A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence)

by Hogan, Mitchell

  From his satchel he drew out a copy of Jevons’ Commentary on Shaping Gold, a beeswax blank of the wristband he’d prepared earlier, his handkerchief, the pouch of white gold ingots and his scribing tools.

  He walked to the furnace in the middle of the room, which had been set for the night, and added more coal, pumping the bellows to get it burning.

  Humming to himself, he made a short trip to a storeroom and returned with a bucket of fine alchemical powder and a mixing spoon.

  Opening the book, he removed two sheets of paper. Both were covered in his designs and working for the crafting, along with notations on different alloys and their properties. He’d circled one formula, his final choice.

  Selecting a carving tool, he set to scraping the wax, trimming off the seam and smoothing the inner and outer surfaces. Switching tools often, he started to carve the inside surface with one half of his pattern, the runes and symbols slicing deep into the wax band. If all went well, his Crafting should be strong, better than the standard ones the guild used to teach them, and ten times better than the piece of shoddy workmanship he’d accidentally melted.

  The added complexity had been a challenge, to work out how the anchors, controls, links and buffers should act to strengthen the overall crafting, but he’d had a few days to figure it out. His finished design covered both surfaces of the wristband.

  An hour later, he finished carving both the inside and outside surfaces. He stopped to massage his aching fingers, pleased the fiddly part of the process was over.

  He turned his attention to the crystals, or what was left of them. Unwrapping the handkerchief, he revealed two cloth pouches tied with string. Over the last few days, he’d used his spare time to grind the crystals to a coarse powder and refine the ores to allow him to weigh out the proper ratio of metals for the alloy.

  Using a scale, he weighed enough white gold for the bracelet, then added portions of the rare earths until he had the percentages correct. He poured the metals into a crucible and placed it carefully into the furnace.

  Back at his workbench, he prepared the wax casting with flues and encased it within a layer of alchemical plaster, which would set hard in a short span of time. Within minutes the mixture gave off heat, a result of the alchemical reaction beginning to take place.

  There was nothing left to do but wait for the mold to fully dry and the wax to liquefy, for the metals in his crucible to melt and combine.

  The nervous energy bottled inside him for the last few days dissipated. The warmth of the furnace was comforting, and he lay his head on his arms to rest.

  He woke with a start, fuzzy-eyed and blinking. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, then it came back to him. By the ancestors, how long had he nodded off? He stumbled to the furnace.

  Thankfully, his mold looked to be dry and hard, and no cracks were visible on the outside. Caldan smiled.

  Taking a pair of long-handled tongs, he carefully lifted the mold and tipped the molten wax onto the coals of the furnace to be consumed. Now the mold was hollow, the inside contained only the shape of his wristband and the fine lines of the glyphs he had carved.

  Again using the tongs, he reached into the fire and removed the crucible. Inside, the metal glowed molten-white, the air shimmering violently with the heat.

  He rested the crucible on the furnace bricks for a moment, one hand wiping his brow. With much trepidation, he began to pour the liquid gold into the mold, the stream of metal glowing bright as it filled the hollow space inside, flowing into the glyphs and patterns he’d created.

  As he poured he sensed the metal as it filled his carvings, gently testing the link, buffer, anchor and control glyphs in the overall pattern. He connected to the links and power flowed through the metal as it formed a complete crafting. This was the essential stage. He had to maintain the flow through the object until it solidified.

  Concentrating to maintain his well and its link to the metal, he took the mold from the furnace and placed it on an anvil, where it began to cool, then gently tapped it to remove any air bubbles trapped in the delicate details.

  Now all he had to do was to stay linked while it cooled enough to handle. By then, both the metal and the paths of energy would be set.

  As the minutes passed, his trepidation grew. What he attempted was more complex than most journeymen could craft. Casting was the easy part; any jewelry smith could do that. What took talent and skill were the glyphs, the raw materials and finally the imbuement. All three had to be in harmony to create a crafting without the forces destroying it in the process or when it was activated.

  Rousing himself from his thoughts, he dropped the rag he was using to wipe the workbench and looked at his mold. Plain and dull, yet contained within would be the finest piece he had crafted, shiny and full of potential. It would be like opening a present, removing the covering to reveal the gift inside, only better.

  Smiling, he used the tongs to plunge the mold into a barrel of water. Steam hissed out in a cloud, and he waved it away to see bubbles rising to the surface. He thrust an arm to the bottom of the barrel and retrieved the mold. He tapped the tongs against the cast until it cracked and fell apart in his hands.

  Firelight reflected from the white metal, flickering over the patterns. Caldan took his time and gazed at his creation long and reverently.

  To him, the object was the culmination of all his years of hard work and sacrifice, made possible only because he had ended up here in Anasoma and had been fortunate enough to have the means to purchase the raw materials. If he’d stayed at the monastery it was unlikely he would ever have made such a piece. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford the gold and crystals. Maybe the accident had been a blessing in disguise, or maybe it was fate. Whatever the reason, he felt elated at having given his talent rein to create such a crafting. All he had to do now was trim, clean and polish the wristband.

  Caldan clutched his crafting in one hand and gave the apprentices’ workshop a final look over. The place looked untouched. Good. He blew out his lantern and left, tracing his steps back to his room, where he could file and polish the wristband and check the pattern for imperfections.

  Rain pattered on his shutters. The storm had come from the sea with remarkable rapidity. Humid and cold, it made Caldan’s room feel damp and uninviting. This night he didn’t care as his mind was on other matters.

  He sat on his bed, newly crafted wristband in hand, and stared at the white gold object, unmoving. He remained in this pose for over an hour, the only light in the room his lantern burning a small flame. As a precaution, he checked and rechecked his creation for any flaw in the casting and in the pattern. The last thing he wanted was for it to melt or crack under the strain of his well.

  Finally satisfied, he opened his eyes and took a breath, then slipped the crafting over his wrist.

  Opening his well, he linked it to the wristband, and a shield sprang up around him. His skin tightened and his vision blurred. Following the flow of his well through the wristband, he sensed all was working as it should, though he couldn’t test it properly on his own. That would have to come later.

  Sighing with relief, he broke the links and closed his well. A great weariness came over him as the stress and pressure of the day weighed him down, combined with the strain of such a crafting. Only now did he realize how tired he was.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mist flowed through the streets. Soon the rising sun would burn off what haze remained, but while it was around, Vasile used it to cover his movements as much as he could.

  As far as he could tell, one or more of his enquiries into the dealings of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern had tipped someone off. And that someone was not pleased.

  While visiting the magistrates’ court to see some friends and call in a few favors, he’d been told by Japir, an informant of his, of people asking after him. He knew of no one who would want to see him that didn’t already know how to contact him, and he hadn’t had much contact wi
th women since his wife… for a number of years.

  Yesterday, Vasile had waited for Japir in the usual spot by a fountain in the Deadhorse District, to no avail. When he’d failed to appear, Vasile went to visit Japir’s home with all possible haste. The door swung open at his touch, but only echoes answered his queries. Japir lay on the bed, throat slashed to the bone. Vasile covered his body with blood-soaked sheets before one last glance around the room, then scurried out the door in a rush.

  Last night he had drunk deeply before going to sleep — water of course — then packed what few belongings he thought necessary for a short stay away from home. He slept badly, waking well before dawn with a full bladder. He relieved himself, gathered his belongings into a leather pack and slipped out the back door. The streets were empty, save for the rats and roaches. Crouching low, he slithered along and kept against the buildings.

  He pressed himself to a brick wall and stopped, breathing heavily. Had that shadow moved? Peering into the mist, he squinted. No. Maybe it was his imagination. But they were out there, he knew it.

  His purse contained a fair amount of ducats, enough to lay low for a while until the heat subsided. If he disappeared long enough they would think he had left the city or met some unfortunate end, and perhaps they would stop looking for him. During his time working for the chancellors, and through them the emperor, he’d had cause to visit some unsavory areas of the city. They were populated by citizens who skirted the edge of the law, people who’d sell their own mother for a copper ducat. It was to one of these people he was headed. Hopefully they were not dead or out of business by now.

  Eyes darting back and forth, Vasile peered into the evaporating mist, back pressed against the wall of a butcher’s shop. His problem was that Luduss, the man he planned to obtain a bolt-hole from, was known to sleep late and wouldn’t look kindly upon being dragged out of bed at such an hour. Luckily, Vasile had a plan. Early opening eating houses catering to workers on a morning shift lay scattered about the industrial areas. As long as his ducats lasted, he would be free to secrete himself in one of these establishments among nondescript workers and while away the hours until midmorning.

  Vasile glanced left and right down the street, then darted across the cobbles and into a long alley. A few turns later, he entered a modest eating house through a doorway in a brick wall, the likeness of knife and spoon scratched into the bricks above it.

  Like many such places at this time, it bustled with the morning trade, and he had to squeeze past two workers in the corridor, on the way to start whatever job they had after their morning meal. Judging from the white dust on their clothes, and the smell as they passed, he guessed they were millers.

  Aromas from fresh baked bread and tea drew him further in. He took possession of half a loaf, a platter of salted butter and a mug of tea, handing over the required ducats as payment. Looking around the windowless room lit by a few lamps, he found an out-of-the-way booth. Vasile stirred a spoonful of honey into his tea and tore off a chunk of bread. It tasted as it smelled, hot, fresh and delicious. He chewed with satisfaction.

  A man slid into the other side of the booth. Sharing was common, so Vasile kept his head down, not in the mood for conversation. The man coughed politely and cleared his throat. Vasile pretended to ignore him and slurped his tea, softening the bread in his mouth.

  “Ahem,” the man said. “Vasile.”

  Vasile jerked his head up. Across from him sat Luphildern Quiss, a smile plastered on his thin face. It was all Vasile could do not to soil himself. How had he found me?

  “Easy,” said Quiss. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. How’s the bread?”

  Vasile tongued the mash of bread and tea in his mouth, no longer as appealing as it had tasted a moment ago. He glanced around the room but couldn’t see anyone who might be associated with the merchant. But how would he know?

  “Good,” he mumbled, swallowing the now tasteless pulp. With a shaking hand, he placed his mug of tea back on the table.

  “I must remember to come back here. One rarely gets the opportunity to mingle with such hard-working folk over a good meal.”

  Vasile eyed the dirty, hollow-eyed men around him gulping down porridge, bread and tea, mostly silently, fueling up for another day’s hard labor. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, and slid towards the edge of the booth.

  Quiss shook his head slowly, obviously amused. “Anyway, I need to tell you you’re in great danger.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Indeed, there are those who want you…silenced. Don’t move,” hissed Quiss.

  Vasile stopped moving, terrified. These people hadn’t hesitated in killing before, and he was sure they wouldn’t hesitate this time. Inwardly, he cursed himself for the last few years of wasted life. The man he was before wouldn’t have quivered like a child in front of an angry adult.

  “Oh, it’s not me you have to worry about,” said Quiss, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Actually, I’m here to help you. If you’d run into the others first, well… let’s just say you would be floating in one of the canals right now.” He smiled grimly.

  Vasile’s eyes flicked again to the door.

  “Not a good idea,” said Quiss.

  “What’s going on? What do you mean the others?”

  “There are people that want you dead, and I don’t. Ultimately, they will fail and have to answer to the First Deliverer, but they have a number of followers. Until their threat has passed, we do what we can to contain them and thwart their plans. And that’s where you come in. They’ve discovered your attempts to find out more about us and want to stop you.”

  “Us?” queried Vasile. “I thought you said you weren’t one of them?”

  “We are all part of a… shall we say ‘family’, but we have opposing views about our… impact here.” Quiss frowned. “Forgive my pauses, but I have to choose my words carefully.”

  “You aren’t here to kill me?”

  “Goodness, no! Far from it. I’m here to save you. Without me, I fear your life would be… short.”

  “Oh.” Vasile swallowed. He doubted it’ll be much longer with this man, but… so far Quiss has told the truth.

  Quiss stood and straightened his jacket. “Come, you’ll have to trust me. That I haven’t harmed you yet should go some way to persuading you of our good intentions.” He tilted his head, as if listening to something. “The coast is clear, as they say. I can explain more when you’re in a safer place. Let’s get out of here, before something dreadful happens.”

  Vasile followed the mysterious Quiss to Dockside, where they entered the main office of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern. The place was swarming with people rushing about, packing crates, filling bags and sacks with records and large lock boxes with ducats. Quiss appeared unconcerned by the activity. Teams of burly laborers carried the goods to the back of the building, where they were loaded onto carts and driven away with armed escorts. After a short wait, where Quiss consulted with a number of his colleagues, he approached Vasile.

  “Why are we here?” asked Vasile.

  “I offer you a choice. The city is about to be invaded, and we have to leave. I will not go into the reasons why, but I am authorized to tell you a few facts. I gather you will be able to determine whether I’m being truthful with you.” He gave Vasile an appraising look.

  How he had come to know of Vasile’s ability didn’t matter. A number of people knew, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if one of them had sold the information for a few ducats. Human nature never surprised him anymore.

  Vasile sighed heavily. “Yes,” he agreed. “I will.”

  Quiss nodded. “Confirmation then. Interesting.” He glanced around at the disarray of the offices.

  He looks resigned, thought Vasile. Why?

  “Very well,” continued Quiss in his strange accent. “I’ll tell you a number of facts.” He paused. “As I believe them to be. If at the end you think I have lied or tried to deceive you, then you are free to go.�
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  “I thought I was already free to go. Am I a prisoner? You promised safety from your other faction. The ones who are after me.”

  “I do. But there’s more to the story than opposing factions of a mercantile concern. Much more.” Quiss’s face remained expressionless. “We have to leave. My whole… company. The people who are coming to invade are after us. Anasoma, indeed their dissatisfaction with the empire, is merely a cover for their true purpose.”

  “I… I don’t understand. Surely the Quivers could deal with an invading force?”

  Quiss’s face turned grim. “The Quivers are overmatched. Sorcery not seen before in this land has been and will be used against them. Once we escape, we’ll need your services to help us in the future.”

  “Go on.”

  “As I said, the invaders are after us, and unless we leave they’ll find us and we will be destroyed. Their sorcery is more powerful than that practiced here in the empire. They will be able to conquer this city, root us out like rats in a barn and kill us all.”

  Vasile swallowed and turned his eyes away. Quiss was telling the truth so far. “Why are they after you? Are you the reason they invaded Anasoma?”

  “We don’t think we’re their main objective, just something to be tidied up as their other plans unfold. Disposing of loose ends, you could say. As you’ve probably guessed, we’re not just a mercantile company. That is a pretense, but a profitable one, to be sure.”

  “Then who are you? What’s your purpose?”

  “All you need to know is that we’re willing to help you, to shelter you from those that wish you harm. In this our goals align. Those that want you dead are those we are opposed to. In return we might need your help from time to time.”

  Though Quiss was truthful he was holding something back, but didn’t everyone? Nobody liked someone else knowing the truth about them, being privy to their innermost thoughts. He’d learned that the hard way.