by Ember Lane
“But didn’t she say to wait, to build in Mandrake?” Sutech asked.
“We burn their ships; destroy their towers, and slaughter their troops, and then we lead them back to Ruse, and we do the same there.”
“Vengeance rarely satisfies.”
“They killed your daughter. They killed my Star. Vengeance is my ally; it is my stick, my crutch, and my spine. It holds me upright while all around me wither.”
Sutech stood. “Then it will be mine too.”
Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.
Age: 24. Alignment: The House of Mandrake. XP: 89,564.
Level: 22. Profession: Chooser. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Known.
Health Points: 550/550 Energy: 510/510 Mana: 12,967 Shadow Mana: 11,776
HP Regen: 55/Min EN Regen: 51/Min MA Regen: N/A SMA Regen: NA
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Vitality: (12, 38), Stamina: (12, 5)*3, Intelligence: (98, 0)*4
Charisma: (6, 6), Wisdom: (23, 8)*3, Luck: (7, 5)
Humility: (2, 0), Compassion: (3, 0), Strength: (3, 20), Agility: (19, 0)
XXXXXXXXXXX
Talents:
Tongues of Time, The Veils of Lamerell.
Quests:
Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.
The Veils of Lamerell. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Death.
Sub Quest: The master is now the slave, his command now his prisoner. Free the gambler; end his torment, and confront one of five. Status: Complete.
Sub Quest: Catch a thief. Status: Complete.
Sub Quest: Seek the Prince of a Cheated House. Canelo James lives and holds the answers. Status: Complete.
Sub Quest: Seek Sutech Charm and tell him his daughter’s wish. Status: Complete.
Sub Quest: Release the Witches of Speaker’s Isle that they might spread the word. Status: Complete.
Sub Quest: Yet to be given. Status: Incomplete.
Chapter Eleven
The Trapmaster
We left Speaker’s Isle soon after. Few words were spoken. The fog had lifted, like Pog had told us. A rowboat waited, but no oarsman attended to ferry us. We crossed the still water, our own thoughts consuming each of us. Mine had turned from numb to rage, and though I understood that anger would never win any day, I clung to it. For now, it would keep me going, and when I recovered, I might have a chance at some other emotion.
Mezzerain led us away, our horses tethered and waiting. He rode north and east, away from Speaker’s Isle and toward the coastal town of Douglas. Sutech sat rigid on his horse, and I knew that Star had sealed his fate—that she’d achieved what she set out to do.
But her father was now conflicted. He had his path, but to travel it, he had to unravel a lifetime of preparation and plotting. All kings have masters. Thrones don’t just appear: they are slid under those they would trust to rule, and those who push it there invariably retain the strength to tear it away. Sutech rode rigid because he knew that, in all likelihood, his daughter had signed his death warrant.
We arrived at Douglas in the early evening of that very same day.
I was on my last legs, punch drunk, empty, confused, and yet still resolute. We looked for an inn nestled a few streets back from the docks, far enough away to avoid prying eyes, not so far as to draw attention to ourselves—one where we could lodge anonymously. It was the first real town where I noticed Ruse’s vice-like grip, its occupation of scruffy militia.
Ruse’s black flags hung limp. Like them, the town was downcast, heads tipped to the cobbles, rarely looking up, shuffling along the streets, clinging to the shadows. Douglas’s fort sat atop a rocky bluff as was the custom, but a mere wooden palisade protected it, two watchtowers, and a few archer towers. I guessed that Ruse’s intention was strategic, that it wanted the port; perhaps one of the other lands was close.
It smelled of salt and dried seaweed, of hopelessness, and defeat. To compound matters, the clouds opened, and rain washed away the last of Douglas’s happiness. It was then I saw it and understood why the fort was less grand than it should be. It appeared the town’s artisans had been drafted for more urgent labor.
A hundred yards out to sea, like a lofty lighthouse, a dark tower was in the last throes of construction. Its pyres already lit, its gaze roaming abroad.
We slipped into an inn called The Pickled Trout, taking to the shadows like seasoned townsfolk, just the glimpse of the tower reminding all of our peril. If it was already occupied, if the priests were searching for us, we’d just rode into the midst of their web.
We took chambers upstairs and rented a back room too, choosing not to frequent the bar, and we held court there, talking like folks who molded worlds, and maybe we were. Star had spoken some grand words, and on Speaker’s Isle it had felt like we ruled, like we could beat anyone and anything, but now, nested in this backwater town, we were skulking around like rats.
“I say we slip out without incident. Take a boat, break dock before sunrise, and pay handsomely for silence.”
That’s what Mezzerain had suggested, and it made perfect sense. We weren’t here to make war in Douglas. We had bigger fish to fry.
There were mutters of strangled assent, like it was the choice all knew we had to make—the sensible decision, and sometimes those come hardest, and you just have to accept them.
Unless you’re still full of youthfulness, then fear is but an obstacle to overcome.
“No,” Pog said, and we all turned and stared at him. “We don’t run anymore.”
The finality of his words brokered no argument. We all swapped glances, but each of us knew what lurked in our hearts, and our hearts were with him.
“What would you have us do?” Mezzerain asked, a hint of amusement coloring his tone, but I think that was only there to mask his shame at being overruled by a boy.
“Alexa and I will destroy the tower. You, Sutech, and Melinka must strike down Ruse’s henchmen the minute the tower goes up in flames. Once the seeds of rebellion are sewn, Douglas will rise, and we can be on our way.”
Sutech drummed his finger on the table. “And who says the priests will just allow you to destroy their tower?”
Pog grinned, but no one took it for amusement. “Who’s going to stop Alexa? Especially when they don’t know she’s here. Tell me, is it better that they spy us slipping out of port like cowards on the tide, alert Ruse, and have an armada upon us?”
Mezzerain grunted. “He’s got a point.
As with all towns, the innkeeper knew man who knew a woman who knew a man. Somewhere along that trail, one of them knew a stonemason contracted to lay marble tiles in the tower. The stonemason knew a foreman who, for the price of six bronze and a 20-percent cut of our wages, soon found gainful employment for a boy laborer and his elder sister. Although I wasn’t keen on the idea of becoming a trap tester, apparently, the pay wasn’t bad. Ruse’s purse strings were none too tight all the while it could trade its gemstones and sack numerous lands.
We waited on the wharf as the sun rose, first in line, and wondering if we were in the right place. But they soon shuffled forward, tired-looking men and women, some with limps, others with bandaged hands. Each held the tools of their trade: picks and hammers, trowels and chisels. There was no joy, no spring to their step, and I guessed that while the coin was welcome, being pressed into reinforcing their enemy’s stranglehold around their once fair town’s throat conflicted them.
I was counting on it.
Barely a word was spoken as we rowed to the island, mere grunts and remarks made once we arrived. The arbiter, a priest with a sharp tongue and a rapid quill, took a roll call, allotting boats, and budgeting our pay. Fortunately, he never glanced up as we were asked our station, our trade, and name.
The tower was nearly done, its crown in place, its shell erect, just a path to complete and then the business of polishing and buffing. I counted twenty workers in all—twenty to complete the work I was hell-bent on destroying.
We walked up the part-built stone path toward the tower’s sole entrance door. Standing by it, an imposing figure of a man bounced upon his heels: tall, immense, with a rotund belly, and an anvil-shaped forehead. Where the arbiter hadn’t even looked up, this one studied all who entered, searching a few of the shadier-looking ones.
As we closed in, I noticed him appraising me from afar. I felt my manas gather with my nerves and tried to suppress them, to keep my magic at bay, until we at least got inside.
“Hold there, you!” he said, pushing a meaty palm out. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No sir,” I replied, head cast down. “My husband normally comes, but he’s fallen sick, and we can’t afford to miss a day’s wage—that’s why I’ve brought the boy, so we can earn the same penny.”
“And just what do you intend to do?”
I lowered my head, staring at his sandaled feet, all yellow nailed, crusted with corruption. “I’ll do anything. Strong as an ox, me, and I pull one of the best ales in Douglas.”
“Ale is devilry,” he said simply. “Accept the combinium, and you won’t need such props.”
I looked up at him, do or die, and with defiance I held his stare. “The combinium wouldn’t have one such as me, sir, not when there are more deserving souls like your good self. No sir, I’ll be dammed pulling mugfuls while more righteous get to play with gods.”
A few sniggers rippled through the line. The priest cleared his throat, and I waited for him to react, to call for my head, but his pride wouldn’t let him be chided by a woman, and so he merely said, “Quite right,” and waved me on. I lingered, wondering if I could shoot one of my magical bullets without being spotted, but Pog dragged me inside and away from further confrontation.
He was a bundle of enthusiasm. It was his type of day in front of us. Conflict, confrontation, unknown outcomes, he reveled in it all.
The tower’s layout was familiar. Its ground floor merely a springboard for the spiral steps that swept up to its crown. Our gang-hand intercepted us. He was a small man, a weasel among muscle, but he had efficiency around coin, pressing the point that a share of our wage was his, and then directed us to a trapmaster.
Named Faulk, the trapmaster, like most, was a middle-aged man with ruffles of gray hair tumbling from a thick crown, swept back in the manner of someone who cares for his looks and all around him—to a point. Crow’s feet spread from wizened, gray eyes that matched his knowing smile while he appraised us. He had something about him, the type of man who had stories to tell, not of dragons and giants, but subtler tales than that, though no less than the others.
“They send me help when the hard graft’s done.” He seemed darkly amused by our arrival. “That might lead me to ask questions that I’m not sure have answers that are my business.”
“So have you already dug the chambers and sumps, oiled the cogs, and strapped the booms?” Pog asked, his delight for working with a trapmaster plain to see.
Faulk immediately melted, the way an artisan does when confronted with an eager student who is genuinely interested in his work.
“Aye, been working on this one since they broke rock and began the upward heft. Trick is to cover your work; keep the muck, grime, and prying eyes out.” He winked at Pog.
“How long?” I asked, eager to get into the conversation to see what swayed Faulk and what didn’t.
“Just a year,” he told us. “It has taken just a year. They demand speed but pay the coin to get it. We take the coin and put it back where it came from. Such is life under their suppression.” He winced as he said it, his ensuing scowl saved for the single black-clad guard he could see. “Aye,” he continued. “They’re building these things as fast as they can, but there are only so many of us to go around. The guild reckons we could double our numbers and still command a good wage each.” He ruffled Pog’s hair. “If you’re thinking of a trade, lad, this one is as good as it gets. Only trouble is, you have to work for those bastards.”
“I know how to spring them,” Pog said proudly. “I’m a thief.”
Faulk laughed at his brave words as if Pog had cracked his bitterness in one fell swoop. “Ah, the enemy, eh? Perhaps I should keep my secrets close, then?”
Pog shook his head. “No, I don’t share my craft. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“Well, the true secret’s in the first fixing, and that was all done a long while ago. Now all we have left is to prime and conceal. I think I shall need a thief’s deft fingers for some of the more delicate tasks.” He held up his hand. “Too many callouses, too many towers.”
“You wonder why they need traps. Isn’t a religion supposed to welcome its congregation?” I waited to see Faulk’s reaction, subtly testing him again.
“Religion? Is that what you think it is? This is not religion. It is a darkened shadow on a land’s time. No, though I build, though I take good pride in my work, I hope it all fails and crumbles to dust.”
I was tempted to spill our plan, but Pog appeared to have the measure of Faulk, jumping up, rubbing his hands together. “So where do we start?”
Faulk took his time answering, regarding both me and Pog in turn. “Where do you need to start, Master Thief.”
“Have you primed the traps at the top?”
He crouched, scraping at his chin. “The one by the stairwell’s head? Let me think. Would you expect me to work up or down?”
“Priming? From the farthest point to the door, there’s no other way,” Pog said emphatically.
“So look around; this tower is nearly done, therefore, by your own conclusion, that trap would be done. So we’d have to find a good reason to disturb it.”
Pog slumped. “How about because I wanted to see that one.”
Faulk turned to me. “And you? What about you?”
“Top’s good to me,” I replied as innocently as I could.
He hesitated again and then came to a choice. “Perhaps the cogs might need one last greasing, though I think I greased them well the first time.”
“Doesn’t hurt to check,” Pog told him.
“No,” he stood. “No, it never hurts to check.”
Faulk picked up his tool bag, marching toward the upward spiral steps. Images of Pog’s demise in the City of Spokes flashed through my mind. This place, however, had the air of a fully functioning tower. Our hollow footsteps announced our intention early. We were exposed, vulnerable, but whatever else, I needed to get up those stairs.
The guard barked Faulk’s name, shuffling over. I held my breath, suppressing my mana again, eager to stick to the evolving plan that was formulating inside me. The guard was no Valkyrian but then wasn’t from Ruse either. His skin was too dark for life in the eternal night. It seemed Ruse had pressed other lands' militia to protect this place.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
Faulk paused as if the intrusion was beyond comprehension. “To test my primaries. Where else?”
“Everything’s been signed off up there. You’ve—”
Faulk placed his hand on the guard’s shoulder. “Mertofar, you know that, and the priests know that, but I am a cautious man. Some of these combinium priests are carrying a little more weight than I anticipated at the time, and though the traps are inactive, I worry that too much weight might set one off, primed or not. And that might get messy, not only for them, but for the guard that stopped me doing one final check.”
Mertofar shifted from foot to foot. “They do like a bite to eat at The Grouse and Sow. I’ve heard that two of them devoured a whole suckling pig.”
“So you see my problem. Now, these two sorry souls are in need of coin and are happy to jump up and down on the secret tile, but if you want to escort me up and do the deed yourself, that would settle my mind too.”
Mertofar blushed, pushing his half helmet up and scratching his head. “Surely with two of them, you could try the boy, then the woman, and then both. Seems a much sounder test.”
Faulk smiled. �
�My exact thinking, Mertofar. Perhaps when the winds change and our sails take us on a fresh, brighter course, we should go into business together.”
Mertofar beamed, reversing away. “And the best of luck to you two. Try not to stain the marble with your blood. It’s just been sealed and buffed.”
We didn’t reply.
Faulk began climbing the steps. “You know, Pog, the biggest issue we face is in the priming. How does an inert trap become active? We walk these steps, and no tiles swivel to drop us onto upturned spears; no arrows shoot out from the walls, nor puffs of poison, so tell me, how does the flick of a single, secret lever, prime a dozen or more traps?”
“They have to all be connected,” Pog replied.
“Naturally.”
“Wire?”
“Would seem the correct choice. Wires, tension, and strings. You see, the trick is in the design, where to conceal the mechanics of the fail-safe system. The tower must be functional, and yet it has to be deathly when required.”
We reached the first landing, Pog’s eyes scouring around. “Are you saying that if I were to find the fail-safe, I could disarm an entire dungeon without having to take out one trap at a time?”
Faulk swept his arm around. “But where can they be? Were would you start looking?”
Pog tapped his chin. “Hard to say unless you know the layout of the traps, but if I were to guess, I would say this banister.” He tapped the tubular handrail that flowed both up and down.
“A good guess but sadly wrong. Remember, we fix the first mechanisms before the place looks as grand as this, often when it’s just a shell. So think no staircase, no banister.”
We set off up the next flight, dawdling as if we had all day.
“But,” Faulk continued, “why? Ask yourself that. Why would a thief search for any other thing besides the priming lever? Where does this need to be?”
“By the entrance or exit,” Pog said without hesitation.
“Or…”
