by Will Wight
~~~
Later that night, Calder and his father returned, but without the props.
They were dressed in the simple clothes and apron they had stolen from a local delivery company, and carried empty boxes over their shoulders. If they were caught, they could claim that they had received a late-night delivery that required a signature, and had found the door unlocked.
They wouldn’t be caught, though. This was the Capital: the city that night could not conquer. No one would even notice a couple of deliverymen and their packages.
Rojric set his crate down with a huff, knuckling his back as if he’d been freed of a great load. His mustache and glasses were gone, his red hair loose and hidden behind a cap. Calder had adopted the bulk of the disguise this time, having dyed his hair black and slipped a bandage over his left eye like an eyepatch.
He put down his own burden, a box of flowers, and placed a hand to the door. Nothing but a faint echo; the door held no Intent or significance enough to bother them.
“No traps on the door,” he whispered.
His father jiggled the doorknob as if testing it. His left hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out the greatest treasure they’d ever found.
An old, dented, corroded copper key.
He palmed it, tapping it once against the knob.
Instantly, Calder heard the tumblers unlock. The door swung open.
“They left it open for us,” Rojric said loudly. “Must want us to leave it inside.”
The house was less impressive at night, and more frightening. The mounted heads seemed to be trying to shoulder their way through the walls to get him. The guns on their racks pointed straight at him, their muzzles yawning like bottomless pits.
All that Calder noticed with half his mind, while the rest was focused on all the riches they were leaving behind.
They had a schedule to keep, so they were passing up the fifty-goldmark urns and hundred-silvermark watches, even though they could easily stuff enough into their flower-box to keep them for a year.
But the quill could see them in silk suits and cigars for a decade.
They rushed to the back office, where another tap of the key let them right in. The ordinary-looking copper key was the only genuine Imperial artifact they’d found to this point, and the only bounty they’d kept for themselves. It was too valuable to sell, Calder’s father had said, and Calder believed him.
When they reached down for the safe, they found it already empty, the door hanging open.
That was when Calder knew they were caught.
He bolted for the door while his father stepped up to the wall, as though trying to find the quill’s new hiding-place. Both of them were too late.
A squad of monsters marched through the door.
One of the men looked ordinary except for his arms, which were covered in fur like a bear’s. Claws tipped each of his fingers. Another, a woman, grabbed Rojric and forced him against the desk. She hissed in his face, revealing fangs like a snake’s.
The parade of horrors spread out over the room, a display of human and Kameira melding. One of the men lashed a tail, and another stared straight at Calder with the too-wide eyes of a giant owl.
That was when Calder realized what they all had in common: they wore the same uniform. A red-and-black pressed uniform, tailored to meet their unique anatomical requirements, and marked with a crest.
The crest stood proudly on the breast of each uniform, the size of a man’s spread hand. It was a golden shield, marked with the Imperial Seal: a crescent moon tucked inside a blazing sun, to represent the breadth of the Empire. “My dominion shall stretch from the sun to the moon,” the Emperor had once said, and he had proven himself right.
Only one Guild had the right to bear the Seal. And if the Imperial Guard were here, that meant the game was well and truly over.
As everyone in the Capital knew, no one escaped the Emperor’s Guard.
When the Guardsmen had Rojric secure, with his arms tied behind his back and a pistol to his head, one of them let out an unnaturally high whistle.
On cue, their leader entered the room. He looked like a strict grandfather—bone-thin, with only a brush of white hair on his head, and the pinched look of someone who consumed food only as fuel for his body. He wore his Imperial Guard uniform as though it had been glued to his skin.
And a set of gills rode on either side of his neck, flapping in the air as though gasping.
“Mr. Marten,” the Guardsman said, nodding to Rojric. “Mr. Marten.” He nodded to Calder. “I am Watch-leader Fitch. You are hereby under arrest for attempting to purchase the stolen personal property of the Emperor.”
It did not escape Calder’s notice that the Watch-leader had not called them ‘Fairstreet.’
Rojric panted in the chair where the Guardsmen had shoved him, glancing around the room and soaking himself in sweat. “You have to understand! We thought it was a Windwatcher feather! There’s a big market for them overseas, and we had no idea the Emperor had ever touched it!”
Fitch flourished a piece of paper, gills flaring. “That’s not what this bill of sale says. We received it from Mister Dunwood not an hour ago.”
“A bill of sale?” Rojric repeated, incredulous. Calder understood his confusion.
Who wrote out a bill of sale for stolen goods?
“Karls Dunwood is not the greatest criminal mastermind this Empire has ever seen,” Fitch said dryly.
Rojric changed tactic. “What about Mister Dunwood?” He latched onto the name like a drowning man to a log. “Get him in here, and I’m sure we can straighten all this out.”
Watch-leader Fitch reached onto the mantelpiece and pulled down a pocket-watch, popping it open. “I have extracted a penalty from Mister Dunwood once before, on the understanding that I never hear from him again. I refuse to repeat myself.”
From somewhere outside, a shout rose, followed by a pistol-shot.
Fitch snapped the watch closed. “Right on time. Now, Mister and Mister Marten, you must have built a substantial network of information to make it this far. I will have the names of your confederates from you, and then you will be incarcerated in the Candle Bay Imperial Prison for the foreseeable future.”
Rojric lunged forward, grabbing his son by the shoulders as if to protect him. “You can’t take him! He’s too young for chains, please! I’ll serve his sentence!”
The Imperial Guards pulled Rojric back without any trouble, but not before Calder felt a slight weight drop from his father’s hand into his shirt pocket.
Watch-leader Fitch remained expressionless. “I have come to a different arrangement regarding the boy. Rest assured that he will remain secure.”
Rojric didn’t look assured by that at all, any more than Calder felt. He could sense walls closing in around him, penning him in.
Were they going to send him to an orphanage? He’d heard horror stories about such places all his life, how the children were abused and then sold to black alchemists for experiments.
Would he ever see his father again?
Calder felt tears welling up at the corners of his eyes, and he decided to use them to his advantage.
“Please, Mister Fitch,” he said, looking up at the Watch-leader with wet eyes. “We’ll work for you! We know people, we can give you names! Let us off with a warning, just this once!”
Rojric closed his eyes.
Fitch, by contrast, looked absolutely unchanged. “The last time I let someone off with a warning, it cost him his hand. And he still didn’t change his ways. Now, I’m afraid you must be searched.”
Two Guardsman marched Rojric out of the room. “Please, don’t take my son! Don’t take my son!”
The door shut behind them, leaving Calder alone with the rest of them.
Watch-leader Fitch’s gills flared. “You too, boy. Off with your clothes.”
Calder obeyed, unbuttoning his shirt. He pretended to fumble at the second button, working at it hard enough to tear.
>
All so he could keep his hand close to his shirt pocket.
He could feel the significance of the key even through the fabric, but he focused on the pocket around it, silently chanting, Hide it. Hide it. Hide it. Hide it. Calder bent his will entirely on concealment, focusing his Intent like a scalpel.
He moved his fingers down to the next button, but kept focusing on the weight of the key through his shirt. He imagined the Guards overlooking the pocket, and the key inside it. Hide it, hide it, hide it.
When he stripped down to his undershorts, shivering more out of awkwardness than cold, the man with the bear arms patted him down. It felt like having a dog walk up and down his sides.
Meanwhile, the owl-eyed man ruffled through his clothing, calling out everything he found. “Small knife. Delivery order to this address, likely fake. A small river-stone, possibly invested.” His hands moved to the bundled-up shirt, and Calder made his sniffles louder, trying to draw attention away from the shirt.
“Nothing else,” the Guard declared. “We’ll need to get a Reader to check it all out, of course.”
“I suspect that will be taken care of by his new guardian,” Fitch said. “Go on, boy, put your clothes back on. If there’s nothing suspicious about your belongings, they’ll be returned to you at your new address.”
A fresh wave of tears struck him through the shivers, and he was ashamed to admit that they were anything but fake. “Where am I going?”
Fitch placed a hand on his back and guided him over to his pile of clothes. “To your mother.”
CHAPTER THREE
Repairing The Testament was a relatively simple matter, involving nothing more than three hundred planks of purchased wood and an afternoon of Calder’s attention. Once he placed the boards where he wanted them, he simply invested them as part of the ship, Reading the whole to make sure that the ship accepted its new addition.
When he had finished nailing the boards more or less in place, he placed his hand against the deck and sent a command to his Soulbound Vessel.
The Testament grew together, merging its deck with the new planks into a seamless whole.
His work done, Calder leaned back against the deck, massaging a nascent headache. He hadn’t pushed himself into a full-blown case of Reader’s burn, not yet, but he still felt like someone was throwing bricks at the back of his head.
Andel stood over him in his white suit, surveying the deck. “That’s convenient.”
“I’d hate to hire a carpenter. We’d have to split our fee seven ways.”
Thanks to the Captain’s control over his ship, a Navigator’s crew was incredibly small. This was one of the reasons why the Guild remained the only force capable of crossing the Aion Sea at will. And why its Navigators tended to amass huge personal fortunes.
One of the reasons.
Ignoring his aching head, Calder pushed himself to his feet. “Since you’re here, I imagine we’ve heard from Cheska’s mysterious passenger.”
Andel handed him a folded sheet of paper. “You might say that.”
Prepare to receive us at sundown, the paper read. We depart at dawn.
Calder tried to look into the paper’s past, not just reading its words but Reading the Intent behind them, but he got nothing more than faint wisps of emotion. Not surprising—such a small slip of paper would not have retained much Intent, especially for an innocuous note. But you never knew what Reading might show you.
He winced as his headache increased; even an unsuccessful Reading put a strain on him. “I guess he wants to spend the night on the ship.”
“Why wouldn’t you? Clever company, romantic atmosphere, the lingering aroma of dead Stormwing.”
“Did you get this straight from the source?”
“From Cheska’s messenger. The girl with the evil eye.”
Andel rubbed his silver amulet as if for luck—it was carved with the White Sun crest of the Luminian Order. Some believed that wearing such a symbol would bring the blessing and protection of the Unknown God.
Of course, the amulet hadn’t landed Andel anywhere better than a ship exiled to the Aion.
“So we still don’t know anything about our mysterious Witnesses.” Calder placed his three-cornered hat back on, gazing out over the Candle Bay harbor. The water was busy this time of year, with Navigators, merchants, and fishermen jockeying for position along the docks.
Calder had many memories of this place, and most of them still showed up in his nightmares.
Andel tossed a loose nail into the bay. “They didn’t even tell us how many passengers to expect.”
“Knowing Witnesses, almost certainly two.”
“Nor were they very specific about our pay.”
“If it was enough to get Cheska to pay attention, it will be enough for us.”
“I’m not entirely certain I can return the crew in time.” Nevertheless, he didn’t seem like he was in any particular hurry.
“Jerri’s visiting her mother, which means she’ll come back furious within the hour. You’ll find Urzaia in the closest establishment that will serve him a drink, Foster at the gunsmith up the hill, and Petal...if Petal’s left this ship, I’ll commission that life-size statue of yourself you’ve always wanted. In gold.”
“I’ve always pictured myself in marble.” Still, Andel didn’t move.
At last, Calder sighed and turned to face his Quartermaster. “Mister Petronus, what seems to be the problem?”
Andel drummed his fingers on the rail, eyes shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. “I know you remember what happened last time Cheska Bennett promised us an unusually large reward.”
Calder tried not to. “We did receive the money. She honors her word.”
“Was it worth it? If you had known what you were signing up for, would you have agreed? Even for five hundred goldmarks?”
He liked to think that he would do anything for five hundred goldmarks, but the truth was that he didn’t know. Cheska’s last assignment had almost killed him, and had been even worse for Jerri.
“We’re not working for her this time,” Calder said with confidence. “It’s a real, legitimate Guild assignment for an independent client. And it could be for much more than five hundred goldmarks.”
“I don’t get out of bed for ‘could be.’ And I would never agree to a voyage sight unseen.”
“I haven’t agreed yet.”
Andel fixed him with dark eyes. “Haven’t you?”
Calder’s gaze traveled past the bay, up a hill to the west and into the sprawling Imperial Capital. “This could be a moot point very soon, Andel.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because if I’m not mistaken, that’s our client right now.”
Down at the docks, two people moved against the crowd. A man in a bright red suit strode in front, with his wavy hair blowing in the breeze behind him. The figure that followed him stood out even more: Calder thought it was a woman, wrapped in bandages like a body prepared for burial. Wisps of black hair stuck out of the bandages over her head, and she wore an overcoat two or three sizes too large for her. In one hand she carried a gilded wooden case, and in the other a full-sized traveler’s chest.
The man had his eyes locked on The Testament, a confident smile on his face.
Andel turned to look at the two of them, adjusting his hat to block out the setting sun. “What makes you think that’s them?”
“Because they’re the only two people in the crowd strange enough to be hiring a Navigator for a mysterious, sudden mission.”
The Quartermaster let out a breath. “I’ll gather the crew. But consider walking away, Calder. At least consider it.” Then Andel left, brushing past the two strangers on his way down the ramp and across the dock.
Calder took up his position at the top of the ramp, wearing his best smile. He bowed, sweeping the hat from his head.
“Lady and gentleman, honored members of the Guild of Witnesses, please let me be the first to welcome you aboard The Te
stament. I am Captain Calder Marten.”
The man in the red suit extended one hand, and Calder took it.
“Naberius Clayborn. Guild Chronicler, and onetime keeper of the Imperial Palace treasury. This is my Silent One, Tristania. Ah, are you familiar with the traditions of my Guild?”
Calder smoothly relieved the woman in bandages of her luggage, setting it to the side. She was carrying a smaller case as well, but when he tried to take that one, she bowed and stepped to the side. “I was fortunate enough to have Witnesses as tutors in my youth. Though one brother never spoke, he managed to deliver his lessons nonetheless.”
Naberius smiled as though he were trying to show off each one of his teeth. “You will find much the same here. Tristania is no tutor, but she does make herself perfectly clear without speech.”
From Calder’s past experience with Witnesses, the Chronicler would be a Reader of impressive skill, and the Silent One a warrior and bodyguard. Though Tristania bowed politely, and kept her eyes lowered through the gap in her bandages, Calder had not a single doubt that she kept weapons in that coat of hers.
The Chronicler, Naberius, looked like an actor hired to play an ancient Imperial hero. His dark brown hair rolled down to his shoulders in rippling waves, and his bright red suit—while eye-catching—was high quality and closely tailored.
Naberius clapped his hands together. “Now, would you kindly show us to our cabin?”
Assuming I’ll take the job. He wondered what Cheska had said to them—it wouldn’t be unreasonable if she had accepted on his behalf.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mister Clayborn, but I wonder if I could hear a few more details about the voyage first.”
The Silent One widened her eyes in surprise, turning to Naberius.
For his part, Naberius adopted a look of exaggerated shock. “Did Captain Bennett not tell you? I should have realized, forgive me. She didn’t strike me as the type to see her work through to the end.”
“You are an excellent judge of character, sir.”
“As I have said, I was the Chronicler in charge of financial records in the Imperial Palace. Since the Emperor’s death, may his soul fly free, my partner and I were the only ones remaining with the knowledge to access the treasury. We have used those resources for a few essential tasks: keeping the Capital running, funding the Imperial Guard, the list goes on. But soon, that will not be enough.”
