They entered Morrelton just after nightfall, so there were still a fair number of folks out along the main street. There were almost as many constructs as people, and Colton spied the naked contempt painted across Bales’s face as they made their way deeper into town. If Bales had his way, he’d sweep through the town and eradicate every single one of them just to be sure they got the one they were looking for.
Bales rode with the heel of his right hand pressed to his temple. “This place hurts my head.” He said, his voice weaker than Colton expected. “So much noise.”
“Keep it together,” Colton replied. “We’ve got work to do, but let’s just find a place to sleep for now.”
Bales steered his horse to the side of the main road, where a stocky man was loading crates into a small buckwagon. “You, there!” Bales barked, dispensing with any pleasantries. The man set a crate in the wagon and turned. “An inn!”
The man raised an eyebrow in a look of disdain, and pointed up the street. “The Woodland Rest, ‘bout five buildings up on the right.” Bales turned and rode away without so much as a thank you. Colton smirked at the gesture the man made to Bales’s back.
The Woodland Rest was nicer than either of them were accustomed to. The three-story building, one of the larger buildings in town, seemed one of the few with straight walls. An elegantly carved sign hung over the oversized double doors that displayed the inn’s name in flowing script. Large windows looked into the main hall, which was divided into a tavern and a dry goods shop. If the rooms were half as nice as the sign and the downstairs establishments, they might just find one redeeming quality to Morrelton.
The pair dismounted and tossed their reins around the inn's hitching post. Bales clomped to the entrance, the large front door groaning on its hinges as he yanked it open and stormed inside. Colton shook his head and followed, keeping his distance. The tavern was small but well-appointed with cushioned seats in the booths and candles on every table. It was about half-full and the patrons were oddly subdued, speaking in somber tones and not engaging in the type of tavern revelry Colton expected. A barmaid wound between tables, alternately taking orders and cleaning. Bales stood at the bar with his fingers mashed into his temple, the barkeep speaking to him with an eyebrow raised. Their conversation was short and Bales handed over some coin, then tromped over to Colton.
“I’m going to my room,” he said, his eyes closed. “You’re next door, room 14. If you disturb me, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep.” He headed outside, slamming the main door open on his way. Colton couldn’t help but smirk at his companion’s bearing. Bales always reacted this way around large numbers of constructs, and it always brought a smile to Colton’s face. Bales’s sensitivity to the flows of khet, especially around a construct’s core, made him uniquely suited for their assignment, but too much of anything could drive a man mad. The door slammed open and Bales once again stomped in, dropping Colton’s traveling pack at his feet. “They’re taking the horses to the stables.” He said over his shoulder as he headed off to his room.
Colton found an empty table near the center of the room and dropped his bag beside it. He got the barmaid’s attention and waved her over, ordering a beer and whatever dinner the kitchen happened to be providing. After she departed, he pulled a glass vial from a side pocket on his pack and fiddled with it while he opened his ears and mind to surrounding conversations.
It didn’t take long to get a bead on the room. More than half the patrons spoke in hushed tones about the death of several town guardsmen, and half again more were actively thinking about it. Colton couldn’t get much in the way of specifics, but it was recent enough and significant enough the town was still shaken by it. He was pulled from his concentration as the barmaid returned with a clay mug filled with cold ale and a plate of some sort of roast and vegetables, all covered in brown gravy.
“What meat is this?” he asked the barmaid, trying to sound pleasant.
“Elk,” she said with pride. “Big haul this season, and we’ve got some fine cuts. Let me know if you want any more.”
As she departed for the bar, Colton remembered he wasn’t fond of elk. He took a probing bite and noted at least the gravy was tasty and disguised the flavors of the meat and vegetables. He ate quickly, wishing to dig around some more and find a direction before heading to bed. He pushed his plate aside and took up his mug of ale, but didn’t drink. With mug in hand, he turned to the two men at the table behind him.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said.
The two eyed him, their appraisal lacking suspicion but loaded with annoyance. “Evenin’,” said the closest one, a short man with a lined face and a bushy grey moustache.
Colton lowered his voice, taking on a respectful tone. “Why’s everyone so quiet in here tonight? I just got into town and was expecting this place to be a bit more…lively.”
“Ain’t gonna find much liveliness around here for a while,” said the other one, a stockier man with pale red hair and respectable sideburns.
“Why’s that?” Colton asked.
The closer man shifted his chair so he wasn’t peering over his shoulder at Colton. “Couple nights ago, the guard lost some men.”
Colton widened his eyes. “Really? What happened?”
“Some sort of brawl,” Sideburns said. “Rumor has it they was trying to arrest a murderer who turned sorcerer on ‘em.”
“A murderer?” Colton asked, feigning interest. To this point, the story had no bearing on Colton’s plight, but he’d dug himself into the role of interested tourist and had to play it out properly. “Who did he murder?”
“A local apprentice boy,” Moustache said. “Shame, too. Michael would’ve made a fine journeyman.” The two men dropped their eyes and shook their heads, and Colton followed suit.
“How do they know he…turned sorcerer, as you put it?” Colton asked, hopefully working this out to be his last question.
“Well, it was only the one of ‘im against five guards, includin’ Cort ‘imself,” Sideburns said. “Stories say the boy caught ‘im stealin’ cores from his shop. After the thief killed the boy, Cort and his men trapped him in an alley, and he took out all five. Only sorcerers could pull that off, especially with Cort in there.”
Colton wasn’t sure who Cort was, but didn’t want to ask that question. “Do they know who it is?”
“They say it’s a drifter, name o’ Kaleb Hargrove,” Moustache said.
“And that’s crap!” Sideburns retorted. “Kaleb Hargrove’s been in my shop before, and he ain’t the man to do somethin’ like this. He especially ain’t the man to use a gun.”
“He had a gun?” Colton asked, his interest now genuine. So what if the story wasn’t helping him find this rogue construct? Stories about murder and intrigue were more than Colton expected to encounter here.
“Yeah,” Moustache continued. “Took a shot at the guards an’ missed, then still took ‘em all out. They said Cort’s ribs were crushed, and ain’t no normal man pullin’ that off. Jeffers survived the attack but died a few hours later, and Strew’s still unconscious. Everyone’s hoping he wakes up soon.”
“How do they know he had a gun?” Colton asked.
“Bullet in the wall,” Sideburns said. “Plus, he left it behind.” That part sounded a little fishy to Colton. Guns were so heavily outlawed, even the hint of ownership warranted execution, much less a potential eyewitness to a discharge inside a town.
“Wow,” Colton said. He widened his eyes and blew a big breath, shaking his head. “I bet that’s more excitement than this town’s seen in a while.” The two men nodded their heads. Exhaustion was catching up to Colton, so he decided to wrap it up. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to each. “I’d love to chat more, but it’s time for me to turn in.”
The two nodded back and Colton turned around, setting down his ale and pulling his pack up onto the table. He replaced the glass vial and started rooting around inside for some coin to pay for his meal.
<
br /> “There is no way it was Kaleb Hargrove,” he heard Sideburns say behind him, pausing between no and way for added effect.
“Why not?” Moustache shot back. “Not like Hargrove’s got the greatest reputation in this town anyway!”
“Three reasons,” Sideburns said, without so much as a pause, “One: Hargrove might be a lot of things, but he’s not the type to kill anyone.”
“You don’t even know him that well,” Moustache said.
“Maybe you’re right. Anyway… Two: absolutely no way he uses a gun. I may not know the man well, but I know he wouldn’t risk his freedom by using a gun. Besides, how many adepts you know would even touch one? No way.” Colton heard a grunt of agreement from Moustache.
“And three: Kaleb doesn’t travel with a construct.” Colton’s hands stopped and his ears perked up. Moustache said something in response Colton didn’t even hear. He tried not to look overly interested as he turned back to the men.
“Wait,” he said. “What did you just say?”
“I said I think I need another beer,” Moustache said, his inflection on the last word rising like a question.
“No, you,” Colton said, nodding toward Sideburns. “About this Hargrove fellow.”
“Oh, I said he doesn’t travel with a construct.”
“There was a construct involved in the fight?” Colton asked, his heart rate rising.
Moustache turned, scowling. “There’s ain’t no evidence of that,” he said.
Sideburns waived his hand at Moustache in a dismissive gesture. “Atherton said he left the shop with a construct. Nothin’ to say that construct wasn’t at the fight with Cort.”
Moustache turned back to his tablemate. “There were no construct footprints anywhere!”
“Atherton don’t have any reason to lie,” Sideburns said. “I’m sure he prob—” Colton stopped listening and turned back to his table, neither of the men even noticing his departure.
A construct involved in a brawl that killed several guardsmen. A solid lead on his target was just about the last thing he expected to hear from these two. Taeman hadn’t mentioned a companion of any sort in his letter, but it was plausible the construct could have picked one up along the way. The lead was about as concrete as he could think of, but even in his excitement he was exhausted, and decided to pursue it further in the morning. He gathered up his pack and stood, then saw Bales coming down the stairs. His eyes were wide and a hand held up to stay Colton from speaking.
“There’s one here,” Bales said through gritted teeth, his voice wavering with anger. He jabbed his finger down toward the floor. “Right here in Morrelton!”
“Wait,” Colton said, unable to mask his confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Bales sat, taking a long draught off of Colton’s untouched beer. “I’m telling you, there’s one here.” He took another drink. “Hard to pinpoint with all the background noise in this dungheap, but it’s here.”
Colton gestured for him to keep his voice down, then sat back in his seat. “How far?”
“Not sure yet,” Bales replied. “But it’s definitely in town. Maybe it’s our guy.”
“I doubt that,” Colton said, looking distracted.
“What?” Bales was annoyed, as usual. “Wouldn’t this confirm your little letter?” The last two words came out in a childish, derisive tone.
“Yeah,” Colton said, maintaining his calm. “But if Taeman’s lost treasure were one of them, don’t you think you’d have caught wind of it in Winston?”
Bales sat back, his lips pulled into a thin, tight line. He shook his head and gulped down more beer. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he spat.
“Maybe not.” Colton said. “Either way it doesn’t matter. If there’s one in town, then we’ve got some business to take care of.”
Bales nodded, his expression unchanged. “Damned right we do.”
“Besides, I’ve got a lead on Taeman’s little goose chase,” Colton said. “We have to talk to—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bales said before standing and finishing the last of the beer in a couple of large gulps. He dropped the mug back on the table with a thud. “We’ll take care of that after.”
“No, we’ll go question…”
“After,” Bales said, cutting Colton off again. He walked away, disappearing back up the stairs to the rooms. Colton ground his teeth, Bales’s attitude setting his nerves on edge. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
* * *
The interior of the cabin was larger than Samuel expected, a marvel of organized clutter. Every bit of wall space was covered with bookshelves, and every bookshelf filled to overflowing with texts. The only unoccupied wall space was in places where they simply could not be mounted: the three small, round windows, which looked like portholes set deep into the bookshelves, the stonework fireplace on the far wall, and the entryway to a hall leading to the back half of the cabin. There were even shelves on the ceiling, hanging at a downward angle that should have resulted in a rain of books on Samuel’s head, but the books stayed in place with no visible restraint.
The boy from the woods sat on a short bench just inside the door and removed his boots. A plush blue rug lay before the hearth, scattered with an array of pillows in lieu of furniture. Against the wall beneath one of the porthole windows stood a long worktable filled to the edges with stacks of books and a number of mechanical contraptions. Every space was filled with something, all of it meticulously organized. Samuel believed he could approach a bookshelf and understand straightaway where he might find any particular volume. The old man who ushered them in now sat atop a short stool near the end of the worktable, watching Samuel with a critical eye as he took it all in. Samuel was keenly aware the boy on the bench still eyed him.
“Off to bed with you, now,” the old man said to the boy, waving him off to the other part of the cabin.
“But…”
“You’re absolutely right. Get your butt to bed.” There was humor in the old man’s words, but his tone was stern and unforgiving. “We’re apparently to have an interesting day tomorrow, and you need to sleep. Now go.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, proper, with little to hint at his disappointment. A deep sigh and his body language told Samuel a different story as he padded, slouching, across the cabin. He glanced over his shoulder as he passed into the hallway, and then vanished into the darkness beyond.
“Please, have a seat,” the old man said, gesturing to the floor where the cushions lay. Samuel moved over to the middle of the room and sat, rather awkwardly, on the floor. “Are you comfortable?” the man asked.
Samuel wasn’t sure how he defined comfort just yet. “I…um…”
“Of course you’re comfortable,” the old man said, standing up and placing his hands on his back above his hips. He arched his back and Samuel heard several pops and cracks. “Ah!” he said, returning with a smile. “Well then, I’m off to bed.” He started toward the hallway.
Samuel was so astonished it took him a moment to speak. “But, sir! I need help with…”
“You came to me in the middle of the night,” the old man interrupted. “You’ll be fine until morning, but I need my rest, as do my young charges, who are no doubt lying awake talking about you right now.”
“What am I to do, then, while you sleep?” Samuel asked. “What if I intend you harm?”
Samuel’s questions were met by a dismissive wave. “If you were here to kill me you’d be scrap already. You can’t leave this room—you can trust me on that—and if you try to damage any of the possessions in here, the house will take care of you.” And with that, he, too, disappeared into the dark.
Samuel wasn’t about to test the old man’s words, but that also meant he was stuck in this room all night. Could he touch anything? What actions might the house take offense to? Samuel stood with caution and moved to the workbench. At the edge of the table, to the side of a large stack of parchment, stoo
d a small candle holder and a candle, from the top of which light flickered. When Samuel noticed there was no actual flame, he also saw that the candle and holder were actually one piece, ingeniously carved out of delicate wood and painted to look like the real thing. Even the wick was part of the construction and beamed a flameless light that emulated real candlelight.
Upon the table, a small frame with numerous compartments contained an array of carving implements. Whittling knives, small chisels, round files, and other tools stood upright in neat rows, next to a stack of small squares of sandpaper. A book stood open on the table, attached to some sort of device, a delicate construction of wood and fine copper. The contraption clipped to the book’s spine and arms extended to the outside corners of each open page. Samuel moved around the table, taking the false candle with him for light to get a better look at the book, which was written in a language he didn’t recognize. When his finger touched the edge of the page, the attached contraption moved, causing him to recoil. He watched in amazement as the arm of the device picked up and turned the page for him. He touched the next page, and the device turned it for him again.
“Huh.” Shaking his head, he spied the other items on the table and noted there were several unfinished gadgets, the uses for each Samuel couldn’t even begin to imagine. The endless spines of books occupying the shelves behind the table contained precious few words amongst their titles he could read, and even those were intertwined with unfamiliar language. His eyes wound from shelf to shelf amongst the leatherbound volumes, coming to rest on a thick spine embossed in white with the title Artifacts & Constructions.
Construct Page 13
