All That Glitters

by Auston Habershaw

  Of course, when he had been lying awake in Derby the night after he poisoned that first Quiet Man, this entire plan seemed less painful. How did one rescue somebody turned to stone? You got inside Keeper’s Court to steal their Rite of Recovery from the sentencing judge’s ledger. How did one get inside Keeper’s Court? Well, you got yourself arrested and brought to trial. How did you get yourself out of the courtroom and not turned to stone? Well, you lit yourself on fire.

  But how did you keep the ring from ruining the whole affair by torturing him into submission?

  Well, he hadn’t thought that part out yet. The current plan called for just toughing it out. That part of the plan wasn’t going well.

  Tyvian felt the heat building beneath his jacket—­the enchantment placed there was almost ready to give out. He was currently near the ancient south tower of Keeper’s Court, which was his destination anyway. He threw himself on a stone staircase and stripped off his burning doublet, casting the thing in the direction of a large and antique rug, which promptly caught on fire.

  The ring kept up its assault on his body, making it feel as though he actually was on fire. He had to check his hand to make sure, given how much of this place was going up in flames. It wasn’t—­just the ring’s old tricks. Tyvian took a deep breath and tried to rise, ledger still stuffed under one arm. The ring cramped his joints with agony and he sank back to the stairs. Smoke was growing thicker and thicker in the air. The burning rug was now an inferno, catching on some of the support beams from the floor below, he guessed. The air became thick and hard to breathe.

  “Dammit,” he growled at his hand. “What, you’re going to make me die here? What about Myreon, eh? Doesn’t she deserve justice, you bull-­headed trinket?”

  Nothing changed. Somewhere nearby, Tyvian heard shouts, but these were organized—­the shouts of military personnel. Defenders come to battle the blaze. Slowly, he began to drag himself down the stairs, one by one, headed for the base of the South Tower. It was slow going. They would catch him long before he got there at this rate.

  “I’m trying to save Myreon, you stupid ring!” he screamed. “Release me!”

  His answer was nothing but more pain.

  Tyvian pitched himself into a roll—­if he couldn’t walk down the stairs, he’d fall down them. He wound up bruised and battered at their base, deep in the basement of the South Tower—­the oldest part of Keeper’s Court.

  Even though he was so close to his goal, he could not rise. The ring bound him to the floor with cramps that bunched his muscles and ligaments into painful, inert lumps. Above him, he heard footsteps on the stairs. They were nearly on him.

  What the hell did the bloody ring want from him? Was this it? It wanted him turned to stone alongside Myreon, left to rot until a decade after everyone forgot his name? If his mother was right, and the ring was some kind of storage unit for his better self, what kind of better self was this? What was it missing?

  He wracked his brain for a way out. Why am I escaping? Why am I doing this? If it’s just for me, then the ring won’t let me go, is that it? It wants to know I’m sincere about saving Myreon—­that I’m doing it for her and not for myself.

  “Fine!” he groaned, “It’s for her, okay? Are you happy now? I’m saving another damsel, dammit! Isn’t that what you bloody want?”

  No, Tyvian realized, that isn’t what it wants. That isn’t what I want. It wants me to make a decision: what do I, Tyvian Reldamar, think of Myreon Alafarr? Are my intentions pure?

  The steps drew closer—­some mirror man, sword drawn, advancing carefully toward where a dangerous criminal might be hiding. Not much time left to dither.

  Tyvian had never been much for deep introspection, particularly in personal matters. He was a man of action, not of thought. He tried to calm his racing mind and purge the adrenaline from his limbs. He had to think calmly.

  Ever since he heard of Myreon’s arrest and punishment, the ring had been there, throbbing slowly in the background of his daily life, like an old stubbed toe. That, though, wasn’t why he had come—­he’d learned to put up with such petty discomforts so that he barely noticed them. Then there was the knowledge that this was all a lure to bring him back, and he had told himself that he’d come to spite his mother and nothing else, but that also wasn’t true. Instead, for him, he recalled that moment when he found Myreon’s body in Daer Trondor. He tried to feel what he had felt when he kissed her—­when he felt a portion of his life flow into hers like liquid fire. What was that thing that had given him that power?

  Respect. Perhaps even admiration. Perhaps something harder for him to pin down, something that defied his description: the simple, sure knowledge that a world without Myreon Alafarr was a world lessened, and not just generally—­lessened for him specifically. “Is that too selfish of me, ring?” Tyvian gasped, trying to crawl away from the approaching steps. “To want her alive and free? Is that too much to ask?”

  Tyvian’s pain crested some invisible ridge and began to slide away down the other side. Strength flowed back into his limbs in a torrent.

  He sprang to his feet in time to see a mirror man with a rapier poised to attack. Tyvian snatched a feylamp from the wall and threw it at him, then turned to run, snatching up the ledger as he went. His legs seemed to be weightless—­he felt like he could fly.

  The South Tower of Keeper’s Court was a fat, ancient structure dating to the days when the courthouse had been a keep for the Saldorian Kings of old and the Block was a big stone that sat in the open air before the keep’s walls. It now served as the court’s archives, and this made it two things: firstly, it was designed to be fireproof, and secondly, it contained a siege cistern in the depths of its ancient basements. That second part—­that was his objective.

  Tyvian fled downward, deeper into the old tower. He flew down old spiral staircases and threw up trapdoors, going deeper, ever deeper, into that ancient keep.

  “Reldamar!” Androlli shouted from somewhere above. “There’s no escape! Give up!”

  He got to the lowest point—­he could feel the dampness on his fire-­baked skin. Here there were no scrolls and no books, only ancient shelves of dust and forgotten artifacts. Tyvian raced past them, kicking off his boots as he went. He grabbed some oilskin from a shelf, originally intended to protect paper from mildewing, and wrapped it tightly around the ledger to prevent water from ruining its pages.

  “Reldamar!” Androlli’s voice echoed in the distance.

  There it was—­a cistern, the surface of the water black and calm. It would be a hell of a swim, and mostly underwater, but if he made it, he would come out beneath the docks along the Narrow Mouth. He tucked the ledger into his shirt and took several deep breaths. Ordinarily, this would be madness—­suicide by drowning in some ancient black tunnel. The ring, though, would give him the edge. He would make it; the ring loved it when he played the hero.

  He dove in and the cold blackness of the water surrounded him. There was no light, but the thought of his coming triumph, burning ahead of him in his mind’s eye, was brighter than any sunshine.

  CHAPTER 20

  TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES

  Artus dove into the panicked courtroom crowd, using his lanky frame to slide between poofy gowns and lacy collars and delivering sharp jabs with his elbows to anybody who didn’t slide aside. Brana met him somewhere in the fray and pulled him to an open spot. “Where’s Andolon?” Artus asked.

  Brana aped a fair approximation of a shrug. “All gone. Run away?”

  Artus scowled. “Doesn’t sound promising. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  “Find Tyvian?”

  Artus shook his head. “He’s on his own.”

  The smell of smoke was building in the chamber—­the pulpit where Tyvian had made his escape was now almost entirely on fire. A few Defenders were lobbing buckets of water up at it from the floor, but they were
doing little more than slowing the spread. Androlli had taken command of the scene, barking orders from a pulpit and throwing spells around to slow the spread of the fire. For once Artus was glad to be forgotten.

  Defenders tried to organize the crowd into a more orderly manner of egress. Artus and Brana kept their heads low, blending in with the masses as best they could and going with the flow out of the courtroom. Artus got a glimpse of Androlli scanning the crowd with some kind of magic, but whatever it was either didn’t work or he wasn’t looking for them anyway. Alarm bells were sounding. While everybody around Artus was nervous—­Brana included—­the spectacle of the chaos Tyvian had caused kept making him chuckle.

  “You incredible bastard,” he muttered under his breath, grinning. “How’d you know I’d throw that spark-­crystal, anyway?”

  Everybody was ushered out the main gates where, to most of the visitors’ shock and indignation, their coaches were not waiting to receive them. Again, so-­called polite society made for a good cover for Artus and Brana, since every visible guard was receiving a piece of some merchant heiress’s mind or being accused of ineptitude by Baron von Whoever. It was a simple matter to slip out into the street.

  The question of where to go, however, was barely considered before Andolon’s massive coach-­and-­four clattered to a halt in front of him. The door popped open and the Saldorian fop glared at them from beneath a hat comprised of a coiled, smoke-­belching dragon. “You two—­get in!”

  Brana hopped right in, as requested. The shrouded gnoll looked over his shoulder. “C’mon, Artus—­ride!”

  Artus looked to his left and right. Crowds of ­people had gathered along the streets to watch the ancient citadel of Keeper’s Court burn. Troops of Defenders ran to help combat the blaze, and everywhere he looked there seemed to be another mage in mirrored armor marching around with a staff. If he stayed here, he was as good as stone himself.

  Artus stepped forward, reluctant. Somebody made the remainder of his decision for him—­he was grabbed by the collar and hauled inside like a bale of hay by a strong hand. With a sharp whistle to the driver, Andolon ordered the coach forward.

  Artus tried to figure out who had grabbed him—­not Andolon, surely. He squinted around the interior of the spacious cab. Brana was beside him, DiVarro and Andolon were squeezed next to one another on the other side, and across from him was . . . was a man. A man Artus couldn’t fully see or rationalize—­a shadowy outline of black, hooded and sinister. Above the corner of his mouth was a small tattoo that Artus couldn’t quite make out.

  The unseeable man pressed a long double-­bladed dagger against the inside of Artus’s thigh, less than an inch from his codpiece. Unlike the man, the pressure of the blade against his leg was something that he could perceive quite clearly. He held very still.

  Andolon smiled at Artus. The smile was confined to his lips only. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, don’t you? Oh, bravo, boy—­well done. You’ve saved your master only to doom yourself.”

  Artus looked at the knife and looked over at Brana. The shrouded gnoll had his head stuck out the window of the coach as they sped through the streets of the Old City, his arse wiggling back and forth in excitement.

  Andolon tsked. “You’ll be spilling your life’s blood all over the inside of my coach long before your idiot brother can help you. And then, after you die, he’ll be next.”

  Artus licked his lips. “Look, I didn’t know he was going to light on fire—­”

  Andolon produced the notecard with Tyvian’s handwriting on it. “Spare me, please.” Artus grasped at his vest pocket, eyes wide, as the fop chuckled at him.

  “You know,” Andolon said, ­“people don’t think I’m dangerous. I suppose it’s my sense of fashion—­I enjoy a bit of whimsy in my dress, is all—­but just because I like bright colors and beautiful hats doesn’t mean I’m some kind of fool to be pushed around.” He leaned forward and looked Artus in the eye. “Do you know I could have had you killed at any time? While you were following me to my ship I could have had your throat cut in an alley. While you were having grapes stuffed in your greedy little mouth, I could have poisoned you. While you were sitting in the bloody courtroom just now, my man here could have choked you dead and nobody would have noticed the body until after the trial.”

  Artus licked his lips again. “What, and that’s supposed to impress me? You wanna hear all the times I could have had you killed? There’s a lot of them—­you might wanna take notes.”

  Andolon sat back and laughed, clapping his hands. “There! That was pure Reldamar! I mean, not as clever by any means and clearly false, but that’s my old friend talking. You have learned a few things from him, haven’t you?”

  “What do you want from me?” Artus tried to look at the man with the knife but found his eyes drawn away by the trees passing by the windows, by Andolon’s stupid hat, by DiVarro’s crystal eye. It was if there was nothing of the assassin to see.

  “Where is Reldamar going now?” Andolon held up a finger. “And don’t presume to lie to me, boy. This coach is in need of reupholstering anyway.”

  Artus frowned. “I don’t know.”

  The knife pressed hard against his leg, cutting through fabric. Artus inhaled sharply and tried to sit up straighter, but the knife-­man pressed him back against the wall of the coach with his free hand. Andolon smiled. “Let’s not do this, eh? I’m only asking you because you seem to be capable of speech. I can always just kill you and ask the moron.”

  DiVarro, who had up until this point had his real eye closed and was muttering to himself, suddenly stirred to life. He cleared his throat. “Andolon, there’s something—­”

  Andolon rounded on him. “How are the markets?”

  DiVarro frowned. “The timetable has advanced—­we can’t wait for the pear shipment. The moment to strike will be tomorrow morning and no later. That wasn’t what I was going to say. It’s about the—­”

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow morning? You’re certain Reldamar’s escape will shake things up that far?”

  While Andolon was distracted, Artus grabbed Brana by his illusory belt and tugged him back inside the coach. The gnoll had that stupid, wide-­mouthed grin on his face. “Lots of fish smell!”

  Artus growled in gnoll-­speak, “Brana, trouble—­get ready.”

  Brana stiffened instantly and sniffed the air inside the coach. His head cocked to one side. “Who?” he snarled back.

  Andolon froze in mid-­conversation. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, but were you just barking at each other?”

  Artus took a deep breath. Was he actually going to do this? Really? His stomach started doing flips as he spoke. He desperately hoped his voice wouldn’t crack. “You’re finished, Andolon. Your plan will never work now.”

  Andolon blinked and then began laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous, boy—­my plan is inevitable, understand? The only thing that changes is the timetable. So what if I become the richest man in the West tomorrow instead of next week? There’s nothing Reldamar or you can do to stop it.”

  DiVarro tapped his employer on the shoulder. “Andolon, there’s something you should know about the boy—­”

  “Hush!” Andolon glared at the augur, then turned back to Artus. “Tell me where Reldamar is or die where you sit.”

  Artus smiled. “You can’t kill us here—­the Defenders’ augurs will have already scryed it, and then you’ll be arrested the next second.”

  “Ha!” Andolon looked at DiVarro. “Do you believe this?”

  DiVarro, though, had his eye fixed on Brana, who had a toothy grin from ear to ear and staring at Andolon. “Sir, the boy! He’s a—­”

  Andolon rolled his eyes. “Really, DiVarro—­the boy’s grinning at me like an idiot. He likes me!” He turned back to Artus. “As for you, don’t you think the Mute Prophets would have found a work-­around to Defender scrying by
now?” He patted the walls of the coach. “Not only is my coach warded against scrying, but my half-­invisible friend here is wholly invisible to scrying. A Quiet Man’s life and all his acts are unknowable to any augur anywhere, so if I want him to stab you both to death in my coach and dump your bodies in a gutter, the only thing the Defenders will ever find is your corpses.”

  Andolon sat back, folding his arms. “There—­now what do you think of that, boy?”

  Artus grinned. “Sounds like that kind of warding works both ways, don’t it? Brana, sic ’em.”

  Brana took off his shroud. At that moment it became very evident what Brana’s “goofy smile” actually represented: a hundred fifty pound gnoll bearing every single tooth in his large snout.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Brana lunged for Andolon but was intercepted by the Quiet Man, who would have put his knife in Brana’s eyeball had Artus not grabbed his knife hand. Brana’s jaws latched onto the Quiet Man’s arm and bore down—­there was a snapping noise as the arm broke, but no scream.

  Andolon, eyes wide in panic, fumbled for something around his neck but thought better of it. Instead, he pulled a slender dagger out of a sleeve and worked at stabbing Brana, who was forced to release the Quiet Man in order to dodge in the tight confines of the coach.

  All DiVarro did was scream, but even then his face didn’t alter much from its perpetual frown.

  Artus, though, didn’t have time to think about the augur for more than a fleeting second. The Quiet Man was on top of him, a shadow made real, the knife bearing down at his chest with all the man’s weight. Artus brought his knee up to try and push him off, but the space was too tight and he couldn’t find any good spot to kick. All he could do was press both his hands against the wrist of the Quiet Man and try and hold him off. The Quiet Man, though, was stronger and heavier. The blade inched downward, slowly, until it was grazing Artus’s chest.