032 – Crafting

***

A rune tablet was the height of Ancient technology. It was a small brick of rock crystal inscribed with geometrical symbols and inlaid with various gemstones. The device had no moving parts, because it was entirely aetheric; it operated on the spiritual plane. By simply writing out a symbol on its surface, the helpful daemon bound to the core would assemble the rune. Then the tablet could transfer the rune to a prepared array to form a functioning script. Having a tablet in hand greatly simplified creating and repairing machines.

It wasn’t a universal tool and couldn’t do every task. A tablet could only hold a limited catalog of common runes, so a technician would often have to devise custom runes on the spot for unexpected problems.

My education and my assignments as a technician relied on using this device. I took it for granted. For me, using a tablet and inscribing runes were almost synonymous. Without one, making even the simplest runes proved to be incredibly frustrating. I tried for hours on end and accomplished nothing.

It was really hard.

However, I didn’t give up. One advantage modern magi had was they could sense aetherics directly. In my day, I’d need to use a suite of various instruments to figure out what was going on in the aether. Now I could feel it with my soul.

Not only that, my inner fire gave me a perfect tool for manipulating runes. I could be the first person to ever create a rune with his bare hands. My touch could push and prod the essences into shape. And by extending tiny tendrils of fire from my finger tips, even finer manipulations became possible. Possible. Not easy. I spent an entire day wiggling my fingers over a rock to no effect.

The most basic task given to a young aetherics student was the creation of a lumestone. It was a simple rune that converted mana into light. Usually it was inscribed on a small piece of quartz. Once done, you had yourself an infinite lamp. It had no off switch, so the next assignment was making a version that could be toggled and then one that could be dimmed or brightened. It was a nice first project.

I labored away to make one, but they all came out defective. Most didn’t glow, some of them flashed so wildly they risked causing seizures, and one burst apart into blackened chunks.

I wanted my tablet back. Having a daemon to assemble runes was so much easier. But to bind a daemon required first inscribing complex runes, so there was no shortcut.

After many hours of fruitless labor, I crept back to the Hall of Discipline, careful not to let anyone see me or discover the location of my new workshop. I didn’t want Hwilla knowing about the place, or she would give me no peace.

***

Zambulon and Yurk battled across the Hall of Discipline. The place was big, but it wasn’t that big, and the two combatants did not respect the boundaries of the central area marked off for sparring. They zipped around the room, ran up the walls, and jumped over my head so often that I’m pretty sure it had to be on purpose. It made meditating very difficult.

“We should have picked a larger building,” I groaned.

A night spent futilely working on runes left me tired and cranky. It made focusing on not focusing on anything even harder.

Yurk fought without a sword. He practiced his unarmed skills against an armed foe. The basic strategy seemed to be to keep far away from the opponent’s sword, or get close—so close they couldn’t effectively swing it. Switching between these two positions involved crossing the danger zone of whirring blades. They went back and forth across the tiny battlefield dozens of times. Usually, Zambulon would strike Yurk with his singlestick, ending that round. But when Yurk managed to maneuver past the sword and get inside his guard, he would disarm Zambulon and throw him to the floor.

Most of our training as disciples involved sparring with each other or studying by ourselves. Zambulon worked every day on perfecting his Whetted Razor Strike technique, doing it over and over until he ran low on mana. Fightmaster Putrizio might show up for a minute to make a few comments before disappearing again.

“Where does Putrizio go all day?” I asked. “He’s not here and he’s not training the novices either. He vanishes by noon.”

“The fightmaster is working on his own fighting style. He sequesters himself in his chambers so as not to be disturbed. Or spied on,” Hwilla said.

“So he’s got his own special techniques? What’s he do?”

“We don’t know. None of us have ever seen him fight. But he said he’d show us his greatest work before we graduated.”

Zambulon sat down next to Hwilla. “The old man should hurry up. I’m going to get promoted soon.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“I can deduce it. I’ve finished my first tier-one technique. And the Void Phantoms need new officers after the move. Half of them died to the Paladins’ attack, and a lot of them are still scattered all over the continent. The cult needs me too much to leave me as a disciple.”

“Don’t go before you’re ready, senior disciple. You’re likely to get killed.”

Zambulon beamed as Hwilla expressed concern for his well being. “I’ll be fine. And Yurk will graduate not long after me. He just needs to finish his Quake Piston technique.”

“That’ll be sad for me. Then it will just be me and Strythe…” she said wistfully and cast a look my way. Her words sent a sensation of cold dread up my spine.

“Oh. Yes. Well. Don’t worry there, Hwilla. We’ll still be in the citadel. You can come to us for help with your training whenever you like. Isn’t that right Yurk?”

“Sure.”

I rolled away from the spot where I had been sitting. Meditation here would be impossible. Too much fighting and chatting. Creeping back to my hidden workshop for a few more hours would be more productive.

“What have you got there, Strythe?” Zambulon asked me. He pointed at my staff.

“It’s my first invention. I’ve converted this former spear into a staff. The brass brackets at the end hold a lumestone in place.” I demonstrated by pushing a tendril of fire up the length of the staff and channeling mana into the stone. “It’s a useful light. Also it helps train projection.”

Yurk motioned toward the staff. “Lemme see.”

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I handed it over, and Yurk lit up the stone. He spun it around in a wild display of staff fighting, leaving him encircled in streaks of light. Sparring with Zambulon had left him in a playful mood, and it looked more like he was doing a dance than fighting. He skipped wildly around the Hall of Discipline.

“You aren’t planning to develop an unorthodox fighting style, are you, Strythe? Fightmaster Putrizio wouldn’t like that one bit. He’s a swords-only man,” Zambulon said.

“We’ll see what happens,” I said with a shrug. “Some projection techniques only require touching your opponent and then forcing your fire into them. A longer weapon like a spear or staff would work well to increase reach and keep an opponent at bay. Or maybe a crossbow so I could do it from a safe distance.”

“Hmph. You and your weird ideas. I preferred it when you were thick as an ox. You never had a single creative thought back then.”

The fightmaster strolled into the training hall and shook his head when he saw Yurk goofing off with my new staff.

“Disciple Yurk. You should be perfecting your new technique. Not fiddling with fancy sticks.”

Yurk stopped spinning the staff. He stood up straight and saluted in the manner of a soldier, placing his right hand to his brow—a very unswordsmanlike response.

“Disciple Strythe. You should be meditating on controlling your out-of-control fire. Nothing else matters for you right now. Forget any and all other exercises until you dampen that flame.”

“Yes, fightmaster,” I groaned and crawled back to my seat.

“Zambulon. What’s your excuse?”

“I spent the morning working on my technique. It burned through all my mana for the day.”

“Then get meditating to create some more. Working on your mana generation isn’t just for beginners, you know? That’s a skill you can spend your whole life improving. And your whole life will be a short few years should you neglect it.”

Zambulon sat down on one of the bamboo mats nearby. He found meditation exercises about as thrilling as I did. After years of being a disciple, his patience for all the basic exercises had worn thin. I could feel the fire inside him suddenly cool. His presence diminished almost to that of a novice with just a spark.

“Fightmaster? Is it true, you’re going to teach us your own special technique before we graduate?” I asked.

“Ha! You’ve been grossly misinformed. My special techniques are too complex for newly minted swordsmen to comprehend. Although I do plan to teach you a trick or two that I’ve been cooking up.” The fightmaster hid a sly smile, as if remembering a private joke. “But you should never put too much faith in strong techniques. Think of them instead as a collection of tools, each fit for its own purpose and circumstance. Using a tool incorrectly or forgoing ones better suited for the task, will make your style weak, predictable, and easy to counter.

“For many years before joining the Void Phantoms, I worked as the ringmaster at the grand arena in the city of Skarve. My job was to assess the fighters and find for them the most entertaining match. In that time, I observed many swordsmen, styles, victories, and defeats. I can tell you with authority that powerful techniques alone don’t win fights.

“So I hope to teach you young people something more useful than a single sword stroke or defensive guard. Not one tool, but a skill to employ them…”

I was interested to see what trick he meant to teach us. I was interested to see him teach us anything at all. In many ways, Putrizio reminded me of my former engineering teachers. They gave pass-fail assignments with a list of exact requirements, but little feedback after that. The point was to mimic what professional engineers experienced when they took contracts from clients. Of course, the difference was I then had many text books, source materials, and prior examples to reference to make sure the assignment was correct. Here I just had Yurk body slamming me to the floor.

***

It was with great trepidation that I approached the apartments of Veylien the Witch. All three witches were dangerous people, but Malisent wanted to use me for her ends, so I knew she wouldn’t kill on a whim. Veylien, on the other hand, had no compunctions about murder. Should she suspect me of spying for Malisent, she might toss me off the roof.

Veylien’s Apartments stood on the exact opposite side of the citadel from Malisent’s turret. Finding the place was easy, since so many people worked constructing it. Workmen installed hardwood floors over the ancient stone and panels of wainscoting against the walls. Painters brightened the place with crisp colors. Bricklayers assembled a massive fireplace and stone mantle. A chandelier hung from the foyer ceiling and stained glass lanterns lit the hallways. Glazed windows let in sunlight.

Huge crates contained vases, paintings, mirrors, tapestries, rugs, candelabras, statuettes, bird cages, and more besides. I wondered if she owned her own ship, one separate from the cult’s common property, for I could think of no other way for her to transport such a ridiculous amount of luxury goods to the site. She must have bribed five or six of the work crews to build her apartments in such a short time.

I found Veylien in a wide parlor reclining on a divan. The room was mostly finished and contained furniture, painted screens, and a standing mirror. Servants orbited around her. A small creature sat on her lap, a white canine. It must have been an immature specimen. No fully grown canine could be so small.

“This place is just dreadful. The ruins of the old temple were more livable than this dirty crypt. I already miss the far north’s icy air.”

Veylien had her own staff of five or six servants whose only job was to attend to the wants of their mistress. One maid presented the witch a silver tray which held a glass goblet of some blue liquid. Another maid languidly strummed on an upright harp in the corner. A frantic servant worked on a billowing, white gown worn by a headless dress form. This seamstress wore more colorful garb than the others and had her sleeves rolled up. Multiple measuring tapes wrapped around her waist like belts. This was Zvidsi, the twice-abducted dressmaker.

Veylien’s tiny dog-thing yipped as I approached.

“What is it, minion?” Veylien asked.

I gave a kneeling salute as I entered the chamber.

“Pardon my intrusion, Mistress Veylien. I did not mean to interrupt you. I came to speak with Mistress Zvidsi the dressmaker.”

“Why would a minion need a tailor? You all dress in the same drab uniform and ugly mask.”

“Ah. I don’t need a tailor. I need advice on crafting. She has a reputation as being widely skilled in such matters.”

“And since when do swordsmen practice a trade?”

“Not a trade, per se, but I am interested in the creation of magical swords. Forging the blade is one thing, but fashioning a hilt is another. Of all the tradesman and crafters present in the citadel, Mistress Zvidsi is the only jeweler. So I’ve come to question her about gem cutting and goldsmithing.”

“Go on then…” she said to her dressmaker. Veylien watched me with suspicious eyes as the dressmaker put down her scissors and came to speak with me.

Zvidsi introduced herself to me. I had come prepared with a scroll of parchment with all my plans and questions. Mainly, I inquired about tools: their purpose and design, how to make them, where in Sandgrave to find them, and especially if she had any for sale. My main concern was with lapidary and gem cutting tools. We discussed these things for over an hour. She wasn’t a professional jeweler, but her elaborate creations required her to branch out to many other trades and experiment with a bricolage of available materials. A lot of the diamante added to her dresses was cut glass or semiprecious stones.

I didn’t care one whit for fashion. In my past life, I had a dozen suits in slightly different shades of brown so that, in the mornings, I didn’t have to think about what to wear. But passion is infectious. And the process of creation is fascinating even when the end product is not to one’s taste. So I did not have to feign interest in her art.

In the end, she agreed to part with a few of her tools temporarily, until I managed to acquire my own. The cult imported goods from foreign cities, and it was possible to place orders for specific items, although rapid deliveries were never guaranteed.

Veylien rested some distance away from us as we chatted, but I knew that with a mage’s acute senses, she could hear everything we discussed. It would have been suicide for me to mention Malisent. I said nothing about the dressmaker’s recent defection to Veylien and made no inquiries about the terms of her employment. All I wanted was to get some tools without being decapitated.

I thanked the dressmaker for her assistance and silently saluted Veylien before leaving.