A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback

by Mitchell Hogan

  The symptoms started out innocuously enough. A chancre on her chin, under her lip, firm to the touch and not sore at all. It disappeared within week after she applied an ointment and she thought nothing of it. Weeks later, she woke one morning to see a few red spots on her neck. The beginning of a mild irritation, or a few bug bites? No matter, she knew they would disappear once she applied one of her treatments. One had to retain the appearance of health in her business; it doesn’t ease customers’ minds if the person they come to for cures is sick themselves.

  Elpidia became worried when the spots didn’t disappear. They multiplied. She tried different ointments and oils, to no avail. When a few of the spots leaked a clear yellow-tinged fluid, the connection to the chancre hit her like a blow. Surely it couldn’t be? That day she went to the library at the Guild of Physikers and spent hours finding as much information as she could. A simple test on a mouse confirmed her suspicion a few weeks later, to her horror and despair.

  Her husband had left her with one final parting gift: the Great Pox. No cure was known, and sufferers ended their days in pain, sometimes months, sometimes years after the first symptoms showed.

  The last nine years of marriage taken from her in a day, her life taken from her within years. It was cold comfort her husband would also be dead.

  No known cure. But she was a skilled physiker and alchemist. There had to be a treatment for everything, or some way of inhibiting the disease. Despair turned to anger, and anger fuelled her determination.

  Wiping the salty tears from her face she threw a few logs on the still warm coals from last night and placed a kettle above the smoldering fire. A hot breakfast and some tea and she could face the day. She had much work to do.

  Each day it took her longer and longer to muster enough energy to resume her work. She blamed the disease, but in reality she knew it was also the creeping despair that clung to her. Outwardly, she had barely changed, apart from the rash, only friends noticed she was more withdrawn, less animated. Her business remained open; she needed ducats for materials to continue her research. A few false claims to the guild had provided her with valuable extra coins, but she couldn’t rely on too many more deceptions or she risked being caught.

  Toast with jam and a few cups of tea later, she felt better prepared to face the day. She used a large iron key to unlock her workroom. Converted from their old bedroom, it was a mess of alchemical clutter, some bought, some pilfered from the Guild of Alchemists. Bottles of reagents, oils, herbs and powders took up one large table. Another was filled with glassware, vials, flasks, beakers, tubes and funnels. Under the window, which opened out to her backyard, she had placed the burner table, as she needed ventilation. Portable oil burners for heating she kept here, clamps, tongs and stands, retorts for distillations.

  Along another wall, row upon row of cages housed her helpers: mice for testing compounds and theories. Half the cages were empty. She expected another delivery soon. Street urchins desperate for a copper ducat or two were eager to help.

  She fingered a container holding gold shavings. The young man the other day had said the book Great Secrets of Alchemy argued King’s Water, potable gold, was a dead end for her research. Something she needed to investigate further. The library master should know where she could obtain a copy of that particular book.

  She rolled up the sleeves of her dress and readied herself for the day’s work. A few mice were much worse for wear after her latest experiment, oozing sores, bald patches covered in red rashes. She stared at them for a moment then reached for a wooden hammer and a thick cloth sack. Work first, then she would seek this book out. After all, the sick mice didn’t bang themselves on the head.

  “Boss?” came the boy’s squeaky voice. “Are you available to see one of the head traders?” A black-haired head peeked around the door, which the boy had opened a crack.

  First Deliverer Gazija coughed, a hacking deep-throated sound. He spat the proceeds into a rag and folded it carefully. Blinking his moist red-rimmed eyes a few times, he then brought them to bear on the boy, waved him forward and adjusted the thick woolen blanket around his shoulders. As the boy approached, Gazija vented a weary sigh.

  “How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

  “What?”

  “Boss.”

  “Oh, um… sorry, First Deliverer.” The boy cast his eyes to the floor and shoved both hands in his pockets. Gazija rolled his eyes at the show of remorse. The youngster didn’t fool him.

  “Now, before you tell me who is here to see me, would you bring me one of those vials over on the table, in the box there.”

  “These ones?”

  “Yes, just one, thank you.” Gazija shifted in his chair and winced at a particularly sharp pain among the usual aches, then bumped his elbow. The ostentatious chair was a gift from the other Deliverers, may they rot for not providing one with enough padding. He couldn’t very well reject their gift but had thought about using it for firewood on particularly cold winter’s nights.

  His audience chamber, if you could call it that, stood at one end of a long hall. His uncomfortable throne-like chair, a stool to rest his feet on and a low table was the only furniture. A metal brazier filled with glowing coals stood close by, warming one side of his blanket, and a faint aroma of rosewood pervaded the air, from shavings someone had sprinkled in while he was asleep.

  Faint murmurings, the rustling of paper and scratching of quills from the six staff at the other end of the hall provided a constant backdrop. A reminder of how far they had come, and still had to go.

  A vial filled with a yellow liquid appeared in front of him, and he took it from the boy’s hand, cradling it in both of his. Thin-skinned fingers twisted the stopper out and he downed the contents in one go, grimacing at the overly sweet taste.

  “What is it?” asked the boy.

  “Medicine. For old people. Here,” he said, handing him the empty vial. “Put it back, then you can tell me what you are doing here.”

  The boy half-ran to return the vial and back again to Gazija.

  “Head Trader Savine Khedevis is here to see you. Can I show him in now?”

  “Not yet, I have some questions for you first.”

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  “Nothing serious. I like to find out more about how everyone is progressing. How do you think you are doing?”

  “Um…Fine, I guess.”

  “Finding the transition hard?”

  “No. I mean yes. Well, not hard exactly, just…” The boy broke off and shrugged.

  “It’s no weakness to admit it’s difficult. It’s hard for all of us.”

  The boy gave him a disbelieving look. “Surely not for you or the other Deliverers?”

  “I assure you it is. We’re the same as you, just older. We’re set in our ways and struggled with the adjustment. You are younger and resilient, and it’s easier for you to adjust.” He patted the boy’s shoulder.

  “It still feels strange, confined, after so long already.”

  “I know. But we have no choice. We have to adjust.” First Deliverer Gazija’s thoughts swept back to the flight through the well, the chaos, the deaths. With an effort he wrenched his mind back to the present.

  “Go, bring Savine to me.”

  The boy ran off through the side door he had entered from, sandals slapping on the hard wood underfoot. Gazija lost himself in the glowing coals for a few moments before a movement caught his eye — Savine Khedevis on one knee in front of him, head bowed, palms on the floor.

  Gazija examined the form Savine wore. Muscled, handsomer and more noticeable than he liked. Altogether different from a few months ago when he had left.

  “I see you had an accident,” he said in a harsh voice.

  Savine rose to stand before him, green eyes roaming over him, taking in his weeping eyes, blanket and brazier. “Indeed, First Deliverer, the roads are hazardous. There was an incident with some bandits, who were not inclined to leave witnesses
alive, but I managed to make my way to a nearby farmhouse.”

  “You must be careful. If someone finds out, we would be undone.”

  “Would you rather I was lost?”

  “No, of course not. But you know the risks. What if someone comes looking for a missing loved one?”

  “People go missing all the time here. It’s a fact of their hard lives. Besides, the farmhouse was a long way from the nearest village, and there was only one person there.”

  Gazija held up a hand to stop Savine talking. “Enough. We do what we have to, but you shouldn’t be so cold-hearted about it.”

  Savine bowed his head and kept his eyes on his feet.

  “We do what we have to, to survive,” Gazija continued. “Don’t ever forget what would happen if we were found out, what the consequences would be. We were lucky to survive one Shattering; we would most likely be the cause of another, and we would not see the end of it.”

  Savine Khedevis remained bowed. “I understand, First Deliverer,” he said, voice tight with suppressed emotion.

  Gazija sighed. Savine still couldn’t understand, which was why he would never become a Deliverer. “So,” he continued in a lighter tone. “What news do you have? Did you find the people who unmasked and killed Trader Aniki?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I tracked them to a village where all traces disappeared. They stayed there one night and left in the morning.”

  “And you couldn’t continue to track them?”

  “No. They left no trace, same as the others.”

  Gazija hissed in annoyance. “That’s eleven of our brethren killed or missing in the last few months. More than twenty in a year! It’s unacceptable. Someone must know about us, I’m certain of it. We need to find out what they know and make sure they are stopped. You know the situation here will deteriorate if they are left to spread their knowledge, and we cannot afford that. The world cannot.”

  “I’ve notified all our offices of their description and told them to be on the lookout. There isn’t much else I could have done.”

  “That isn’t good enough! We have worked far too hard and come such a long way for it all to be unraveled by accident.”

  “Na jimpez go’Ine, na pei zvimta fa baklama ik’ui,” spat Savine. We should not hide, we deserve to be recognized.

  “Stop!” shouted Gazija. Echoing down the hall, his voice caused the staff at the other end to pause and look up before hurrying back to work. “You know to speak Tyuri Masun is forbidden.”

  “Bah! We are slowly losing ourselves, our culture. Why shouldn’t we be able to stay true to what we are?”

  “Because our old life is lost. We made a choice, a hard one, and we must live with the consequences.”

  “These people know nothing. We should leave them and find our own way, make our own life.” Savine glared at Gazija, who returned his gaze without flinching.

  “The Deliverers decided, and so it shall be. Enough of this, I grow weary.” Gazija arranged his blanket around him and pointedly looked into the brazier, rather than at Savine. “Go, report to the other Deliverers and tell them what’s happened.” He closed his eyes and sat motionless.

  Savine’s footsteps faded into the distance.

  Peeking through an eye he had opened a slit, Gazija relaxed. Savine’s behavior was worrying. Perhaps he should have him watched.

  The boy squeezed his way through the door. He approached and hesitated as he saw Gazija was apparently asleep, shifting his weight on his feet and twisting his head to view him at different angles to see if he was feigning or not.

  Gazija relented. The boy probably had enough troubles to deal with. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, I thought you were asleep.”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Um, there’s a noble to see you. Something about the ambergris one of our ships picked up recently.”

  “Ah yes, excellent. Send him in.” Gazija rubbed his bony hands together.

  Shortly, the boy returned with a man dressed in a coffee-brown coat with large cuffs and mother-of-pearl buttons.

  “Sir Jerome,” greeted Gazija. “A pleasure to see you. I understand you might be making an offer on the ambergris we were lucky enough to pick up?”

  “Head Trader Gazija, a pleasure as always. Indeed, you guess correctly, again, as always.” He gave a wry smile. “Probably why the fortunes of your Five Oceans Mercantile Concern continue to rise.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Puzzled stares and the occasional curious look from the apprentices greeted him as they were all woken with the dawn by a clanging bell. One of the older boys introduced himself and showed Caldan to the water pump and washing trough, where they all splashed their faces and rinsed their hands, the water refreshingly warm in the cool morning air. After a quick breakfast of bread, boiled eggs and hot tea, he was pointed in the direction of Master Simmon and found him poring over a thick ledger, penning a few words here and there on different pages.

  Simmon passed him onto another person, this time a shy young girl in a worn apron. She took him to a storeroom and supplied him with a broom, dust pan and cleaning rag, and gave him directions to sweep and tidy the meal hall where the apprentices and he had eaten.

  Aside from the sweeping and cleaning duties, Caldan reckoned his first few days at the Sorcerers’ Guild went smoothly. He was assigned plenty of odd jobs: tidying the classrooms; pumping and carrying buckets of water to the kitchens, dormitories and masters’ quarters; unloading wagons of grain and various foodstuffs; and beating the dust out of stored blankets to ready them for the winter.

  At first, Caldan thought it odd he had been given mundane tasks to occupy his time but was quick to realize he was still not a part of their world yet. He wasn’t an apprentice so couldn’t join them and their classes, and he wouldn’t have fit in either, being a few years older than most of the apprentices. And he wasn’t one of the cleaning and maintenance staff. They treated him with guarded deference, not sure of his status.

  Being taken on by the sorcerers had so far proven to be a disappointment. He was no stranger to hard work, but although the tasks they had him performing were tedious, they were not arduous, and he made sure he worked as hard as he could and completed each job quickly and thoroughly. Growing up at the monastery, he had to earn his keep, especially when he was old enough to start joining classes and workshops with the paying students. Hauling water, chopping firewood, cleaning plates and pots and pans had become second nature to him. It was easy to apply himself to the tasks he was set and lose himself in his thoughts until the job was done.

  On a few occasions, he noticed Master Simmon watching him, checking up on him, no doubt. Caldan thought Simmon was probably put out Master Garren had dumped him there until Garren found a place for him.

  Whatever healing herbs Elpidia had given to him had succeeded in helping his bruises to heal faster than he thought possible. Within a day they had faded to yellow, and on the second day had virtually disappeared. The soreness had vanished and his skin no longer felt tight from the stitches in his cheek. He would have to find out what herbs she had prescribed for him.

  Every afternoon without fail, whether sunny or raining, the apprentices of all ages and levels gathered to exercise and train. Mornings were reserved for the less active training and classes, or so Caldan was told. He had no idea what they studied, or why. Afternoons always began with a long run through the internal gardens and corridors, followed by strengthening exercises then instruction on sword technique. Journeymen and masters drilled the young apprentices mercilessly, not holding back when they sparred with each other. Sweat and bruises ended each afternoon’s training session, with the odd trickle of blood from a blow pulled too late. He understood the sword training was akin to the monastery’s guiding principle of unifying body and mind, though some would think it passing strange for sorcerers.

  On the afternoon of Caldan’s third day, he was directed to sweep the packed dirt area used by the apprentice
s as an exercise and sparring ground. There had been no sign of Master Garren yet, but Caldan welcomed the mind-numbing few days of boring work. Since his expulsion from the monastery, his mind had been restless, his thoughts skittered this way and that. He hardly knew what he was thinking from one moment to the next. He had been wrenched from a stable reality to an unstable situation in which he had no control. A few days where he could relax and not worry, not think about what was happening and what was going to happen, served to ground him and bring his whirling thoughts under control.

  Caldan brushed the broom across the practice yard, gathering the stray leaves blown in from the surrounding gardens. For sword training, a good grip for the feet was necessary, and he was directed to sweep the dirt from the chalked-in white circle, making sure the white line was clear and the inside of the circle free from loose dirt. The two smaller circles received the same treatment. He had performed this task many times in the monastery before their training sessions in the Way of the Sword, and the simple task brought forth fond memories.

  The apprentices filed in and separated into groups, stretching and limbering up. Journeymen selected pairs who sparred with each other, two pairs for the smaller circles and one for the large circle. Caldan understood the purpose of the smaller circles as opposed to the larger one: to keep the combatants close together, pushing at each other so the tension and confrontation was short and intense. Step outside the circle and you lost the fight. Only the larger one left enough room to disengage and back away, to gather for another phase. In the small circles the close pressure was relentless, and finesse was often the first casualty. Inside the large circle combatants could let loose the flowing forms of the sword, they were free to engage then disengage, to show their expertise. Swordplay here was graceful, stylish, polished. In the smaller circles it became brutal and vicious.

  Caldan slipped to the side and leaned against a wall, staying to the shadows. He wouldn’t be missed for some time, and he wanted to watch the apprentices train. It felt like weeks since he had held a practice sword himself, though little more than a seven day had passed.