Highlords of Phaer (Empire of Masks Book 1)

by Brock Deskins

  Amaia turned to Nerea. “What of you, Councilwoman? Do you consider yourself a person of action?”

  Nerea plastered a fake smile she had perfected over her life across her face. “Absolutely, even when that action is to do nothing at all.”

  “Most would consider doing nothing the opposite of taking action.”

  “On the contrary, actively abstaining can have profound effects. Suppose I am observing someone and see that their next step will take them over a cliff. If I act, I can prevent them from falling. By purposely choosing to do nothing, I let them plummet.”

  “But by letting them fall you risk losing someone who might have been an ally,” Amaia said.

  “That is true. But what if they were a competitor? By letting them fall to their death, I have improved my position far more than if I had stopped them.”

  “Surely we are not competitors.”

  Nerea shrugged. “Not today, but as Gaizar said, we are all people of action, and as such it is inevitable that one day we shall be.”

  “What else has Sah Gaizar told you about me?”

  “He says that you think the tempest is waning and you believe it is a result of the sorcerers losing their power. My guess is that you want to launch a fleet of airships to invade and retake our ancestral home and rule the empire.”

  Amaia nodded. “That is a very astute conclusion.”

  “I can think of no other that would require a special convening. Why should I support it? Knowing the harbinger as I do, I would almost certainly find myself at odds with him on this subject.”

  “The sorcerer’s empire controls a vast territory with five wealthy cities, each grander than Czernstred, and that is not including Phaer. Those who support the endeavor are sure to get far more consideration when it comes to doling out the spoils of war than those who opposed it. Imagine ruling your very own city. Side with me, and you just might do so. Choose to do nothing and you will be left behind along with the rest who have forgotten what was taken from us and lost the desire to see its return.”

  “Your premise relies on two very large leaps of faith. One that we can even pass through the storm, and the other that we can defeat the sorcerers. We held Phaer, our seat of power, before they cast out our parents and grandparents. What makes you think we would be successful now?”

  “We can traverse the tempest. Perhaps not today, but by the time we build enough airships to launch the invasion, we can. Our forefathers lost Phaer because they had no support outside that great city. This time, we will field an army of vastly superior warriors. Noirbedoj does a good job of weeding out the inferior and making those who survive this brutal existence that much stronger while the sorcerers grow weaker by the day, as the waning storm proves.”

  “You are heaping conjecture atop facts. I accept that the tempest is weakening, but that it is because the sorcerers lack the power to continue to sustain it is pure assumption. Assumption is a cliff, and if you want to step off of it, I won’t stop you, but I will not give you my hand and let you pull me down with you. Gaizar’s boldness may lead him into foolishness, but mine does not.”

  Nerea stood. “I intend to support the harbinger, whatever stance he takes. It is through him that we shall attain greatness, not by hurling ourselves into the abyss in hopes of snatching power out of the air on our way to the bottom.”

  The councilwoman turned on her heel and walked away.

  Gaizar steepled his fingers and tapped the tips together. “Well, that went almost exactly as I had expected. Wretched little bootlicker. How do we proceed from here?”

  “With caution,” Amaia replied. “Councilor Gaizar, I must know that your support is absolute.”

  “You need not worry yourself on that account. I am not blind, and I see what we are becoming. Although our numbers flourish, our society is decaying. If we remain stagnant, it will rot out the heart and destroy us. I would rather die seeking power and glory than sit and fester like a cripple covered in bedsores.”

  “Well put, Councilor. Depending on the outcome of our meeting tomorrow, I may make an audacious request, and I must know without doubt that I have your support no matter what.”

  “You have it. If we fall, we fall together, and I plan on grabbing the robes of those closest to me and pulling them down with me.” Gaizar guffawed loudly. “Even if we fail, by the black moon we’ll shake up these walking corpses until their bones rattle!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Jareen found himself locked in a cell for what he assumed was at least the entire day and night. It had no window, and no one bothered to bring him food or drink, so he could not gauge time’s passage by counting meals. As his throat became increasingly parched, he began to wonder if they planned on executing him through deprivation. At least he was not in a dank, skitter lizard-infested dungeon. As far as prison cells went, his was rather reasonable.

  His stoic resolve was nearly at its limit when someone finally came for him. A pair of gendarmes took him from his cell and escorted him to a simple room with a table flanked by two chairs. They sat Jareen down in the chair facing the door and made to leave.

  “May I please have some water?” Jareen asked.

  The men closed the door behind them without answering. Jareen fought to work up enough saliva to chase away the dryness in his throat and mouth, but he maintained his composure, hands flat on the table, his posture erect. If there were unseen eyes watching him, he would not give them the satisfaction of displaying his discomfiture. His eyes snapped toward the door when it opened. The inquisitor, Quinlan, Jareen did not have to think hard to find his name in his mind, strode in holding a tray bearing a pitcher, cup, and simple food.

  Quinlan set the tray on the table and sat down. Jareen’s eyes locked on it for a moment before he forced himself to look at the inquisitor. He knew a contest when he saw one; his life was a series of contests, and he would not let his desire cause him to lose to this man.

  Quinlan sat without speaking for a score of heartbeats, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You must be parched. Would you care for something to drink? A bit of bread and cheese perhaps?”

  Jareen licked his lips and felt the rough, dry skin grate against his tongue. “I would, sah. Thank you.”

  Quinlan filled the cup with water and set it down in front of Jareen, who picked it up and forced himself to drink in slow, measured gulps.

  “Please, call me Quinlan, or Inquisitor if you feel the need to maintain formalities. I am not a sah. At least I do not consider myself so.”

  Jareen set the empty cup back on the table. “You are a sorcerer. That alone makes you a sah, even to highborn who lack the gift of magic.”

  “An accident of birth. My father was a printer and bookbinder, indentured to Sah Ellsworth in East End. Like you, I was born into slavery, but my talent allowed me to rise above my humble station in life, just as you have done.”

  “I am still a slave.”

  “Only by the thinnest of definitions. You have a nice home, belongings, security. You live a better life than many of the free people.”

  Jareen chuckled.

  “You find my characterization amusing?” Quinlan asked.

  “I am amused that you think any non-highborn are free.”

  “Of course they are free. The free people have no one to call master.”

  “They have thousands.”

  “You are beginning to sound like your brother-in-law.”

  “Aiden is a fool,” Jareen snapped.

  “Now we are finding things upon which to agree, but we will talk about him in a moment. First, I want to talk about you.”

  “This is destined to be a short conversation.”

  “I very much doubt that. You are Jareen Velarius.”

  “I am.”

  Quinlan leaned forward, his forearms pressed against the table. “Correct me if I am mistaken, I’m afraid I have not had enough time to properly research your entire background, but are you not descended from the same
Velarius who once ruled this very city, who was its namesake?”

  Jareen inclined his head. “I am, but that was a long time ago.”

  “That must chafe a bit, your ancestors being kings and you now a slave within the great city they founded? Not only that, but you must serve those who now rule it. Overlord Alexis, your master’s mother, is cousin to the emperor himself. The irony of such an existence must be extremely vexing.”

  “It is simply my reality. There is no purpose in expending the energy to fight it. It is my station, and I do my best to fulfill my duties.”

  “Yes, you do. Sah Auberon certainly holds you in high regard.”

  “I am glad to hear so. It does not often bode well for those of whom he thinks poorly. He did not take well to you.”

  Quinlan threw back his head and laughed. “No, he did not. I am afraid most people don’t. I am like a visit from the coffin maker. My services are necessary, but few are ever happy when they need them.”

  “Much like the hangman. Only the vultures appreciate your work.”

  The inquisitor’s face shifted from amused to stern in an instant. “Very much so. Now, this thing, this show you put on for the highlord, whose idea was it?”

  “It was Sah Auberon who wanted to show off his new creation to Highlord Nahuza in order to gain her favor.”

  Quinlan’s lips curled down into a mock frown. “Well, I must say, that was an abysmal failure. What is it?”

  Jareen shrugged. “We have been calling it fire powder.”

  “What does it do? What is its purpose?”

  “For now, I suppose its purpose is to entertain and get people’s attention.”

  “It certainly succeeded in that. It caught Highlord Nahuza’s attention so much so that an assassin was able to aim a perfect shot at her back with an exceptionally powerful arbalest.”

  “Neither Sah Auberon nor I had any idea that would happen. It was supposed to be nothing more than a spectacle designed for the highlord and the crowd’s entertainment.”

  “That is what we are here to determine. Who originally devised this fire powder?”

  “Sah Auberon first spoke of it to me almost two years ago. We have worked to determine the necessary ingredients and refine them into their current form ever since. It has been almost his sole devotion.”

  “And when did he perfect it?”

  “It is not yet perfected. In fact, it has been less than a week since we were able to find the proper mix to get the tubes to fly and burst.”

  Quinlan nodded. “What was this recent revelation?”

  “We extracted and refined a purer nitrate using burrow worm excrement instead of daggerwing guano.”

  “Who made the discovery?”

  “I—I suggested we might try it.”

  Quinlan cocked his head to one side and wrinkled his brow. “Really? Noted alchemist and highly-respected sorcerer, son of Overlord Alexis, needed help from a slave to perfect his alchemic formula?”

  “No, of course not! This entire thing was his idea. I never would have even thought of it on my own.”

  “And yet you succeeded where he failed, just in time for Highlord Nahuza’s visit.”

  “You are twisting everything around.”

  “Then straighten it out for me.”

  “Sah Auberon is the most brilliant man I have ever met. His intellect eclipses mine and most others by orders of magnitude. It’s just…”

  “Just what?” Quinlan asked.

  “He is not always imaginative. That is where I am the most help to him. He creates spectacular things but has difficulty in finding a suitable purpose for them.”

  “But not you?”

  Jareen wagged his head from side to side. “Sometimes…I don’t know. Sometimes I can help him focus on finding a specific use for something he has created. Many things simply get discarded or set aside to make time for other experiments.”

  “Who created the—” Quinlan waved his hands in the air, then clenched and splayed his fingers “—sparkle bursts or whatever you call them? The little explosions in the air.”

  “Pyrotechnics,” Jareen said.

  “Ah, pyrotechnics. What a fantastic word. Did you invent that as well?”

  “No, that was Sah Auberon, derived from some language unknown to me.”

  “I believe it is an amalgamation of old Eidolanese and the language of the Necrophages,” Quinlan replied.

  “Your knowledge obviously exceeds my own.”

  “As I said, my father was a printer and binder. It afforded me great reading opportunities. So, you were going to tell me that it was you who created the pyrotechnics.”

  “I do not believe that I said such a thing.”

  Quinlan held his hands out, palms up. “Auberon creates, you find purpose. Am I wrong?”

  Jareen stared at the tabletop. “Not entirely.”

  “And once you ironed out the details, you told your brother-in-law of what you were going to do, what to expect, and how he could use it to his advantage.”

  “Of course not!”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I did not tell him anything. I have not even seen him since I changed the formula.”

  “But you spoke to him before then.”

  “He is my wife’s brother. We spoke when I was unable to avoid it.”

  “When did you last speak to him?”

  Jareen crossed his arms and looked askance. “A little over a week ago.”

  “What did you discuss?”

  “I told him to get out of my house and never return. I told my wife to keep away from him.”

  “That’s all?”

  “My son was very ill. I had no interest in listening to the foolish words of a rabble-rouser.”

  Quinlan scratched his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “That’s right. I had heard about your son. Odd how lowborn children get sick so much more often than those of the highborn.”

  “Illness does not discriminate. The highborn typically have access to cleaner water, homes with windows and shutters to keep out the dust, and when they do get sick, they can more easily get the medicines they need.”

  “But you are the slave, almost family, to one of the greatest alchemists in the realm. Was Sah Auberon not able to get you the medicine your son needed? It should have been a small matter for him to whip up something in his laboratory.”

  “Sah Auberon is of a single mind when he becomes obsessed with an experiment. Besides, his work does not necessarily lie in creating medicine.”

  “But he could have, if he had put his great mind to it?”

  “I can take care of my own family! I…just needed time to gather the ingredients.” Jareen’s voice trailed off to a whisper. “Too much time.”

  “Now he is blind, unlikely to follow in his father’s footsteps or even find worthwhile purpose. All because you have an indifferent master who would not pause to get you the medicine your son needed.”

  Jareen shook his head as he stared at the floor but said nothing.

  “It doesn’t make you angry? It doesn’t make you want to seek revenge against those responsible?”

  “No one is at fault. It was just bad luck.”

  “I bet Aiden blamed someone. I bet he was angry. Did he say as much?”

  “As I said, I did not speak to him except to tell him to leave my house and not return.”

  “Did he?”

  “He got the point when I hurled a knife at him.”

  “You do not get along with Aiden then?”

  “That is putting it mildly.”

  “Why not?”

  Jareen uncrossed his arms and wiped his palms on his trousers. “He is brash, boisterous, and foolish. He spoke too much and too loudly about how the highborn mistreat the lowborn. He wallowed in trouble, and I did not want him tracking it into my home.”

  “So, you devised the formula to make these pyrotechnics possible and suggested using them to put on a display for the highlord.”

&nb
sp; “No, using them to welcome Highlord Nahuza to Velaroth was Sah Auberon’s idea.”

  “Why?”

  “To impress her, of course.”

  “Why would he want to do such a thing?”

  Jareen cocked his head and looked into Quinlan’s eyes. “Because when one becomes so wealthy and powerful that gold and land become meaningless, the attention of your betters is the only thing of value. A simple nod of recognition becomes more important than coin or titles or the life of a slave or that of his family!”

  Jareen felt his fingertips burning and looked down to find that he had burrowed his nails into the table’s surface. He did not even know when he had stood up. He sat back down and flattened his hands, ignoring the stinging of several fingernails broken off at the quick and oozing blood.

  “Forgive me, Inquisitor. I spoke out of turn.”

  Quinlan smiled. “Nonsense. I never trust a man who does not get angry when he damn well has something to get angry about. You had me worried for a while.”

  “Hunger has likely made me short-tempered.”

  Quinlan gestured to the tray. “I brought bread and cheese. Help yourself.”

  “Strangely, I have no appetite at the moment.”

  “I suppose that under the circumstances that is understandable. Tell me what you know about Atin Cienne, Rayna Dushane, and Brelon Vanos.”

  Jareen flashed him a questioning look and shook his head. “I’ve never heard of them. What have they done wrong?”

  “I never said they did anything wrong, only if you knew of them. Since you do not, we will move on.”

  “Are they friends of Aiden?”

  “They are inconsequential. What are your plans for Sah Auberon’s fire powder?”

  Jareen doubted very much that these people were inconsequential, but there was nothing to be done about it, and he set the odd question aside. “I have no plans at this moment and do not give a damn about the powder other than that it pleases Sah Auberon, and my life is usually much better with a happy master than an unhappy one.”

  “Perhaps I should keep you here a while. He does not seem very happy at the moment. I might be doing you a favor.”

  “You might think so, but you would be wrong.”