Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  His mother must’ve had a ball here. The more he saw, the more he was surprised she’d ever left.

  At the moment he had little to steal. He’d left everything behind in the inn and only the ugly, awkward mass of the short sword drug at his hip. No one in their right mind would try to steal it. He’d wanted a sword for days, but this was not what he’d envisioned. Aside from fitting the poverty implied by their ratty cloaks he couldn’t say anything positive about it.

  A woman in a patched gray dress, who smelled of harsh soap, bumped off his shoulder. She cursed him rather creatively before disappearing into the crowd. Ryle was either too tired to care or had already been numbed to the point that it no longer affected him. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.

  He swept his eyes over the crowd again, and found nothing. Not blasted surprising. A dozen men could be following them right then and Ryle doubted he’d ever see them among the sea of faces. He kept watching anyway, maybe he’d get lucky.

  For once Lastrahn wasn’t glaring down anyone who came near. In fact, he barely looked like himself. He moved with a slouched posture that concealed his height and size. Ryle hadn’t thought either possible until he’d witnessed it.

  This did a lot to help them blend into the people on the street, but didn’t make their going any easier. A thin man bumped off of Ryle. His arms were loaded with a mass of paper flyers. He shoved one into Ryle’s hands before disappearing into the crowd.

  Large eyes in a round face peered from the paper in his hands. The text read: Tonight Only at the Yibberith! Hex if he knew what it meant. He wadded it up and tossed it away.

  The blasted things were everywhere. They filled the gutters, and many walls bore a thick layer of them like a coat of cheap paper feathers. Their bold typefaces declared sales, cures, protests, rarities, wonders, duels, dances, and pleas for help. A wall to his left contained nothing but a single poster pasted over and over again, that of a large, snarling black bear, with steam rising from its baleful visage.

  He wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead and pressed on.

  They’d already checked a handful of places along the edge of Gates and gained nothing but blank stares and more than a few brusque dismissals. Not surprising considering their dirty clothing and the rather upscale, if not precisely posh, establishments where Lastrahn had made inquiries. Their doormen had been better dressed than Ryle, even when he wasn’t wearing the stinking cloak.

  The brush offs were almost expected but the blank looks were another matter. For every name that failed to generate a response, Lastrahn’s shoulders tightened a little more, his expression grew a bit darker. Lastrahn hadn’t shown much concern over finding Hartvau when they entered the city, but the situation was rapidly changing. Maybe it was the result of the Uprising after Helador, but things appeared to have changed since Lastrahn was last here.

  Judging by the slow improvement in merchant stalls he concluded they moved deeper into Purses. With the sun gone he had nothing else to go by. Not that he was complaining. Even if every street looked the same, at least they had stayed above ground.

  Soon, even the few markers he did have would disappear as most shops were closing early. Then Ryle remembered the festival, and suddenly he understood the mood. Even before Helador, the Day of Contrition was never an uplifting affair. Of all of the seven days, this one was set aside for reflection and consideration. It was a day to remember the grim choice their ancestors made return to the surface. If the festival here was anything like the one in Pyhrec, quiet family gatherings, instead of wild parties, would be the norm.

  Two blocks later, they came to a stop before a squat brick building. The simple sign over the door read “The Copper Pint.” From the warm light emanating from the windows and the sounds rolling out as the front door opened and closed they’d arrived at a rather nice pub.

  Ryle thought the place looked inviting, but Lastrahn’s expression disagreed. He glared at the sign, then turned and crossed the street, heading straight for a bespectacled man in a tailor’s apron standing in the door of his shop.

  “Nice shop. You look like you’ve been in business for a while,” Lastrahn’s voice was surprisingly polite despite his clear annoyance.

  The man looked the champion up and down, appeared for a moment like he might sniff in disgust, but instead answered the question. “Five years.”

  Lastrahn jabbed a thumb at the pub. “This pretentious place across the street used to be—”

  The tailor did sniff this time, cutting Lastrahn off. “Mr. Jorgesson opened that fine establishment last spring. I drink there almost every night.”

  Ryle got the impression Lastrahn would’ve preferred throttling an answer out of him, but he continued speaking instead.

  “This place, it used to be called Quaffing’s.”

  The tailor’s face scrunched up, as if that name pained him. “It closed. A year ago. When its proprietor fled town ahead of a sizeable mob of disgruntled Neighborhood Improvement Association members.”

  If this man wasn’t the Association’s president, he was most certainly a member.

  “The man caused a ruckus every night and brought all sorts of disreputable customers to our neighborhood.” He didn’t hide the flat look he gave Lastrahn as he finished.

  The man had guts, or he was too sheltered to understand the true situation. If Lastrahn hadn’t been in such a hurry, Ryle was sure the conversation would’ve ended differently. Instead, the champion turned and strode off, his eyes blazing within his hood.

  At the next stop, a helpful peddler told Lastrahn that Sergeant Wilks had left when his supply dried up during the Uprising.

  Six blocks later, on a back street near the end of Purses, a faded and torn notice nailed to a locked door read that the multiple murder associated with the property was solved and the building was now up for auction. Cleaning fees would come at the buyer’s expense.

  By that time the moon was rising, and few people remained on the streets. Most hurried past without making eye contact or acknowledging them. It was easier to keep an eye out for tails, but they were running out of time. Ryle felt like a gate was descending on them, and they wouldn’t be able to slip through.

  Lastrahn stalked north, forgetting or ignoring, the posture that concealed his size. If more people had been about, Ryle might’ve been concerned about their cover. At that moment, his only worry was Lastrahn’s state of mind.

  A quarter hour later, at the edge of Ashes, his mood hadn’t improved. The charred remains of a burned out lot lay before them. Beyond that was more of the same. Charcoal, cracked stone, splintered wood. Black smears of past lives. It felt like the end of their trail. Dark sky above, dark ruin ahead. All of it deserted. Silent and brooding, the champion stared out at the devastation.

  Only when a thin woman wandered into the lee of the broken foundation and sat down, did Lastrahn move. He approached her directly and she watched him come, eyes half-lidded, face slack. Her dirty hair was a tangled mess that might’ve once been red.

  Lastrahn looked her over for a heartbeat while she toyed with the black hem of her ratty dress. “You’ve slept here for a while,” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “Tell me what happened to this place.”

  She closed one eye, peered up at him suspiciously. Then shrugged again. “Sickness then fire. People never came back.” She dug one finger in the ashes and dirt beside her. The blackened object she uncovered might’ve been a bone. Ryle swallowed his disgust at the casual way she picked at it with one jagged, dirty fingernail.

  “There was a man, named Feder,” Lastrahn said. “He was often here. I need to know if he was in that fire.”

  She eyed him again, then nodded slowly.

  Lastrahn cursed, and the woman smiled, revealing more gums than teeth. Ryle wanted to get out of there, everything about the place made his skin crawl. Not least of which the idea that the streets had once been filled with plague.

  Lastrahn’s
pressed on. “There’s another man. Ogrif.”

  At this the woman’s eyes widened before she could look away. “I don’t know him.” She rubbed her lips, leaving smears of ash across them.

  Lastrahn’s voice hardened. “I think you do.” He took a threatening step toward her. Something crunched hollowly beneath his boot, and Ryle could only think of bones. “Now tell me.”

  The woman covered her face with her sooty hands and spoke through her fingers. “He left! Moved across town to I don’t know where. Happy now? He left, and I don’t see him anymore!” She nearly shrieked the last words and began rocking against the ruins. “He’s gone! Everyone’s gone!”

  Lastrahn took a step back at her outburst. When she kept carrying on, he turned and stalked back to the street. Ryle trailed after him until they could no longer hear the woman’s pained exclamations. There the champion finally stopped in a pool of lantern light, folded his arms, and glared out at the world.

  He remained that way for some time while Ryle wondered if the dead-end sensation he felt was real, if their search had ended so quickly. Blast they were so close! Ryle was sure of it. His father could literally be around the next corner, but they hadn’t found a single lead.

  Hopelessness bore down until he couldn’t take it anymore. “Who’s Ogrif?”

  “A trader. A purveyor of certain items of questionable legality. And a generally unpleasant man who is hard to find,” Lastrahn said, almost as if talking to himself more than answering his question.

  So he was a fence, and sounded like a real charmer. “Should we search underground?”

  “No, not for him. He’d maintain a presence topside.”

  Ryle still had an idea he’d been wondering about since they arrived in Del’atre. His guts churned over it, but they needed a way forward. “Maybe someone in Reckoning can help us find him.”

  Lastrahn’s eyes burned cold in the shadow of his cowl. “If you’re not going to say anything useful, then shut the hell up.”

  Ryle didn’t understand why the hex they wouldn’t use that resource, especially now, but his master’s words clearly left that idea gutted on the floor. He probably should’ve shut up then, but he didn’t. He was hot, tired, and more than a little irritated. “What about Drailey? She lives here, right?”

  “No, not her,” Lastrahn said without turning, but he didn’t say shut up.

  Ryle took the opening and plowed ahead. “Isn’t it worth a shot?”

  “We’re not out of options yet.”

  But it felt like that’s exactly where they stood. They’d been trudging around the city for hours, with nothing to show for it. Now the light was gone, the streets empty, and Ryle couldn’t see any other way. He opened his mouth again, knowing he’d surely regret it. “The way she talked in Shelling, about knowing people who bought things. If this Ogrif is a fence, I bet she could help, Sir.”

  Lastrahn’s jaw muscles flexed a couple times, then he looked out along the street. Ryle waited, feeling the seconds add up, wondering what their sum would be when Lastrahn decided.

  Without a word Lastrahn turned and walked west along the street. “You better hope this is worthwhile. And if you say one damn word about Hartvau . . .” The edge in Lastrahn’s voice softened just slightly and he muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “I don’t want her getting tangled up with someone like him. She has enough problems.”

  After a long walk through Hearths, they arrived deep in the Flats, before the door to a shop on a narrow lane named Opportunity. At least that was its name according to the sign they’d passed. Ryle very much doubted this designation. Lastrahn’s shoulders practically brushed both walls at the same time and a faint stench of garbage and piss filled the air.

  The door looked clean enough, if old and worn. The peeling letters, barely legible on its surface in the dim light, said they’d found the right place.

  Drailey

  Retrographer – Revivalist – Ongineer

  The windows of the shop however were dark, the door securely locked, no lantern burned above. Everything about the place said no one was home.

  Lastrahn pounded on the door with one fist. The hollow thuds echoed along the alley but generated no response save the yowling complaint of an alley cat from somewhere out of sight.

  As silence returned, Lastrahn observed the door with deep consideration. Ryle couldn’t tell if he was weighing the odds that she hadn’t heard his near assault, or deciding how hard he would kick Ryle’s ass for insisting on this idea.

  Ryle tried to redirect the latter possibility before it gained any momentum. “Could she be somewhere else?”

  “Doubtful,” Lastrahn snapped.

  “What about—”

  Lastrahn spun and hissed for silence. Ryle braced himself for another of the champion’s stares, but Lastrahn’s gaze went over his head. Ryle turned in time to catch a quick movement as someone ducked out of sight half a block away. His spine stiffened. Was someone following them? Or maybe they were spying on Drailey? Neither possibility was desirable.

  Ryle gripped his clunky sword.

  Lastrahn snorted. “Drailey, get your ass over here.”

  The surprised exclamation from the other street matched the feeling in Ryle’s gut, but a moment later, she appeared, a soft blue light illuminated her features.

  “I’ll admit, of all the things I thought I might see when I got home, your craggy mug skulking around my front door wasn’t on the list,” she said.

  “You were the one skulking.”

  “As if you wouldn’t pause if you saw two hulking figures smashing in your door.”

  “I was knocking,” Lastrahn growled.

  “If there are any knuckle marks, I’m billing you for the paint,” Drailey said with a wink. She glanced in Ryle’s direction. “How’s short and silent?” she asked. “Or should I say, Aiden?”

  Ryle straightened. He was at least a finger width taller than her. “I’m fine, Drailey. Thanks. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.” She shrugged. Ryle thought her eyes, hollow, clouded, and starkly shadowed said that was an understatement. “But that’s life ain’t it.” She glanced up and down the alley before continuing. He sensed she meant it to look casual, but he read it as concerned. Maybe downright scared. “You two want to come inside?”

  She stepped past Ryle, but Lastrahn waved his hand. “No need. I just need a simple question answered.”

  Drailey paused, key in hand. “Since when is anything with you simple?”

  Lastrahn took that as an invitation to proceed. “I’m looking for Ogrif.”

  Drailey rattled her keys. It sounded like a harsh metallic chuckle. “Is that so? You must be low on contacts and short on answers to ask me about him.”

  “Tell me if you know where he is.”

  She took a breath and turned, her face set. “I know a lot of things, but I’ll need something for this one.”

  Lastrahn took a step forward, looming over her, lips pulled back, scarred cheek twisted. The sight squeezed Ryle’s chest. They were both exhausted. Ryle felt as worn out as burned chaff, but he thought of Drailey an ally, perhaps a friend. Was Lastrahn really planning to treat her this way?

  He didn’t know what he’d do if Lastrahn took another step forward, but he stayed close just the same.

  Drailey flinched away, but her voice didn’t change. “You want to know or not?”

  The champion flexed his hands a couple times, but stepped back. “Name your price, already.”

  He practically spit the words. Ryle gritted his teeth, but made himself stay at his master’s side despite the anger building in his chest.

  Drailey adjusted the lapels of her yellow jacket until they lay just right before meeting Lastrahn’s gaze. “I need help,” she said. “Tonight.” Lastrahn said nothing. “An escort. Maybe some protection, if it comes to that.” It looked like it hurt her to make that statement, but she stared Lastrahn in the face.

  The champion’s lips twisted. “I�
�m not some errand boy that’s going to follow you around.”

  “For a brief instant I thought you were a friend who’d help when I asked. But then I realized who I was talking to. So how about this. You owe me.”

  Lastrahn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a hell of a stupid idea.”

  “Oh really? How about Shelling? I suppose you could have done that all by yourself. Huh?”

  Every blasted, screaming argument between Ryle’s parents came back to him. The loud, hot moments before someone stormed out, or started throwing things. His hands shook more than he cared to admit, but he managed to keep himself still.

  Drailey took a sharp breath, her eyes blazing before she calmed her features. “What about Sidenlach?” She said that last softly, reverently, as if she didn’t like naming the place.

  The muscles in Lastrahn’s jaw bunched as a look of pain swept his face. “Fine. But I’m not following you to hell knows where around this damn city. He’ll go with you.” He jabbed a thumb in Ryle’s direction.

  Drailey looked as enthused as about this idea as Ryle felt, but only for a moment. “Fine. For as long as I need,” she said.

  Lastrahn spit into the gutter. “Hell no. You have until dawn. Take it or leave it.”

  Drailey shot Lastrahn a glare of her own, impressive in its own right. “Fine.”

  “Now, tell me where I can find Ogrif.”

  Drailey’s lips twisted in her own smirk. “Payment is rendered upon completion of an agreement. You of all people know that. You don’t give up your side until you’ve gotten what you need. Aiden here will tell you where Ogrif is when he comes back.”

  Lastrahn looked like he wanted to chew nails, but instead of threatening her again he spun and stormed away. “Be back before first light!” he roared, and was gone.