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

by Mitchell Hogan

  It wouldn’t be long now. He had made progress with his creations, using his talent combined with lessons from masters and new knowledge available to him through the libraries, but still he wasn’t satisfied.

  Another problem was that the usual materials used for long-lasting craftings were expensive. He had quite a few ducats left from his winnings but was reluctant to use them since he was still experimenting. Plus he didn’t know when other expenses might come up in the future. Being an apprentice was an expensive undertaking. No wonder most of the apprentices worked other jobs both inside the Sorcerers’ Guild and outside. He had heard of one apprentice who worked nights serving tables at a local tavern, getting back in the early hours to snatch whatever sleep she could before classes the next morning. If you didn’t come from a rich family, there were obstacles to overcome as an apprentice. No wonder many of them were competitive.

  Caldan watched his crafting closely. The energy it drew had started fluctuating wildly, a sure sign it had become unstable and would soon burn out.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later the wooden segments began to smoke and the wire slowly bent under great strain. A flash of light lit his room, the wood consumed instantly once the crafting holding it together crumbled under the strain. A pile of charcoal, ash and twisted wire remained.

  Waving away threads of smoke drifting up from the pile, he coughed at the caustic fumes. He scraped the remains of his crafting from the top of his desk into a sack next to it on the floor, where it joined the rest of his burnt-out craftings.

  He was improving, and faster than he had thought possible when he was at the monastery.

  His trinket weighed against his chest. The rings felt comfortable there, and he was getting used to the constant feel of them inside his shirt. He drew the neck chain off and dropped the trinket onto his palm, leaving the bone ring on the chain. The silver ring felt heavy tonight. He rubbed a finger over the surface.

  He needed to wear it to study the ring properly, to use his senses in different situations, to see if it reacted under certain conditions. But the problem was, he couldn’t wear it openly, at least not yet. The best he could do was wear it when locked in his room and while he was asleep. Not the best situations for determining if it was a passive or active trinket, or what its function was.

  He had seen the masters openly wear trinkets, mainly for practical reasons as they used them in their work to augment their power. He now knew the only thing stopping one of the masters or journeymen from being robbed of their trinket, if caught out in public, was their ability to shield themselves, since the general public believed sorcery could not harm anyone, at least not directly. Though only a few journeymen had developed the strength to shield themselves, but all the masters had. He guessed it was one of the unspoken abilities that separated them from those they taught.

  A shielded sorcerer couldn’t be harmed by physical means, as long as his concentration held and his crafting could withstand the strain. And this skill, this talent, was what kept the majority of trinkets in the possession of the sorcerers. A talented sorcerer couldn’t be robbed, or harmed, unless the situation came upon them so suddenly they couldn’t access their well in time.

  If the only way he could effectively study his trinket was to wear it, then being able to shield himself had to be one of his focuses. And to that end he had borrowed a few books from the journeymen’s library as well as paid one of the senior journeymen for a few extra lessons. Teaching knowledge above an apprentice’s level wasn’t forbidden, but the extra lessons hadn’t been easy to arrange, and they didn’t come cheap.

  He slipped his trinket onto his finger and opened his well. From the surface of his desk he picked up a metal medallion, an expensive crafting required to create a shield. This one he had purchased from a senior apprentice, who Caldan had heard was amenable to creating craftings for the apprentices’ personal use. From what he could tell, it was cheaply made but was sufficient for his purposes until he could obtain a better one.

  Sitting on his bed cross-legged and back against the cool wall, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

  Chapter Thirty

  Vasile woke, hands raised in defense, alone in bed among tousled sheets and with sweaty rubbery limbs. His hands covered his face as he wept.

  “I know, I know,” he groaned. One hand moved to caress the empty space next to him. “Why couldn’t you understand?” he whispered. He didn’t expect an answer. None had come to him since his life had crumbled to dust.

  He hadn’t slept well since his encounter at the inn and the subsequent news of the death of Lord Voltain. A lesser man would count his blessings and move on, while a greater man would take action against his enemies. It seemed he was neither.

  Vasile savored the thought. A few months ago he would have drunk himself senseless and not cared a whit for the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern or the death of Sir Voltain. Two years ago he would have had the truth out of anyone in his way, and the facts of the matter would be laid out for all to see. As he quoted at the magistrates’ chamber every day, truth was paramount.

  Truth can hurt, can be blind to consequences. Truth can cut. Truth can sever. Too late he had realized the truth of his ability. Those in power often don’t want the truth. They want a semblance of truth, as long as it fit their own machinations. Truth when it is convenient.

  But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop picking at the truth. Everyone lied. The chancellors, merchants, his friends, his wife. He had to know. Couldn’t they see? He had to pick and pick. Truth was paramount, so he had believed.

  And here he was.

  He rubbed weary eyes and spat on the floor, scratching his five-day-old stubble. He was normal again. Just like that. Too bad the low was so… degrading. He could have done without it.

  His thoughts ran back to the previous weeks. What had changed him?

  Sir Voltain’s death, without a doubt. He hadn’t liked Sir Voltain, but at least he hadn’t lied. He found he had a distaste for being threatened. Broken, without much to live for, still he discovered within himself a reluctance to be bullied. To be prodded like cattle.

  He was tired. Tired of drinking, tired of prevaricating, tired of the lies all men told.

  By the time he left his house he had shaved and dressed in his second best set of clothes. Under one arm he carried his bed sheets wrapped around a pile of dirty laundry. He dropped the bundle at a local widow’s, who had a small business washing for those too lazy or too busy to do it themselves.

  He made a brief visit to a bathhouse situated a few streets from his home and left refreshed, skin and hair feeling cleaner than it had in years, and teeth scrubbed with a piece of cloth dipped in salt. The attendant at the baths also recommended chewing spice balls periodically, and on his advice, Vasile purchased a bag.

  A short time later, he walked up the steps into the magistrates’ court, past throngs of petitioners waiting to be heard, then into his shared office, desk piled high with paperwork. His assistant bolted upright from the chair in which he sat. To Vasile, it looked suspiciously like he had been asleep.

  “S…Sir,” his attendant stammered. “We thought you weren’t coming in today, that you had been… taken ill with what has ailed you these past months.”

  Vasile gritted his teeth. They all knew he drank too much. They couldn’t help but notice.

  “Taken ill… yes, I believe I’ve thrown off that particular sickness,” he said to the shocked attendant. “Indeed, in the end I am made of sterner stuff than most would believe.”

  “Sir… Very good, sir!” The attendant gestured to a pile of documents with one hand while stifling a yawn with the other. “There’s much to get through today. May I draw your attention to the case of—”

  “Not now,” interrupted Vasile. “I’m afraid some urgent business has come up, and I must take a leave of absence.”

  “A leave of absence, sir?” He looked Vasile up and down, taking in his clean and orderly appearance with a puzzled loo
k.

  Vasile nodded. “I’ll write a missive to the chief magistrate telling her I’ll be taking one whether she agrees or not.”

  He hastily penned a brief letter to his superior, explaining he needed some time to ‘gather myself and to recover from foul humors that have been affecting me’, certain she would assume he was ill from too much drink. Not that what she thought mattered. Only the truth mattered, not as much as it used to, but it still did.

  Folding the missive in half he handed it to his attendant, who took it tentatively. “Deliver this, will you please?” he asked, sure the man would take some time. “You will need to report to her anyway for a new assignment, won’t you?” He didn’t know the ins and outs of working here as he should. At another time, he could have seen himself devoting a great deal of effort and resources to this role, a valuable job that needed good people, but it had come at a difficult time for him.

  His attendant nodded and looked at the letter. “If I may, sir…” He hesitated before continuing. “You did a good job here, much better than any I have seen during my time. I hope to see you back.”

  Maybe he had been too hard on him. Vasile placed a hand on the man’s shoulder then surprised him with a brief hug. Startled, the attendant almost dropped the letter.

  With a tight smile, Vasile turned and walked out of the office. In the street outside he stopped, looking left and right. Problem is, he told himself, you have no idea where to start.

  He fingered the few ducats he had in his pocket. His resources were meager.

  A rumbling stomach decided his next course of action for him. A meal would do wonders for his state of mind and give him time to think about his next step.

  Soon he was sitting at a close by tavern, one he had frequented often the last few months when he had a break from the proceedings of the magistrates’ court. The tavern keeper gave him a hearty welcome as Vasile entered.

  “Good sir,” the man bellowed across the mostly empty room. “A great pleasure to see you again. Please have a seat. I’ll bring you your usual.”

  Vasile stopped him as he turned for the bar. “No,” he said firmly. “Not today. Some almond milk and the roast fowl, please. I’m a little delicate today,” he said by way of explanation.

  The tavern keeper tapped a finger against his nose and gave a knowing smile. “Of course. Haven’t we all been there? Shan’t be long.” He bustled off through the door to the kitchen, and Vasile chose a seat well away from his usual spot near the bar.

  His thoughts turned to the last weeks and the incidents that had awoken him from what seemed a deep, oppressive dream. He reckoned his resources: not many ducats, enough he could survive for a few days, though not enough to pay bribes, if required. Contacts, he had a few left still, even if they weren’t as forthcoming as before his fall. He pursed his lips. And he had himself, his own abilities.

  He snorted softly. His talent had destroyed everything he had ever valued. With a shake of his head, he moved his thoughts away from the hurtful feelings he was trying to avoid. He shuffled them to the back of his mind. They wouldn’t help him here, far from it.

  Perhaps this, Vasile mused, was how many of the criminals paraded before him felt. Cornered, bereft of options, a desperation lending their plans an edge of recklessness. Certainly, some of their schemes looked farcical when they were brought before him, even to the offenders themselves.

  Consequences were a strange beast, sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden, more often than not different to those expected.

  Vasile nodded to himself, realizing he had only himself now and whatever meager resources he could marshal.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the tavern keeper depositing a large mug filled with a white liquid in front of him, and a plate of crispy brown chicken smelling of herbs.

  Vasile set to with a will, devouring the flesh of the bird one piece after another, picking the bones clean with shining, greasy fingers. The almond milk he could have done without, except it was reputedly cleansing. He glanced to the wine barrels at the bar then back to his plate. With deliberate care, he raised the mug to his lips and took a deep swallow.

  Time to get his thoughts in order. Quiss and the Five Oceans Trading Concern would have to be his starting point. They were involved in something that either Quiss or his superiors considered important enough to kill for. The unfortunate William Voltain’s accusation that he had come across information showing the disreputable use their warehouse was being put to probably had an element of truth to it. Their attempt to bribe Vasile to alter the outcome of the case in their favor supported this.

  Vasile looked at his greasy fingers and pulled a creased handkerchief from a pocket to wipe them. The remaining dregs of his almond milk sat there.

  Cursing, he swallowed them in one gulp and slammed the mug onto the table, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

  Elpidia groaned at the street jam, frustrated at the delay. Two carts had met in the middle of a street, their drivers both too stubborn to give way and back up to make room for the other.

  It was close to sunset, and Elpidia, to her chagrin, was late for her appointment.

  Cabbage Town was not familiar to her. Narrow crowded streets and alleys that barely saw the sun, tall buildings that all looked alike, run-down businesses that congregated in clusters with no discernible reason, street signs missing or scrawled over. Stunted sprouts of weeds poked over the edge of roofs, the only greenery she had seen since crossing the river into the district.

  Bees had given her a name, grudgingly, as well as an address. The information he’d gathered on the boy Caldan was uninteresting. Despite being taken in as an apprentice at an older age, his actions were unexciting. Bees found a few instances interesting, especially a meeting that took place with a gentleman closely linked to Lady Felicienne, though that sort of information wasn’t what interested her. No, she needed something else. The information she had bought from Bees he had parted with reluctantly, warning her to be careful.

  I have to do this, she told herself. It’s the only way.

  She swallowed painfully then drew out a handkerchief, coughing harshly. Specks of blood mingled with spots of saliva. She looked at the handkerchief for a moment before folding it, wiping her eyes, and placing it back into her pocket.

  These streets were so dusty.

  A few discreet inquiries led her to a narrow alley just off the main street to the east side of Cabbage Town. She found the tavern she had been told to seek, its sign barely legible, wall paint faded, peeling and cracked, windows boarded up.

  She brushed a speck of dirt from her shoulder and pressed down creases in her skirt. Cursing under her breath, she approached the door and entered the tavern. Hinges squeaked into the almost empty room. A couple of lamps chased away enough darkness to see by but left pools of shadow around the room, booths and tables shrouded in anonymity.

  At the far end stood a bar typical of any such establishment, this one remarkable by its very sparseness. No barrels were behind the bar, no bottles of liquor or wine. The barman was a weasel of a man. A sick weasel. He beckoned to her.

  “I’m guessing you’re Elpidia, the physiker. You’re late.”

  She nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I’m sorry, the streets, you see… I…”

  “Doesn’t matter to me,” the barman said. “But the Big Man doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Elpidia waited while the weaselly barman looked her up and down. He jerked his head to the left. “Follow me.”

  She trailed him at a discreet distance as they marched up three flights of stairs then down a corridor to a plain door. He knocked quietly then opened the door a crack before stepping back.

  “Good luck,” he said, and walked off.

  Elpidia pushed the door open and entered.

  Shelves filled most of the room. Books, statues and carvings, a large shell, wooden boxes and leather folders, jars of powders and herbs. Behind a desk sat an imposing man. He was clad in a tight, dark blue sh
irt that accentuated his muscular arms, and his head and face were shaved clean.

  Writing on a sheet of paper, he didn’t seem to notice her arrival.

  She stood uncertainly, shuffling her weight from foot to foot.

  Eventually he looked up. “Sit, please,” he said in a quiet but firm tone.

  Elpidia sat in the chair in front of the desk, trembling hands clasped in her lap.

  “I’ll forgive your tardiness,” he continued. “I know what the unfamiliar streets can be like. But I trust this will be the last time?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll know to leave a little earlier next time.”

  “Indeed. Anyway, to business. I’m sure you have more valuable things to do with your time than chat with me.”

  Elpidia gulped, wondering how to broach the subject.

  The Big Man obviously noted her discomfort. “Let me start.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “You need someone killed.”

  “Oh, no,” gasped Elpidia, shocked. “Nothing like that.”

  “I was misinformed. What is it that brings you to my humble office?”

  Elpidia swallowed, suppressing a cough. “I need someone’s blood,” she blurted.

  “All of it?”

  “What? No, just a small amount. For my experiments.”

  Looking her up and down, the Big Man then returned her gaze with a quizzical look. “I don’t mean to turn away business, but… have you thought of asking this person for it?”

  “Of course I have. I just can’t convince him, though.”

  “I assume you don’t want this man harmed?”

  “No. I might need more blood later.”

  Chuckling, the Big Man shook his head. “I’m not acquainted with drawing blood. We would need to hire a physiker, one who doesn’t ask questions when enough ducats are provided.”