk of rabbit meat from the skewer. With her free hand, she pantomimed a series of loops and rolls. “Made a mess of everyone’s quarters, though,” Soria replied with a gasp as she gulped down the bite. “We’ll be keeping it a bit more level until I get someone to rig up a way to hold footlockers down to the floors.”

  A cold gust of wind caught them, speeding the ship by a hair, and causing Brannis to shiver.

  “You warm enough out here?” Soria asked.

  Brannis was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt with ruffled shoulders and cuffs in current Takalish fashions. They were supposed to fit loosely, but without having something tailored, everything was tight around his arms. Pinkish skin showed beneath the fabric where it was taut, hinting at just how little protection it gave against the wind.

  “I am using a bit of aether to cheat the cold,” she said. “I would die from exposure in this thing elsewise.”

  “I should be fine,” Brannis assured her. “Have you seen Rakashi this morning?”

  “No, and I don’t expect to see him much this voyage unless we try. Warrior-scholars are a pretty big deal around here. They’ll have him telling stories to their children, and giving blessings. They’ll ask him about health problems, and his opinion on just about everything from wheat prices to whether the peace will last with Khesh. The captain gave him a cabin nicer than ours, and didn’t charge him a single darshi.”

  “You think he is the same in Veydrus?” Brannis asked her.

  “You plotting again?” Soria chided, waggling a finger at him. “I told you, we have a deal worked out. We don’t play politics between worlds. Speaking of which, would you care to elaborate on that whirlwind explanation for shipping me out of Kadris last night? Distracting me with my own airship was only going to get you out of explaining yourself for so long, you know?” Soria could not help but grin anew at the reminder of the Daggerstrike.

  “Those murdered were supporters of Rashan. That means they were supporters of Emperor Sommick as well, whether because they believed in his claim or because they are obsequious bootlicks looking for personal gain, it matters little. If there are sides being taken in earnest—and if the fact all three victims were on one side was not simple coincidence—it very much looks like one side has started a war.”

  “Don’t most folk support Rashan? I mean, maybe he isn’t popular in the ‘Let’s name our firstborn after him’ sense, but I would assume anyone would support him out of … well … laziness if nothing else. Just doing a job in the Empire and following orders from above is ‘supporting,’ isn’t it?” Soria asked. “It takes some initiative to actually oppose a regent.”

  “Dolvaen. Dolvaen has taken that initiative,” Brannis told her. “It is safe to know, now that you are out of the city, but he is the one leading the opposition.”

  “How do you know?” Soria wondered aloud. The last bit of rabbit dripped sweet sauce onto the Sand Piper’s polished deck as the skewer drooped limply in her hand.

  “He tried to recruit me to his cause,” Brannis replied.

  There was a metallic clatter as the skewer dropped from Soria’s neglectful grasp. With a warrior’s instincts and a debutante’s tenuous hold on newfound propriety, the skewer disappeared overboard before anyone could turn to see what had happened. All anyone might have seen was a slippered foot retreating beneath a frilly pink dress of a very innocent young bride as she spoke with her new husband by the railings.

  “He really did that?” Soria asked in a loud whisper once bystanders had returned to their previous distractions.

  “Yes, came right out and made his case, too. He left no doubt. He told me that Rashan and I would not be able to coexist in the long term, and that eventually he would grow wary of me, and find an excuse to kill me. He seemed to think I had the potential to swing the balance of power against Rashan.”

  “Well, you have all the power and control of an untrained monohorn. Sure, you ought to be able to hurt something if you got hold of it, but you’re no warrior, at least not with aether. You’re just a really, really impressively dangerous firehurler. Don’t think you can fight someone like Rashan, or even Dolvaen, if it came down to it. I don’t like how you’re sounding like you’re getting caught right in the middle of this.”

  “Well, if I wait it out, I might not have to choose sides. Rashan seems to suspect something is amiss, but is not concerned by it. Keep in mind, it is not just him; Caladris and my whole family seem solidly behind him, plus who knows how many others, not to mention the army seems to have warmed to him,” Brannis said.

  “Have you told Rashan about Dolvaen’s offer?” Soria asked. “If you want to avoid a conflict, why not just let Rashan take care of the traitors?”

  “I am not sure he is in the business of killing traitors,” Brannis replied. “He may have killed my father and your grandfather for treason, but he has let many others walk free who he knows are guilty. He will wait until he has another reason for killing them. He told me of his cynical method for resolving mysterious crimes: let a few guilty ones run free, and cull them when you need a scapegoat. He might well hold onto the knowledge until he sees some better reason to kill Dolvaen, and in the meantime, I gain an enemy; I am sure word of it would get back to Dolvaen. He is too clever.”

  “Have you ever considered that maybe I was just the one you should have wanted to keep close by? This sort of thing is far closer to my domain than wars with cannons and dragons. Your sister tried to accuse me of those murders—stopped me in the middle of the palace and everything—but she wasn’t far from the mark. I wasn’t the killer but I certainly could have been. For the right reason, I could be.”

  “If you are looking for me to thank you for killing Duke Pellaton, then fine: thank you. I had assumed you wished that incident kept quiet, but here in Tellurak, I do not quite think any harm will come of saying it.”

  Soria's eyes widened. “You knew?” she asked. “Did Rashan say something about it?”

  “I was the one who told him—and told him that he was better off with a younger, more pliable Duke Pellaton. The man threatened me, then the next thing we know, he wakes up dead, with a goblin dagger stuck in him. Really now … there was one dead goblin assassin with no dagger, and one goblin dagger in a dead duke. Not a lot of people got out into that hallway the morning before the battle, but if none of the others who were there picked up on that, shame on them.”

  “Oh. Well … you’re welcome. It was probably not the wisest decision I’ve made, but I guess it all worked out, right?”

  Another gust sucked the warmth from Brannis’s core, and set him to shivering again before the blow passed. The ship was taking the northern route aroun
d the Takalish coast before heading out into the deep Katamic to make the crossing to Acardia. The southern route was shorter and warmer, but of late, it had been beset by pirates. The captain of the Sand Piper was a cautious man who was paid handsomely to ferry his passengers safely to their destination. If that meant a long, chilly voyage via the northern coast, so be it. The Mad Tinker kept the waters near his islands north of Takalia well clear of pirates.

  “Well, pleasant as the sea air smells, I think I am going to retreat belowdecks. I rescind my previous boast,” Brannis said, still shivering.

  “Wait up!” Soria called after him as Brannis headed for the stairs that led down below, away from the winds. “I’ll help you keep warm.”

  Without even having to turn back, he could hear the mischievous grin on her face.

  * * * * * * * *

  “Why does he just stare like that?” Zellisan asked. “It isn’t natural.”

  The wagon rumbled amiably along down the Tradeway, continuing westward. There was no sign of the caravan they had started out with. Even though they were likely outpacing it, the caravan had half a day’s lead on them. It would be unlikely for them to close that sort of distance before reaching Naia, their destination by default, not by design; it was the next city along the Tradeway.

  “It will take some time for him to get over his apathy toward this world. Anzik lives a much more engaging life. In Megrenn, his family is wealthy, and he is surrounded by magical wonders, including those he can work himself. He has little incentive to pay attention to this world, beyond the physical discomforts he suffers by ignoring it,” Wendell explained. “I grew up much the same. It was not until my own master discovered me that I found something in Tellurak that I cared about enough to pull my attention away from Veydrus.”

  The two spoke openly in Kadrin. If either the driver or Jadon understood a word of it, they did not let on. The driver likely could not tell the difference between their otherworldly speech and any other of the more exotic tongues he knew not a word of. Of course, Jadon might have learned plenty of Kadrin through Anzik, if the boy was well educated, and still not given any hint that he understood them.