Dead space. This was what Rylin called it. A time between jobs. A time where he could do nothing but wait and think and bide his time. He had dropped off the emerald dagger at the secret place Enir had told him. Now he had to wait in the apartment he was renting until he was called.

Rylin hoped this would be the last time he waited; he had approached Enir two years ago, thinking that working closely with one of the finest commercial enchanters in the kingdom would allow him to learn something interesting. But he had learned nothing. Rylin asked for jobs, and Enir gave him jobs. Mainly stealing. Some more subtle things, but mainly stealing. And not an ounce of knowledge.

Oh, he had learned an obscene amount about the nobility’s politics, and the dirty schemes being cooked in the luxurious rooms of wealthy families. But nothing about enchanting or Talents or magic.

Nothing he wanted to know.

Rylin plopped a blackened mistleaf apple into his mouth and chewed.

He needed to get closer to the source. He needed to work with somebody who studied enchanting. Not the way inventors and engineers studied it, but the way a philosopher studied it. Deep and abstract–grasping at the truth of its essence. There were institutions like that; the Royal University, the Royal Archives, the Church.

There was a knock at the door. Rylin swallowed and covered the pouch of mistleaf apples on the table with his cloak. He went to the door.

“A letter for you,” the mailman said.

Rylin took the letter inside and opened it at his desk. He smiled. At last, the dead space was over.

***

The streets of Gol were crowded with farmers and merchants and peasants all there to buy and sell the latest goods and autumn harvest. Anybody who had not stepped foot outside the city would not have known that this year’s harvest had been a poor one. Gol was where the money was, and a farmer with a poor crop would rather drive a hundred leagues with his old rheumy horses to Gol than go to a closer town and receive a pittance.

But there was still a tension in the air, and Rylin could feel it. As he made his way down the street, he put his hand against the pouch at his hip inside his cloak where the note for a hundred sterlings lay folded.

He did not have much time, so he decided to cut through the slums. Decrepit wooden buildings rose up to either side and a human stench filled the air. Dark eyes peered out of crooked glassless windows and from hidden corners and shadows between the buildings.

Rylin moved his hand inside his cloak and touched the hilt of the dagger at his belt. He was not afraid, only cautious.

There was a shrill scream from somewhere nearby. Perhaps two streets down. The eyes around him seemed to shrink deeper into their shadows. He glanced up at the sky. He had some time to spare.

Rylin put his hand in his cloak and reached into the pouch of mistleaf apples–he stopped. He did not need it now; he did not want to rely on it.

He took his hand out of the pouch and began to run. The scream had come from the left.

Drawing his dagger, he sprinted down the alleyway and banked sharply left around the first corner.

There was a grunt of effort and the sound of metal from behind one of the buildings ahead of him, and Rylin burst towards it and turned.

There was a man pushing a woman–no, a girl–up against the crumbling wall of a lean-to. The man had a knife to the girl’s throat and a hand below her waist. He had a blind, animal look in his eyes, and he did not notice as Rylin leapt towards him.

Rylin hammered the butt of his dagger into the man’s temple, and the man fell back in startled pain. Rylin kicked him in the head, and the man fell unconscious. Rylin turned to the girl.

“Are you–”

The girl ran and disappeared into a narrow alleyway. All around him, it was silent. If there had been people watching the scene from their dark windows, they were not at their windows now.

Rylin turned back to the man and crouched next to him. Rylin touched the tip of his dagger to the man’s throat, watching his chest rise and fall. The man’s face was gaunt and dirty, and there was the sickly sweet smell of alam seeds on his breath. He was dressed in a tattered soldier’s uniform, the embroidered insignia on his breast weathered away to nothing, the leather ripped just short of shreds.

The man twitched, and the tip of the dagger drew a small cut. Blood welled up and rolled down one side of his neck.

Rylin sheathed the dagger and stood and kicked the man once in the side, then went on his way.

***

In the center of the city of Gol, to the east of the central road, there is an open area on which stands a castle. It is a small castle, by noble standards, but a castle nonetheless, complete with gates and towers and spires and parapets. This is where the governor of the city lives. Next to the small castle is a mansion–which looks small in comparison–made of solid limestone. This is the Mantel family’s home.

It was halfway between noon and sunset when Rylin arrived at the front doors of this mansion. He had healed the wound in his back and washed himself, and he had even bought a potion of strength, but his body felt like lead as he raised the iron knocker and rapped it against the right door four times.

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The doors opened outwards and Rylin stepped inside.

“Welcome, Master Qsiphir.”

Rylin made an attempt to smile at the butler and gave the man his cloak. “I hope I am not too early.”

“Of course not. Master Enir is waiting in his study.”

Rylin crossed the lofty foyer, noticing the quiet. The younger children must have been out today with their mother, and the servants must have been taking a break. Rylin turned right and headed down to the end of the short hallway where an old ebony door stood. He knocked.

“Come in.”

Rylin let himself in.

Enir stood with his back to the door. He was leaning with his elbows to his desk, looking at a complex apparatus that stood there. The papers that would usually have populated the desk had been swept to the floor, where they lay in a frenzied pile.

There was a faint breeze in the room even though there were no windows, and it took Rylin a moment to realize that the breeze was coming from the apparatus itself.

“Qsiphir,” Enir said without turning. “Come and look at this device and tell me what it does.”

Rylin moved next to the man and studied the apparatus. It seemed complex at first glance, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was simply made up of a series of simple parts all lined up close to each other.

The device was enclosed in an open wooden frame with a rectangular panel of wood at the top and an array of wet metal strips hanging down from the bottom of this panel of wood like so many stalactites. Heat radiated from the top of the device and air seemed to be being blown through the metal strips. Below the metal strips was a large metal funnel into which water from the strips dripped and flowed down into a glass jug that sat below the entire device.

“It’s a water maker,” Rylin said.

“Indeed, that is what most people would call it,” Enir said. “But it doesn’t truly create water. It simply cools these metal strips, then pulls air across them, wicking moisture from the air and collecting it.”

“Is it a new product?”

Enir laughed and stood up from the table. “No, there’s no market for it. One of my young engineers created it and wanted to show it off to me. But it made me wonder; is it possible to construct an enchantment that does truly create water? Or create anything out of nothing?”

“Light enchantments create light,” Rylin said.

“No, you see, light is not substance. I mean creating something of substance.”

“If you want me to investigate this, I’m sorry, but–”

“No, no. Qsiphir, you’re in an irritable mood today. You usually enjoy discussing philosophy.”

“I had a rough night.”

Enir looked at him. “You and I are both growing old,” he said. “Those long passionate nights are behind us.”

If only that were the problem.

Enir sighed. “You should find yourself a woman, Qsiphir.”

“Enir, I’d like to terminate my work with you.”

The large man grew silent. Then he leaned down and put his elbows on the desk again and gazed at the water making machine. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Enir straightened and took the jug out from under the device and drank. “Alright, I won’t ask you why. A man like yourself must have his reasons,” he said. “I’ll ask Vor to give you a one gilt lump-sum as severance.”

Rylin breathed relief.

“Would you like a solid Royal or a certificate?”

“A certificate,” Rylin said.

Enir pulled on the chain hanging behind his desk. Somewhere beyond the room, a bell rang.

“You’re certain you don’t want to go on one last excursion?” Enir said.

“I am,” Rylin said. “If I am to find a woman like you suggest, I should find a more secure occupation.”

“I hope that occupation does not involve going to one of the other noble families,” Enir said.

“My pride would not allow me to betray a friend.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Rylin would be surprised if the man believed him.

There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Rylin said. He went and let the butler in.

“Master.”

“I need you as a witness. I’m signing Qsiphir a certificate,” Enir said. He opened a drawer and brought out a pen and ink.

“One gilt, was it?” Enir said.

“So you said,” Rylin replied.

Enir brought out a strip of gilded paper, dipped the pen into the inkwell and wrote quickly. He handed the pen to the butler who signed his name at the bottom.

“I never thanked you for your work,” Enir said, handing him the certificate.

“I’ll miss your children,” Rylin said.

“I’m sorry they couldn’t be here,” Enir said, and for a brief moment, the man almost looked sad.

“I’ll take my leave.”

“Yes, of course,” Enir said, smiling. “Vor, see him to the door.”

They left Enir in his study, and as they closed the door and made their way to the foyer, Rylin heard a muffled crash like that of metal and wood smashing together.

***

Rylin sat astride the horse and looked out at the plains before him. The gloves on his hands were too hot and the boots he wore were stifling, but they were necessary if he were to ride a horse, and to get to the Royal Capital before winter, he needed a horse.

He held the horse at a trot, wondering if he had forgotten anything. He’d brought food and water and clothes to keep out the rain. He’d also brought what books he could fit in his sack as well as an enchanted sword he’d bought the night before. If there was anything he was missing, it was money. Buying a full sack of mistleaf apples–he didn’t intend to use them, but he bought them just in case–had left him a little less than forty sterlings out of the full gilt he had received from Enir.

It was a large enough sum if he intended to simply live in the Royal Capital for a few months, but he had grown used to having hundreds of sterlings with him.

He’d have to figure something out once he arrived.

“Come on.” Rylin spurred the horse forward and got it up to a canter.

As the wind and the field rolled by, Rylin felt an easing of the heart, as though it had been imprisoned before and was now, after seemingly endless years, being set loose. Up to now, he had wondered whether he had made the right decision, whether cutting ties with Enir Mantel had not been a foolish decision. But now, as he raced toward the east, he felt this was right. More than that, he felt free.