by Daniel Casey
“This way.” The boy called and Jena follow his voice through the desks and into a back room. Its walls were all bookshelves. It gave the already small room an even more cramped feeling. At the center was a desk like those out in the larger room. Its surface slanted upward with an inkwell in a far corner, there were stains around it but otherwise the desk was pristine. There was no other door. The boy pulled up a stool.
He held out his hand. Jena just stared at him. He wasn’t looking at her. He waited, and then his fingers snapped impatiently. “Where’s the scrivener?”
The boy turned to look at her, “Do you want the work done or not?”
“You’re the scrivener?”
“As much as you’re a free ranger.” There was a moment of silence. Jena snorted and shook her head.
“Alright,” she removed the vellum from insider her waist pocket and placed it in his palm, “I need this reproduced & validated.”
The boy gently unfolded the vellum and read it. “This is burned.”
“Which would be why I need it reproduced.”
“This isn’t you.” He said offhandedly. “Neither of the names here.”
“That is true.”
“I know Colm.”
“Do you?” Jena was surprised.
The boy nodded, “He hated his aunt. Wasn’t too fond of his uncle either.” The boy pulled out several vellums from a thin shelf under his desk. Each was a slightly different shade between grey and brown and their thickness varied. He shuffled through them until he found one that satisfied him. He stood and brushed passed Jena back into the main room but kept talking to her, “I never got to meet his parents. But, yeah,” he returned with a few quills and two new vials of ink, “Moria is a horror. She once knocked me out with a brass pitcher.”
“From the little I’ve seen of her, that fits.” Jena looked around and found another stool in the far corner. She grabbed it dragging it over to where the boy sat beginning his work. “What’s your name?”
“Well,” the boy was bent over with his face oddly close to the fresh vellum, “it’s probably best that you just refer to me as you have been. The Scrivener.”
“Come on, do we really need to play this out?”
“It’s fun.” The boy said. “But if you’d rather, you can call me Garza.”
“What kind of name is that? Sounds a bit like…”
“The cant.” The boy nodded, “I’m athingani. It means custom, duty.”
“That how you two became friends?”
Garza nodded, “Moria heard me talking it with Colm. She grabbed the nearest thing and bashed me upside the head. Started screaming at me, kicked me halfway down the alley. Then turned to Colm, slapped him til his lip and nose bled.”
“Seems a bit of an overreaction.” Jena said absentmindedly as she took in all the books Garza had.
“I don’t know,” he bit down on this tongue as he write a long line with quite a few flourishes, then nodded satisfied, “I mean, you know how it is for her.”
“Do I?”
“Have you not read this?” Garza sat up for a second, a bit taken back, “You know how to read right?”
“Mind your tone, son, I can cut that tongue out of your mouth.”
“I may look like I’m twelve but my kind don’t look our age. So, keep the ‘son’ talk to yourself. For all you know, I could be your dad.”
“Sorry.” Jena didn’t want to get into a fight or sour her only scribe. “How old are you?”
“Had my twenty-fifth birthday in Mabon.” Garza returned to his work.
Jena wasn’t surprised. She knew athingani didn’t age the same as most people. Thinking of Roth, she smiled slightly. Her old man. Shaking her head slightly she responded to Garza’s questions, “Yes, I can. And yes, I have.”
He raised his head up for an instant. “What? Oh, right. Well, Reg owns The Archway, not Tanner.”
“So his brother-in-law is a sponge. What of it?”
Garza shook his head, “He’s not a sponge; he’s incompetent. Tanner ran six businesses into the ground before he married Moria. And he only married her because Reg forced him.”
“He get her in trouble?” Jena asked.
Garza nodded, “Stillborn though. But Reg made sure they were taken care of, gave them the inn.”
“But he didn’t trust Tanner with owning it?”
“Or running it. Moria’s been the boss since the beginning. But she can’t own it.”
“Because she’s athingani.” Jena said to herself.
“Yep, but no one knows that. She flew off the handle because she was afraid folks would hear Colm and me, figure it out. Then she’d have the inn taken from her or, worse, given to Tanner.”
“Well, that makes sense.” The boy continued his work in silence. After a few minutes Jena asked, “How did you get into this? Who owns this place? And how do I know that deed will hold up?”
Garza put out his hands to calm her barrage of questions. “My father was a scholar.” He pointed over his shoulder to the main room. “That was his school. My mother was originally a civic in Rikonen. When they emigrated, they made sure they became part of the bureaucracy.”
“How was that possible, being athingani?” Jena asked puzzled.
“I was,” Garza held up the vellum and lightly blew on the ink, “but they weren’t.”
“A friend of was a ward.” Jena stared blankly at the vellum in the boy’s hand. She blinked a few times, “Actually, two of my friends. But one in particular, he’s like you.”
“Athingani?” Jena nodded and Garza seemed impressed. “Not many can say they know so many. Or, at least, want to know so many.”
“Just kind of happened. One day you find yourself in a tiny library as a boy makes a forged deed for you so that you can secure the legacy of child you barely know.”
Garza held out the deed for Jena’s inspection. “This isn’t a forgery. The scrivener mark is passed through a family. Doesn’t matter the individual, the family name is the legitimacy.” Jena took the new vellum deed. Garza reached over and pointed to a mark in the upper corner. “That’s the signature that matters, that makes this legal.” It was a four-point infinity knot.
“The family that took you in was brehon?” Jena looked satisfied.
“The family I belong to is brehon.” Garza corrected. “This will stand up against any adjudicator of any faith or any nation. Or, at least, any honest one.”
“Still doesn’t explain how you’re able to be here.” Jena read the deed over and compared it to the original. It looked identical, only new.
“Property is still in my parent’s name. I pay the fees to the town, to the Cathedral through this little business I have through Adamix.” Garza held out his open palm staring at her patiently.
“What do I owe you?”
“Ten aurei.”
Her eyes widened, “That is rather steep.”
“I’m young but this is artisan work. It’s authoritative. And, frankly, you’re getting a deal because if you went to Bandra or Sulecin or Ardavass for this kind of thing you’d be paying triple and none of them would keep their mouths shut about what they had done.”
“Why aren’t you charging more then?” Jena slowly folded the fresh vellum and stowed it way in the inside pocket of her tunic. Pulling a pouch off her belt, she loosened the drawstrings and fished out the gold coins for the boy. She put five in his hand at first, then another five, and then five more.
“I don’t need a tip.” Garza said with a bit of an edge to his voice.
Jena shook her head, “It’s not a tip. I need you to keep an eye on the Archway when I leave. Colm will be back here someday. He’s going to need someone to tell him what’s been going on in his absence.”
Garza closed his hand over the coins and nodded in approval. “I don’t know if five aurei will really be enough but I will do my best. Maybe record the interest.”
“When he comes back, he’ll pay all debts.” Jena asserted. She stoo
d and held her hand out to the boy. “Seems I’m getting to know the queerest people these days.”
Garza shook her hand, “The only kind worth knowing.”
Jena winked at him and left. When she got back on the street, she thought again about dealing with Moria. She resolved to lay some groundwork before Addison returned. In the meantime, Jena needed to eat and rest. Arderra had become an exhausting place.
The Stony Shore
Had it all been a dream? It had to have been. But when did he fall asleep? Was it in the Aral, out under the banner of stars thick and twinkling? Was it out in the hot sand after they had crawled out of the noxious shafts of the Lappala’s mines? Was he awake? Did he have to accept that Towsend’s throat had been carved open before him? Was he feeling his blood on his face now? Shocking him, making him cough as it splattered into his mouth aghast. Making him blink as it sputtered into his wide-open eyes. Choking him with its life. Choking him.
Cochrane shot upright. He gasped for air seeing only the thin pale blue of the distant sky. The canoe he was in rocked back and forth. He flung himself to one side in a vain attempt to right his balance. Only making it worse, Cochrane again over corrected throwing his weight back in the other direction. His heart was racing. Instinctually his hands shot out to either side griping each gunwale and praying to the Light that he didn’t turn over. Even with his spastic actions and the waves of the sea, the canoe didn’t tip and soon returned to its lulling drift.
He had regained his composure. A hard thirst came over him as he brought his hand to his lips feeling the dried roughness. He looked around him to see what was available. The light of the sun reflected off the waves blinding him. It left his vision peppered with red blotches. A large bota had served as his headrest and near his feet was a wide paddle. How had he gotten out here? Where was here?
Shading his eyes, he tried to get his bearings. There was sea and sea and a far shore. For the most part, the water was calm. Cochrane tried to gauge the distance but couldn’t focus. There were no clouds on the horizon and no ships in sight. Lifting the oar, he began to paddle. His shoulders hurt, his forearms burned, and his fingers were swollen like sausages. Slowly the stiffness worked itself out of his system. At first, he couldn’t tell if he was making progress but aft about a half hour he realized he was coming into shore.
He threw the bota over his head and shoulder. Once he was close enough to the beach, he jump out of the canoe. It was probably the least graceful maneuver he had yet done in his life. Fell face first into the water, somehow lost his balance and went under. However, the water wasn’t deep enough for him to worry. Standing he grabbed the gunwale of the canoe and walked onto shore.
Dragging the canoe up the rough beach, he felt the shells crack under his boots. The dugout was lighter than he imagined it would be. He stopped when he reach the grass and trees. Kneeling he took a long drink from the bota. As exhausted as he was, he was beginning to feel better. Looking up and down the beach, he could only guess where he was. There was nothing else in the canoe. He had to think.
The last memory Cochrane had was the darkness of the cell. He had talked with the captain and had been glad for the company, but that had only last a couple of days. Then they had taken the captain away. Cochrane never saw or heard him again. In fact, he didn’t see or hear anyone else after he was taken. The captain, what was his name. Raff, Riff? Riv, it was Riv.
After a day or so, when he hadn’t seen anyone he had begun to call out. He knew he was still under guard as they still were feeding him—a tray slide into the room every day. At least, he assumed it was every day. There was no light in the cell, just quiet and darkness. Even when the slit to the door was lifted, the change in light was negligible. No one responded to him.
Soon the hours bleed together and it was difficult for him to tell when he was asleep or awake. It didn’t matter. He was lost in the void they had wrapped around in the room. They must have drugged him. He had no recollection of anyone removing him from the cell or of being put in the dugout or being dumped at sea. It was difficult. Cochrane flexed the muscles in his hand and arm. He stood stretching his back and legs.
“I’m sick of this job.” He muttered gazing out over the sea.
“At least, I’m alive.” He picked up the oar but then tossed it back down.
“I’m not going back out there. Not got the strength to portage.” He looked up.
“Must be early afternoon, so I have maybe five or six hours before I have to make camp. But with what?” Doubling checking his tunic and trouser pockets, he confirmed his suspicions. A heavy sigh escaped his through his lips.
Cochrane turned and began pushing his way through the woods, “North it is until I find something or someone.”
Spires Army
Vikram could feel the cold in the air. The damp ground crunched beneath his boots as the frost and ice that was in the grass and mud broke. This was the first morning he had taken notice of the ice. His water bowl in his tent had a thin layer of glass-like ice on it. When he had woke, he saw his breath curl out of his mouth and over the lip of his blanket.
Outside his tent on his way to speak with the Grand General, he saw men breaking the icy skin of their own buckets and even a few chucking small frozen bricks. The autumn was all but over, and they were entering winter.
When he reached the Grand General’s pavilion, he was startled by Evness suddenly bursting forth. The older man stopped in his track equally surprised to see Vikram before him. The old general scowled, nodded at him, and then continued away from the tent.
He watched him go, trudging like an ornery bear. If Evness was this angry this early in the day, then it had to be because Matis was once again being utterly unreasonable. Vikram took a deep breath dealing with the Grand General had become more and more difficult of late.
Throwing back the entrance flap, Vikram entered and saw that Grand General Matis was standing over the tactics map digging a hole with his dagger where The Cathedral was marked. Around the table were three other advisors—Howe Bargeld, an experienced soldier in command of siege works; Brance Surr, a friend and head of the cavalry; and the Novosar commander, a man named Boggs.
“Grand General.” Vikram said standing at attention and bowing slightly.
Matis looked up, “Vikram, how good of you to join us.”
He hesitated, “I woke at first light, sire, and came straight away as usual.”
Matis flicked a splinter out of the hole he was digging, and then nonchalantly tossed the knife aside. “Yet you’re the last to arrive.”
His tent was at the vanguard of the camp while Matis’s pavilion was well to the rear. He was in command of the entire infantry having to hear every morning summation reports from twenty different corps commanders, while Matis only wanted updates every week. Vikram clenched his jaw, “My apologies, it won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” Matis said casually as he walked around the table and flung himself into a high-back chair. He waved his hand, “Say again, Bargeld.”
The commander winced, looked briefly at Vikram, and then gestured to the map before them all. “As the Grand General has made clear for us,” Bargeld pointed at the hole Matis had made, “The Cathedral has one particular kind of defense that would make any maneuver on our part moot.”
“It’s just a moat.” Boggs grumbled.
“It most certainly is not just a moat.” Bargeld snapped. “The entire Cathedral, the heart of the city of Sulecin, is hemmed by a channel two hundred feet deep and a hundred feet wide. You don’t ford that or toss ladders across it.” He glared at Boggs.
“I though your siege engines had a range over two hundred.” Matis said dismissively.
Surr shook his head, “Range doesn’t matter. There’s the city itself. We can’t get our siege works through those twisting, narrow streets.”
“Then clear a path.” Matis said. “Level the buildings, we’ll slowly carve our way to the channel.”
Non
e of the commanders said anything but exchanged glances. Bargeld spoke again, “If that were a successful tactic, Grand General, we’d still be at a loss before the channel. It’s a covered channel; its surface is retractable. They’d pull it back, towards themselves leaving us to have to build a bridge which they could easily destroy from their ivory walls.”
“Then knock down the walls!” Matis yelled.
“We wouldn’t be able to cross even if we could, sire.”
“Stop telling me what I can’t do!” Matis brought both his fists down onto the table. “We are here to cut out the cancer that is growing the heart of our sacred faith. I’ve talked with the Bandran eparchian. He assures me he sees our move as right and proper. So much so that the justiciars will soon be arriving to swell our ranks.”
Boggs nodded impressed but he was the only one. Bargeld stood stunned and Surr just shook his head. Finally, Vikram spoke.
“I am certain that you don’t mean to cause a schism within the faith, Grand General.”
“If I hear that word one more time…” Matis clenched his fist and shook it furiously in front of them all. Vikram couldn’t help but see his longtime friend as a child throwing yet another tantrum. But the white-hot rage of Matis meant the deaths of thousands. Surr leaned over to him and whispered, “Evness said as much and was dismissed.”
Vikram nodded, “My apologies, sire, I didn’t realize I was needless rehashing terminated debates.”
Matis relaxed somewhat, “What would you have us do with our men, Vikram?”
“We are set in our course.” He said somewhat tentatively gauging the reactions of the other advisors and Matis.
“There is no retreat. The Cathedral will sanction our conquest of Essia, willfully or by force. Then we will squeeze that sad nation between the pincers of our navy and this army.”
