021 – Safehouse

***

Two children leaned against me as they slept. Pip drooled onto my shoulder and snored. Across from me, a young girl wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and stared out the window at the passing landscape. Dim, violet light shone into the carriage.

“Go to sleep, kid. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’m too nervous. I’ve never been away from home before,” she said.

The ducal mage-knights had not told us that we would be sharing a coach with some of the young sparks from the child harvest. Five of us squeezed onto two benches. The two younger ones sat on either side of me by the windows. Malisent kept to her corner; she acted more uncomfortable around children than she did around monsters or killers.

The girl trembled nervously. She would be assigned to a new family of wealthy nobles the next day. From what I understood, she would be as much a household servant as a student or adopted daughter. Not everyone with a spark enkindled a fire, so the families did not invest too much in any one child’s education.

“I was nervous too when I first went to a boarding school. Where I was from, all the children in the city went to high school out in the surrounding farm lands. We had to do farm work along with our regular classes. They told us it was to teach young people the value of hard work, but I think it was because the adults didn’t want annoying teenagers hanging out downtown.”

Malisent scoffed. “You? Worked on a farm? I can’t believe it.”

“Yes. Everybody did. But I hated being outside around all that dirt. I got to transfer out, because I was on the technical engineering path. My second year, I worked in the mill that made olive oil. That was better. They even let me run the press sometimes.”

“I had never imagined your people doing such things,” she said. Farming and olive oil must have seemed too mundane for the super-magi of legends. We Ancients were supposed to fly around on clouds while throwing lightning bolts at each other.

“Everybody’s gotta eat.”

“Where are you from?” the girl asked me.

“Somewhere very far from here.”

Malisent gave no solid answers when I asked her about the demographics of Sandgrave. The people here kept no exact census. And if the separate counties did tally up their residents, they did not share that information with a central office. It was hard to say how many people lived on this peninsula.

Likewise, no one knew the number of sparks or magi. Only a small fraction of the population had sparks, maybe one in a hundred. The sparks developed sometime in childhood and faded away in one’s mid twenties. Only a few sparks enkindled their fires, maybe another one in a hundred. That meant that one in a thousand people became swordsmen.

Other factors made estimating these numbers difficult. First, not all sparks worked to enkindle their flames. If someone lived in a remote location, they wouldn’t even know they had one. Better organized cities would have things like the child harvest to ensure young sparks were found and trained.

Swordsmen lived an exceptionally long time, up to two hundred years. So while three or four generations of normal people lived at one time, up to nine generations of magi could be alive. They would thus be over represented. Of course, due to their habit of slicing each other up, magical swordsmen probably had a below average life expectancy on the whole.

Without a census, there would be no way to know for sure. But no matter the exact numbers, it was safe to say that magical swordsmen were rare. They formed a small, loose-knit community. Most in an area would know each other personally or by reputation. Visiting swordsmen from foreign lands attracted a lot of attention, which is why we stood out so much to Sir Turbindo.

The rocking carriage slowly put the children to sleep. I took the opportunity to sleep as well and tried to nap while sitting up between two snoring kids.

***

The carriage jostled me awake. Its wheels had no inner tubes, just strips of rubber woven around a hoop of iron and wood, which meant that every cobblestone in the road caused the carriage to shake. It felt like sitting on top of a washing machine. I blinked and rubbed my eyes.

The children stuck their heads out of the carriage window. Although they only lived a day or two from Port Dovestone, they rarely came to the city. This was an exciting new sight, as novel for them as it was for me.

We first traveled through the suburbs outside the city walls. These neighborhoods had sprung up in more peaceful times, after the peninsula had been settled. However, they still had homes built in a traditional manner to be well fortified against monster attacks. The ground floor was always stone or brick, with no windows. A single heavy door led inside. The upper stories had wood frames and a wider variety of designs, paints, rooftops, windows, and chimneys. It was as if each house sat on an ugly plinth.

Large walls surrounded the city, over ten meters high and just as thick. The guards at the gate allowed the two ducal knights to enter without stopping or paying a fee. We passed a line of other travelers on horses or in wagons waiting to get inside. Our carriages rolled on.

Inside the gates, the city compressed the buildings so tightly that every block fused into one mass of stone. The narrow lanes bent and twisted at odd angles. Dovestone felt larger than it was, because it crammed so much within its walls. It reminded me of the outer neighborhoods of the metropolis in that way.

“How many people live in this city?”

“Why are you always asking me about the numbers of things?” Malisent said. “You should be a castle steward with your love of accounting and inventories. Dovestone is a large city with about fifty thousand people in total, although judging by the smell, you might think it was twice that.”

“But there are bigger cities?”

“Yes. Dozens scattered through the colonies. And more in the civilized nations. The city of Skarve is tens times this size.”

The metropolis, when I left it, had a population of a quarter million people. It was not a large city or a small one, because it was the only city. Those citizens made up the entire human race. Now mankind spread across the globe and multiplied to great numbers. There could have been more than a million people in the colony of Sandgrave alone. The primitive state of their agriculture left their whole society on the verge of starvation; one blight or drought could kill off whole counties. So almost everyone had to engage in agriculture to survive. Only a small minority could live in the cities to do other work. Even with so many people, scientists and doctors would be more rare than magical swordsmen.

“What is a ‘noble’ anyway?” I asked Malisent. By this time she no longer even pretended to be surprised by my ignorance.

“Nobles are the ruling class. Swordsmen are nobles, by virtue of their magical and martial prowess. The descendants of swordsmen do not inherit their powers, but do inherit their land and titles and right to bear arms; they make up the rest of the nobility.”

“How do magic and swordcraft make someone skilled as an administrator?”

“They don’t. Most swordsmen are terrible at it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good system then.”

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“But who could stop us? If we want to rule, we will do so. Anyone who resists will be cut down,” she said. “After a few generations, noble families gain experience in statecraft. Therefor swordsmen often marry into those existing dynasties to gain contacts, resources, money, and expertise. What a swordsman can’t do, their noble spouse can. The families gain legitimacy and strong warriors in these marriages. A noble family with a long history but no living swordsmen in its ranks is in a shaky position, because some sword slinging idiot might wipe them out and start a new dynasty on their graves.

“And it’s the same reason for these child harvests. The families gamble on these sparks in the hopes they grow into real swordsmen to add to the pedigree. Should they enkindle, they’ll be adopted and married to a scion of the family.”

“What happens to the sparks that don’t make it?”

“Worried about the children here? They’ll be fine. They’ll learn to read and write as well as fight. Most end up doing miscellaneous jobs: scribes, stewards, tax collectors, messengers, heralds, musicians, ship’s masters. The real administrating of the realm is done by former sparks.”

“Is this how it works everywhere?”

“No. In some places sword sects rule directly, without getting their families involved. Warlords rule whatever they conquer with their armies. The churches of the Saints control the eastern islands. In the plutocracy of Skarve, whoever has the most money makes the decisions. But feudal aristocracy is the most common type on the continent.”

“Sounds like a real mess,” I muttered. A whole world based on violence and nepotism. My hope for humanity dropped even further; we might never rebuild the metropolis or regain our lost knowledge.

“All right, disciple. It’s time to go,” Malisent said.

“The carriages haven’t stopped yet. Shouldn’t we say goodbye to the mage-knights.”

“No time for that. We have places to be.” She threw open the door and jumped down to the cobblestone street.

“Bye, kids. Have fun in your new homes.” I grabbed my oar handle and followed after Malisent. The three children waved at us from the window of the carriage as it rolled down the lane.

“Follow me, Ancient One. We have to go straight to the docks. We’re already four days late.”

“If we’re four days late, we might as well take our time.”

“The schedule is only an estimate. If the Obelisk arrives later than us, then we’re early.”

Port Dovestone had a long boardwalk and piers at the mouth of the Doveblood River. It was not as sheltered as the cove in Blandwick. The winds blew strong across a wide harbor, and the ships pulled against their mooring lines. The port had larger wooden ships than I had ever seen. Some of them measured thirty meters long and had three masts with square sails. The sailors had to climb high up the shrouds to reach the running rigging. These vessels were to our old ships as swords were to our kitchen knives.

We walked the docks for a time, and then Malisent interrogated several of the dockworkers about which ships had come in recently. Their responses pleased her.

“You’re in luck, disciple. The Obelisk is behind schedule. We have some time to get ready for its arrival.”

We left the docks and walked to a five story inn called the Slippery Eel. This establishment differed greatly from the Rat Race. It had no common room for patrons to gamble in and no death maze for small animals. Instead, it rented out private rooms for dining on the ground floor and private rooms for sleeping on the higher levels.

An older man sat behind the counter. He clicked on an abacus, tallying up his daily revenue and expenses.

“Greetings, mistress. How may I serve you?”

“We’d like an attic room with a view of the graveyard,” Malisent said.

“Oh! R– r– right away.” The man noticed the sword she carried. His hands shook as he pulled a small box from under the counter and removed a large key. “If you’ll f– follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

The man led us to the top floor of the inn and let us into a sparsely furnished room. It had a lot of floor space but not much standing room due to the inclined ceilings. Light came in through dormer windows. There was no graveyard in sight, but the windows did look out on the docks.

“Has anyone else used this room recently?” Malisent asked.

“Begging your pardon, Mistress. But I was instructed not to say about comings and goings.”

“Right. When will you serve supper?”

“In an hour or there abouts.”

“We’d like two meals served in a downstairs room. We’ll be down shortly. Thank you.”

The man handed over the key and scurried from the room. He hadn’t made eye contact with either of us since we first came into the inn.

“That man was terrified of you,” I said to her. “Usually people have to get to know you a bit before that happens.”

“That’s because he’s seen what the Void Phantoms can do. He’s one of our agents.” Malisent pulled a large chest out from under the bed and unlocked it with the key. “He owns this inn thanks to our help, and now he’s indebted to us. This place is one of the cult’s safe houses in Dovestone.”

“How did you get him an inn?”

“We forced the previous owner to sign some documents. Then we dropped her into the sea chained to an anvil.”

“You killed her?”

“Unless she’s very good at holding her breath, yes.” She removed several linen bags from the chest and handed one to me. “Looks like a few packages are missing. Gritha and Veylien must have been here already.”

I looked in my bag. It contained nondescript gray clothing folded up. The jacket had metal plates sewn into it to act as hidden armor. The bag also had boots, a reversible cloak—brown on one side, black on the other—and a stylized, black skull mask.

“What’s this thing?” I tried on the mask.

“You’re a faceless minion; that’s to get rid of your face. Half of our minions have normal lives in the daytime, so they don’t want to be recognized while on missions. You don’t have to worry too much, because no one in Sandgrave knows Strythe.”

The standard work kit for a minion also included a pouch of coins and a leather satchel filled with tools of the trade. Malisent tossed me a sword in a plain scabbard.

“Now you can rid of that ridiculous oar handle.”

“Aww.”

We had a quick meal in the private dining room. Since this was a safe house, Malisent didn’t want to risk drawing attention to the place by staying here longer. We grabbed our supplies and slipped out. She returned the key and paid the man with a gold coin, far more than the average price of a meal.

I wondered who came to refill the chests in these safe houses. Was there a cultist whose only job was to make gift baskets? Maybe a tailor who sewed the masks together…

“All right, ghost. We’re close to our meeting with the boss. He’s not as sweet and patient as me, so keep your mouth closed. Don’t ask weird questions. Don’t say anything unless you’re asked directly. I’ll do all the explaining.”

“Got it.” If Malisent was sweet and patient, I did not want to see what the dark lord was like.

“And don’t mention being a ghost. No one needs to know that.”

“Not even the dar– uh, the boss?”

“Not unless he specifically asks. Gritha and Veylien and other officers will be there. We don’t need to let them know about your weird brain. That could spoil our advantage.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m the one who brought you back to the cult. So if you end up doing useful things, it will make me look good in front of the boss. Veylien doesn’t want that to happen. So she would do things to sabotage you, because that would make me look bad. Understand?”

“That sounds really dysfunctional. How does your organization operate with all these petty rivalries?”

“We follow the boss because he’s the strongest. We don’t have much fondness for each other. Or loyalty.”

“What are you getting out of this cult, Malisent? You don’t like your colleagues. You seem angry all the time. Maybe you should try some other career that involves less murder. You might like it.”

“My goal is simple: I want to become the God of Swords. As the greatest swordsman alive, I will rule all those around me and crush any who dare oppose me.”

“Yeah? And what happens when you become as strong as your boss? Then you two will be rivals.”

“That will be… a day of legends. But it’s a long ways off. Until then, being an officer in the Void Phantoms is the straightest path to power.”

I hoped the Void Phantoms would be my path to a long and peaceful life, but I got the feeling a lot of trouble waited to ambush me on that crooked road.