by Will Wight
How much does Naberius know? he wondered. How much can he know? Did he really hire us because of Cheska’s recommendation, or is there some other reason? How much does Cheska know?
“You expect to install another Emperor?” Calder asked, raising a bite of food to his mouth to make himself look as casual as possible.
Tristania shifted in her seat, looking between Naberius and the crew. It was obvious that she sensed something off about their reaction, but she didn’t seem too nervous yet.
The Chronicler, it seemed, noticed nothing. “It is not an expectation of mine, but a necessity. With my knowledge and resources, as well as the treasure we look to find, we can raise a second Emperor. If we do nothing, this Empire will tear itself to pieces inside a decade.”
The crew and Calder relaxed, Urzaia letting out a heavy breath.
“What is it we’ll find on the island?” Calder asked.
This time, Naberius hesitated. “I would like to keep that to myself for now, if you don’t mind. Other ears than yours may be listening.”
Calder glanced around. There were other ships nearby, but none within easy earshot, and no one on the docks. The bay itself, of course, was empty. “I’ve trusted my crew with secrets before, Naberius.”
“I do not refer to your crew,” the Witness said grimly. “Where we seek to preserve the Empire, there are others who would prefer it to fall apart. Those who profit more from its dissolution, or who simply oppose me. I believe they may have hired the Am’haranai.”
Calder scratched his head. “The Consultants?” It was well-known that the Consultants could answer any question or give you advice in your business, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of them as objects of fear.
Jyrine smiled at Naberius, an invitation to share the joke. “Are you so afraid of a well-informed opponent, then?”
Tristania locked eyes with Jerri and slowly shook her head. In front of her grim silence, it was difficult to take anything lightly.
“Do not underestimate the Consultant’s Guild,” Naberius said quietly. “Let me tell you a story. A man once believed that he would be driven out of business, so he hired the Consultants. Within a year, his opponents all filed for bankruptcy.”
“I beg you, don’t tell such terrifying stories before bed,” Andel said drily. “Petal still needs to sleep.”
“Let me tell you another story. A man was outnumbered two to one in a battle, and he feared that his troops would lose. So he hired the Consultants. The enemy general surrendered in a week.”
Urzaia hefted one of his hatchets. “It would not take me a week before my enemy surrendered.”
Naberius went on, undeterred. “Let me tell you another story. A woman was cornered by a gang of killers. With no one else to turn to, she stumbled into the Consultants’ chapter house and pawned everything she owned to hire their services. Her attackers were found dead the next morning, deposited inside a cemetery and prepared for burial.”
The pattern was clear, but these still sounded like myths to Calder. The other Guilds operated more or less openly, but the Consultants seemed like they were prone to theatrics.
“Let me tell you one last story. Roughly twenty years ago, a man began kidnapping children around the poorer areas of the Capital. He continued, uncaught, for years before the parents of the missing children hired the Consultants. The very next day, he was found murdered in his own home, and the children were recovered.”
“I take your point,” Jyrine said. “But even according to your many stories, the Consultants are advisors only. Even if they have been summoned against you, they can’t sail the Aion without hiring a Navigator. And we’re on official Guild business. Captain Bennett would never allow two competing contracts.”
Naberius ran a hand down his long hair. “Many stories...there are thousands of stories like these, Missus Marten, stretching back before the Empire was founded. Much rarer are the stories that tell of one side losing after having hired the Consultants. Indeed, I have never been able to locate a single example of such a tale.”
That seemed absurd to Calder. The Consultants were a Guild like any other, and not even so powerful as some. If the Champions had been hired against them, for instance, he would be heading for the horizon even now. The Magisters could likely find a way of setting their boat on fire from a distance, and the Alchemist’s Guild would be even more terrifying than that. They would find themselves frightened to breathe for fear of some exotic poison.
So, in his personal threat estimation, the Consultants did not rank high enough to justify any paranoia. Naberius’ obvious caution seemed...unnecessary, at best.
“Well, if they’re that good, then why not give up now?” he asked. “There’s no point in opposing an enemy who can never lose.”
Naberius rested his hands on the hilts of his pistols. “I did not mean to imply that they never lose. Only that when they do, they have ways of making sure that no one ever hears about it. To me, Captain Marten, that is plenty frightening.”
When he put it that way, they did sound relatively frightening. “If that’s true,” Calder said, “then we’ll only be safe at sea. Why did your message say to depart at dawn?”
“In your estimation, Captain, should we leave now?”
“Absolutely not.” The tide was against them, his crew could use the rest, and the Lyathatan was exhausted from pulling them back to land with such speed. Well, not exhausted precisely, because Calder wasn’t sure the Elderspawn ever got tired as he understood it. But from Reading the giant creature that pulled their ship, Calder was sure that it would find a way to retaliate against overwork. Forcing it to pull against the tide could be a straight route to the bottom of Candle Bay.
But if it was a choice between trying to persuade the Lyathatan and fighting off assassins, then Calder would pick the “flee to open ocean” route anytime.
Naberius nodded. “I agree. Tristania and I are also tired from our journey here, and we would welcome a night of rest before we headed out into open ocean. To be fully honest with you, we do not expect to be pursued this early, and we have set other precautions in place to be sure. But in case our preparations come to nothing, this is why we hired you.” He leaned forward. “It may be improper to ask, but...is it safe to say that you have a Soulbound among you?”
Calder tried not to do anything that would draw the Chronicler’s attention to Urzaia. Or Foster. Or, for that matter, himself.
“That would be safe,” he said at last.
“Then I am relieved.” He held up a hand. “Again, I do not expect any trouble tonight. But in case of a mistake on our part, it is a relief to know that there is at least one member of your crew who can stand with Tristania in our defense.”
“For the amount you’re paying, Naberius, consider the lives of my crew completely expendable. If you’d like to kill one to relax, I have a pistol you could borrow.”
Andel took a swig of wine. “That offer is good for the next ten minutes, until our inevitable mutiny.”
Calder jerked a thumb in the direction of his Quartermaster. “Andel will be first in line to take a bullet for you. I can tie him to a shield, if necessary.”
With a crash like thunder, the trap door to the hold burst open, and a dark figure soared out.
Naberius had a pistol out and aimed before the sound faded. Urzaia rose to his feet with a hatchet in each hand, Petal shoved herself behind a barrel, and Andel drew a pistol of his own. Tristania reached a hand inside her coat, Calder’s hand tightened on the grip of his cutlass, and even Jerri pulled a dagger.
Then the dark figure flapped into the light of the quicklamp, its black eyes glaring, working stubby wings to stay afloat. “MUTINY,” it bellowed, and then hopped up onto Calder’s shoulder. It leaned over, reaching out with the nest of tentacles on its mouth to clean the last bits of debris from Calder’s dinner plate.
The rest of the crew relaxed, but the Witnesses kept a tight grip on their weapons.
“What is that
?” Naberius asked in disgust.
They normally kept their pet Bellowing Horror sealed up when they had passengers onboard, but it seemed that this time the cage hadn’t held.
Oh, well, Calder thought. He was going to find out sooner or later.
“Naberius, Tristania, meet Shuffles.”
CHAPTER FOUR
When someone charges an object with their Intent, we call that process ‘investing,’ and we say that the object has been ‘invested.’
Why? Are we nothing more than slaves to ignorant tradition?
The early Empire knew nothing of finance, and thus nothing of true financial investment. I think you’ll find that our proposed term, ‘empowering,’ really captures the modern spirit of today’s Empire.
-From the (rejected) proposal of the Aurelian Banker’s Union to the Guild of Magisters
Thirteen years ago
Rojric rarely spoke of Calder’s mother at all, and Calder thought he was beginning to understand why.
“He took you with him on a burglary? You’re lucky the Guard knew to take you to me, or you might be in prison right alongside him!” She did not shake her finger at him, as Calder had somewhat imagined mothers would do, but remained seated. Her back stayed straight as a poker, even as she stared down at her son with disapproving eyes.
His mother, Alsa Grayweather, was everything Rojric pretended to be. She could trace her family line back to the dawn of the Empire, she wore only the latest in Imperial fashion, and she owned her own three-story home in one of the Capital’s wealthier districts.
In Calder’s mind, she needed more flaws. She was too perfect; like an Elderspawn stuffed into human skin. And, of all the Imperial Guilds, she had to work for the worst one.
The family line was mostly confidential, the Imperial records of her family sealed for security purposes. Her high-fashion dresses came in only one color—tar-black—and her home was stocked with more curios and deadly artifacts than a museum.
A curving tusk sat on a rack next to a pair of dueling sabers, all of them polished and oiled for immediate use. When he had first asked her about the tusk, she’d seemed shocked.
“If a Whispering Gaunt finds its way in my back door, how do you expect me to defend myself? With a sword?”
And, worst of all, that crest she had embroidered into her dress, woven into a tapestry, and displayed in the stained glass of her sitting-room window: a squirming mass of tentacles with six eyes overlaid.
The Elder’s Eyes, symbol of the Blackwatch.
“He needed me,” Calder insisted. “Only I can tell him what’s fake and what’s worth taking.”
“Worth taking! You have too much talent to waste on someone like your father. You’ll be better off with me, that’s for certain.”
Calder decided that honesty had gotten him as far as it could. It was time for persuasion. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Mother. To think you had a house like this...I’m sure even Father would agree that I am better off with you.”
He smiled up at her, watching a brace of ornamental pistols out of the corner of his eye. Eighty silvermarks.
One side of Alsa’s mouth curved up. She was a pretty woman still, with rich brown hair running down her back.
“You have your father’s tongue as well as his hair,” she said. “Flattery can serve you well, or it could end with you in the cell next to him.”
That didn’t sound too bad to Calder. If he wound up in a cell next to his father, at least they could see each other every day.
“Do you have horses here?” he asked. He’d wondered about that ever since he’d arrived here. Big houses were supposed to have horses.
“We do. And you will learn to ride, as well as several other skills important to your future.”
“What future did you have in mind, exactly?” he asked hesitantly. His father’s idea of a future had always been ‘earning a fortune and retiring to our own private island,’ but Calder doubted his mother would see things quite the same way.
Idly, she touched the Blackwatch Crest embossed into the table. “Among the Guilds,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing possible. “You’re too old to find a place among the Consultants or the Champions, thank the Fates, but riding will be important if you find yourself with the Witnesses or the Greenwardens. You seem surprisingly well educated, despite Rojric’s influence, so you might enjoy a life with the Magisters.”
Working in one of the ten Imperial Guilds? He’d have more freedom in a prison cell. He turned up his smile like a quicklamp, resolved to change the subject before she decided his future for him. “Oh yes, Father made sure I was educated. I have read all the classics, and I’ve been told I could pass for a governor’s son.”
“Can you, now? I had no idea your tutors were so well-rounded.” She leaned back in her chair, pulling a knife out of her pocket. Without preamble, she began trimming her nails right there at the table. It was so contrary to how he had imagined her that he could scarcely reconcile the picture: the proper, well-to-do, Guild-trained Capital woman, sitting at her table trimming her nails with a hunting knife.
“In what year were the Greenwardens established?”
“The Greenwardens, then known as the Brothers of Peace, were originally founded to counteract the spread of weaponized alchemy and a sudden increase in the worship of Othaghor. They were established in the...eighth...century, and remain one of the most influential Imperial Guilds to this day.”
He brushed off his shoulder, as though he answered questions like this every day.
She nodded to him, conceding a point. “Very good. I’d only correct a few bits, here and there: they were originally known as the Sisters of Peace, as the first generation of Greenwardens were all women. They were meant to counteract the worship of Ach’magut, not Othaghor, established in the seventh century rather than the eighth, and they are among the weakest Guilds in terms of both political power and available capital.”
Alsa stowed her knife without looking at him, flushing in shame. The heat spread down almost to his shoulders before he managed to choke back his embarrassment.
One question. That was one question, and I could have answered it had she given me more time.
But she didn’t seem inclined to give him any more time at all. “It will be important for you to know the history of the Greenwardens should you choose to join them. Kameira are fascinating creatures, and you would work quite closely alongside them in the Greenwardens. In fact, Imperial history is a critical subject for any of the Guilds.”
“I’m not sure I see myself as a Guild man,” he said. “I had thought about boarding a ship for Izyria and connecting with my culture, perhaps as a sailor or a hunter.”
He tried his best to make those sound like viable career paths, and not boyhood dreams born of travelers’ stories.
Alsa went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “If you do want to pass as a governor’s son, for some reason, then you should familiarize yourself with the fundamental philosophers. Penmanship, too, is crucial in more professions than you would expect.”
Penmanship? He didn’t want to learn penmanship.
“Listen, Mother. I understand that you think Father was irresponsible in bringing me along on an…artifact retrieval...and you’re probably right. That’s inappropriate for a boy my age, and I understand that.” He understood that she thought so, and that was what mattered. “But I’m as intelligent as any rich Guild son, and I’m quicker, and I can think on my feet. I could do quite well outside the Guilds, because I can get along on the streets. In the real world, not the cozy drawing-rooms of the Magisters or the alchemists.”
Calder had taken that speech point-for-point from an angry rant his father often brought forth when he’d been drinking. Not word-for-word, of course, because he thought his mother would appreciate eloquence more than passion.
But he did believe it. The ten Guilds acted as though they were part of some private world, running the Empire while everyone else simply ben
efited from their expertise.
Let’s see how a Greenwarden does without money to buy his food. He won’t have the spine to steal a loaf of bread, not to mention the hands to do it without getting caught.
A voice in the back of his mind mentioned that the Greenwardens were supposedly all Soulbound, capable of healing wounds and miraculously restoring blighted crops. Even if they were kicked out of the Guild for some reason, they were unlikely to starve.
He shoved that voice away.
Alsa looked as though she was having a great deal of trouble restraining her laughter. “The real world, you say? I see. And you think I don’t live in the real world, do you? Is that what your Father said?” There was an edge to her humor now.
Come to think of it, his father hadn’t ever listed Alsa among those Guild privileged who leaned on their fortunes.
“Father spoke most highly of you,” Calder lied, “and I’m sure you’re an excellent Watchman. Watchwoman. Watchlady.”
“Watchman. The founder of our order was a woman, and she took the name ‘Watchman’ upon herself because she ‘Didn’t want to set herself above her male counterparts by flaunting her superior gender.’ That’s a quote from her biography, which you will know after your courses in Imperial history.”
That was an incredibly useless bit of trivia, and he thought about pointing that out, but there was still an edge to her voice that he couldn’t quite place. Best to put out the fires. “Be that as it may, you have to admit that a Guild lifestyle is somewhat...insular.” ‘Insular’ was a word he had learned from the news-sheets last week, and he was determined to use it as much as possible. “Wouldn’t I be better trained if I continued to take on the broad world as it is, facing all its dangers with eyes wide open?”
While he spoke, Alsa had walked over to her mantelpiece, drawing the tip of her finger along one of her mounted pistols as though checking for dust. “You would say you’ve lived a dangerous lifestyle, then?”
