Black Stone Heart (The Obsidian Path Book 1)

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “Yes.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Two, so far.”

  “How many are there?”

  “No idea.”

  She thought this over. “Do you change as you find pieces? Do you become more like whoever you used to be?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She stared at me.

  “Yes,” I added. “I think I do. Maybe. I don’t know, because I can’t remember who or what I was, or what that person was like.” I reached out to touch her hand. “I know I changed a lot after I met you. Before, I was…trapped inside.”

  “What if you’re going to become someone who doesn’t like me?”

  “Then he’s an asshole.”

  Her lips quirked in a smile. “Can this be undone? What if you discover you’re someone you don’t like, or don’t want to be? Can you go back?”

  I thought about the shards of obsidian gathering in my heart. “Not easily.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  Sure, if you hack me open, cut out my heart, and shatter whatever you find in there. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Fine.” She drew a deep breath. “This really is too much for a hungover morning.”

  “Agreed.”

  She pushed her plate away and waved at the innkeeper to bring us two pints of ale. He dropped them on the table, sloshing foam onto my lap, and stomped away.

  “Lovely chap,” I said. “Has a real way with people.”

  Shalayn downed hers in one fast go, whereas I sipped mine over several minutes. While it didn’t cure the hangover, it did somewhat lessen the pain.

  Had I dreamed of a dark haired, dark eyed woman last night? Was she real, or a construct of my imagination?

  Brisk but warming fast, the morning air felt good. I wanted it to be warmer, however. A lot warmer. People about their business wore short-sleeves and seemed unaware of the cold. Was I from the tropics? How far south would I have to travel before I met people like me?

  Once again, I received more attention than I wanted. Ill-concealed looks of venomous animosity, dashed in my direction. Revulsion. Shalayn ignored all of it. She walked fast, long muscled legs carrying her in a hip-swinging stride somewhere between sexy and the walk of those people who drive the oxen. It was, I decided, the stomping purpose which separated one from the other. When she wanted to be, she was graceful, light on her feet. When her mind was elsewhere, she clomped about like a five-year-old.

  A five-year-old? Where did that come from?

  I hurried to keep up with her.

  We crossed a long bridge spanning a great river upon which cargo ships road the currents west. A few boats came east, travelling against the current. They bore no sails and no banks of oars. Wizardry, no doubt. All were painted harsh white, reminding me of my dream. Many were stained yellow, particularly those coming from the west. I hid my satisfied grin from Shalayn.

  Making my way to the rail, I paused, looking out over the river. Something looked wrong. “No warships?”

  Shalayn joined me. “Who would we war against?” She watched a barge, loaded with crates and bails of pale straw, pass by beneath us, a crooked, wistful smile teasing her lips. “I’ve never been west. We always go south and east.”

  We? I didn’t ask.

  The wizards had no navy? Had they truly conquered the world so utterly? I couldn’t believe it.

  Grunting, she turned away and continued across the bridge. I followed.

  “Which way?” she asked, stopping at an intersection on the far side of the bridge.

  I turned a full circle. A butchery called Medium Rare sat on one corner. Gutted goats and rabbits hung glistening in the open front. The scent of salt and curing meats wafted past me. A dusky skinned woman—though still far paler than I—carved long slices from a smoked lamb and wrapped them in sheets of brown paper. An accountant, Whadehra and Daughters, took another corner. Pillars of white marble framed the door and smoked glass hid the interior. The other two corners were held by what looked like a candy shop, painted in red and white swirls, and a bootery.

  I glanced down at the trapper’s decaying boots, still laced tight to my feet. They didn’t have many miles left in them. I needed money. Unfortunately, beyond killing children and Septk women, I had no marketable skills. At least none I was aware of. I considered the bootery, tried to imagine myself repairing shoes. I had no idea where to start. Though from the way Shalayn spent coin on food and booze, there was decent money to be made from killing some folks and protecting others. As long as you didn’t get attacked by a necromancer, it seemed like pretty easy work and a decent way to see the world. The idea held its attractions. Forget my stone heart, travel the lands with Shalayn.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “What?” For a second, I thought she’d read my mind or maybe I’d accidentally spoken aloud. “Oh.” I pointed. “That way.”

  She set off, and once again, I followed. Whereas I still felt like an incontinent donkey took a rancid shit in my skull, Shalayn seemed to have fully recovered. She set a hard pace, bright eyes sweeping the street, right hand resting casually on the pommel of her sword.

  I wanted a sword. But not just any sword. I wanted my sword.

  “I have a sword?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I had a sword. Maybe.

  I found my fist clenched with the memory of gripping something. I felt its familiar weight in my arm.

  At the next intersection I pointed north.

  We traversed several blocks of ancient stone homes falling just short of being castles in their own right. Many had turrets and crenellations. A few even gave modest nods at moats, though they were more like manicured streams that could be easily hopped by someone whose hangover wouldn’t murder them for jumping.

  “Who lives in these huge houses?” I asked.

  “Bankers. Exporters.” She glanced at me without breaking stride. “If I say ‘wizards,’ are you going to get all weird?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Liar.”

  I shrugged and flashed her an apologetic grin, which she ignored.

  After the luxury of the castle district—I have no idea what it was really called—we entered block after block of smiths and tanneries. It stank like rusting iron and blood. Huge sheets of tanned hide hung flapping in the morning breeze. The air reeked of rancid meat and flayed flesh. Somewhere to the east, the eerily human screams of pigs at a slaughterhouse echoed like nightmares on stone.

  Different screams, those of horror and defeat, echoed in my thoughts.

  White sails. Blood on the water.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m on the edge of remembering something.”

  “Yeah?” said Shalayn. “If you ever remember that you prefer redheads, keep it to yourself.”

  I decided cowardice was the best part of valour, and didn’t ask.

  After the stench of the tanneries, the rows of homes closer to the wall, still large and well-maintained, possessed a much more human ordure. The wizards may have supplied the city with a miraculous underground water system, but if you pack people together, they stink.

  The wall, hazy and distant when we were in the Grain Importers’ Square, loomed large. It towered above us, throwing the nearby homes into perpetual shadow. These houses were small, crude, and constructed mostly of wood. At some point, someone painted most of them white, but now that paint was stained and flaking. A leprous yellow, the neighbourhood looked like it had somehow managed to piss itself.

  Leprous.

  “I remember lepers.”

  “Lovely. They’re more common in the islands.”

  I pointed out a squat tower in the shadow of the wall. It wasn’t one of the huge towers ringing the inside of the wall, but still stood several stories tall.

  Shalayn lashed out like a striking viper and slapped my hand down. “Don’t point.”

  “There are no windows,” I said, shaking the sting from my hand.

>   “Wizards can still see out. They see everything.”

  “That, I doubt.”

  I squinted at the tower. Like the others, it was ancient, the stones grey with age. Ivy grew thick and green along one side, but only reached half way up. A shame, as that would have made scaling it easy. A single door, a slab of iron banded with yet more iron, sat in the base.

  “Let’s do a walk around and see if there’s another entrance,” I said.

  “Let’s not.”

  Shalayn followed me in spite of her words.

  We circumnavigated the tower doing our best to look casual and disinterested. The hangover helped. Mostly, I wanted to go back to bed.

  “How tall is that?” I asked.

  “Why are men always asking women how big something looks?”

  “Forty feet?”

  “It’s always smaller than you think.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Thirty-five,” she said.

  The roof looked to be flat from down here. I couldn’t tell what was up there. It might be a trapdoor leading in, a lovely patio so the wizards can have drinks and spit down on the people they ruled, or featureless impenetrable stone.

  “What would you put on the roof?” I asked.

  “If I was a wizard, I’d have somewhere to sit and drink beer in the sun where no one can bother me.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  We returned to the Dripping Bucket to plan our attack.

  “It’s hopeless,” said Shalayn. “It would be suicidal if it wasn’t already impossible.”

  “Has anyone tried?”

  “No one is dumb enough.”

  “Wizards are just people. There’s nothing special about them.”

  “Except they tap untold sources of power to twist the world to their desire.”

  “Except that,” I agreed. “And it’s not ‘untold,’ it’s chaos. They shape chaos.”

  “So, you do know something.”

  “Something. The point is, they’re human. They’re fallible. What are the odds the wizard remembers to lock a door no one can reach?”

  “I would,” said Shalayn.

  “But you are both perfect and paranoid.” And just maybe, judging by how quickly she agreed to my mad plan to break into a wizard’s tower, something of a thrill-seeker and a thief.

  “You say the nicest things.” Strong fingers drummed the table top in a rapid staccato. Pale blue eyes narrowed in thought. “I couldn’t climb that tower, even without my armour.”

  “We need help.”

  “We need a drink.”

  Shalayn waved at the barkeep and he brought us two tankards of frothing ale. He placed hers gently on the table before her, and slammed mine down once again splashing a good portion on my lap.

  “Thanks so much,” I said as he stomped away.

  The ale was deep gold and held hints of citrus and tasted much better than the barkeep’s hate.

  I leaned forward, elbows in puddled beer. “You said not all wizards belong to the Guild. You said some were thieves. Do you, by any chance, know one?”

  Her eyes said yes, and for an instant I saw a flash of quickly hidden pain. “All the more reason to lock a rooftop access. If there even is one.”

  “And you know where we can find such a wizard?” It galled me to have to ask a wizard for help, but I saw no other choice.

  Blue eyes examined me.

  “I thought so,” I said, sipping beer. Another problem occurred to me. “I spent my last coins buying whiskey this morning.”

  “I have some money,” she said, “but not enough to hire a wizard.”

  “We’ll have to steal something else while we’re in the tower. Something we can sell.” Aside from Shalayn’s charity, I’d been living in poverty my entire life. Or at least what I could remember of it. Perhaps we could steal several things to fund my search for the rest of my heart. “We’re going to need money.”

  “We?” asked Shalayn.

  “I hope so. Though if you’re just here for the moment, I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not really. I hope you don’t leave.”

  “Hmm.” The drumming fingers stopped. She stared at the table, reached across to draw lines in the beer pooled before me. She looked distant, lost in memory, seeing things I could not. Finally, she nodded to herself, some decision made. “Tomorrow morning I’ll take you to meet Tien.” She didn’t look happy about the decision.

  “A wizard?”

  “A wizard.”

  “Is he powerful?”

  “She. And not terribly. She’s… a thief.”

  “Is she good?”

  I saw Shalayn’s jaw tighten. “As a person, she leaves something to be desired. As a thief, she’s good enough.”

  There was something she wasn’t telling me. She and this Tien shared some past Shalayn wasn’t altogether happy about. Seeing as I had no other options, didn’t know anyone else in the city, I let it slide.

  Shalayn examined me, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Maybe I should meet her alone.”

  “Why?”

  “You seem to have some issue with wizards.”

  She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t telling the entire truth either. She had other reasons for wanting to do this alone. But this was my heart; I needed to be involved. And no way I was going to trust a wizard without even meeting her.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, waving away her concern. “I promise to behave.”

  She breathed deep, sighed, and nodded. “First thing in the morning, then. There’s a coffee shop. If she’s not dead, she’ll be there.”

  That night we tangled in the sheets, biting and clawing and making enough noise people pounded on the walls and told us to shut up. Having endured their barbed glances and scorn all evening, I ignored them.

  We went somewhat easier on the booze, and woke only slightly hungover. When I asked Shalayn if I should fetch whiskeys, she asked if I was some kind of barbarian.

  The kitchen wasn’t yet open when we descended to the main floor so we made do with a fistful of peanuts left out in a bowl on the bar. We ate as we walked, cracking the shells and devouring the nuts. We tossed the empty husks to the birds who didn’t seem at all disappointed with their meal. The sun, peeking over the city wall, took the edge off the morning chill.

  I found myself smiling as I walked. Something other than the sun warmed me, a feeling I couldn’t remember ever having felt before. Contentment. Shalayn was a good woman. Better than I deserved. It felt good to be with her, good to be near her. I felt light and alive.

  “What the fuck are you grinning about?”

  “I’m happy.”

  “Hmm.” She turned away, but not before I caught a glimpse of her own smile.

  “You have beautiful lips.”

  She flushed bright, freckled pink.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  Stopping, she turned. Grabbing me by the back of the head she pulled me in for a hard kiss and bit my bottom lip. I tasted blood. The morning crowd parted around us. Locked in this tight embrace, hands roving and exploring, tongues doing battle, I couldn’t see their hate.

  When we parted, she punched me in the shoulder and walked away.

  “Ow,” I said, unsure if I meant the kiss or the punch.

  Shalayn led me off the main street and into a mad tangle of back alleys. If there were street signs, I couldn’t find them. Where the rest of Taramlae was relatively clean, and altogether too white, this dark underbelly was everything but. Trash lay strewn everywhere. The stones beneath my feet were sticky. I couldn’t tell if it was piss, spilled blood, puke, or a mix of all three. A spider’s web of clothes lines clogged the sky above us, sometimes hanging low enough, we had to duck to avoid being garrotted.

  Turning a corner, Shalayn pointed to a set of shallow, well-worn steps leading down beneath a building that looked well on its way to toppling over like a drunkard.

  “Is that safe?” I asked.

  Shalayn cocke
d an eyebrow at me. “You’ll get stabbed in there long before the building falls over.”

  The coffee house was a murky blend of stained brass and threadbare velvet. The bar, huge, oak, and lined with scratched and dented rails, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a fine restaurant. At least, if that restaurant had burned in a terrible fire and then partially caved in. A dozen small, round tables were scattered about the floor with anywhere from two to six people standing at each. There was nowhere to sit. No chairs.

  Shalayn weaved through the room, nodding to some, ignoring others. Our feet made damp squelching sounds on the carpet. Narrowed eyes followed our progress.

  At the back of the room we found a table with three women leaning against it. All sipped black sludge from chipped white cups little bigger than thimbles. One of the women, short and in her mid-twenties, with bright red hair cropped short and emerald green eyes, fluttered her fingers. The other two departed without a word, looking me over as they passed.

  “Tien,” said Shalayn as we arrived at her table.

  “Shalayn,” said Tien, rubbing at a petite nose. She examined me, making no attempt to disguise her curiosity. “An islander boy? A bit young for you, isn’t he? Another charity case?”

  Shalayn grimaced in embarrassment. “I—”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

  “No,” said Shalayn with utter finality. “We need your help.”

  “Really? We?” Tien looked from Shalayn to me, wriggling her little nose. “He’s cute in a starved rat kind of way, but darkers are trouble.” She darted a mischievous grin at Shalayn. “And we know how much you like trouble.”

  Shalayn flushed pink.

  Some guy who looked like he’d been trampled by an entire herd of horses brought us chipped mugs of sludge and disappeared back behind the bar. He wiped at its surface with a filthy rag that made no difference to the stains there. I sniffed at the contents of the mug and found the scent more appealing than the appearance.

  Regaining her normal pale complexion, Shalayn leaned forward on the table. “We need to get into a wizard’s tower.”

  Tien’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”