Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” rumbled a soft, oddly-slurring baritone from somewhere over Nestor’s shoulder. So awe-struck was he that he didn’t immediately react. When it finally registered that the voice most definitely did not belong to Jaeda, he slowly turned his head to find the source of the voice.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Nestor,” breathed the great blue reptile before him, its leathery wings silently churning the air, and one foreleg cradling an unconscious Jaeda. “You took your time getting here, didn’t you?”

  Chapter 29

  The twin flames bobbed gently in the telescope as the ship rocked back and forth. In Jaren’s green-tinged sight, the lamps in the Archive windows were difficult to distinguish from all the other lamps and torches in the city. But they were there.

  “It’s time,” he said aloud. “Are we ready?”

  “Yes,” answered Menkal. “We’ve just received word that our forces just north of the city walls are in place, ready to assist if things turn sour.”

  “And Marissa’s sure that thing is going to work?” the emerald asked, indicating the wand that swung from Menkal’s belt. “If it doesn’t, we’ll just be another fireworks display in the night’s sky.”

  “Senosh spent half a day going over the runes with her,” the sapphire shrugged. “If it don’t happen...”

  Jaren sighed. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”

  He had to admit, the wand was a dazzling specimen, possibly the artisan’s finest work. The rod itself was silver, about a foot long, with three dragon statuettes winding their way up the shaft from the grip. Each mythical beast had gemstone eyes upturned—emerald, amethyst, and sapphire. Their bodies and tails, exquisitely crafted to the finest detail, spiraled down the rod almost to the grip. At the other end, the statuettes were attached to the rod with one claw, while the other claw reached upward, the three of them coming together to form the setting for an enormous ruby. Intricate runes covered the rod in places where the dragon bodies left it bare.

  It was a stunning artifact, much too beautiful for its simple purpose. But Jaren understood. With Sal gone, Marissa had needed something to take up her time, her attention. She needed the wand almost as much as Reit did.

  Unhooking the wand from his belt, Menkal pointed it out over the harbor and caressed the activation runes. At his touch, the gems flared to magical life. Green, blue, and violet fire danced in the eyes of the dragons, their fire building and lending flame to the ruby. The stone shook with growing power, then finally erupted. A ball of magical flame shot from the ruby with such force that the wand recoiled. The fireball streaked across the sky in a high arc, a fiery gout trailing behind like the tail of a comet.

  Higher and higher it shot until, at the arc’s apex, the fireball exploded. The starburst threw red streamers out over the harbor. As they fell, the tendrils shifted color, first to green, then to blue, then violet. Cheers filled the city streets so that even Jaren and Menkal could hear them out in the harbor.

  “It’s showtime,” Menkal breathed, borrowing a slang phrase he’d once heard from that strange young mage with the single gemstone eye.

  ***

  From Retzu’s vantage point, he couldn’t see the west-facing front entrance of the Archives, but he could see the explosion clearly. The light from the starburst reached him a full second before the sound. Even as the tendrils spread, he picked out the fading streak that led from the epicenter to the ship bobbing below it.

  “Impressive signal, girlie,” he commended.

  Standing, he scanned the area around him for the quickest, most secluded route from his perch. He spied an alley on the other side of an adjacent street. As far as he could tell, the alley ran clear down to the wharves. Perfect.

  Checking first to make sure the fire still sparked in the hearth below him, he dropped the package down the chute. Turning, he leapt over the street and dropped to the alley below. He had barely touched ground when the blast from the package reached him, throwing him bodily into a very unforgiving wall. He saw star bursts again as darkness slipped over him.

  ***

  Sal stared at the woman, quietly reading by the light of two lamps. It was completely insane, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen this all before, or read about it, or something. It was like a faded memory from his childhood, not necessarily something important, but something he should have recognized immediately. Something from his school days, he thought. One if by land...

  Brilliant light scattered his thoughts as the fireball exploded, followed shortly by the clap of its report. The explosion flung streamers out across the sky, which turned colors as they arced toward the earth. Sal’s men were captivated by the display—and rightly so; it was beautiful—but it only served to heighten Sal’s suspicions. For hidden amongst the streamers was a fiery tail which led down to a solitary ship, rocking gently in the twilit harbor.

  Ship...

  Lamp...

  One if by land...

  “Two if by sea!” he gasped as the old memory bubbled to the surface. The lamps in the window... It was a signal, just as surely as the one that sent Paul Revere on his historic ride, shouting out a warning of the British attack and calling the minutemen to arms. In a city lit up with Festival lights, no one would notice two more lamps in a window sill. No one, that is, except someone who was looking for them.

  Reit was on the move.

  Sal threw his single eye about, scanning frantically for a familiar face. Momentarily forgetting himself, he grasped the amethyst magic, allowing its magical currents to energize him. His vision shifted from green to violet, and he took up his secondary sight.

  The bustling celebrants sloughed off their flesh in his sight, taking on the violet-lined look of living x-rays. But all the skeletons were looking to the sky, staring in awe at the fireworks display. No one seemed to be sneaking around, trying to move through the crowd unnoticed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—

  A blast from a couple of blocks south knocked him off his feet, and sent him sprawling onto the green expanse of the courtyard. A column of flame shot toward the heavens, its top spreading out and back into itself like a giant mushroom as flame cooled into smoke. The shockwaves from the blast sent shards of clay and wood flying for blocks. Sal threw up an arm to shield himself from the falling debris.

  He staggered to his feet, searching the pandemonium that had taken the crowd out in the streets. They were panicked, yes, but that was to be expected. He wasn’t interested in the chaotic ebb and flow of the Festival-goers. Reit’s men would be as cool as a cucumber. Seeing nothing of interest in the crowd, he turned his violet sight upon the Archives—and froze there.

  ***

  The blast rocked the cellar, toppling wine racks and pantry shelves. Reit and Keth tumbled to the ground in a heap. The Archivist, who’d known something of what to expect, held tightly to the wooden banister, just barely keeping his footing.

  “Effective distraction,” Keth growled. Helping Reit to his feet, he shot an accusing glare at the bald scholar before heading up the stairs.

  “What?” the old man asked defensively as he followed. “Did I do something wrong?”

  ***

  The commander of the Granite Spire, Uri Ghert, skimmed the field reports before him. Foil-laced ink scrawled across the parchment’s surface, forming words that stood out more clearly in the granite’s sight than normal ink would. In concept, it was a marvel of granite ingenuity, creating a method of writing that any granite with an education can appreciate. In reality, it was an irritation. To squander such a gift on inventory lists, official decrees on the disposal of urban wastes, the current status of his forces...

  “‘Forces’, indeed,” Ghert muttered irritably, slamming the page down on the desk as he reached for his wine goblet. “Seven mages all together—including myself—and they call our pitiful party ‘forces’.”

  As he took a pull from the chalice, he felt obliged to admit—if only to himself—that he was
n’t upset by the low number of centurions-to-be left available to him. How could he be? Even without having completed the training regimen, the centurion cadets were still functional. Six granite cadets, even half trained as they were, were more than enough to repel a small army if necessary. In fact, he preferred such a low number of subordinates. Fewer barroom brawls to explain to his superiors. Fewer hard-headed youths to break down and remold. Fewer problems in total. What did stick in his craw was the fact that after forty-five years of service to the Highest, he was still forced to babysit the rawest cadets during the Harvest Festival, while the rest of his charges were rewarded for their hard labor. Not that his granite eyes could truly appreciate all that the Festival had to offer...

  He had just turned his attention to the warehousing report—”Fancy that, lost three sacks of grain to weevils this month”—when one of said cadets burst into the room. “Commander Ghert, there’s something happening in the city!” the student said breathlessly.

  “Of course there is. It’s called a ‘Festival’,” he replied without looking up from the report.

  “No, sir. I mean, something bad, sir.”

  Ghert looked up from his page and studied the student casually. The lad’s right leg was cramped with the stress of running up the seven flights of stairs that led to the commander’s study—either he lacked confidence in his ability to travel in a melted state, or in agitation he’d simply forgot he could—and his lungs heaved with exertion. Or was it excitement? The boy hopped from one foot to the other, as anxious as a stripling looking to a tavern wench for his first roll. Most granites were more reserved at this point in their training, either through discipline or depression. “Explain,” the commander grunted impatiently.

  “Sir, Hicks and I were joined with the ground, monitoring the surrounding lands,” the student said. “We figured if we couldn’t actually go to the Festival, we could sort of spy on it, so we were—”

  “The point, cadet!” he barked.

  “Sir, we felt a very large disturbance in Bastion, near the Archives. An explosion. It destroyed at least one house, and damaged many others nearby.”

  “Adequate assessment,” Ghert commented shortly, “but none of our concern. It was probably an errant pyrotechnics display, or a spell gone awry. That’s the city’s problem, not ours.” He returned his gaze to the report, summarily dismissing the student.

  “But, Commander,” the boy persisted. “Just after the explosion, we felt the presence of a granite.”

  That got the commander’s attention. “What?!? In the city?”

  “In the Archives, sir. The explosion must have knocked him down, for all we felt was his aura. He was holding no magic, sir.”

  Ghert fell silent, thoughtful. He and the students were the only granites left on Ysre. All the others had been called away to Veylin for the Harvest celebration in the Palace of the Highest. None would dare shirk that honor, that command. That meant a renegade.

  “Scholar’s Ford,” he muttered. The lad who’d killed a Bearer of the Tiled Hand, then escaped with the rebels. But rumor had it that he was killed in the doomed attack on Caravan. That was only a rumor, however...

  “Take the others—not Liem; he’s too new yet—and go out to Bastion. Bring the granite to me, alive if possible. He should be relatively helpless, given that he could not have had access to formal training, but use caution all the same.”

  The student bowed his acknowledgment and left, sweeping the door closed behind him.

  Commander Ghert slipped off one of his supple leather boots and pressed his bare foot to the floor, melting into it. His awareness expanded as he became one with the stone. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a rare smile as moments later he felt the five granite auras trundle—albeit at breakneck speeds for them—toward Bastion. It seemed that his invitation to next year’s Harvest gala was all but assured.

  ***

  Sal froze in place when he saw the skeletal forms running through the kitchen of the Archives, laden with packs. The violet apparitions turned a corner in the building, and started down a flight of stairs—and disappeared into nothingness! Sal scanned the courtyard surrounding the Archives, searching the ground frantically for the fleeing forms. But try as he might, he could find no evidence that he’d ever seen the forms to begin with. He trotted toward the courtyard gate that opened to the west, hoping to get a more complete view of the grounds.

  “Sal, what do you—”

  The ruby had come running up behind Sal from where he and the others were standing, watching the skyline above the blaze a few streets to the south. The young Valenese mage choked on his words as Sal fixed him in his violet gaze.

  The ruby swallowed hard, and quickly regained composure. “Sorry. Seeing you do that a few times doesn’t exactly make it normal. So, what do—”

  “Nothing, Frasyr,” Sal ordered. “Do absolutely nothing. I need you to remain at your post. Tribean’s covering the Commons. He can take care of the fire.” He scanned the ground again. His eye swept westward from the kitchen, leaving the building and going out across the courtyard...

  There! Midway across the courtyard, he caught sight of two faint violet forms, just barely tickling the edge of his visual spectrum. “You’re in charge until I get back,” he ordered as he gave chase to the purple forms, dashing across the courtyard and into the crowd of violet skeletons that was gathering in the avenue fronting the Archives. He was sure that Frasyr was watching him in bewilderment, just as curious as the Festival-goers filling the streets for blocks around the fire, but he didn’t have time for lengthy explanations. He was going to have a difficult enough time following the pair of subterranean auras through a city filled with violet without having to worry about whether or not his charges can follow simple instructions. All he could do is give the command, and pray that it is followed.

  ***

  “All I’m saying is that he could have warned us,” Keth maintained. He poked his head up out of the tunnel, scanning the alley for unwelcome eyes. Thankfully, the town still seemed completely taken in by the “distraction” that the Learned Yakov had devised.

  “And all I’m saying is that they only knew it would explode,” said Reit, coming to the old man’s defense. “There’s no way he could’ve known that it would take half of Ysre with it.”

  Keth muttered something noncommittal—not wanting to further counter his sovereign lord’s opinion, but definitely not agreeing—and placed his hands on either side of the hole, hoisting himself out. Reit handed both packs up, bulging with their purloined contents, then climbed up behind. They replaced the seemingly rotten boards over the hole, then, shouldering the packs, walked off into the mass of humanity as if they’d been there the whole time.

  “I would have preferred you let me seal the hole,” Keth grumbled before he could stop himself, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he yet again rebelled against Reit’s unassailable authority.

  “The Learned will take care of all that,” Reit assured him, ignoring the barb. “We’ve got people on the inside, remember?”

  Keth almost nodded, but stopped himself in half-hearted defiance. Not like Reit would notice anyway.

  “Keth?”

  Fool’s fortune. He noticed. “Yes, Lo... umm, yes, Reit?”

  The other looked askance at the granite, the wry grin playing across his face apparent even in Keth’s magical sight. “I told you not to step so lightly around me, you know.”

  “I know, el’Yatza, but I swore—”

  “To the Abyss with your oath!” he hissed, cutting Keth off sharply. “I’ve no use for fealty if it holds my people back from speaking their mind!” Muttering an oath of his own, he cast his eyes about, wary of any uninvited guests to their conversation. Seeing none, he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Keth, I ask people to join my Cause only if they find me to be a worthy leader, obeying me because they think I know what in the Abyss I’m doing and not because they’ve foresworn their own will for some flamin
g oath! If your oath of fealty means that you swear away your freedom to think for yourself, then I reject your oath, and you for giving it. Are we clear?”

  Keth half expected Reit to stalk off in anger, not waiting for his answer. That would have been easier. Instead, the rebel leader stood there in the middle of the street, forcing the panicked once-celebrants to flow past the two as an island in a river. Fleshy red-orange eyes fixed his granite orbs, hard as steel for all that they were soft in his magical sight. “We’re clear, el’Yatza,” he muttered as meekly as he could manage, angered and more than a little humiliated by his lord’s quiet outburst.

  “I’m not sure I believe you, Keth,” Reit spat, eyes seeming to grow harder, if that were possible. “Again I ask. Are we clear!”

  “We are, Reit,” the granite growled, his teeth baring of their own accord. If Reit wanted free-thinking, that’s what he was going to get! “And for the record, I think it was a stupid mistake to leave the tunnel intact.”

  Reit’s features softened as the tension left his muscles. “But that was my mistake to make,” he replied, a crooked smile breaking over his newly relaxed demeanor. “After all, you never know when we might need that access tunnel again, either to get back into the Archives, or to get the Archivists out. Now, shall we continue?”

  This time Reit did turn and walk away, leaving a stunned Keth standing in the wake. What had just happened here? Had Reit rejected his oath of fealty? No, he didn’t think so. But if not, why was he so pleased when Keth let his anger get the best of him? As Reit disappeared around a particularly rotund partier, Keth shook his head and followed, pushing his way through a rapidly closing crowd.

  When he caught up to Reit, the rebel leader didn’t even seem to notice that they’d become separated. He was too busy trying to weave his own way through the sweaty, fear-soaked, lurching press of ale smelling bodies. Of all the rotten times to pick a fight with the Highest, they would have to do it in the midst of the “biggest kegger of the year”, as Sal would’ve put it.