When they left, Taro gathered the strength to stand. The others were bloodied and bruised, but at least they were all alive.
“Can you walk?” Taro asked each, as he helped them up. All of them could.
Despite two black eyes, a bleeding mouth, and probably a broken rib, Ven seemed more frustrated than hurt. “I can’t believe we let them get the drop on us.”
“We should tell Magister Ross what happened,” Sig said.
“We need the infirmary,” Yoresh said.
“Staggering into the Magisterium like this is going to draw some suspicion,” Taro said.
“Taro’s right,” Pipes said, stretching his back. “We can stay at my house for the night and get fixed up. My parents are on holiday in Celosa.”
Pipes’ house was a mansion like Taro had never seen. The gate outside was a quarter mile from the front door. The snow-capped lawn was covered in metal art and antiques: old airship propellers, artillery shells, and a tank.
Pipes fumbled with the keys and pushed the door open. Hundreds of tiny model airships (both of the air-balloon variety and propulsion-based) hung from every square inch of the ceiling. Cannons and escape-pod fuselages sat on pedestals with the name of the ship that had carried them. There were charts, compasses, maps, propellers from apparently famous warships, and so many framed blueprints that they may as well have been wallpaper.
“My dad’s a bit of a collector,” Pipes said.
“A bit?” Taro said, wide-eyed.
There was a set of stairs to the left, and flickering candlelight shone from the hall at the top, following footsteps.
“I thought you said your parents were away,” Taro whispered.
“The groundskeeper works late, sometimes,” Pipes said coolly.
A man holding a candle appeared at the top of the steps. He was rather tall with thick, brown curls and glasses. He stared down at the boys. “Piper, what the devil happened to you?”
Pipes fumbled his words. “I thought you were with Mom.”
Pipes’ father hurried down and held his candle to Pipes’ face. “I had to stay behind for business. Have you been fighting?”
“We got jumped on the road,” Pipes said. He was smart enough not to mention they’d been in the Lower City.
“You reek of alcohol.”
“We were celebrating.”
“You know better than to venture out dressed like that. It’s not like it was when I was your age; the city isn’t safe.”
Ven spoke up. “It was my fault, sir. Pipes didn’t want to go.”
“There’s no need to defend him.” Mr. Crissom motioned for them to follow him to the dining room. “Believe me, I remember when I was a recruit, and I know listening to your father isn’t the first thing on your mind. I hope you learned something from this.”
Mr. Crissom went into the other room and came back with a small wooden box. He set it on the dining room table; inside were bandages, gauze, and various alchemical ointments and medicines. He dabbed a bit onto a cloth and spotted their bruises with it.
“This should fix your surface damage, but there’s more underneath.” He pressed his fingers into Pipes’ back and a slight white glow emanated from his fingertips. “You’ve got a fractured rib.” He did the same to Ven. “And you’ve got chips on the back of your skull. You’re lucky there’s no internal bleeding.” He did the same to the others, noting some minor fractures and cracks. “All in all, you’re extremely lucky.” When Mr. Crissom pressed his hand into Taro’s back, Taro felt his pain fade and a small snap.
“It’ll take a few hours for your bones to heal,” Mr. Crissom said.
Pipes stretched his arms and pivoted his back. “You won’t tell Mom, will you?”
Mr. Crissom placed the ointments back into the box and sighed. “Not this time. But that doesn’t give you free rein to act stupid. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Crissom crossed his arms. “Your friends are welcome to stay, Piper, but I’ve got a big client visiting early tomorrow. I don’t want you embarrassing me.”
“Is it the buyer from Ashwick?”
Crissom nodded. “Not sure what to make of him yet. A gentleman named—”
“Victor Mathan,” Taro said to himself.
“That’s right. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
_____
Sleep didn’t come easy that night. Taro could hear the faint, tiny sound of bending coming from inside him as his fractures realigned. Every time he got a few minutes of sleep, a jolt of pain rushed through his body.
Pipes’ bedroom was larger than Taro’s entire house in Ashwick and filled to the brim with animated constructs: tiny birds and bugs made of thin sheets of tin. They hung from the ceiling by string and fluttered like they were very much alive. Pipes claimed to have made them all by hand.
Whether it was through the pain or the incessant fluttering of constructs, Taro gave up trying to sleep. He slipped out of the bedroom and went downstairs. It was light out already, and the propeller-shaped clock on the wall said it was just past five o’clock.
The house was like a museum, and each display had a bronze plate beside it, explaining what it was and where it was found. The largest piece was in the common room and was surrounded by a circular couch. It said Escape Craft Hatch – HMA Titan. It was a round steel door with a glass window in the middle and clamps on the outer edge.
He was so distracted by it, he didn’t notice Mr. Crissom was in the corner of the room.
“Marvelous, aren’t they?” Mr. Crissom said. Taro jumped. “When I was a field medic, I had my femur shattered. It took months to heal and the pain was excruciating. It’s hard to sleep when you can feel your bones moving, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t know the Magisterium taught medicine.”
“Of course they do. Back then, it was all field positions though, since the Arclight would repair minor cuts and fractures on its own. I was stationed on the Titan. The ship was lost in...unfortunate circumstances. This was the pod I escaped in.”
“Why keep it?”
“To remind me of where I came from. And of the friends I’ve lost.” Crissom set his notepad down. “What was your name again?”
“Taro.”
“Pipes hasn’t mentioned you.”
“This is my first time in Endra.”
“Ah, a newbie then. I envy you. These will be the best years of your life.”
Taro spoke his next words carefully, to avoid sounding like he was asking for a handout. “I doubt I’ll be able to afford to stay much longer. Tuition and all.”
“Your parents sent you without any money?”
“My parents couldn’t afford it. I thought I could get by with a job, but there aren’t many available.”
“That’s the truth. It’s one of the reasons I’m considering selling my company.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My foundry employs thousands. Endra has been at peace with its neighbors for so long that the Magisterium doesn’t buy as much steel as it once did. I’ve done everything I can to avoid letting workers go, but I don’t think it’ll be possible for much longer. This Mathan gentleman says he can turn it around without layoffs.”
“I see.”
“Maybe I could help you with your tuition,” Crissom said, after a pause.
“I don’t want a handout.”
“I wouldn’t insult you by offering one. But if you come by the foundry on Eighth Street, say Tuesday, I could have the overseer set you up with some work.”
“You mean it?”
“I’ve got a soft spot for recruits. Believe it or not, my first term I was dead broke. Had to pawn my aurom, if you can believe it.”
A throat-clearing chortle came from the living room entrance. Standing in the doorway was Mr. Mathan, a cigar clenched tight in his teeth. “Your front door was open. I let myself in.”
“That’s quite all right,” Crissom said, though his expression didn’t match
his words. “You’ve met Taro already, I understand.”
“Me and Taro are well acquainted. I didn’t know you and he were.”
“We’ve just become acquainted. He’ll be working at the foundry on Eighth Street, so he’ll be your employee one day, if we can reach an accord.”
“Working for me? Wouldn’t that be novel?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Taro thanked Mr. Crissom once more and returned to the bedroom.
Chapter Fourteen
Aftershock
“What the hell happened to you?” Aris said, glancing briefly at Taro’s bruised face. He was vigorously rubbing a bit of charcoal onto a sheet of vellum when Taro found him.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Aris’ wagon was parked between two other merchant carts, one a traveling apothecary and the other a chandlery shop. The front of his wagon detached from the frame, allowing him to show off his merchandise. Despite his sign’s proclamation of choice oddities, most of it was useless junk, and Aris didn’t seem particularly keen on selling any of it.
“Excuse me, sir,” a customer said, looking over a dented telescope. “How much for this?”
“Forty crowns,” Aris said, without looking up from his sketch.
“Forty?!” the man said incredulously.
“It once belonged to the queen of Celosa.”
“Celosa isn’t a monarchy,” Taro said.
Aris glared at him and gave him a look that could only be described as shut up. The man left, and Aris set his drawing down.
“Doesn’t matter,” Aris said. “He wasn’t going to buy anything, anyway. I think it’s time to move on.”
Aris wedged a metal bar into a gear on the wagon’s frame. The front panel slowly closed as he cranked it.
“Where will you go?” Taro asked.
“Won’t know until I get there.”
While Aris gathered his things, Taro caught a glimpse of what he was sketching. It was the creature they’d encountered in Mr. Mathan’s cellar, and the thought of the hideous mass of tendrils and eyes sent an unpleasant shiver through Taro’s body.
But the shiver didn’t go away; it grew, and soon became a sharp pain in his chest. At first, he thought it was his injuries from the day before, but this was different. The pain was so intense, he almost curled up onto the ground.
“Are you okay?” Aris asked.
The pain came again, and Taro clenched his chest. It was hard to breathe, and even harder to speak.
“I need to go,” Taro said. He dredged back through the cold streets toward the Magisterium. The frigid air numbed the pain, but each step was harder than the last.
Nima was in the gallery, studying with Suri. She had a metal ball sitting on the head of a pin and was doing her best to keep it from falling with only her templar.
Suri looked horrified when she saw Taro. “You look like death,” she said, and put the back of her hand to his forehead.
“I got jumped last night,” Taro said.
“No kidding.” From her tone, it seemed like she’d been waiting for the proper time to yell at him. “I expect Ven to be an idiot, but I thought you had more sense.”
Taro was in too much pain to defend himself.
“But that’s not what I mean,” Suri continued. She placed her other hand onto Taro’s chest and, for a moment, it seemed like she was listening for something. “Oh my God, we need to get you to Magister Ross. Now.”
Taro collapsed to his knees and sweat trickled down his forehead. “What’s wrong with me?”
Suri lifted Taro up onto her shoulder. “It’s an aftershock from Ross opening your templar.”
“But Ross didn’t open my templar.”
“Who did?”
When Taro told her that it was Kyra, Suri was positively furious, but she seemed reserved to saving her chastisement for a time when his life wasn’t in immediate danger.
They hauled him to the dueling room. Kyra had just finished a match and apparently won handily, as the boy could hardly stand.
When Kyra saw Taro, her eyes became wide as saucers.
“Set him down,” she said hastily, and pulled the grips off her knuckles. “How long has he been like this?”
Taro couldn’t make out Suri’s answer. Sights and sounds faded around him and his senses couldn’t process the world. Everything seemed bright and, when Kyra spoke again, it was like she was shouting into his ear at the top of her lungs.
“Clear out,” she said. Kyra propped him up and placed her hand on his neck. “Tar? Can you hear me?”
Taro put his hands to his ears. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“You need to calm down. Your templar is off-balance.”
“It hurts so much.”
“I know,” Kyra said softly. Her skin became cold against his, and it was like she was pouring ice water over him.
The fire inside him slowly settled; his breathing slowed and the room came into focus. Kyra looked exhausted. She lifted her hand from his neck and tilted his chin up. “Are you okay?”
Taro managed a nod. “I...I think so.”
Kyra pulled up her sleeves and leaned back, panting. “I should’ve known this would happen. Antherion was right. If you’d died...” She put her hand to her mouth. “You’re certain you’re all right?”
“I think so. The pain’s gone,” Taro said.
“This is why Magister Ross insists on opening all new templars. I thought I could handle it.”
“It’s not your fault. I asked you to do it,” Taro said.
“You mean you won’t tell Ross?”
“Of course not. But what exactly was the problem?”
“Growing pains,” Kyra said. “Templars grow or contract with emotions, fear most of all. It’s one of the reasons Magister Veldheim puts recruits in harm’s way and why the trials are so brutal. But too much, too soon and it can trigger aftershocks.”
Kyra apologized a dozen more times before she would accept that Taro wasn’t angry with her.
By the time Taro returned to Lower, Aris was gone. On the ground, wedged under a rock, was the sketch he’d made. Scrawled in the margins were the words: what are you?
Chapter Fifteen
A Thousand Tales
Despite the Lower City’s well-deserved reputation of being filled with criminals and vagrants, Taro felt more at home in its sprawling underground than he did on the surface. This was despite his recent ass-kicking. It’d been two weeks, and he was still sore.
Nima sat on the floor of their room, scratching into a plank of wood with her inscriber. She made four columns, each with seven wards and seven leys. Wards stopped the flow of energy, leys guided it, and both were required for successful magistry.
Nima shut her eyes and tried to repeat them in order. “Lon, der, vad, caer, vael, dor, esen, ko—tel?”
“Shir comes first,” Taro corrected. He was lying on his back, leafing through The Compendium of Magical Monsters.
Nima groaned and ran her hands over her face. “I’m never gonna get this. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Nothing,” Taro said. He must’ve checked through the compendium a dozen times, but he found no mention of the creature he’d seen in Mr. Mathan’s cellar.
“You could ask Aris.”
“I haven’t seen his wagon in days.”
“There are other books in the Librarium, you know.”
That wasn’t an option with Moira’s book still in pawn. Before Nima could press the issue, there was a knock on the door.
Taro set his book down. “It’s unlocked,” he said, as if locking the plywood-thin door would’ve prevented anyone from entering.
It was Suri. She pressed her hands against the door frame, but didn’t enter. There was something off about her: she was wearing her talking-to-tenants face. “Hey, you two. Studying?”
“And failing,” Nima said, without looking up at her runes.
“Listen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your rent was du
e yesterday. One crown, two nobles.”
Taro fished through what money he had. After pooling coins from the dresser, his sock, and both his and Nima’s pockets, he scrounged up half a crown.
“I’m a little short,” he said nervously.
Suri crossed her arms.
“I just need a couple more days. I’ve got a job starting soon.”
Suri exhaled hard. “My dad balances the books tonight. You have until then to get the rest, or he’s going to kick you out.”
“You can’t stall for a few more days?”
“He’s rather single-minded about this sort of thing.”
Suri left them to brood in silence. Taro weighed his options. He’d already pawned every possession of worth, which left only one option.
Taro slipped his shoes and jacket on. “Stay here. I’ll be back before dark.”
Nima stood between him and the door. She seemed to know exactly what he was planning. “If you get caught, they’ll court-martial you.”
Taro darted past her. “I won’t get caught.”
Nima followed close, sliding down the handrail of the stairwell. “I’m coming.” Before Taro could tell her no, she quieted him. “That wasn’t a question. Someone’s gotta keep you out of prison.”
It was simple, really. Taro couldn’t get the money, so he was going to steal it. Months ago, he wouldn’t even have batted an eye at picking a pocket, but now he really wished there was another way.
Some parts of the Lower City were warmer than others. These hot spots, called boroughs, were near natural vents leading deep into the earth, and had the heaviest crowds. It was the perfect place to slip money from an unsuspecting rich bastard. But there was a problem: there were no rich people in the Lower City.
Taro scanned the crowds, looking for anyone who looked well-off, to no success. Not far, a few dozen people formed a circle around a faded green wagon. With their backs to him, they were prime targets, but as he neared, he got distracted by what they were looking at.
An elderly man exited the rickety wagon. He was positively ancient, and his thick white beard looked like it weighed more than he did. He could barely support his doddering body with his staff, and every step looked like it knocked the wind out of him.
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