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Carina Goldstone and Cortland Finiron, Champions of Infinzel
Those they have met so far…
…and those they will meet soon
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30 Frett, 61 AW
The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent
150 days until the next Granting
“I should be going with you,” Carina Goldstone said.
“Should you?” King Cizco did not look back at her. The leader of Infinzel was crouched on his hands and knees, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back, making subtle alterations to a rune that had been hidden beneath a stone block. “I think not.”
Carina stood over him, leaning against a bubbling tub that produced blocks of quartz. She craned her neck to watch him work. Cizco made a few chalk slashes across the carved symbol, temporarily stoppering up the magic. The rune darkened and the bubbles in the tub stopped, a half-formed chunk of quartz floating listlessly in the peach-colored slop.
Of course, Carina had done her due diligence around the mineral garden when she first returned to Infinzel, but she had otherwise largely avoided the honeycomb of chambers. She knew exactly where her father had been crushed beneath a falling block of granite, and could not stop her mind from spinning when she visited, scolding sheepish masons and stone harvesters for every corner they cut.
The mineral garden was quieter now than it had been in decades, maybe centuries. There were not enough hands to harvest the stone, not enough masons to shape it, not enough workmen to transport it. The general strike of the outer districts had gone on for three weeks. Over the last few days, King Cizco had begun shutting down certain systems where arcane energies were being needlessly wasted. By Carina's calculations, the pyramidal city would be unable to fulfill existing contracts if this continued for another two weeks. Much longer than that and Infinzel's internal maintenance might be threatened. Hard to say, exactly, as she still hadn't been able to make the numbers add up. A most irritating problem for the logician. Regardless, the outer districts had made their point—the city could not run properly without them.
“I know these people,” Carina said. “I can help you. I know how they think.”
“Precisely what worries me,” Cizco replied.
He crawled across the floor to the next stone with a rune hidden beneath it. Carina stood by and watched—he had not asked for her help, in this task or with anything else. The king scuttling around like a workman was certainly a sight to behold, although there were few in the mineral gardens to see. Even now, he cultivated the image that they were all in it together, that all who resided within Infinzel must do their part. Even the king himself was not above menial labor.
“Why should that worry you?” Carina asked. “I'm an advantage. Guydemion has a soft spot for me.”
The king used a pick and chisel to pry up the next stone. The unnecessary force in his swings was the only sign of his annoyance. “I asked you once where you thought Infinzel's greatest threats would come from. Do you remember that conversation?”
“Yes.”
“You did not list Soldier's Rest among them.”
“They're us,” Carina said. “Our people. Can we be a threat to ourselves?”
“So, you did not foresee this? Or do you not view a strike that unsettles the city as a threat? It must be one or the other, logician.” As Carina prepared a response, Cizco at last looked over his shoulder. “You don't need to answer. My mind won't be changed. You and Cortland—and Henry if you can force him—the three of you should already be on your way to the mountain.”
Indeed, Carina knew, they should leave soon to make the annual appearance of Ink on the Nortmost. There had been no new blooms of power in the Underneath, so Carina needed to leave Infinzel if she wanted to attain her fourth renown before the Granting.
“It doesn't seem like a good time, with everything going on,” Carina said. “Cortland and Henry agree.”
“Does no one around here want to do their jobs?” Cizco asked sharply. “I do not need you three here. You are champions. Your job is the Ink and the Granting. Do your jobs.”
Having freed the stone, Cizco stood sharply and tossed it aside. Carina winced as she heard his vertebrae pop. The king groaned and dug his knuckles into the small of his back, limping in a circle around the stone pit.
Carina couldn't help herself. “If you show up hobbling like an old man, Bel will think you're mocking him.”
The king's eyes flared and he straightened with some effort. “I have known Bel Guydemion since before your parents were born.”
“Of course. And when was the last time you spoke with him? Looked in on him?”
Cizco glowered at her. “It has been awhile.”
“Years separate you now,” Carina said. “I know him as he has been recently.”
The king sighed. “Fine. What is your advice, then? Should I give him everything he wants?”
Carina shrugged. “Yes.”
Cizco smiled mirthlessly as if he had known what her answer would be and resumed his stretching. “And once I do, Bel Guydemion will want more. He has always wanted more. Without grievance, the man would cease to exist.”
“Exactly,” Carina said.
The king's mouth opened, then closed. He considered her words for a moment, eventually shaking his head. “Herman offered them most of what they asked for during the first days of this little tantrum.”
“Bel asked to negotiate with you.”
“And I sent my heir. Gods, must everything cause this man offense?” Cizco pinched the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t matter. They want to kick the nobles out from their tiers. It simply can't be done.”
“They don't want them kicked out,” Carina said. “They only want them to earn their place, like everyone else.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“They did earn their place. It is the stone from northern castles that shields us now. The lives of house mages sworn to the old noble houses were the first sparks of Infinzel's fires. The nobles sacrificed much to build this place.”
“Hundreds of years ago,” Carina countered. “A debt surely repaid by now. And if the nobles think that's not the case, so what? Will they take their stones back and rebuild their old forts? You’re the king and here you are toiling away. Why shouldn’t your lazy children follow the example of their father?”
Carina winced. She had meant it to sound complimentary, but acid crept into her words. Maybe she had spent too many nights discussing the injustices of Infinzel while growing up in Guydemion’s care.
The king studied her for a moment longer, then turned stiffly and returned to his work.
“Go to the mountain,” he said. “You are not needed here.”
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His son, Otis, had fashioned Watts Stonework with a monocle of sorts. A delicate frame that looked to have been recovered from a pair of ladies’ glasses housed three lenses—a shaded lens, a magnifying lens, and a lens that seemed to make movements look crisper—that Watts could switch between with a flick of his finger. His son the Gadgeteer. He’d no doubt salvaged these parts from behind the merchant stalls in the Underbridge. A fraught time to be scavenging, but Watts wasn’t the type of parent to shield his boy from danger.
“What do you think?” Otis asked eagerly.
Watts peered at himself in the mirror, switching between the dark lens and the sharpening lens. The eye had been gouged badly, but it wasn’t completely lost thanks to the efforts of his wife. She had taken up the healing arts these last years—the old ways—and while Hellie Opensky was far from ready to apply to the Magelab, she’d preserved enough of Watts’ eye that he could half-see.
“A bit girlish,” Watts said.
Otis groaned. “I can change the frame, dad. Gods. What about the lenses?”
“It’s a fine contraption, I think,” Watts said with a nod. “Though it might come flying off in a fight.”
His son jotted notes on his sketchpad. “Add a headband,” he mumbled.
“I think it’s dashing,” Hellie said. She stood in the doorway to the bedroom, watching the two. “Looks like something Traveon might wear.”
Watts flipped the shaded lens down. “Now I know it doesn’t suit me.”
He turned to take stock of his wife. Beautiful as ever with her auburn hair and sneaky smile. She wore one of her nicer dresses—a light blue thing, although shapeless. Today, she would stand second to Bel Guydemion when the ageless king of Infinzel at last came to pay his respects. She had been teasing Watts for days about how worried she was that King Cizco might try to seduce her. Maybe those hadn’t been jokes, after all.
Hellie rubbed her hands together. It was cold in their little house; firewood and coal were proving harder and harder to come by in the outer districts. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Admiringly?”
“Stop.” She waved him off. “It should be you standing with the old man. Or both of us together.”
They’d already had this conversation. “Bel thinks that would be too much provocation,” he said evenly. “To put on display the man who the Secondson nearly blinded.”
“It wasn’t a fair fight,” Otis said. “All that Ink.”
“Fair fights are for suckers,” Watts said.
“Yes,” Hellie added as she began tying back her hair. “What do we know about fair fights? Or provocation, for that matter?”
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“Have you even known a Twiceblack before?” Traveon asked.
The merchant shook his head.
“No, you probably wouldn’t have had the pleasure. Most leave Infinzel and change their names. Around the pyramidal city, there’s not much use for a child whose parents were both criminals, eh? Probably wouldn’t even trust a Twiceblack kid to sweep your floors. Might steal the broom.”
The merchant wiggled into what Traveon interpreted as an encouraging shrug. Like, oh, you Twiceblacks aren’t so bad. He couldn’t manage a more articulate response on account of the gag Traveon had shoved in his mouth and the ropes he had tied across him.
“My dad didn’t steal a broom. He killed a man. A noble, in fact,” Traveon continued. “My mother was just a good old-fashioned thief, though. It was the thieving that ended up necessitating the killing. There’s a lesson for you in that, I think. Although I’m getting ahead of myself.”
Traveon sat in a chair at the foot of the merchant’s bed with his slender legs crossed. He’d been sitting right there when the merchant first woke up and came to realize his predicament. Traveon’s left leg was falling asleep—this bastard was a sound gods damned sleeper—and Traveon hadn’t wanted to move and thus lessen the dramatic effect of his unwelcome appearance.
“Anyway, I kept the name and stuck around,” Traveon said with a shrug. “I wanted to prove that our names don’t dictate our quality. Taking our names from the work our parents did. Pretty stupid, if you ask me.”
The merchant flinched as Traveon hopped to his feet. He shook out his sleeping leg and meandered over to the open window that he had first crawled through. Cold winter air flowed over his lightweight ward-weave.
“Like you, for example,” Traveon said. “You’re Lorenze Twicegold, right?”
The merchant went very still, as if debating whether to lie about his identity.
“The son of two merchants, living way up here on the fifth tier.” Traveon whistled. “Pretty good, my man. That’s almost where the nobles live. You get to be right underneath them. They get to keep their family names, don’t they? Lets us know that they have big, important history. They’re capable of anything. They’re beyond occupations.”
Traveon pushed himself up on his hands and poked his head outside, as if trying to peer up to the next tier.
“What’s in a name, though, right? I’m a Twiceblack, no one wants me around, but I can get in anywhere. I know every secret tunnel in this place, every access hatch, all the walls with the best handholds.” Traveon spun back around. “And you? You’re a Twicegold, but you seem really bad at business. For instance, I hear you’re charging extra to the outer districts for coal.”
The merchant’s eyes widened as he realized the purpose of Traveon’s visit. He began speaking rapidly against his gag, the words muffled.
“I bet you’re explaining to me supply and demand. Or how, if you didn’t raise your prices like all your competitors, you’d fall behind.” Traveon walked toward the merchant’s bedside, and the man went very still. “But see, you didn’t have a full understanding of the costs when you made your decision. You failed to foresee that someone might take exception. You neglected to account for the price of the added security you’d need to keep me out of here.”
Traveon put his foot up on the mattress and leaned down over his bent knee. He made sure the merchant saw the hand-bow on his hip where his jacket fell open.
“Humbly, then,” Traveon said, “I would ask you to recheck your figures.”
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From Infinzel’s second highest tier, Vitt Secondson-Salvado watched the scrawny bartender from Guydemion's climb out of the window and scamper across the stone. Whose window was that? Some merchant, Vitt figured, based on the level. Not someone who mattered.
Even so, not a window where the bartender was welcome. Sneaking around. Trespassing.
“Patricia,” Vitt said. The nightstalker appeared beside him, sinewy body coiled downward to match her master's crouch. “What do we think?”
The nightstalker purred in response.
Soldier’s Rest—and the outer districts generally—these areas were not unknown to Vitt. In some ways, he preferred them to the cloistered noble tiers of the pyramidal city, filled with his gods damned brothers and sisters and cousins, or else those pining to join the vast Salvado dynasty. In the outer districts, he did not have to worry that a whore would expect a marriage proposal.
He couldn’t show his face out there now. Not after what he had done to Guydemion’s bouncer. There would be more spit in his drinks than usual.
Vitt had tried to warn them about Soldier’s Rest, specifically about Carina’s ties to Bel Guydemion. He’d had Orryn es-Salvado and his rats trailing her for weeks to unearth that connection, and what had come of it? That hammerhead Cortland had gone to check things out and been charmed by the place, just as he’d been charmed by the logician. His father hadn’t cared. Even Vitt had let it go.
And look where that lenience had gotten them.
A cough overcame him and Vitt buried his mouth in his shoulder, tasting blood. Bad again, these last few weeks, and with Henry Blacksalve too preoccupied in Soldier’s Rest to treat him. The bartender glanced up at the sound but then continued on his way when he saw nothing but graystone and shadows. Vitt’s [Camouflage] felt warm on his chest.
Vitt had made a point of learning a bit about all of Guydemion’s little helpers, his wayward children of the outer districts. The bartender—Traveon Twiceblack—he was a shit stirrer. Vitt had seen some of Traveon’s performances up on stage, strutting around making jokes about the king’s hopelessly swollen balls, inciting the outer districts to rebellion. Vitt had found these monologues funny, at the time, but now he understood them as symptom of a cancer—one that his father had been slow to carve out. Even now, the king prepared to descend to Soldier’s Rest and negotiate with these people.
Well, Vitt would not sit idle in the meantime.
Vitt used [Hunter’s Mark] just before the bartender passed around a corner. Traveon would feel a chill pass over him—like there were eyes upon him—but he would not understand what that meant. Vitt could follow him easily, now. He would see what other errands the bartender intended to run in places where he didn’t belong. And then, Vitt would make sport of him.
“Come, Patricia,” Vitt whispered. “We hunt.”
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