Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  After a time, his aches faded, and he relieved himself from shol’zo rah, granting himself only enough time to eat a few bites before washing in the basin and retiring to the comfort of his bed, passing the night as comatose as possible.

  ***

  The night also passed in relative silence for those in the oppressive growth of Aeden’s Lost Garden. It was well into second watch before the moon finally peeked over the Icebreak Mountains, casting its half-bodied brilliance down upon Caravan, and upon the two shadowy figures in the ad hoc village green. One figure hacked and slashed its way through imaginary foes. The other could have been carved of solid rock for all it moved.

  Keth worked furiously through his forms, beaded sweat catching the torchlight as it fell in torrents from his shaggy curls. Retzu watched the granite run through the form with an appraising eye. So focused, this one. So incredibly intent. Too intent, really. There was such a zeal about Keth that Retzu was silently impressed. A driving blow here, a cutting upper block there, each arc of the sword flowing seamlessly into the next, all performed with a skill and precision far beyond his rawhide hilt. Impressive, yes, but also worrisome.

  With a silent huff, Keth dropped into shol’zo rah, his katana ending up on the night darkened ground before him, sitting at such a perfect angle that the granite might well have never picked it up to begin with.

  “Outstanding,” Retzu breathed. “I can find no flaw in your technique. Your appear more than ready for the doeskin.”

  “Thanks,” the granite mumbled. He was careful not to surrender shol’zo rah, as his master hadn’t yet given him permission. Retzu’s praise filled him with satisfaction, but not so much as to make him forget his place.

  Retzu nodded his approval, then said, “To the ready.” In one motion, Keth grasped his katana and swept it into a tight arc, sheathing it neatly as he took his feet. He stood before his shol’tuk master, ready to accept any commands that he might give. But what Retzu had to say, he doubted the granite would be ready for.

  “What’s your problem, mate?” he asked gruffly, crossing his arms before him.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t give me that dumb look; you know what I’m talking about. We’ve been at this for weeks, and you’ve always proved to be an apt pupil. But since the attack on Caravan, you’ve thrown yourself into your training with inhuman effort. Now, while I appreciate the attention you’re giving your studies with me, I must admit that I’m starting to worry about you a mite.”

  “I’m fine,” the granite said numbly, evading his master’s eyes.

  “No, you’re not.”

  The granite sighed irritably, but said nothing. The assassin ran his eyes over Keth, noting his body language, his stance, his posture, anything that might reveal what was going on inside the mysterious youth.

  It wasn’t as if Retzu didn’t know him, didn’t understand him. They’d talked at length about Keth’s supposed crime, his enforced exile from his family. Keth had even told him about the girl, Nanette, a subject that the boy apparently held in reserve for only his most trusted companions. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what was driving the boy. It was anger, as pure and distilled as any that he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t fathom where it came from, or on whom it focused.

  “We’re doing nothing, Master,” Keth said finally. “I absolutely detest this inaction! I need to be doing something, to feel like I’m making progress, anything to keep from feeling that we’re wasting our time sitting on our heels.”

  Retzu empathized with Keth, but had no easy answers. Not even for himself. They had a plan—and a right smart one at that—but they couldn’t so much as budge on it until the time of Harvest, still many weeks away. Until they moved on Bastion, every second would feel wasted. He knew that. He’d performed similar operations, and each time the wait leading up to the event weighed heavily on him. “Sitting on go,” Sal had called it once. And although he didn’t understand the term exactly, it seemed to fit.

  He sighed deeply, though it wasn’t a sigh born of empathy. It came from the deep-seated frustration that Retzu could only imagine a master having for his apprentice. He’d heard others in Caravan claim that such frustration could also be felt for a prodigal child, but Retzu knew nothing of such things. It just wouldn’t do for him to have children. His choice of career generally precluded any thought of family. He stretched that line a good bit with his association with Reit and his “Cause”, but that was a special case. He saw little conflict between killing for the Cause and killing for commission. It would be vastly different if he were to try and balance his life as an assassin with the rigors and commitments of marriage, let alone family life.

  No. As far as he was concerned, the katana was the only wife he would ever know, and the apprenticeship his only offspring. And right now, his “son” was lying to him. Or if not lying, at least not telling the whole truth. He shook his head, then thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled forth a strip of soft doeskin.

  “We are making progress, mate,” he said, studying the strip of leather. So simple, that strip, and yet its making cost a majestic creature its life. To gain anything, something had to be lost. He wondered, still staring at the doeskin, what Keth would have to lose to gain his freedom from whatever was driving him.

  “But we trade in death,” he continued, “as your Master Seti trades in tools. And death has no room in it for anger, not when we’re the ones dealing it. You must find peace within yourself before you can truly know what it means to be shol’tuk.” With a finally glance at the strip, he handed it to Keth and turned to leave.

  “If death has no room for anger, why are you still granting me the doeskin?” the granite called from behind him, the confusion in his voice all but drowning out his elation at achieving the promotion.

  “I’m just giving you the leather strap, mate. Only you can say whether or not you’re ready to apply it to your hilt,” the assassin said over his shoulder, not slowing his pace in the slightest.

  ***

  Jaren watched the exchange between Keth and Retzu from the comforts of his wagon stoop. There was no doubt, not from any of Keth’s masters, that he was an apt pupil. Master Seti glowed with praise whenever Jaren came to call on him. He would parade the emerald around a workshop filled with tools that Keth had crafted, each one a study in precision and practicality. No skill was ever wasted in making a particular tool pretty, Jaren noted, but there was a kind of beauty in the simplicity of Keth’s designs.

  And Keth’s advances in his own practice of magic... The boy was nothing short of a prodigy, constantly coming up with new and enticing uses for his granite magic. Recently, it seemed as if the boy’s imagination had absolutely exploded all over the inside of his skull. In no time at all, Keth had eclipsed everything that Jaren knew about granite magic, and had more than fulfilled his end of the bargain by keeping Jaren abreast of his discoveries. He’d even took time out of his duties to his various masters to look over the artisan Marissa’s runelist, as pertaining to Granite. That had done her good, given recent circumstances. She seemed confident that Keth would be able to impart no small amount of knowledge to her, making her wares all the more valuable.

  Likewise, the granite seemed to have a real knack for shol’tuk. Even more so than Sal did, if Retzu could be believed.

  Sal...

  Not for the first time, Jaren wondered after his other pupil. He had proven so resourceful, so quick to adapt to change as to almost seem fluid. Even the first time he met Sal, back in the Highest’s prison, Jaren could see the wonder, the intellect the man had. No more was his resourcefulness proven than in his ability to master, at least to some extent, his ability to wield the various magics that he could use. And to help Keth do the same! Absolutely remarkable, the things that he could do!

  Jaren’s wonder faded, and concern returned. Yes, he was concerned for Sal’s safety, though not overly much. If such a man could survive whatever horrors he’d faced before being thrown in
to Schel Veylin Prison, horrors that had tried their best to tear the very flesh from the man’s bones... such a man doesn’t die easily. They hadn’t seen Sal in weeks, but Jaren had no doubt that he would reunite with his pupil someday soon..

  No, more than his concern for Sal was his concern for Keth. Something was tearing at the boy’s soul, eating him from the inside out just as surely as a colony of liverworms. And it was more than the boy’s morose nature. Master Seti had come to talk to the emerald a few days before with concerns of his own. Neither of them had talked to Retzu about Keth, but he had every confidence that the assassin would have similar to say.

  The boy was troubled by something that had a death grip on his very soul, and Crafter be blinded if Jaren could fathom what it was. “If Sal were here, he could figure the bugger out,” Jaren muttered absently as he turned down his lamp and went inside.

  Chapter 21

  Sal woke with the sun the next morning, and found a platter of fruits and breads on a stand near his bed awaiting his pleasure, as well as a full pitcher of water next to the wash basin. The innkeeper sure seems to appreciate his patrons, he thought, bringing to mind once more the wench that had brought him to his room the night before. Casually, he wondered if the innkeeper Finley had any ties to Reit.

  No, probably not. Sal didn’t know much about how the Cause placed its people, but he suspected that Reit’s contacts were generally low key, the kind to avoid attention. The very arrogant—very conspicuous—innkeeper didn’t seem to fit the bill. Still, if what the wench said about the man’s honor was true...

  He sighed deeply, putting Finley out of his mind. The question of the innkeeper’s potential as a recruit for the Resistance would have to wait for another time. There was so much to do, and lying in bed dreaming up “what ifs” would get him nowhere.

  Sighing, he rolled out of the downy bed and shuffled toward the wash basin for his morning ablutions. The chill water felt good on his head, his chest, under his arms. Refreshed, he dressed in his borrowed leather armor and sat down to eat, stowing a few apples and a small loaf of bread for later. He snickered at the old habit. Even in a strange new world, he couldn’t go to a single hotel without looking for things to take with him when he left. Finally, he gathered his gear and laid back on his bed, awaiting the wake up call he was sure to get.

  He must have dozed off, for the knock startled him, left him disoriented. “Yes?” he asked groggily.

  “The Academic has begun taking on passengers, milord,” came the muffled voice through the door.

  Sal shook the cobwebs from his head as he gathered his gear, then went downstairs. He found the proprietor behind the desk, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t budged since the night before. The corners of Sal’s mouth tugged insistently, but he denied the urge to snicker. After a night in that wonderful room, he just couldn’t see insulting the innkeeper’s devotion to the clientele.

  “Pleasant morning to you, milord,” Finley said with mild disinterest. “I trust the room was adequate?”

  “Yes, of course. The service, as well,” Sal returned with a quick smile.

  “I see you’ve been chatting with Wileen. Fool girl. Can’t get it through her head that I’m not as ‘nice and sweet’ as she would like people to believe.” The pudgy innkeeper passed all this off in his airy, slightly irritated tone, but Sal thought he caught an amused, affectionate twinkle in his slanted eyes.

  Saying not a word more about the wench, the innkeeper passed Sal a wooden coin inscribed with the image of a man studying at a desk overrun with books. On the reverse, the coin sported a painted image of the Tiled Hand, set within the design of an open book. Sal took the coin to be a boarding token. He thanked Finley and stuffed the coin in his purse.

  The chubby innkeeper summarily brushed the thanks aside, having apparently no time to entertain such niceties. A few words of direction and he was gone, off to service other customers not as accommodating as Sal. Sal grinned again and dug through his purse, quietly leaving a gold coin under the inn logbook for the five-star service, then headed out the door in the general direction of the river.

  The River Rhu’sai, or the River of Winter Floes, was much larger than Sal expected. Back on the hill overlooking the city, it didn’t seem quite as impressive, but up close, it was enormous. Even in the heat of the coming summer, the river looked to be a mile wide and pushing its banks—a match for the Mighty Mississippi any day. And judging by the types of ships that peppered its expanse, it was just as deep.

  One ship in particular caught Sal’s eye. The ship sat at anchor in the middle of the river. It was similar in design to a barque, long and sleek with a shallow draft, made for maximum speed and payload over minimal water. This model, of course, was a slight variation on the design, with wider spaced cannon ports and horizontal slits in the hull between them. Sal took these to be galley slits, where the crew could run out oars if need be. With the steady downriver current, he could definitely see the advantage.

  A mid-morning breeze kicked up across the water, churning a few waves over the otherwise calm waters. The sails billowed a bit where they were trimmed, just enough that Sal could see the colors of the Tiled hand emblazoned upon them, set in the center of an open book, the very emblem that graced one face of his boarding token.

  She was the Academic.

  In Sal’s world, the barque was one of the largest of the shallow running wooden vessels. Its reef-clearing keel also made it extremely agile, and was used throughout the 17th century as the pirate ship of choice, surpassed only by the frigate. Sal found it somewhat fitting that it would carry him to Bastion.

  He watched as longboats launched from the bustling pier, ferrying passengers out to the ship. As one boat made its way out to the ship, another would pass it, rowing back to the pier for another load of passengers and cargo. At the rate they were going, the ship would be ready to shove off in no time—whether he was onboard or not. He quickened his pace though the press of travelers and merchants, all awaiting transport at their own berths, and got in line for the Academic.

  Used to this level of activity, the crew of the Academic ran like a well oiled machine. One man reclaimed tokens and logged names in the ship’s manifest while another secured the passengers and their luggage. When one boat was full, it launched, making way for the other boat. Sal had barely joined the line before he was at the front of it.

  “Name?” the grizzled registrar asked mechanically, sounding more than ready to trade the wharf for a nice stretch of open river.

  “Sal.”

  “City of origin?”

  “Dothan, Ala...” He winced and bit his words off. He’d been asked where he was from a million times in the past twenty some-odd years. It was just an ingrained response now. And one that’s liable to get me killed if I don’t watch it, he thought. Earthen Rank probably don’t take too kindly to people impersonating their officers.

  His choked reply brought the registrar up short. “Where?”

  “Umm... Dothan. It’s a small town in the Sou-err, Southern Plains,” he stammered, grinning nervously as he struggled to get back into character as an Earthen Rank soldier, native to this world.

  The sailor looked hard at Sal for a moment. “You don’t sound like Southern Plains,” he muttered. Then his eyes dropped to the bulging purse at Sal’s hip, and he shrugged to himself, scribbling in his ledger. Sal breathed a sigh of relief. The leathery sailor could care less if Sal was from the Outer Reaches—wherever that was—so long as he got paid.

  “Rank and duty station?” he asked, eying Sal’s badge and rank stripes.

  “Subsergeant, Fourth Regiment out of Guard, currently stationed in the Northern Plains on the Norwood Coast,” Sal recited smoothly.

  “Ah, the rebels,” the registrar nodded approvingly, then gave Sal a shrewd eye. “What with their leader escaped and all, what’s your business in Bastion?”

  “My family is poor, so we were pretty much on our own when I ascended,” he gave his
prepared story. “Since they couldn’t afford to send me to Academy, I apprenticed to a local healer. Not much in the way of an education, but it was better than nothing. Then I heard that they were needing emeralds up north. I was told that Rank recruits get free schooling, so I went to Eastwind Delta and got my commission. I served in the Twelfth Battle Fist for a few seasons, then transferred to Garrison, then to Guard. We got a few Unmarked Greens this spring, so my High Sergeant ordered me to Bastion to receive formal training.”

  “Why not train in Guard?”

  “The rebels are gaining strength on the Coast, and High Sergeant felt that Bastion might give me a fresh perspective.”

  The sailor mulled this over for a second, then bobbed his head as if Sal’s story was rather commonplace. Giving his ledger a final squiggle, the sailor passed Sal off to his partner, and Sal was loaded onto the longboat with the other passengers. The deckhand eyed Sal’s sword curiously, as if to request he take it off, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Sal breathed a sigh of relief.

  He had originally suggested to Mik that he remove the doeskin from the hilt, as the Earthen Rank didn’t typically train in the art, but the old man had cautioned against it. “Ye want as little trouble as possible,” he’d said. “An’ that wee strip o’ leather’ll save ye plenty.”

  Point of no return, Sal thought anxiously as the longboat pushed off from the pier, slicing easily through the water toward the Academic. From this point on, he was an Earthen Rank emerald. He looked down at his wrist, at the timepiece that he’d crafted in Marissa’s shop, and shuddered. What would she think of him if she could see him now?