Chapter 24
Tutors IV
Mags wandered through the inner halls of Skithbladnir with the Daedalus Orb weighing heavily in her satchel. Calcabrina had lent her the satchel, a simple thing made of worn leather, along with some parchment and a pencil, “just in case you feel like jotting down anything important during all of these lessons,” she’d said with a wink. Mags wasn’t sure what “important” looked like yet, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
The crew was busy, too busy to pay her much mind as they moved about their tasks, adjusting rigging, polishing the deck, or handling a variety of other maintenance-based tasks. She made sure to keep to the edges of the ship, out of their way.
The sound of clashing metal caught her ear, and she found herself drawn to a large room just off—a training room, nestled deep within the heart of the airship. The space stretched wide, with polished wooden floors. Sunlight poured through the large, circular windows that lined the back wall, offering a breathtaking view of the sky, clouds drifting lazily past the ship’s steady course. The other walls were lined with racks of finely crafted weapons—wooden training swords, practice staves, and a few ornate spears etched with intricate runes. Above the racks, banners emblazoned with the Ghost Hounds’ sigil—midnight blue stitched with white and silver.
In the center of the room were several raised platforms, on which several of the crew members were sparring, their movements sharp and fluid as they exchanged blows with weapons ranging from short swords to polearms. One of them—a stocky man with a thick beard—grunted as his sparring partner disarmed him with a quick twist of the wrist. Mags watched for a few moments, mesmerized by the way they moved, the deadly dance of it all.
She wondered if there was a separate room within the airship for the crew to practice their magic, or with ranged weaponry. Probably, she thought. This place is a maze. I don’t think I’ll be able to find my room again.
As much as she wanted to stay and watch, she knew she needed to keep moving. She had no desire to attract too much attention from the other members of the Company just yet. The attention of Libicocco, Calcabrina, Rubicante, and Malacoda were enough. So, with a final glance at the sparring Ghost Hounds, she slipped out of the training room and wandered deeper into the ship.
Eventually, she stumbled upon a room that felt oddly familiar. The room hummed with energy. Along one wall, a massive forge glowed with a deep, molten light. Its flames were not the usual reds and oranges of a mundane fire, but a spray of vibrant blues and purples. Glowing crystals were embedded into the base of the hearth. The forge exuded a pulsing warmth, radiating both heat and power, the air above it shimmering like a mirage. Anvils of obsidian and steel lined the area, each one etched with glyphs. Mags realized that the room reminded her of Frane’s smithy.
Opposite the forge was a line of workbenches, cluttered with vials of various liquids, delicate glass apparatuses, and coils of glowing wire. In the center of the room, a large worktable stood. Above the long table was a vent, suspended from the dark iron beams lining the ceiling.
Two figures worked at the long table. The first was a large woman with thick arms and rosy cheeks, her face framed by wild ringlets of nutty brown hair. She wore stained overalls over a linen shirt, her thick gloves covered in oil and soot. Beside her stood an older man, stooped and skeletal with olive skin and unruly gray eyebrows. A pencil-thin mustache sat above his lip, and his balding head gleamed under the light. His sharp, beady eyes darted up from his work as Mags stepped inside. Both wore a pair of goggles around their foreheads. Sooty smudges ringed their eyes, hinting that they both might have just removed their goggles in order to discuss whatever they had been working on.
“Well, what do we have here?” the woman said with a broad smile, her aquiline nose twitching slightly as she wiped her hands on her overalls.
The older man adjusted the goggles on his head and gave Mags a quick once-over before turning back to his work without a word. He fidgeted with a large plate of metal that sat atop the worktable.
Mags cleared her throat, feeling a bit awkward. “Sorry to intrude . . . I just—this place looked interesting.”
“Don’t apologize, lass,” the woman said with a chuckle. “This here’s Skithbladnir’s workshop. I’m Cagna, and this miserable old sod is Dragnazzo.” She clapped a large hand on the man’s shoulder, nearly causing him to drop the piece of metal he was working on.
“Miserable?” Dragnazzo muttered without looking up. “Takes one to know one.”
Mags couldn’t help but smile at their banter. “What are you working on?”
“We’re the Company’s Artificers,” Cagna explained. “We handle the creation and maintenance of all the magical and aetheric gear. It’s our job to keep the rest of the Company properly outfitted and prepared. Right now, we’re crafting some custom armor for Alichino.”
Mags’ eyebrows shot up at the mention of the name. “Alichino? The big guy with the long, red curly beard?” He had been the one who attacked Scarmiglione and almost crushed her with a hurled table in the process.
Cagna laughed, her cheeks flushing pink. “That’s the one. His powers make for an interesting challenge. His armor needs to grow and shrink with him when he uses his magic. Otherwise, well, he’d be busting out of his gear every time he used his size-changing abilities.”
“Or explode when the armor refuses to budge as he rapidly expands,” Dragnazzo chimed in. His mustache twitched.
“That’s a . . . terrifying image,” Mags said.
“That’s not likely, but you get the point,” Cagna said.
Mags nodded thoughtfully, her mind racing as she tried to picture the process. “So, the armor’s magic?”
“Something like that,” Cagna said.
“It’s real finnicky stuff,” said Dragnazzo, finally looking up from his work. His voice was nasally.
“It’s more about infusing it with aether,” said Cagna. “Alichino’s magic is complex, and it needs the right kind of material to respond to his changes. It’s tricky work, but we manage.”
Mags was fascinated. She’d heard stories about Artificers and their craft, but she’d never seen it up close. The warding stone and scrying mirror in Solstice had both been products of an Artificer’s craft.
Her hand drifted to the Daedalus Orb in her satchel, and she pulled it out, holding it up for them to see. “Speaking of tricky work . . . I’m supposed to practice Soulsinging using this.”
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Cagna’s eyes lit up at the sight of the orb, and even Dragnazzo raised an eyebrow. “A Daedalus Orb,” Cagna murmured, admiring it. She gave a light whistle. “Now that’s some fine Artificery there. It’s a rare item. Best hold on tight to that.”
“Any idea how it works?” Mags asked.
Cagna opened her mouth to respond, but Dragnazzo’s hand shot out, cutting her off. He shook his head, chuckling softly. “No can do. It’s a puzzle for a reason. If we told you how to solve it, it’d defeat the purpose. I suspect whoever gave you that thing wants you to figure it out on your own.”
Cagna nodded. “It’s meant to teach you control and understanding of your powers. You’ll have to figure it out on your own. Best of luck, lass.”
Mags sighed, a little disappointed but not surprised. She slipped the orb back into her satchel. “Yeah, I figured. Malacoda said the same thing.”
Cagna smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. The key is patience. Listen to the orb. It’ll show you the way.”
Mags nodded. As much as she wanted to understand it right away, she knew this wasn’t something that could be rushed. The Ghost Hounds weren’t the type to hand out easy answers. Still, her only instruction being “figure it out, good luck” left her frustrated.
“Thanks for letting me interrupt your work,” Mags said, giving them a small smile. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Anytime, lass,” Cagna said with a wink.
Dragnazzo grumbled something about needed to focus.
Mags chuckled and made her way toward the door.
image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]
The night was quiet, save for the faint creak of the ship’s wooden beams and the whisper of wind cutting through the highest sails. Stars dotted the sky in a sprawl of brilliant white points, like the dusting of sand on a dark canvas, and the sea of clouds stretched endlessly below them. The stars felt so distant and cold. Mags stood at the edge of the quarterdeck, looking out over the horizon, her thoughts drifting like the ship beneath her feet.
Rubicante was seated on the floor of the deck, legs folded under him in a manner that looked far more comfortable than Mags could imagine for herself. A small tray sat before him, carrying a pot of tea that steamed gently in the cool night air. Two ceramic cups, painted with swirling patterns, lay on the tray, and the air was thick with the scent of spices and something floral, delicate and heady.
During dinner earlier that evening, the gray skinned man politely informed her that her final lesson of the day would follow. After scarfing down the last of her meal, she made her way to the top deck of the airship, where she had been instructed to meet him.
Mags’ eyes drifted to the large, spoked wheel at the helm, unmanned and still. “Who’s steering the ship?” she asked, glancing back at Rubicante.
Rubicante, with his bronze colored eyes that seemed to glimmer even in the darkness, gave a soft chuckle. “A Soulship like Skithbladnir doesn’t need someone constantly manning the wheel. It’s largely automated on longer voyages. Captain Sarto is in full control of the ship, whether at the helm or elsewhere. Another unique quality of Soulships.”
“Sarto.” Mags said, the name pulling at something deep inside her. She hadn’t seen the Captain since that brief, unnerving meeting. “I haven’t seen her since I spoke to her yesterday.”
Rubicante shrugged lightly as he reached for the teapot and began to pour. “There are restricted areas of the ship where she works, areas most members of the Company do not have access to. She’s busy, but don’t worry, you’ll see more of her in due time.”
He gestured for her to take a seat and join him on the floor of the deck. She obliged, taking a seat across from him. She tried to mirror Rubicante’s stance, sitting with her feet tucked beneath her.
He passed her one of the steaming cups, and Mags inhaled the fragrance of the tea. It was soothing and unfamiliar, a mix of spices and something rich and earthy she couldn’t quite name. She wrapped her hands around the warmth of the cup as she waited for him to begin.
Rubicante didn’t rush; he took a sip from his tea, watching her with an easy calm. She took a sip from her own cup, careful not to burn her tongue. The silence stretched until it felt like it had weight, pressing down on the moment. Mags fidgeted and cleared her throat to fill the silence.
Finally, Rubicante broke the stillness with a question. “Does silence make you uncomfortable?”
Mags blinked. It wasn’t the kind of question she’d expected. She thought for a moment, the heat of the tea warming her palms as she considered her answer. “I guess . . .”
“And what about the silence causes this discomfort?”
“I don’t know,” she responded awkwardly.
Rubicante continued to stare at her, his face fixed into the stoic expression he largely bore since she’d woken on the ship. After another couple of heartbeats worth of silence, Rubicante took another sip of his tea. “Let us begin the questioning, then.”
The series of questions were long and seemingly endless, each one stranger and more than the last. The questions would often follow a similar format: a long-winded fact pattern, followed by open-ended questions directed at her. Some made her head spin, others made her smile at the absurdity, but all of them made her think. And that seemed to be Rubicante’s goal. They never stayed on one topic for long, jumping from the abstract to the philosophical and back again.
Eventually, she set her empty cup down on the tray, rubbing her temples. “What exactly are you testing me on?” she asked, more exasperated than she meant to sound. “Libicocco and Malacoda—they each spent our first lesson testing me in their specific areas of expertise. But this? I don’t even know what subject you’re testing me on.”
Rubicante gave a soft chuckle, setting his cup down as well. “I’m not testing you on any particular subject. At Brightwash Academy, you won’t just be learning how to fight or control your Soulsinging. The Academy will be testing you on how you think. In fact, how you think will often be more critical than what you know. The instructors will pressure you with situational problems that you will need to solve by thinking on your feet.”
She was quiet for a long moment, turning that over in her mind. It made sense, in a strange way, but it was a frustrating kind of sense. “How you think,” she repeated. “That’s what this is all about?”
Rubicante smiled. “Exactly. Much like Libicocco and Malacoda were gauging you and your starting point, I am seeing how your mind currently works.”
Mags leaned back, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction as she considered the idea. “I suppose that makes sense.”
Rubicante let the silence settle between them once more before he asked, “Why is it you’re here, Magdalena?”
Mags looked away, considering the question. She took a moment of her own before turning back towards Rubicante, her voice lowering. “After Solstice . . . after the attack, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to do anything, really. I just wanted to curl up somewhere and forget it all. But I couldn’t.” She paused, biting her lip. “I had two choices really: do nothing, or do something. So, I chose to do something, anything. If the Empire is hurting people, if they’re letting innocent people die, then I have to help. And at the very least it gives me something to focus on. To take my mind off of everything that happened.”
Rubicante was silent for a long moment. Then, with a gentleness she hadn’t expected, he spoke. “I understand that feeling.”
Mags glanced at him, surprised. He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. “I grew up in Asagraabard, in the white sand deserts. Many tribes call those lands home. It’s not uncommon that they will fight amongst each other. Much like the other nations will fight. Historic grudges, long-held beliefs. One day, my entire tribe was murdered by another. I was the only survivor.” His voice was steady, but there was a depth to it that Mags could hear, an old wound still tender beneath the surface. “At first, I wanted to drown in my despair. That sadness was a black void within my chest. It would’ve been easier to simply let myself drown in the depths of those sorrows. But something within me fought for life. Deep down, it gasped for air in spite of my willingness to drown. Eventually, I found purpose—with Frey Sarto and her Company. Sometimes, you can’t control the uncertainty and chaos around you. You can only control how you respond to it.”
Mags swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into her. There was something comforting about hearing someone else put voice to what she had felt, what she still felt at that very moment.
“You find solace where you can,” Rubicante continued, his gaze drifting up to the stars. “In helping others. In making a difference, even if it’s small.”
He finished his tea and stood. “It is getting late,” he said, his tone lighter now. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Mags nodded, watching as he collected the tray and the cups. He gave her a small nod, then made his way toward the lower decks, leaving her alone on the quarterdeck.
For a long moment, she just stood there, staring up at the night sky. The stars seemed so far away, so distant. But somehow, they didn’t feel quite as cold as they had before.