The Imbued Lockblade (Sol's Harvest Book 2)

by M. D. Presley

  She laughed fit to burst, her ample flesh jiggling with each chortle. Abashed at his error, Luca soon feared she might laugh herself to death as she fought to catch her breath.

  “Artifice,” she finally spit out. “Artifice and hypocrisy. You saw what I saw, traveled in his head same as me. Each Solday since he was born he walks down the aisle in the Render kirks, proud as a rooster loose among hens. He’d spit at us if he saw us on the street and would kill us if he could, for no other reason than he fears we wring more pleasure on our turn on Sol’s wheel than he. But soon as that sickness eats at him and he realizes all his good works don’t amount to a lick, does he turn to them stern Renders or to us? Since the first moment he’s drawn breath, he’s been promised a purpose in Sol’s flow, not for himself, but to continue the endless ebb and flow. But once he realizes he’s meant to rejoin it sooner than he expects, who does he turn to? Those grubber Dobra he despises. I tell you, the proof’s in the pudding. Because I know he didn’t offer any Render his fortune for more life.”

  Simza dissolved into another paroxysm of laughter, finally pulling herself free long enough to utter, “I made sure the artifice equaled his hypocrisy. The black cat, the dead of night, the altar itself, they’re all props for the play. We’re expected to take on these roles, so we’d be fools not to adorn ourselves in the proper trappings. You understand, Luca?”

  Upon the magician’s reveal of her trick, Luca felt sick. The solemn ceremony, the blood-bathed bracer, even the unfortunate cat were all parts of an act. It had all seemed so real, so affecting, that even he had unknowingly fallen into the farce. He believed it a sacred Ikus act, but it simply was the same eternal game the Dobra played from the beginning with gaji—a swindle his father explained long ago.

  “I understand,” Luca nearly spat. “Ask little from the gaji for the show and leave long before they realize they’ve been took. Should I assume we’ll be breaking camp come sunrise?”

  All her mirth suddenly departed as Simza regarded him. “I only deal in truth, Luca. We could stay the week or the year, it would all mean the same. That man would never admit it, but he received his heart’s desire and both sides acted marrow true. And we reached for much here, our gains a thousand times the loss of some silver capper and cat. What we gained was knowledge, what all he got was a few years more. Do not doubt that bracelet. It was imbued true. No, the artifice did not revolve around the object, only the performance. The rite, the ritual, none of those are needed for imbuing, only the dead Breath and the object itself. The real lie, it resided in the gift of the bracelet itself.

  “Extended life beyond the allotted time on Sol’s turn on the wheel isn’t a gift in any sense. That bracelet, it will let him live years upon years. Perhaps, so long as he keeps it on, he’d live forever. But what it doesn’t do is take away that sickness eating at him. So though he lives, his torment increases by the day. Each day, his joy will diminish until wearing it will be nothing but a curse. Soon enough he’ll envy that cat that so effortlessly returned to Sol’s flow and wish it was him that died tonight. You understand, Luca?”

  He was not sure he did. He only knew that truly imbued objects were both blessings and curses. This Luca knew marrow true.

  Chapter 17

  Blotmonad 19, 567

  She approached the mansion from the west, which felt fitting. Slinking into Sable Hill was one of the favorite pastimes of her adopted sisters when she had resided in Cyrus Livermore’s home those many years ago. Head of the Cildra clan in Nahuat, he served not only as her Shaper mentor, but her judge to see if she could mix well with new social circles. Marta passed both tests long ago, but success at her new mission hinged upon remembering Cyrus’ old lessons. Well-aware their children snuck out and in at night, the adults set traps. Most were the benign variety: paper upon the ground to capture their footprints or coins stuck in doorframes to drop and signal their return. But once someone had left nails driven upright into a board on the window landing area, and Marta kept this in mind as she slid the second-story window open.

  The lack of any snares meant Cyrus no longer expected any invaders, and this little loss of her childhood nearly made Marta sigh. The sun had set not an hour ago, which meant the servants would still be up, but it also meant her uncle would not be in bed. So she slunk through the hallways, listening at the doorways for footsteps, until she reached his library.

  Despite his Shaper talents and boisterous demeanor, Cyrus loved reading above all else, so she was not surprised to see him pondering a tome beside the fireside. The harsh electric lights instead of luz jars were new, but Marta took comfort in Cyrus’ steady habits. He was thankfully alone, but she still scanned the room before advancing. He had caught her once with an invisible string stretched across her room, and part of her wished the defense still remained as she stalked him down. Angling to ensure she caught his reaction in the reflection of the family portrait, Marta drew the Shaper blade he taught her and lightly touched it to the man’s throat.

  “There’s more than one way to top the mountain.”

  She nearly laughed aloud at the face he made at hearing his favorite phrase with a phantom blade kissing his neck.

  “Marta?”

  She released her weapon to step around the chair and stare at him full on. He had aged, but the man she remembered still resided in the one before her. The girl who had once thought of him as a second father wanted him to instantly embrace her, but she instead saw shock.

  It disappeared immediately when he engulfed her in his hug, and Marta felt like she was home again. But as much as she wanted to give herself to the moment, she remembered her plight.

  “A weary traveler looks for a place to lay his head.”

  The line was drawn from the Biba Sacara repurposed for the Cildra’s shared code. Invoking it meant the state of their mission was truly dire and required their kin’s aid, no matter how distant the relation. Yet the request was never a true demand since the recipient might decline if the new mission ran counter to their own. Cyrus hesitated, and Marta worried all her hopes were dashed, but then Cyrus held her tighter and she knew she had found respite.

  His face pressed into the rawhide of the dead man’s coat she wore, Cyrus still found a way to make her chuckle. “Your first request, I assume, is for a more befitting dress.”

  ***

  A true Cildra, Cyrus neither balked at mention of a pursuing glassman nor asked as to why she required his personal train car to travel to Ceilminster, nor did he blink when the strange man, woman, and child awaited them at his stables. Never asking if he could assist, rather how, Cyrus even raided his wife’s closet to procure Marta more suitable clothes before sending his servant ahead to ready their way. Spiriting their stolen horses inside without a word, he hitched fresh ones to a carriage and led them to the train station himself. Although he held no official title among the Nahuat government, as a titan of the Cildra clan, Cyrus’ personal car would be immune to search, even by the Home Guard.

  Riding the carriage right up to his private car situated last in the line, Cyrus went first, the four fugitives’ only exposure to prying eyes during the seconds it took to ascend the steps inside. The car that would become their new home for the next few day’s travel was a lavish affair, with two desks, a stocked bar, several seats, and sleeping accommodations for at least six, but the interior locks provided the real prize. The blinds were already drawn, the roof and walls lined with glass to bar any Render intruders, and once she threw the bolts to the doors, Marta sighed loud enough to elicit a laugh from her adopted father.

  “Don’t you worry none. I’ve ensured you will not be disturbed. I set the final destination for Gatlin, but will send word before you arrive at Oreana to transfer to Ceilminster. Moments before you arrive, mind you, in case anyone’s giving you any undue attention. Should I send someone to pick you up at the Ceilminster station?”

  “That’s more than I could have hoped for, but I need to ask for even more,” Marta answered. �
��Would you accompany us? Your name, your face could make the difference for us. For me.”

  Cyrus never hesitated. “You are a wearier traveler than you let on. I will ensure you find your rest soon, Daughter.”

  He then stomped behind the bar to demand drink requests. With only three possible respites from ley headaches—distance, drink, or dozing—many passengers availed themselves of the second before succumbing to the latter. Usually this entailed sneaking sips of a small bottle of rot-gut, but the Cildra aristocrats appropriated this base need into dozens of different cocktails, each one requiring more ingredients than the last. From the looks on Luca and Isabelle’s faces, they had never encountered this tradition. Cyrus hemmed a moment as they dithered, and so Marta called out to save them all.

  “Three Dewards, if you would be so kind.”

  The drink was basically a rum rickey with a few more embellishments, which was all the rage before the war. Marta had not mixed her liquor with anything but more liquor since then and felt a twinge of embarrassment that it was the only cocktail she could recall. Cyrus did not miss a beat as he revealed a gasogene from behind the bar, only to realize he did not have the requisite limes. Cyrus stormed to the door to shout down the first passing porter. Two full bags arrived within minutes, and as Cyrus cut them, Marta knew this would be the most pleasant leg of their journey.

  ***

  Drinks in hand, complete with ice Cyrus demanded before their departure, they settled in. Though interrupted by numerous stops along the way, in twelve hours, their next major landmark would be Oreana, the head of the Covenant government during the Grand War and host to the nodus of Brimstone, said to be the largest in all of Ayr. There, they would be transferred to the Akoka Line for their last leg, arriving at Ceilminster in less than a day. Cyrus kept the conversation lively for the first two hours. Just as with Mitchell before him, Marta marveled at how well Luca fell into the banter with Cyrus, the two lobbing anecdotes back and forth without a single pause between them. This type of interaction was once second nature to her, but had since atrophied. Several times Marta wondered if she could again resurrect the skill through exercise, but each time the opportunity arrived, she shied away and let the men natter.

  Her mind again turned to Graff’s Breath deep in her haversack. Keeping it as Luca suggested was a liability, and she knew she should have buried it long ago. But they were low on resources and allies both, so any bargaining chip was still preferable to none.

  Upon the second hour, their Blessed headaches set in. Caddie and Isabelle remained immune, but Marta caught Cyrus’ eyes as Luca winced when he went to gather another glass of rum. Such a slip was a clear sign Cyrus recognized Luca as also Blessed, and Marta was sure Cyrus would relay this information to her father whenever convenient, as if Norwood Childress was not already aware of Marta’s companions after the debacle at the Weaver revival. More likely, he knew them for what they were from the moment she met them at Carmichael’s behest.

  Marta eyed the girl as Caddie played with her bix sticks. They were Luca’s once, but the child truly owned them now. As the second hour dissolved into the third, Marta looked for any signs of strain along the girl’s face, any demonstration of pain. With her own eyes, she had seen Creature’s two Breaths fly away upon Caddie’s exhale. Such a demonstration belonged among the realms of Weavers, who controlled the Breath uncontained in physical bodies, and Marta wondered if what she had seen was simply coincidence or if Hendrix’s child was Blessed. Isabelle had passed on a garbled message when they captured Graff’s Breath about holding it there, and this added a new thread to Marta’s knot.

  But Caddie did not seem susceptible to the ley headache as the third hour trudged on into the fourth, and Marta concluded that either the girl was not a Weaver or was entirely indifferent to pain.

  As the night wore on and the conversations became strained from their shared discomfort, Marta and Cyrus eyed each other on occasion. The hard part was finding the right mixture of alcohol to dull the pain, but not enough to slide off into unconsciousness. Theirs was a waiting game, one partially won when Luca politely excused himself to one of the bunks and pulled the privacy curtains. Isabelle, on the other hand, drank with abandon. Unlike the three Blessed surrounding her, she had no reason to seek relief in the bottle and instead simply took advantage of the offered alcohol. Shortly before dawn, and after consuming what had to have been a month’s salary, she slumped forward in one of the chairs. Only the noise of Caddie’s clicking bix sticks disturbed the car.

  “She reminds me of you,” Cyrus said after mixing himself another drink. This one was stiffer than the last, and Marta knew they were finally free to speak as she followed suit with straight whiskey.

  “We couldn’t be more different.”

  “She doesn’t quit. Just keeps at it, over and over again no matter the result. You always had an indominable will to you, Marta. You were so stubborn, a stone would eventually crumble before you did. There’s something to that. Something I wish my daughters possessed during the troubles.”

  “Did they all make it?”

  “Yes. Clara’s son was stolen from her during the airship devastation though… so, I guess no. But everyone you came up with did.”

  She could not decide if he seemed sad or angry at his statement. Marta and Clara clung particularly close during her tenure despite their five years’ difference in age. She could not remember how many years it had been since she had seen her distant cousin and did not know if she would be able to recognize her again if she stood before Marta now.

  “Tell Clara she has my sympathies when you see her. For all that means, coming from me.”

  Suddenly, she wanted to ask Cyrus everything that had transpired in the intervening years without guile and to drop all pretense of Cildra composure. But the rules for interaction were established for a reason: each child and their mission were compartmentalized from the other lest they be captured or, even worse, overlap. Everything needed to be guarded, even from those she cared the most for, and for that, Marta held her tongue.

  Cyrus kept glancing from his glistening glass to her, and in most folks, this would mean a desire to speak more. Yet he was trained like her, and thus such displays could well be feints. She hoped this was not the case.

  “What weighs on you?”

  He hemmed then took a deep drink before he answered. “A few weeks back I was coming home from dinner and a performer boasted he would shatter a wall with a magic glove. I’ve always favored tales of the Issiqs, as you know, and figured this was no more than that. So I followed him down to the town square, where he shattered a wall of bricks wearing nothing but a simple black glove.

  “Except it wasn’t so simple. No, he dressed it up well, but I could tell. I could see as he formed a gauntlet, summoning his Shaper Breath around his fist to shatter that wall.”

  “Did he wear a hat covering his forehead?”

  “He was no traitor.” Marta flinched at how Cyrus pronounced the last word. “And after I followed him back to his home, he admitted to having paid fifty dollars to learn the technique from a man whose name he did not remember. For fifty dollars, he learned a Cildra secret.”

  Taking a big swig, he finally met her eyes, and Marta did her damnedest to hold his gaze. “Why did you teach them, Marta? Why reveal Cildra teaching to those unworthy to wield it?”

  Cildra decorum dictated that one did not ask about the mission of another. To request more was to ignore the tenants of the clan, yet Marta understood why he did. By giving away her Cildra Armor techniques to those outside the clan, Marta betrayed all the secretive lessons Cyrus personally passed on to her. Her lessons to the Traitors Brigade took only weeks, but were culled from thousands of years of Cildra experience. Like a luz jar, the Breaths had escaped after she removed the lid and could never be gathered up again. It might not have been Cyrus’ betrayal, but he was held accountable to the clan for giving her the knowledge in the first place. Her Cildra decorum demanded she not expl
ain herself, but looking into his eyes, she knew she could not deny him.

  “I was mistaken. Misled. I thought I was doing Father’s will when I was at my brother’s behest.” Admitting this alone to another was straining the rules to the edge of breaking, but she pushed on. “And Carmichael will pay when I do Father’s bidding once again instead of his.”

  She hated lying to Cyrus. In truth, she would take Carmichael’s mission to assassinate Hendrix and again be an outcast by disobeying her father. The news would likely break Cyrus’ heart worse than her teaching others his techniques, and she wished to spare him as long as she could. Like the girl clicking away at her bix sticks, she wanted Cyrus happy before her even bigger betrayal.

  “Your father and brother… act against each other?”

  Marta huffed then took a slug of liquor. “We all fall under Father’s will, aware of it or not. Carmichael is no different.”

  Cyrus eyed her, and Marta could not read his face until he broke into a grin. “Good on you. Your brother puts on airs, and I can’t say I’d be disappointed to see him deflated a bit.”

  Marta tried to laugh, but the act felt false and sounded more like someone choking. He looked alarmed, then realized his mistake, and finished off his drink. Stumbling past her towards the beds, he paused. Setting a hand on her shoulder as if to steady himself, he spoke so softly she strained to hear:

  “May Sol guide your hand, Daughter. May He guide us all.”

  Chapter 18

  Jenvier 12, 561 (Six Years Ago)

  Trouble seethed between the states, but Luca remained unconcerned. Accusations and vitriol ran rampant in all the newspapers, and the messages traveling through the lines of ley were replete with outright hate. Newfield seemed at the brink of tearing itself in two, but it did not disturb the Wandering Dobra one whit. Simza’s missions became the norm, nearly one every other month taking him and Bo away from the wolari for a week at a time, just the two of them.