Gearspire: Advent

by Jeremiah Reinmiller

  Ryle and Drailey stood there awkwardly after the champion had disappeared into the night. Ryle took a couple shaky breaths and averted his eyes. It felt intrusive to look at her right then, especially when he heard how the keys in her hands shook.

  After a long breath, she unlocked her front door. “Come inside,” she said, and went in.

  Ryle sighed as he tried not to consider how many more hours would pass before his exhausted body felt a bed again. He took one more look up and down the alley and followed her in.

  CHAPTER 23

  Ryle had seen many things on jobs with his mother. Painted silk robes. Glowing iron masks. Tiaras of ice that looked like they contained moonlight. In all that time, he never saw any place quite like Drailey’s workshop.

  Part mechanical graveyard, part library, and part home, the room he stepped into was cluttered, packed really, yet homey at the same time. A soft ticking emanated from somewhere.

  Drailey lit a lantern and hung it from the ceiling, casting the room in warm ocher hues. Every space the light touched was filled with pieces of machinery that Ryle couldn’t even begin to understand. Tools and parts lay scattered across work benches along the walls. Above them shelves, each crammed with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of paper, all shoved in at various angles filled the rest of the space. The air smelled of oil, smoke, and a subtle herbal scent he couldn’t identify.

  Ryle stood inside the door, not sure what to think.

  Drailey hustled about the room grabbing a couple small pieces of brass equipment here, a couple vials of some blue substance there. One by one, all of these were shoved into her leather satchel. The bag must carry more than he suspected as he didn’t see it bulge a bit no matter what she put inside.

  While she packed his eyes kept drifting to the books lining the shelves. He’d never seen so many in one place outside of the ancient library at the heart of Pyhrec. There, the shelves rose into the heavens. He wanted to run his fingers along their spines, to get a whiff of their comforting smell. It took more than a little willpower to stand his ground by the door.

  After a couple minutes Drailey paused her frantic activity, and peered around as if considering if she’d forgotten anything. After a moment’s consideration she pulled an old ledger from a shelf and flipped it open.

  “So, where are we going?” Ryle asked, suppressing a yawn.

  She glanced at him, as if just remembering he was there. “To see Ogrif.” She looked at the open page for an instant, then snapped the book shut, sending dust motes spiraling up through the lantern light.

  Ryle’s eyes widened. “Wait, we’re going to see him?” He nearly choked on his words.

  She sorted through the contents of a drawer, found what she wanted, slammed it closed, and dumped her find into her bag. “Yeah. So what?”

  Irritation at being stuck here for apparently no reason gripped the base of Ryle’s skull. “So why didn’t you just tell Lastrahn that! He would’ve come with us then.”

  She eyed him sideways. “I thought Lastrahn’s aide would’ve understood how this works.”

  Ryle tried to cross his arms, got tangled in his stupid cloak, and flipped the material out of the way with irritation. It wound up snagged on a cat-sized metal beetle overturned on its back on the table beside him. He left it there as if he’d meant to do that. “How what works?”

  “How Lastrahn works. Hand me that.” She pointed to a thin metal rod, barbed at one end, on the table beside Ryle.

  He snatched it and stepped toward her. Of course his cloak only snagged worse, jerking him up short. He slapped the rod into her waiting hand and yanked his cloak free. The material tore and the beetle thing crashed to the floor amid a cascade of parts.

  Drailey stared flatly at him until he bent to cleanup his mess. He hoped his embarrassment didn’t show. He lifted the contraption and grunted with surprise. It was blasted heavy. Much more than it had any right to be for its size. He had to awkwardly shuffle it back on to the table, shoving gears and springs out of the way to make space.

  When he’d finally righted the mess, Drailey was seated at the next bench over closely examining a trio of glittering balls the size of large marbles she held between her fingers. “If Lastrahn came,” she said without looking up, “then he’d get what he wants. He’s especially good at that, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  Ryle had in fact noticed, but he said nothing.

  “So that’s not going to cut it. Not tonight. There’s something I need from Ogrif, and Lastrahn doesn’t leave a lot behind when he’s through. So he can have him tomorrow, but not before then.” She looked at Ryle over the gleaming spheres. “Got it?”

  This would only delay their mission, but he understood this was a make or break question. If he didn’t agree, he wasn’t going along, and he wouldn’t learn Ogrif’s location.

  “Fine.”

  Drailey eyed him a moment longer before hopping off the bench and slipping the balls into her jacket a pocket. “Then let’s go.”

  She followed Ryle out, locking the door behind them, and then looked up and down the alley, not trying to hide her intent this time.

  “Are you being followed?” she asked.

  More irritation scraped his scalp at the remark. He’d made sure no one tailed them. “No,” he said.

  Drailey looked at him closely, her hazel eyes piercing, then she walked south down the alley.

  A couple twisting blocks later, they turned west. This wider street was dark and empty, but nearly every window was lit in the tall, narrow houses above them. Voices drifted from most of them, some laughing, some talking softly, some singing songs Ryle didn’t understand accompanied by pipes or occasionally accordions.

  He got the sense that Simeon wasn’t kidding when he said the Flats were packed full. The number of voices coming from some windows made him think of large parties squeezed into tight places. For the conditions around them, clearly poor, and mostly run down, the Advent festival moved on with subdued gatherings as befit the night.

  They passed through a patch of particularly mirthful, genuine laughter, and an ache suddenly gripped his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent time in some place so genuinely warm and happy. Probably the last night he was with Casyne. Leagues and leagues away now.

  He hunched his shoulders and pushed the thoughts away. He was used to this, to the dark and the cold. He’d chosen to leave Casyne behind, if at least for a while. So happy people like these could be in there, enjoying their lives.

  That’s what he told himself anyway. It almost worked. It wasn’t like he deserved anything more.

  “Are you expecting trouble from this Ogrif? He dangerous?” Ryle hoped the roughness of his voice came across as intensity.

  Drailey rolled her shoulders. “I hope not.”

  “But?”

  She glanced at Ryle, back to the dark street. “He might not be happy to see me.”

  His stomach twinged. “Because?”

  “He might think I owe him some money,” she said, and picked up her pace.

  “Why would he have that idea?”

  Another glance. “Because I do.”

  Muck sucker. “But you think he’ll still help you?” Ryle asked.

  “I hope so.” She didn’t sound convinced, but he couldn’t do much else but keep following her.

  They moved further south and eventually swung back east. Homes thinned and were replaced by closed up shops backed by larger warehouses, each a dark blot against the sky. For a couple blocks, Ryle didn’t see a single person about.

  Concern ate at him as they walked. “Will he be around tonight? Everyone’s celebrating.”

  They turned down a narrow winding street. Buildings loomed overhead, and the uneven cobblestones tilted invisible in the dark.

  “He’ll be there.”

  Another turn and they entered a tight crevasse between the dirty, rundown corpses of buildings. It was barely an alley, pinched as it was between sagging structures that ne
arly touched on their top floors, leaning like exhausted souls seeking each other for support. Ryle knew how they felt.

  The cobblestones were slick under his boots, fouled by hex knew what. He smelled rotting fruit. In the dim light a shadow darted across the alley. From its size he hoped it was a dog and not a rat, but he’d never seen a dog scurry quite like that. What a lovely place.

  He and Lastrahn would’ve never found this place on their own. They could’ve walked past this narrow gap a dozen times and never given it a second look. He wasn’t even sure if he could find it again.

  Half a block ahead, the alley ended., and a single lantern struggled to illuminate a weathered door coated in peeling green paint.

  Drailey adjusted her satchel, then the collar of her jacket. The look on her face told Ryle all he needed to know. He adjusted the sword at his hip, tried to keep the cloak clear of his sword arm. The weapon was worth muck all, but its weight felt good on his hip as they approached the door.

  Drailey took a breath, then she ignored the dented brass doorknob and knocked. The door sounded solid and the impacts echoed sharply between the buildings.

  “What?” a rough man’s voice asked from inside.

  “Here to see Ogrif,” she said.

  “Who’s asking?”

  Another breath. “Tell him his least favorite mechanic is here.”

  A pause. A long one. Drailey shifted uncomfortably.

  Then a bolt was thrown inside and the door swung open.

  Dim light poured out, silhouetting a hulking figure. Ryle made out a short-cut beard and curly hair. He stood head and shoulders taller than Ryle, his wide frame filling the doorway. His large hands were empty.

  He looked Ryle and Drailey over then moved aside.

  Drailey stepped past him first without giving him a second look. Ryle followed, keeping his sword as near to hand as he could while remaining casual about it. The big man watched them enter without concern, then bolted the door.

  The room was ten paces across with a low ceiling. Another door stood in the far left corner. A worn rug of faded, swirling patterns covered the floorboards. Lanterns glowed in sconces on the walls. Ryle smelled their burning oil atop a musty undertone, as if the place never got fresh air.

  A short, round faced man with dark skin and shaggy brown hair and goatee, sat on a tall stool behind a counter on the far side of the room. He wore a red vest over a pale pink shirt. A tangle of necklaces and pendants hung against his chest.

  Movement to Ryle’s left caught his eye as a much smaller man loomed up from an alcove beside the door. He was of a height with Ryle, but more muscular. His face was pocked and scarred. A nail studded stave hung from his leather belt. He eyed them closely as he adjusted his brown jacket, but did nothing else.

  Ryle didn’t notice any other concealed guards and so, turned to examine the counters lining the perimeter of the room. Tall shelves with a vast assortment of items hugged the walls. One wall held gold jewelry, silverware, clocks and a few lutes. All of high quality. Daggers, swords, and a few helmets filled another. Most looked ceremonial or of heirloom quality rather than functional gear. Either way, it all looked expensive. Hundreds of coins worth at least. And Ryle was sure, very stolen. He always dealt with the nicest folks.

  Drailey approached the counter, a smile on her face. Ogrif did not mirror her expression.

  “Drailey, what a pleasure,” he said without enthusiasm, as he set aside the small silver horn he’d been polishing.

  His complexion was similar to Ryle’s own; his accent was not. It sounded vaguely Southern, but with another tone he’d never heard.

  Ogrif eyed Ryle with suspicious. “And who is this?”

  Ryle hooked one gloved hand in his belt in a way he thought looked appropriate for his role as Drailey’s muscle, and silently glared at Ogrif.

  “A friend,” Drailey said.

  One of Ogrif’s thick eyebrows rose, but he turned back. His face said he’d accept it, for now.

  “What brings you to my place of business?” he asked Drailey.

  Ryle leaned against the counter where he could watch both doors and Ogrif’s men at the same time. With as many valuables as he saw along the walls, he expected more than two guards. Though the big fellow probably counted for a few men. If he was smaller than Lastrahn it wasn’t by much, and his scarred knuckles said he’d seen more than one fight. His unmarred face said he’d won all of them.

  If this went sideways, Ryle was in for one hex of a scrap. He made sure his kenten waited near at hand.

  “I have a request, a proposition actually.” Drailey placed her hands atop the counter.

  Ogrif’s showed no less displeasure. “I don’t know I’m interested. Not from one who still owes me quite a deal.”

  “That’s part of why I’m here,” she answered.

  “Oh yes?” Ogrif’s face showed a bit less suspicion. He produced a large leather bound ledger from under the counter, slapped it down and cracked it open to a page near the middle. Columns full of tiny figures in an angular hand flipped past until he found the page he wanted. He peered down then grunted. “Here you are, marked long overdue. Drailey. Ongineer. Two hundred coins.” He thumped the book closed.

  Ryle managed not to choke on the figure. What the hex had she done to owe that much?

  It was no wonder Drailey hadn’t been comfortable coming here alone. Not with that sort of number in play. Ryle flicked his eyes between Ogrif and the guards, trying to gauge the moment. The bigger man had settled on a stool to one side of the door. The smaller guard hadn’t moved or stopped watching him. With two hundred coins at stake would this bunch let either of them walk out of here?

  Drailey didn’t react. “That’s the final amount?”

  Ogrif tapped the ledger. “Is it not a large enough number for such a small girl?”

  “I want the total.”

  Ogrif glanced at Ryle, licked his lips. “Two hundred and twenty. All interest to this date.”

  Drailey nodded. Her face remained calm but tension rode her shoulders.

  Ryle hoped Drailey had a blasted good plan. The way he saw it, their only other way out would involve a lot of cleaning bills for someone.

  “And for a jug of nagilene?” she asked.

  “This is how you come here? Owing so much and now asking about items you have no right making inquiries of? A lesser man would find it insulting.”

  The short guard’s hand moved closer to the club on his belt. Ryle slipped his hand inside his cloak.

  “Everyone knows Ogrif has every item desired within the walls of Del’atre.”

  “Flattery does not balance such overburdened scales,” he said, but his eyes gleamed.

  Drailey shrugged. “I thought you’d want to do business.”

  “I do business with those who possess coins. I do not run a charity for overwrought girls who ignore their debts.”

  The big man, who’d been paying little attention to the conversation looked up now. Some sort of built in reaction to that last word. Ryle bet he was very good at collecting those.

  In the small room, with no element of surprise and Drailey’s safety to consider, a fight would be a mucking disaster. He willed Drailey to have a way out of the situation that didn’t involve him wading into a lopsided brawl.

  “How much for the jug?” Drailey asked, undeterred.

  Ogrif’s dark eyes narrowed. “I do not know why I engage in this foolishness, but for you? Such a valued customer? Fifty coins.”

  “Fifty? Maybe for four jugs,” Drailey said.

  “Maybe you should pay your debts.”

  Drailey’s hand moved, quickly, and slapped down on the counter.

  The short guard took a step forward, hand grabbing for his club. Ryle slid back, elbowing his cloak out of the way as his fingers closed around the grip of the sword.

  “Wait!” Ogrif’s voice was strained, but he raised a hand, holding off his guards. “Wait, just wait.”

  The smaller guard l
ooked from Ryle, to the sword now in view, but he didn’t move. The big guard hadn’t yet reacted. He remained seated, arms folded, as if the situation hadn’t yet risen to a level that warranted his concern.

  Ryle glanced over to the counter.

  A glass disk, a hand’s width across and shot through with copper wires lay on the counter. The wires glittered and flashed in the lantern light. He had no idea what the hex it was, but Ogrif’s entire demeanor had changed. He stared down at it, transfixed.

  “Where did you obtain such as this?” he asked.

  A small smile, part smirk, softened Drailey’s features. “What were you saying about my debts?”

  “All is negotiable, of course.” Ogrif, still distracted.

  “So, let’s negotiate,” Drailey said.

  Ogrif gave the disk another moment’s consideration then looked up. The wariness had vanished from his eyes, now he looked hungry. His eyes flicked to Ryle. Weighing.

  Oh, muck. This was the real reason she’d brought him. Not to protect her, but keep Ogrif honest. He didn’t know what that thing was but it must be exceptionally valuable.

  “Even trade,” Ogrif said.

  Drailey laughed. Ryle winced at the sound. “You’ve been chewing too many worms,” she said. “My debt is cleared, I get the jug, and fifty coins.”

  Ogrif looked like he’d tasted something disgusting. “How can you insult me with such a price?”

  “That’s the price,” she said.

  When she didn’t budge, his lip curled. “Who are you to make demands in my place of business?”

  This was the signal the big man had been waiting for. He rose from the stool. His head almost brushed the ceiling. The small man beside him, crouched lower in his stance. Ryle sensed a single command separated them from action. He cast out for his center.

  “Who are you to think your precious stock will survive me?” Drailey said, voice hard.

  Ogrif’s face paled.

  “You know who I am. So you know what I can do in here.” She smiled, and the air hummed like it had beneath Shelling. The hairs on Ryle’s arms stood up. “I want to do business. You pay me, I leave. You sell this and make money.” She laid a single finger upon the disk. “Or, not.” Drailey’s fingertip gleamed and the disk vibrated. Ryle’s mind was filled with memories of all that shattering glass beneath Shelling.