by A J Witt
“Oh, no …” Kyran stumbled backward, catching himself on the table. “What have I done?”
Sabine ignored the Adept and dashed toward the cabin’s entrance. She closed the door Kyran had left ajar and surveyed the damage. Near the bed at the far end, the captain lay dead, blood pooling around him. Leaning against the dining table was Kyran, eyes locked on the floor and about to vomit. The ground was covered in a jumble of food, shattered dishes, and cutlery.
The knock on the cabin’s door was not opportune.
“Who is it?” Kyran whispered.
“How would I possibly know?”
“Captain?”
The voice from the other side was immediately recognizable, leaving Kyran more anemic than before. “It’s that agent,” he murmured. “You can’t let him in, he’ll kill me.”
The young woman nodded. She slid both straps of the dress down her shoulders to expose a little more bosom and opened the door. “What?” Sabine asked, blocking the room with her exposed frame.
Aiden hesitated, eyes darting up and down the young woman. “Is … uh … is the captain available?”
“He’s a bit indisposed at the moment.”
“Um—”
“Why don’t you try again in the morning?”
“Very well.” As the chief turned away, he noticed something peculiar. “That’s blood in your hair.”
“In my hair?” Sabine repeated, adopting an expression of utter astonishment.
“What’s going on?” Aiden pushed her aside and spotted Kyran. “What in the Gods are you doing here?” Glancing past the Adept, the chief noticed the captain lying face down, a knife sticking from his head.
“The captain’s … uh … dead,” said Kyran.
The chief lunged at the Adept, reaching him in one step and delivering a brutal uppercut. Kyran fell backwards, unable to halt a second punch right into his stomach.
“Stop!” screamed Sabine.
Twisting his torso, the chief cocked back his arm a third time. Before he could bring it down, Edvon crashed into him, and they fell to a floor littered with sharp glass and stray knives. Only one of the two would ever get back up.
PART IV
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap …”
Footsteps echoed throughout the palace’s immense corridor. Judging by their speed and frequency, they bore troubling news, as would have been the case with any sound so early in the morning. For no one dared to disturb the lord before he rose. If he’s even gone to bed yet. The personal attendant responsible for the ruckus slowed down from his near sprint and rapped on a closed door.
“Come in!”
Joinus wasted no time in announcing the purpose of his visit. “My Lord, your son.”
Lord Hanstun shot up. He was still in bed with what appeared to be a woman. Joinus squinted. Or man with very long hair. As a member of the Noble’s personal service for close to three decades, the old attendant had seen just about everything.
“What has he done now?”
“He … ahem, a servant boy …”
“By the Gods! What are you saying, Joinus?”
The old man looked down at the carpet, unsure how to tactfully relay what had just occurred. No God himself, Joinus had been involved in countless political battles and power struggles, more often than not involving acts an adherent to the Book of Provenance would severely frown upon. Acts the personal attendant regretted with time. But nothing compared to what he was now witnessing—a younger generation pushing the boundaries of decency and doing so for no real purpose. “He slit open a servant boy’s face.”
Lord Hanstun brought a hand to his chin and grimaced. He turned around to nudge his sleeping companion. The figure got up and scurried away from the room, a sheet draped over their back, leaving Joinus still unable to determine the gender.
“Why?” asked Hanstun.
The personal attendant remained still. In a few years, he would retire to one of the luxury apartments in the center of the Noble District, as stipulated in his contract. A fair reward for one who had spent countless hours providing the highest level of service. And just in time, for Lecarn was growing older, a worrisome thought. “He had a little too much wine and boasted and, well … you know how he gets.”
“What was he saying?”
“That he can get away with doing anything he wants.”
“Obviously he can,” Lord Hanstun muttered. “Why did he slash a servant’s face?”
“Just to show the others he could, I guess.”
Running fingers through his hair, the Noble took a deep breath. “How bad is it?”
“It will leave a scar. He used a kitchen knife, so—”
“Enough.” Standing up and slipping into his satin robe, Hanstun walked past his personal attendant and into the hallway.
“My Lord,” shouted Joinus, struggling to catch up, “wait!”
It was too late. The Noble kicked open the door to his son’s chambers. Inside was a disturbing scene, even for a lord whose own tastes were often questionable. A boy cowered in the corner, black bangs covering a bloody face. He whimpered in pain, sealing the recently inflicted gash with both hands. It ran down from his temple to his jaw and made Hanstun nauseated. Diagonally across the room, Lecarn was lounging in one of several sofa beds, surrounded by girls and friends, laughing and taking large gulps from a goblet. An assembly of servants, unsure what to do, lurked in the background.
“What in the Dread Days is going on here?”
Lecarn looked up, waved at his father, and then turned back to the others.
“Get this boy to the medic.” There was no movement or reaction, and Lord Hanstun gritted his teeth. “Now!” Within minutes, the maimed servant was helped out of the room, and the Noble marched toward the sofas. He yanked his son’s long blond hair.
“What the cholee!” shouted Lecarn.
“Watch your mouth!”
“Oh, since when are you a Temple lover?”
Hanstun smacked him across the face.
“What the cho—”
Another smack. “Now, you listen to me. All your friends here, you tell them to go home.”
“Home?” Lecarn chuckled. “They practically live here.”
“Do you know what you’ve just done to that boy?”
“What boy?”
* * *
Wispy white clouds raced across the blue sky, rolling around aimlessly until they disappeared from sight. For the briefest of instants, one could see the Red City. Within seconds, a fresh cache of clouds materialized on the horizon, designed to curtail the exhibition. Lecarn brushed the hair out of his eyes and tried to forget the sickening memory that had come back to his mind unprompted. Focusing his attention to the main road, he concentrated on what lay ahead. Almost there.
Portown was visible in the distance, and Lecarn accelerated, kicking up dust as his SPC charged along. Instead of driving straight toward the center, he veered off to the left and up a steep hill. Portown was so mundane, anyone who ventured into the city received curious stares, and the driver preferred to keep a low profile. At the top of the hill, Lecarn turned off the Source-powered motor, taking with him the only ignition key. Though he had, by his own volition no less, left a life of luxury for one spent on the road, the once-Noble still possessed enough wealth through his father to buy the best equipment. And this SPC had been custom-designed by the major source manipulator himself.
Lecarn jumped out, landing softly in grass still wet from the morning dew. Mirabel Crater extended to his left. He adjusted his tunic, and neck tilting backward, placed a loose brown cap over his head. Then, using an index finger, he poked into one of the dozen pouches hanging from his belt and pulled out a dried fruit. Lecarn flung the snack into his open mouth with pinpoint accuracy. Satisfied, he grabbed his leather gauntlets, proceeding to engage in the familiar struggle of stretching them around his wriggling fingers. Ocean Star would dock late in the afternoon, and he had plent
y of errands to run before its arrival.
Just as he was about to walk down the hill, he spotted a ship in the near distance. What? Its colors were unmistakable. Ocean Star. How’s that possible? Coming down the Wimau River at a steady speed, the vessel would reach Portown in no time. And the strangeness had only just begun. As Ocean Star turned to enter the docks, Lecarn whipped out his binoculars and watched as someone jumped out of a larger porthole, plummeting into the water below. Rubbing his eyes, the incredulous onlooker caught his breath at the sight of another individual. A woman leaned against the opening, hesitant to take the plunge. She too ultimately leaped, only to be followed by yet a third person.
The jumpers swam to the far bank of the river, dragged themselves out of the water, and headed Lecarn’s way. Could it be the Adepts? As the three drew nearer, he realized no one was paying him any attention. The first to reach the top, a slender young man with long brown hair and curious gray eyes, ran right by without so much as a glance in the once-Noble’s direction. Lecarn made brief eye contact with the girl who had been so reluctant to jump, but she also went past without breaking stride. The last of the bunch, a strong man with an athletic build, wavered then followed behind his companions.
“W—wait!” shouted Lecarn. The three stopped in their tracks. “Are you the Adepts sent by Elias?
Elias? Edvon scrutinized the stranger. He was short and seemed well-traveled, given the state of his scruffy boots and the number of accessories dangling from his utility belt. The Adept peered underneath the man’s light-green tunic and caught sight of chain mail. But it was the SPC parked nearby that attracted Edvon’s attention. Though he was president of the Source-Powered Machinery Club, the Adept had never seen such a model. It looks fast. We might not be the two Adepts he’s looking for … “Yeah, that’s us.”
“What’re you doing?” muttered Kyran.
Ignoring his brother, the older Adept hoped a case of mistaken identity might afford them a better means of transportation.
“Wait, you are?” Lecarn raised an eyebrow. “You’re Adepts?”
“Yeah.”
The once-Noble put a hand around the hilt of his blade. “Prove it. And do so before you take another step.”
“Fine.”
Edvon lifted an arm in his brother’s direction and flicked his middle finger off his thumb. The little squirt of Source energy flew straight into Kyran’s forehead with a spark.
“Ouch!”
Chuckling, Lecarn walked over to shake Edvon’s hand. “So you’re both Adepts, then?”
A return shot fired by Kyran answered the question, and Lecarn laughed again before turning toward Sabine. “And you?”
She remained silent.
“Oh,” offered Kyran. “That’s our … uh …” Sabine was staring right at him. “Our assistant. She … umm, like, helps us out on these sorts of things.”
“Things?” asked Lecarn.
Edvon stepped back in, convinced his brother was about to blow the entire plan. “Please ignore him, we’ve had a long journey. Should we just get going?”
Lecarn paused. I’ve been around long enough to tell the difference between Source manipulation and sleight-of-hand tricks. They’re definitely not lying about being Adepts. He was wondering whether they were the right ones. “Tell me something, what does Elias look like?”
His mouth was about to open when Edvon realized he remembered not a single one of the officer’s characteristics. “I’m … I’m actually not sure,” he admitted, turning to Kyran for help.
“I thought I could picture him,” said the younger Adept, scratching his head. “But when I try, I can’t …”
“So you do know him,” observed Lecarn.
“What do you mean?”
“Elias isn’t the most distinct balbak in the pack, if you catch my drift.”
The brothers were amused.
“Come to think of it, I wonder—”
The sound of a blaring horn startled the small group gathered atop the hill. Eyes darting around, Lecarn found it to be coming from none other than Ocean Star. He watched as the crew ran around, followed closely by passengers. The once-Noble glanced at Edvon who shrugged and looked away. Lecarn turned his attention back to the ship and spotted several sailors darting down the ramp and into town. What the … Whatever events might have occurred prior were not his concern. All he needed were two Adepts. And now, I have them at my disposal. Lecarn pointed at the SPC. “What are you waiting for? Hop in, let’s go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
His face was covered with pustules, some red, others yellow. Neeta’s chest was heaving. “Are you Zakus?”
“Yeah,” the man answered.
She handed him Marrek’s package. “Here, this is for you.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“From the preceptor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Aren’t you the tavern boy?” questioned Neeta with a frown.
“Yeah.”
“And this is the Golden Auralus, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t know who the preceptor is?”
“Yeah.” Zakus hesitated. “Uh … I mean, no … uh, I think.”
Cursing under her breath, Neeta realized her conversation with the tavern boy would advance her to nothing. What did Marrek possibly have to do with such a halfwit? There were more important matters to deal with, and the preceptor’s instructions had been clear. “Well, that’s yours.” Leaving Zakus confused, Neeta looked for the table where Criss was waiting. She spotted the agent near a corner, in an unlit part of the tavern. “Why did you sit all the way back here?”
Criss ignored the question, instead downing an entire glass of amber Portown ale.
“How many is that?”
“Gods strike you. You don’t like it, go away.”
“You know there’re better ways to lament than turning your piss into liquor.”
“Like what?”
“Um—” Neeta paused. She is an agent, after all.
“That’s what I thought.” Criss turned her head toward the main bar. “Another!” Zakus came with a refill. Taking a hefty gulp, the agent looked up at the ceiling and then, straight at Neeta. “They must have jumped out the cabin window, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Were they even involved?”
“Of course they were involved.” Criss slammed down her glass. “You don’t flee the scene of a crime unless you’re guilty. Battalion training, day one.”
She’s probably right. Neeta knew the cabin had been locked from inside. Unless the captain and the chief killed each other … “How did no one see them, though? Or hear the splash?”
“Sound of the engine,” Criss replied, her eyes closed.
Silence.
“What about being seen?” asked the Adept.
“Yeah, you already brought that up, didn’t you? I don’t know. Maybe they got lucky.” She finished the last of her new ale. “Another!”
Neeta waved off the tavern boy. “That’s enough. Let’s go someplace else.”
Pushing back her chair, Criss rose to meet the Adept eye-to-eye, and they stared each other down.
“I want another drink.”
“Don’t care. I know you’re mad, and I would be too. This isn’t helping.” Neeta held out her hand. “Come on.”
The grieving agent was led out the Golden Auralus. Together, the two women walked down Portown’s main boulevard before turning down an isolated side street, one of many in the city. Following along the lonely road for several minutes, they arrived at a cemetery. Gods. Of all the streets to pick …
The sight seemed to reanimate Criss. “Hilarious.”
“I … I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Don’t apologize. I get what you’re doing.” The agent looked at the headstones scattered about the grounds. “Everyone dies.”
“True, I suppose.”
“Aiden lived a good life. Even though it e
nded too soon.” Criss kicked a small rock. “You want to know something, Neeta? Crimes scare people. And when people get scared, they fabricate stories. Before you know it, the stories turn into conspiracy theories that only get more ridiculous as time goes on. But at the bottom of every crime is just some sad, bored person. Like the Killer of Murcavis, for instance. It’s always someone you end up feeling kind of sorry for, the circumstances in which they were raised, or whatever.” Catching her breath, the agent continued. “When those village attacks started, it felt like something different. A crime being committed by someone who isn’t bored or sad at all. Rather, someone evil. Like, truly evil.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think we, when we’re born, have evil within us. We’re by nature good-hearted, caring individuals. People do bad things because they’re forced to, or because something in their lives altered their instinctive way of thinking. No one is naturally evil, in the true sense of the term.”
“Definitely disagree.”
“Okay, whatever. All I’m trying to say is that there is something evil going on, and Aiden got caught up in it.”
Neeta had difficulty masking her surprise. “Are you saying Edvon and Kyran are implicated in the village attacks?”
“Whatever their names are, I’m not ruling it out.”
“You’re crazy, connecting dots that don’t belong together.”
Criss voluntarily overlooked the irony of the situation, in that she had been preaching the same concept to the chief for several weeks. “That Adept has something wrong with him,” she said. “I could see it in his eyes.”
“He’s just a stupid kid.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“I’ll find him and make sure he spends the rest of his days rotting inside Crain Prison.”
“You know I can’t let you do that.”
“And you’re going to stop me?”
