> “Exactly how many Heralds there are is unclear. Of the ones known to me, arguably the strangest is Dragon: though she may sometimes choose to fly awhile alongside an airship, undulating through the clouds like a colossal golden serpent, she has rarely been known to pause and converse with mortals. Nevertheless, whispers abound that she likes to take human form and human lovers, and this is how her progeny the drakes are fathered.”
> —Anoloa Nwodike, The Heralds
THE DRAINS, LONG DROP CITY
Alakbir Earthmote, the World-Sphere of Sayf
09.06.03.06.04
Long Drop City had not always been known by that name, Jerl learned. He’d never really thought about it before, but it seemed obvious in hindsight that such a thriving town had to be more than just a handful of years old. The Clear Skies Guild had only boomed into prominence within the last ten years, but Long Drop was big enough, populous enough and old enough to have hidden secrets.
Apparently, its name up until eight years ago had been Kah-afat Barid an-Naharq, “Cool Edge Cave On The River,” and it had largely been a backwater with little to offer except shelter from the dry heat and sandstorms, to which Alakbiri were well accustomed anyway.
The coming of airships had changed that. A cool refuge right on the edge cliffs was perfect for welcoming foreign airship crews from lower and colder climes, and the guilds had invested heavily, transforming the town from a sleepy backwater to a thriving port over about twenty years.
Then the Clear Skies had exploded in wealth and power following Nils Civorage’s beacon mine venture, and the Sharif of Ajhabra, already a guild part-owner and investor, had formally granted the guild ownership of all the town and the land on (and in) which it was built. They’d renamed it to Long Drop City, many of the Alakbiri natives had moved out as wealthy foreign merchants moved in…
And somewhere in all that mess, large parts of the city’s infrastructure had simply been forgotten about. Or, Jerl suspected, had been quietly and surgically excised from the records by the opportunistic Street Rats.
Certainly that would explain how they were able to keep this secret meeting place, in a natural cave beneath the Underside district. Jerl had never been so deep underground before, but it didn’t feel oppressive. The cave had a washed feel to it, decorated in places with short stubby spikes of smooth, rippled stone, to the point where it felt more like a marble hall than a thief’s secret bolthole.
The tapestries, rugs and nice furniture helped too, of course. The Rats were rich, and not afraid to spend their wealth on nice things.
Whisker, it turned out, was one of an inner circle of three, and his counterparts watched Jerl and company with interest as they were shown in and welcomed to the table.
The first to speak was a Yunei woman, four foot tall and standing on a stool. The dwarf people’s earthmote and culture were very much closed to foreigners, which was why she bore the exact same mark as every other Yunei Jerl had ever met: her people’s rune for ‘Exile’ burned painfully into her forehead with a branding iron.
“Pretty handsome, at least,” she commented, and stuck out a hand. “Name’s Ju-Wi.”
Jerl shook her hand. “Jerl.”
She gave him a lecherous grin as he did so. “You ever had a dwarf before, Jerl? A strapping boy like you, we could have lots of fun…”
Jerl laughed, in no small part to cover for shock. He’d never in his life been propositioned so instantly and outrageously, nor by somebody so much older than him. “Ah! Uh, no offense but, uh…my bag’s rigged different.”
“Oh! Shame.” She tutted in an ‘easy-come-easy-go’ kind of way, then looked to Mouse. “One for you then, kid.”
Mouse just smirked, clearly used to her antics. “Maybe later,” he said, and gave Jerl an amused look. “Business before pleasure, right?”
“Hah!”
The Prathar man standing opposite her with the rather spectacular handlebar mustache cleared his throat. “Mind on the job, Ju-Wi…” he said, then shook Jerl’s hand and indicated a spot at the table alongside him. “I go by ‘Imdura.’ Whisker had quite a story to tell of you.”
“How much of it do you believe?” Jerl asked, taking the offered spot. The others piled in around the table as well.
“As it happens, most of it. Like your friend here, I am a trained navigator and mage.” Imdura gave Amir a respectful nod, colleague to colleague. “I was able to confirm this…influence on our people for myself. I would tend to dismiss the Words of Creation as a fable, but…” Imdura wobbled his head, uneasily. “What I have seen is not…easily attributable to the powers of an ordinary mortal man. Let alone one not known to be versed in magical study.”
“That’s Imdura’s way of saying yes, he believes you,” Whisker translated, chewing on some tobacco. “And what that in turn means is that the circle of trust in this matter consists entirely of the folks around this table.”
“So what’s the plan?” Jerl asked.
“The plan revolves around this link the affected share. Imdura?”
The well-dressed Prathar nodded, and unrolled a map across the table. “Right now, we know Nils Civorage is in the city. Given that he believes Captain Holten has something he wants, he will not leave. Fortunately, the same power he has used to spy on us can in turn be used to feed him a false idea. He doubtless knows you have made contact with us, Captain. We can use that.”
“Go on…” Jerl nodded, listening.
“One of the oldest tricks in the book!” Imdura grinned. “Right now, Jac Deragian is right there in one of our guest rooms, right? He doesn’t know where it is. But Civorage knows we’ve caught one of his lieutenants. So right now, he’s likely taking us very seriously and planning to break Deragian out, right? But all he has to do is, find some of our people who’re under his spell and who know where Deragian is, and direct them to break him out.”
“I think I see where this is going,” Sin perked up and leaned over the table. “You’re gonna let Deragian go, and through him you’ll leak that you snuck Jerl and the box out of town on one of your own airships, nay?”
“Oh, you got a mind even sharper than your ears!” Ju Wi grinned.
“And with Deragian back, Civorage will jump on the Make Your Own Fortune and take off after the ship Jerl’s supposedly on,” Sin continued.
“Yup!”
“Please tell me the next step is, we burn his bag and let the fucker crash?”
“Ah!” Ju-wi sucked air through her gappy, stained teeth and shook her head ruefully. “That we can’t do. Too much trouble. You don’t murder a man like him and just get away easy.”
“And we don’t have a ship that could take the Fortune in a fight, either,” Whisker added.
“Besides, it wouldn’t work,” Jerl said, grimly. They all turned to frown at him. “Civorage has had ten years to get to know Mind and practice with the powers he got from it. When I spoke with Talvi, she said even death isn’t enough now. So long as he has thralls under his power, he can just…migrate into them. Kinda like an elf, but instead of being born and inheriting a new body, he’d just hollow out an existing one and take over.”
Ju-wi looked genuinely appalled. “Fuck me upside-down!”
“Crowns. Of all the unbelievable shit you’ve said, that one wins the fuckin’ prize,” Mouse agreed.
Jerl shrugged. “From the Crown’s mouth herself,” he said.
“Disturbing though it may be, it doesn’t change the plan,” Whisker pointed out. “Plan is to get him out of the mansion, and while he’s away we get in there and lift Mind from his inner sanctum.”
“We’re sure it’s there?” Imdura asked.
“It is,” Jerl predicted, confidently. On that point, the premonitions he’d allowed himself to keep were perfectly clear.
“He doesn’t carry it on his person?” Derghan asked. “Won’t take it with him?”
“He doesn’t need to. And he thinks it’ll be safer at his manor behind guards and lock than with him out in the field where he might drop it or have it lifted from his pocket.”
“Normally he’d be right,” Whisker said.
“Besides. he didn’t have it with him last time. And seeing as we seem to be basing this plan on what he did last time—”
Whisker shrugged. “That’s the best guide we’ve got to go on. As for the manor itself, it may as well be a bloody fortress. High walls, with them decorative but still bloody sharp wrought iron spikes along the top, guards patrolling the grounds, well lit, lots of people inside, and it’s not like they’ll just roll out a carpet if we walk up to the front door. Fortunately…”
He reached out and tapped Imdura’s map. “There’s an aqueduct. Underground. Clean water, right from the cisterns. That’s our way in.”
Jerl blinked, and bent forward to inspect it, as did his crew. There was a long, thoughtful silence, which Derghan was the first to speak into.
“That…does not exactly look roomy.”
“Oh, it looks even better than it is. It’s half full of cold water,” Mouse had a certain sadism in the smile he flashed Derghan’s way. “And if anyone drowns, we’ve got to push their carcass all the way to the end.”
“You’re a real fuckin’ salesman, you know that? Bet you could sell sand to the Sharif.”
Mouse just smirked. “But here’s the thing, the Rats have done this a hundred times. Every big compound in this town has one of these. Trick is to float on your back and let the current carry you. Trust me, it’s the best way in.”
“And out?” Sin asked.
“Lot easier to get out of a walled compound than in,” Whisker pointed out. “Especially when you’ve an elf with you who can jump clean over it with a rope.”
Sin studied the wall on the map for a second, then nodded. “I see. And, the guards inside?”
“Poor innocent bastards under Civorage’s thrall,” Imdura said, solemnly. “But they will kill us if they can. Under such circumstances, if we must kill them to live, I believe we can lay their deaths firmly at Civorage’s feet, yes?”
Nobody nodded. That wasn’t a happy or comforting thought he’d just expressed. But it was the truth nonetheless.
“Fact is, it’s best for us to be quiet and dark for as long as possible,” Whisker said. “Longer we go unnoticed and unbloodied, the longer it is before Civorage realizes we hoodwinked him and turns his attention back our way. And while I’m not planning to do this thing until he’s too far away to get back in time, who knows what other crazy shit this Word of his lets him pull.”
He looked around the table. “But unless we’re willing to go sharp, this can’t be done. So are we doing it?”
Ju-Wi was the first to nod, followed by Mouse and finally Imdura. Jerl glanced at his friends. He knew Sin’s reply, she’d go wherever he went and do what he decided to do. The same was true for Derghan. Amir, though…
Amir caught his eyes and nodded, very slightly, just once.
Jerl exhaled slightly, then looked back to Whisker.
“We’re doing it,” he said.
----------------------------------------
INTERLUDE: DUCAL PALACE, AULDENHEIGH
Capitol of the Garanhir Baronies, Enerlend, Garanhir Earthmote, the World-Sphere of Eärrach
09.05.15.11.11
Anywhere else in the worlds, Ellaenie would have been a queen. Truth be told, she was a queen in all but name, and the title “duchess” represented a longstanding mutual arrangement between what had once been the united Garanese kingdoms of Enerlend, Cantre, Oderlend, Betlend, Frudlend, Urstlend and Valai.
The similarities in most of their names pointed to their shared heritage… and the fact two of them were still named in elvish pointed to their differences. The Garenese had overcome their Ordfey overlords, renamed Vathelan to Auldenheigh, and then largely forgotten the old elfish evils in favor of infighting, tribalism and wars that had lasted for thousands of years. One of the sturdiest shelves in Ellaenie’s library was bowed under the weight of heavy tomes detailing endless royal feuds, intrigues, claims to thrones, wars, murders, marriages and more.
A single king had unified the Garenese, five hundred years ago. Three hundred years ago, his dynasty had come to an end thanks to the ravages of tuberculosis…and the dukes had done the only sensible thing they could.
They fought like maddened cats.
When that failed to work—when it became apparent to all that none of them could press the advantage against any of their rivals and win the throne without provoking all the others to gang up on them—they had finally sat down to talk. And they’d come to a compromise solution
All of which was why the crown of Garanhir was ceremonially placed on a cushion on an empty throne once a year, to open the annual meeting of the Dukesmoot.
At least, being the duchess of Enerlend, Ellaenie had the royal palace practically on her doorstep, so there was no need to make preparations for long travel and accommodations in another barony. They came to her, and so long as her staff did their jobs correctly they would be well cared-for.
Still, she was taking the Dukesmoot very seriously this time. Even if it was still three months away, she needed ammunition if she was going to prove the Oneists were up to something sinister.
Or, she reminded herself trying to be fair and even-handed, evidence that they weren’t and she was wrong about them. But that didn’t seem likely. Not likely at all.
Not now one of her best spies had simply…vanished.
No, Ellaenie’s responsibilities were heavy, and not least of them was getting dressed to receive foreign visitors.
Her Lady-in-waiting, Lady Lisze Bledel, finished tying her corset and stepped back. “How’s that?”
Ellaenie shifted and wriggled a bit, testing the fit, and decided she felt comfortably supported. “Oh, that’s so much better than the last one!”
“I thought it would be.” Lisze gave her a satisfied not and started tying on the pocket bags and panniers. “Now, I thought the Frudlend fern brocade in your house colors?”
“A little tame, isn’t it? We’re welcoming a thaighn, I’d like to defy her expectations of me a little…hint at my magical studies.”
“How about the Dragonschild pattern, then?”
“I do prefer that one.” Ellaenie nodded and shimmied a bit to make sure everything was settled properly while Lisze vanished to get the rest of the outfit. “Speaking of the thaighn, do we have the etiquette figured out yet?”
That question was addressed at her good friend and other Lady-In-Waiting, Countess Adrey Mossjoy, who was sitting patiently at the desk with rather a large book on diplomatic forms. Ellaenie knew from reading it herself some years ago (a stultifying experience, especially for a thirteen-year-old) that a good half its pages were just for the Yunei. The Craenen, by comparison, had a reputation for being refreshingly straightforward.
Adrey chuckled. “By convention, she’s your peer,” she said. “A mutual ‘your grace’ and shallow curtsey—she’ll probably bow, the Craenen don’t do curtseying I gather—and after that you’ll call her Thaighn and she’ll call you Duchess. She’ll probably invite you to call her by name rather quickly, so remember, her name is pronounced ‘sur-shuh.’”
“Will she object if I insist on using titles?”
“Hmmm...” Adrey checked the book, then shook her head. “Not object, no, but she’d probably decide you’re stuffy and overly formal. I’d just accept it, really.”
Ellaenie nodded thoughtfully and smoothed out her petticoats, fidgeting.
I’m nervous, she realized. It was absurd.
“You’re nervous,” Adrey commented. “What’s got you like this? She’s just a foreign dignitary, you’ve welcomed dozens.”
“None of them were a Craenen witch-thaign.” Ellaenie raised her arms obediently as Lisze returned with her skirt, and wriggled through it. “You know what they say of her, don’t you? They say Saoirse Crow-Sight can cast her gaze through time and space to see the hidden and the lost. They say she can read your mind at a glance.”
“Don’t tell me you believe any of that?” Adrey asked. She marked their page, closed the tome, and stood to smooth out her own clothing.
“Is that so unreasonable?” Ellaenie asked, defensively. “Magic can achieve all sorts of things!”
“Yes, but there’s the problem isn’t it? If it can achieve all sorts of things, it’s so hard to know what’s real and what’s not.” Adrey flashed a small, challenging smile. “Besides, I can read your mind, and I don’t need magic to do it, I just know you well. And seeing through time? I don’t believe that one bit! I think she’s just an old woman who’s met plenty of nervous girls who want to impress her, and she’s seen enough of life to know how the dance steps go.”
Ellaenie tried to object, but it died unspoken. “I—hmm.”
Adrey giggled, and even Lisze tried to conceal a small laugh as she helped Ellaenie shrug on the bodice.
“You’re nervous because you’re intimidated by the legend and you want to impress her,” Adrey said, and took Ellaenie’s hands to give them a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to impress her. You don’t have to impress anyone. You’re the bloody Duchess of Enerlend, love!”
Ellaeni nodded, smiled, and lifted her chin as Lisze buttoned the bodice up to above her collarbones. She’d decided to fly in the opposite direction to fashion when it came to necklines: the vogue in Garanese high society at the moment was a neckline so plunging and exposing that, from what she heard, a few daring comtesses in Urstlend were now sporting gowns that bared their bosom for all to see in full!
The Urstoin had always been…risqué, by Enerlish standards. Though they in turn would say the Enerlish were prudes.
So be it. Ellaenie certainly wouldn’t be adopting Urstoin fashion, oh no. She much preferred her gowns high-necked and modest. A duchess was the embodiment of legitimate authority after all, the torch-bearer for good and sensible governance. She needed to be a respectable figure, and that meant when she spoke to a man she needed his attention to be on her face and eyes, not a foot lower down.
Of course, being the duchess, where she led the vogue tended to follow. No doubt, high necks would be back in soon enough.
“Hair down?” Lisze predicted.
“Down,” Ellaenie agreed firmly. What was the point in even having such thick, lustrous hair if she buried it behind hats, pins and ribbons? “What did you pick for jewelry?”
“Oh, you’ll like this!” Adrey produced a small box from her pockets. “I had this made specially for you. I was saving it for your birthday, but I think this may be the better occasion.”
“Thank you!” Ellaenie gushed, genuinely surprised, then found herself gasping when she opened the box.
Adrey had given her a silk choker with a silver wire cage fastened to the front. Inside the cage was a perfectly oval stone about the size of Ellaenie’s thumbprint: flecks of iridescence in blue, red and green shimmered just below its surface as it caught the light.
“Elf-eye opal,” Adrey explained, looking quite pleased with herself. “Perfectly natural. River-polished, unworked by human hand. If you’re going to insist on dabbling in magery, you should at least endeavor not to be gauche, hmm?”
Ellanie nodded, dumbstruck. Such a perfectly round, smooth and flawlessly beautiful opal magestone, completely unworked? It must be worth as much as a diamond ten times its size! Even for Adrey Mossjoy, one of the richest people on Garanhir, it was a lavish gift.
It was exactly the right combination of awe-inspiring and understated. And, she discovered, practical: a small cutout in the choker meant the stone would be held in contact with her skin, meaning she could cast from it without having to reach up and grip it. As it touched her throat, she felt the tingle of stored power, like a memory of lightning.
Touched beyond words, she gave Adrey the best hug she could, given they both were wearing several thick layers of linen and silk, then obediently turned around and stood still while Adrey settled it around her neck.
Lisze brought the mirror round, and Ellaenie gave herself a well-considered look over. Yes. Yes, this would do nicely. She looked elegant rather than extravagant, with a touch of magic at her throat and fingertips. She smiled at Lisze and gave a nod.
“Well then.” Lisze opened the door and called out into the hall. “Major Droles? The duchess is dressed.”
Tomos Droles was a tall and achingly handsome man who’d served as Ellaenie’s equerry from the very day her parents were taken. He was much too old for her of course, and entirely too far below her station, but neither of those facts made him look any less dashing in his uniform. He gave her his usual small bow as he stepped into the room, then gave an approving nod at her attire. “Good morning, your grace.”
“Good morning, Tomos.” Ellaenie gave Lisze a grateful kiss on the cheek, then took the major’s arm and allowed him to escort her out of the room and down the hall: Adrey walked with them on her other side. “I take it we’re expecting the Thaighn to arrive soon?”
“The weather was a little uncooperative overnight, so her ship was delayed slightly. It moored at a mast in Dockerten half an hour ago, and they’re letting the bag down gently.” Tomos glanced out a window as they passed it, and paused to point. “There she is, the one with the green bag. The Dubh-Cheist.”
Ellaenie frowned for a second. The bag wasn’t just a handsome dark green, it had a large black bird edged in white sewn to the front. An expensive, high-maintenance touch, that. Possibly a signal from Thaighn Saoirse that she wasn’t to be treated as an uncultured foreigner. Not that Ellaenie would have.
“The…Enigma?” she translated.
“I believe so. Rather a good name, isn’t it?”
Ellaenie could only nod as she watched the ship’s slow, careful descent. Enigma. Entirely apt, both for the mystery in which Lord Drevin had wrapped this visit, and for the woman aboard it. He’d written to his mysterious ‘old friend,’ and within a month the palace had received correspondence from Thaighn Saoirse’s steward concerning an official visit.
That in itself was an event of great significance. For somebody of Saoirse Crow-Sight’s station to leave her own home and court, and travel to that of a foreign ruler? It was the biggest political news of the year.
And Lord Drevin insisted that his old friend was not, in fact, the Thaighn.
Ellaenie really ought to have objected to all this cloak-and-dagger mystery and secrecy. She was the bloody Duchess of Enerlend, as Adrey had so bluntly put it. And no doubt she could have ordered Drevin to spill everything…but she found she was rather enjoying the mystery of it all. She trusted Drevin, if it was actually important that she knew, she would know. So why not enjoy his little game?
Still…as the Dubh-Cheist sank lower and lower down the spire and vanished from view over the rooftops…she was glad to be moving on to the next step. Half a year was long enough for this enigma to last, and Ellaenie was ready for answers.
“Very good,” she said aloud. “Now. Let’s be ready to welcome our guest.”
After all: the sooner the pomp and ceremony of welcoming a foreign visitor was complete, the sooner she could ask the burning questions…
----------------------------------------
> "Navigation between earthmotes is complicated by the fact that the only fixed frame of reference we know of is the Roil. The cardinal directions are therefore “Spinwise” (movement with the turning of the Roil,) “Backspin” (movement against,) “Top” (toward the Roil’s pole wherein Spinwise motion appears clockwise,) “Pedestal” (the opposite pole,) “Up,” and “Down,” which are movement inwards and outwards toward and away from the sun respectively.”
> —Hua Min-Pok, Navigational Fundamentals
ONEIST MANOR, LONG DROP CITY
Ajhazra, Alakbir Earthmote, Sayf
09.06.03.06.05
The aqueduct might have been the safest approach for getting into Civorage’s manor unseen, but for Jerl it was nightmarish. The darkness, the chilly water, the low stone roof and the fact the gap between them was barely enough for his nose had him fighting for calm. He’d never imagined himself a claustrophobic man before now, but here and now the one thought pounding over and over in his skull was keep calm.
Much easier said than done. Drowning was firmly in second place on Jerl’s list of worst ways to die, right behind being shade-taken. But Whisker had been painfully clear that panic was how men got killed taking this route. “Stay calm,” he’d said. “Force yourself to stay still. Breath through the nose and keep your body relaxed. Trust the water. Do that, and I promise you won’t drown. Start thrashing, and we all might. So for the love of the Crowns stay still even if something touches you.”
So far, nobody was thrashing. They floated, in pitch black and in silence, to the point where Jerl started to see weird dark anti-colors dance and play in front of him, which were entirely unaffected when he tried experimentally closing his eyes.
His fear of the dark wasn’t helping, either. This stunt would be doubly insane anywhere other than a Sayfi earthmote. The faintest flicker of eclipse, even the scudding shadow of a passing wandering isle, and they’d all be taken in a heartbeat…
He realized he was starting to breathe heavily, and forced himself to slow down again. Relax. Flow with the water.
Wait.
He’d done a lot of waiting, these last two days. First had been waiting for news of Deragian’s carefully permitted escape. Second had been waiting for the Make Your Own Fortune to undock in pursuit of the Windwhisper, the ship supposedly smuggling Jerl and his friends to Garanhir.
Then had been just…waiting. For night to fall, and for Civorage to be far enough away.
Now, this waiting in the dark. Time ticked on, dragged out by his own anxiety into something invisible. He no longer had any sense of it passing. There was just…this. Just the floating, and the occasional momentary touch and scrape when his nose glanced off the ceiling.
No rats, thank fuck. He’d have really had a hard time if vermin suddenly decided to use him for a raft. In the end, the only rat he even heard was Mouse, whose soft voice called from up ahead: “Hatch.”
Sudden light laid siege to Jerl’s eyes as Whisker lit a magestone, even though he kept it dim. Then there was splashing, the sound of something heavy being pushed aside with a grunt of effort. More splashing and ripples as Mouse climbed out of the aqueduct, followed by Whisker, Ju-Wi, Imdura…
Mouse took Jerl’s hand and helped him stand with a grunt of effort. “Winter’s tits, you’re heavy. Fuck do they feed you where you’re from?”
“Sheep, mostly,” Jerl rumbled, truthfully. He felt oddly light-headed and off-balance somehow, not to mention freezing cold, numb-fingered and full-body sore from holding himself still the whole way with a full chest of air (or else he’d sink), but he shook it off as best he could and squatted down to help Derghan out of the hole, then Amir. Sinikka sprang out of the aqueduct without any help, looking mostly as though she’d just taken a refreshing nap.
“You okay?” she asked him.
“I really hope I never have to do that again.”
She patted him reassuringly on the arm “Take it from one who knows, drowning’s not that bad a way to go. It sounds worse than it is, nay?” She flashed a puckish little smile at Jerl’s expression, then darted past him to listen at the door.
They were in a wine cellar, Jerl realized. The air smelled of dust and oak, and as his eyes adjusted to there being light to see by, he could make out a wall of little diamond alcoves, each one home to a bottle.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Amir took out a magestone, drew all the water out his clothes with a grunt of magical effort, and carefully tossed the resulting liquid ball back into the aqueduct. That done, he picked a bottle at random and inspected it.
“Hmm. Sangiovese Urstoine, five-fourteen,” he commented, approvingly. “Good choice.”
Derghan, who looked just about as miserable as Jerl had ever seen a man, gave Amir a disbelieving stare while wringing cold water from his beard. “Really?” he asked. “Is the sort of wine the bugger drinks really what’s on your mind?”
“It would be a dreadful waste for a man like him to drink bad wine, don't you think?” Amir retorted. he thrust a stone in Jerl’s direction, and Jerl felt a moment of uncomfortable suction as all the water flowed out of his hair and clothing to condense into a fat drop the size of a melon above Amir’s palm. Useful spell, that…though, he had to lick his palate a few times to dispel a sudden case of dry mouth.
“Valkyr’s arse, you’re a weird one sometimes…” Derghan grumbled, stood with a groan of effort, and started unwrapping the oilcloth bag with their weapons in it. “Moment of truth…”
They checked the guns over while Amir and Imdura did the rounds and dried them off. By a miracle of good planning, the weapons were perfectly dry, and Jerl holstered his pistols just as there was a click from the lock.
Ju-Wi beamed triumphantly at them. “Good wine, cheap locks,” she said as she squirted a little oil on the hinges. “Good to know he don't spend big on everything...”
“They won't all be cheap.” Whisker gently reminded her. “This is just the wine cellar after all. We all dry and ready?”
“Ready,” Jerl confirmed. Sin and Derghan nodded, Amir gave a thumbs-up.
“Outstanding.” Whisker drew his own hand crossbow and stepped up to the door. “Lights out, and silence from now on.”
The last thing Jerl saw before the room became just as dark as the aqueduct was Mouse pressing his ear to the wood. After a few seconds, a crack of the faintest light appeared as he pushed the door open and followed his weapon through, around and behind. His silhouette paused to be sure of the corridor outside, then beckoned them forward.
The Street Rats certainly knew their business: they moved as stealthily as shades, flitting along in near-perfect silence. Sin was right behind them, her own bare feet making nary a sound.
Jerl, meanwhile, felt lumbering and lubberly. Like most airshipmen he favored soft-soled grippy shoes for sure footing on the deck and up the rigging, but still each of his own footsteps seemed to him like it must be echoing throughout the stone cellars, but none of the Rats so much as glanced at him.
The pattern of move-pause-listen-move repeated down the length of the next corridor, and the one after, and Jerl had to shake his head as he considered just how big the cellars alone were. As they neared the third corner, Whisker raised a hand, palm turned towards the wall, and waved them to hug it. It wasn't immediately clear why, until a young woman trotted past them carrying a laundry basket.
She didn’t notice them, despite Jerl being quite sure his heart was about to smash its way through his ribcage. He held his breath and willed himself to be invisible as the maid carried on her way.
The room she’d emerged from appeared to be a dormitory, with bunks full of slumbering faithful. Easily resolved: Imdura locked the door on the sleeping Oneists with a little telekinetic magic, packed the lock with some kind of resin to keep them locked in, and after that the stairs to the mansion's ground floor beckoned.
So far, so good. But also a sign of things to come, and a confirmation of something that had worried Jerl since he’d first turned his thoughts to this heist.
Jerl was a firmly working class man, from a working class family. The Rosehip Inn had been in his family for generations, and he’d grown up helping with the endless chores involved in keeping the place running. Inns on the Tredmothfa, the ancient elf-built road (or rather, human slave-built on the elves’ orders) that ran the length of Cantre duchy along Garanhir’s leading edge, never slept. Even in the very dead of night, there were guests who needed service, hearths that needed fuel, sheets that needed laundering, vegetables to chop, firewood to split, horses to feed. Jerl had grown up trotting around after his sisters and cousins, carrying baskets and boxes in the dead of night until he graduated to ever-bigger, ever-heavier work.
Clearly the Oneist manor had a similar rota of nocturnal chores. Some part of him had dared to fantasize it was just a big house and all the occupants would be sound asleep in their beds, but no. There were maids and servants abroad, presumably Oneists themselves and linked by Civorage’s mind-chains.
A perfect alarm, in other words. The moment any of them spotted the intruders, or was knocked unconscious or slain would be the moment every Oneist in the manor realized they were there and came gunning for them. And that door wouldn’t hold the ones sleeping downstairs for long…
Thank the Crowns for carpet. The mansion’s ground floor was built to impress, with carpeting so thick, even Jerl’s unpracticed feet made nary a noise.
At Whisker’s gesture, Sin took point. She bowed her head, listened intently a moment, then slipped round the corner and—
Swish.
—she was at the far end of the corridor, tucked up behind a large, dolorously ticking clock. She counted down on her fingers, three, two, one…and beckoned them forward as the clock began to chime.
Under the cover of its tune and four bells, they slipped into a side room rather than linger vulnerably in the corridor. Ju-Wi was the last in, and in her hands the door closed in perfect silence, only to lock a moment later under Imdura’s subtle magic.
Jerl looked around the room as Mouse and Whisker ghosted to the windows and checked outside. Suddenly, they were back in familiar territory: this was a navigator’s study. A large chart of Alakbir above the fireplace, several more rolled up in a pigeonhole shelf…he nearly let out a whistle when he looked at the table in the middle of the space, though. Its lacquered surface was an exquisitely done chart of the Unbroken Earthmote that must have cost a fortune.
His eye, however, was drawn to a troubling paper half-curled on the near corner.
Cavalier Queen:
* Hull: Antage-style gull merchantman, 220 tons
* Bag and sails: cover retained bullet bag, no beak, 3 compartments, gaff-rigged
* Engines: Refit, twin Keeghan & Sons Model G
* NF on crew, expect course to meet
* DTOD 9.6.3.2.05::08.10, WOD T4 B2 U5
Below that, somebody had scribbled a few complicated calculations, then circled the result: “ETA 9.6.3.6.4 not earlier than 18th bell.”
We made better time than they expected, Jerl realized, with a small surge of pride. The Queen had always run a little faster than the math said she ought.
“So far so good,” Whisker commented, breaking silence as he turned away from the window.
“Stairs are gonna be the hard part,” Sin opined. “I heard people out in the atrium…”
“Aye. We’re not takin’ the stairs.” Whisker unlatched the window and raised it. “Out you go. Put that elf-magic to use.”
Sin paused, then grinned and nodded. “Right.”
She was out the window in a flash, and despite the tension crawling in his spine Jerl couldn’t hold back a smile at the speed and precision with which she turned and scurried up the mansion’s outside wall, her palms and bare feet sticking to the stone like a gecko.
His smile faded when she didn’t come back immediately. But, on the other hand…there was no shouting, no sounds of gunfire, no obvious signs of violence. Not even any footsteps. How long did it take to peep through all those upstairs windows? A couple of minutes. She hadn’t been gone a couple minutes yet…
His hand fidgeted on his pistol. He had no premonition of danger, at least. No fore-warning memory of anything being—
He damn near jumped out of his skin when Sinikka swept back in through the window with nary a whisper of cloth. She pointed upwards and to her right. “Third one over, that way. Right in the middle, where the wall curves outward.”
“Nice.” Whisker gave Jerl and crew a calculating look. “Time to see if you airship types are as good at climbing as I heard.”
Jerl loved climbing. He’d take it over swimming any day; many made it seem so easy, but for him, the frantic struggle against drowning was a battle he wasn’t fond of. Not at all. Climbing, though? Shit, he’d been hauling himself up and across weather-whipped ropes and rigging for over twenty years. No better way to put some strength on a boy! Feed a lad lots of mutton and corn, set him to rigging work on an airship…
And the outside of the mansion may as well have been a lawn. He was out through the window and up the wall in a trice. It wasn’t even that challenging: the stones were big and wide enough apart for him to fit his fingertips between, and each of the upstairs windows had cast iron balconets.
A good thing he’d worn his soft rigger’s shoes—more moccasins, really. They were quiet and they were perfect for jobs like this. Good to know he’d have a future as a second-storey burglar, if he ever needed it…
Derghan, as always, needed a bit more help. He spent his time below decks working on the engines, so, not surprising he was more lubberly aloft. Same went for Amir, though Amir was feather-light and skinny enough to have an easier ascent.
The third window over was dark, but its curtains drawn back, and when Imdura worked his lock-magic again to open the latch from the wrong side of the glass, the frame slid easily upwards. Civorage certainly hadn’t spared expense in the mansion’s construction.
Nor, for that matter, in his study.
The centerpiece was an orrery, ten feet tall or more and framed by stairs and walkway so that anyone using it could get up and around it to study the eartmotes’ positions from any angle. Why the Oneists needed their own and couldn’t just use the navigator’s almanac, Jerl didn’t know…
Fuck, it was probably just a pure vanity piece. He was pretty sure all those floor-to-ceiling shelves held more books than a man could reasonably have read in a lifetime, let alone the few years since this mansion was first built. All that gilt and expensive wrought iron meant the study looked more like a museum than a working room.
Which it was, of course. A museum to Nils Civorage. The man’s sheer ego mean there was a portrait of himself hanging over the fireplace, and another painting above the desk depicted the five ships of the infamous Beacon Mine expedition, setting down in the snow. There was a mannequin in a glass case wearing the hat, coat and scarf Civorage had worn on that day, and a tiny model of the Make Your Own Fortune in a bottle.
All was neat and orderly and perfect, dusted and polished til it sparkled, filed and organized away…except for one table, a low round one between two leather couches. It was littered with letters, and a pen left sloppily in its inkwell.
Mouse alighted next to Jerl and surveyed the room with a scowl. “Alright…there.” He darted across the room, touched one of the smaller painting’s frame, and stood back as it swung aside to reveal a safe.
He flashed Jerl a grin. “Always check the wall fastenings.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jerl confirmed.
Whisker joined his son. “So. A wall safe. You think it’s in there?”
“Unless he’s done something truly elaborate. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Eh. I’m getting antsy. Feel like we should be going before this turns wrong on us. Imdura?”
The Prathar mage nodded, and was at the safe in an instant. He ran his fingers over it, shut his eyes and frowned hard while drawing a fresh magestone from his pocket. Jerl watched beads of sweat start to prickle on his skin.
“…Damn.”
“Problem?”
“Too complicated. I can’t…I can’t keep all the little pieces in my mind at once.” Imdura grit his teeth for one last surge of effort, then stepped back, defeated. “This box is meant to be indestructible, right? Maybe we can—”
The words “seventeen, forty-four, twenty-six, twenty-seven, nine,” tripped out of Jerl’s mouth on a wave of deja-vu, premonition and memory.
There was a long moment of silence. Then Mouse blinked, turned to the safe, and started twisting the dial. The silence was almost choking, and seemed to close in a little tighter with each subtle click as he twisted left, then right, then left, then all the way around right, then back…
Clunk.
“Fuck…” Ju-Wi whispered as the safe swung open. “Up until right now, I still had my doubts about you…”
“As did I,” a new voice spoke. As one, everyone wheeled, drew weapons, aimed…but then a wave of sheer willpower washed across them and one by one their blades and weapons lowered as though too heavy for the hands that held them.
The mannequin in the glass display case stepped down, pushed the door open, and strolled out among them with its hands tucked companionably behind its back. It was a young man, Jerl realized. The lad was maybe fifteen or sixteen, disguised behind a fabric outer that hid his face and arms and made him look for all the world like the dummy he’d been pretending to be.
But that easy, confident strolling gait was all too familiar. He’d seen it before, at the hag elves’ ritual. And he cursed himself for not imagining this possibility.
The lad turned his masked face Jerl’s way at last, and Jerl swayed as a mind empowered by Mind itself buffeted him. The door opened and armed men stormed in to surround them.
And from behind his puppet’s face, Nils Civorage smiled in welcome.
----------------------------------------
INTERLUDE: DUCAL PALACE, AULDENHEIGH
Capitol of the Garanhir Baronies, Enerlend, Garanhir Earthmote, the World-Sphere of Eärrach
09.05.15.11.11
I was expecting less.
The Duchess of Enerlend was a girl, to be sure. Far too fresh-faced and wide-eyed to be deemed a woman yet. Motherhood had not yet marked her and she was, in Thaighn Saoirse Crow-Sight’s estimation, much too perfectly turned out. Oh, she was doing well enough at playing her regal role, but she’d yet to tap into the well of true charisma. Clothing and accessories, no matter how assiduously chosen, were no substitute.
Then again, Garanhir-Folk were like that. Took themselves much too seriously, prettied and primped and perfumed themselves. Duchess Ellaenie, at first glance, seemed to defy that trend not at all. Even the magestone around her neck was a pretty jewel and a statement of money. By rights, she ought to be confirming every impatient thought Saoirse had ever held of the Garanese.
But the girl was undeniably witch-touched. Those big, pretty, olive green eyes had known terrible loss, and found a source of steel in it. Fascinating.
She felt a touch of psychic amusement from her traveling companion. She was the one this Lord Drevin had written to, after all. And it was on her request that Saoirse was taking the deeply unusual step of traveling far from her Crae and visiting this young duchess. Nobody else could have asked it of her.
She wondered if the duchess knew just who had walked into her palace.
Not yet. But she will, soon.
As you say… Saoirse assessed the duchess some more. She was waiting patiently for them to approach down the long carpet.
Her companion’s amusement deepened. All these years of being consistently wrong about people, and you still haven’t learned.
Well then. This might just be as interesting as had been promised after all. Saoirse straightened her back, lifted her chin, and allowed the Garanese to have their pomp and pageantry at this meeting. She strode down the carpet to where the girl duchess awaited her and, when the time was right, bowed.
Not that this was any hardship or dismay. A thaighn should pay respect on visiting a fellow thaighn’s hall. “Your grace.”
“Your grace,” the duchess replied, and dropped a light curtsey. “Welcome to Auldenheigh, to Enerlend, and to Garanhir.”
“Thank you for receiving me,” Saoirse replied.
“You are most welcome. Though...I confess, I am confused as to the reason for your visit. When Lord Drevin wrote to a friend of his on my behalf, I did not imagine he meant yourself…” Her eyes flicked sideways to Saoirsee’s companion.
Saoirse found a smile. The girl did have sight. Not completely penetrating though, not yet. Somehow, Saoirse doubted the young duchess would have been so ducally composed if she’d seen completely through the skein...
“Lord Drevin wrote to my friend here, Calyah,” she said. Not a lie, technically. That was certainly the name she’d gone by throughout her time as Saoirse’s guest. “Which I consider a credit to the man, that he’s earned her friendship.”
Calyah smiled over the duchess’ shoulder at a short, balding man in fine but understated clothes, standing behind her and to her left. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
“And you as well, my lady,” Drevin replied, with a stiff bow.
That flicker of witch-sight showed itself again. Duchess Ellaenie watched the two exchange their words, gave Calyah a studious look, then stepped to one side while offering Saoirse her arm. “Shall we withdraw?” she asked.
She sees through me, Calyah mentioned.
Not right through. But I doubt it will come as a complete shock when we tell her the truth. Saoirse smiled and took the young duchess’ arm, allowing herself to be escorted. Out loud, she commented. “That’s a right fair magestone ye wear, duchess.”
“A gift from my good friend. I have no idea how I’ll repay it, yet.”
“Repaying a gift?” Saoirse tilted her head. “My ken o’ gifting is, there’s no expectation of repayment.”
“Perhaps we do things differently here.”
“So it would seem. ‘Tis a strange custom to me, but it hints the Enerlish are a generous folk,” Saoirse ventured, diplomatically.
“I like to believe generosity is one of my people’s virtues, yes. They have been most generous to me since my parents…passed.”
Were taken. There was agony behind that tiny pause.
“Aye. And ye have my condolences, Duchess. ‘Tis a heavy burden ye’ve taken on, and sooner than any could fairly ask of ye.”
“Thank you, Thaighn. I have been fortunate in my allies and advisors.”
Saoirse read much into that. On the face of it, Ellaenie’s comment was modest, gentle, gracious and politic. But this was a conversation between witches, even if the girl didn’t think of herself as one yet. There was a thorn under those petals: I am no fool—I heed good advice, and know when advice is good.
A rightly dangerous combination, in a woman with her authority.
“I am glad to hear it,” Saoirse replied aloud. They were nearly out of public eye, now. The slow, genteel pace they’d set had carried them down a long and portrait-bedecked hall: now, the handsome fellow in the military green jacket opened a door for them and stepped smartly aside. Lord Drevin was the last to enter: he closed the door behind him, then moved to the room’s fireplace where he leaned against the mantlepiece in an unconscious mirror of the portrait above his head.
Ellaenie’s lady-in-waiting helped her get those ridiculous skirts in order so she could sit, then bobbed a curtsey and vacated the room. Ellaenie took a moment to settle herself in her chair, then cocked her head at first Saoirse, then Calyah, then back to Saoirse.
“Now that we’re in private, if you’d rather dispense with the formalities…I am happy for you to call me by name, if you’ll let me do the same,” she said.
A burst of amusement from Calyah. Hah! She pre-empted you!
“Thank ye,” Saoirse relaxed a bit. “Titles and formality have their place, truly, but…”
“But we aren’t here to be overly polite to each other, are we?” Ellaenie sat forward. “Saoirse, I have a problem. There’s a magic at work in this city that I don’t understand, and it frightens me.”
“And you’re not the sort who frightens easy, are ye?”
“I like to think not,” Ellaenie agreed, then looked up at Lord Drevin. “Now, Gilber. I’ve let you have your fun and secrets, but I think it’s past time you told me exactly who your friend here is, and why when you wrote to her it piqued a thaighn’s interest.”
Lord Drevin chuckled, and straightened up. For all his dry, solemn appearance it was clear he had an appreciation for mischief.
“My liege lady, your grace Ellaenie, Duchess of Enerlend and Warden of the City of Auldenheigh…” he said, formally, “may I present to you the Herald Rheannach the Beloved, Witch-of-the-Mountains, Crownwife, known to the elves as Raksuul.”
The look on Ellaenie’s face was too much, and Saoirse couldn’t hold back the cackle that came up from inside her as the composed, confident duchess vanished entirely, replaced by a gawping girl. But who could blame her? Saoirse could well remember the day she’d realized just who the beautiful, blue-eyed guest in her hall was.
For her part, Rheannach was as graceful and warm as ever. “Please forgive my friends,” she said, and rose to her feet. “I think they enjoy the necessary secrecy a bit too much. Don’t you, Saoirse?”
“Ach, let an old woman have her fun,” Saoirse retorted, waving a hand. “Ye don’t just blurt out that yer old friend an’ mentor is a Herald.”
“I—” Ellaene was fighting with her skirts to scramble to her feet, but Rheannach put out a reassuring hand.
“Please. I’m not one for formality, Besides: I’m in your kingdom, your grace. And as you said…there’s a magic at work here to be concerned about.”
Ellaenie paused, then stood anyway, more calmly. “…Thank you. I just…I knew you had to be more than just the thaighn’s companion, but to actually meet a Herald is…”
“Rare. I know.” Rheannach’s piercing blue eyes creased in a brief reassuring smile, before becoming solemn again. “But your instincts serve you well. If Gilber’s report on this Church of the One and its magic is correct, then we may have very serious trouble brewing in the distance.”
“H-how serious?” Ellaenie asked, tentatively.
“Serious enough that if my suspicions pan out, it will greatly concern my husband.”
That got her attention. Even the commonfolk knew: one did not invoke such a thing lightly. For those in the Craft?
Unthinkable.
“But for the moment, that can wait,” Rheannach continued. “I think our first priority must be to sharpen your knowledge of the Craft.”
“Quite right,” Saoirse agreed. “Ye’ve the making of a witch, Ellaenie. That much has been plain from the second I laid eyes on ye.”
“A...witch? I’ve been studying magic, but—”
“Aye. Tome-magic. Workshop-magic. But ye have the makings for something far greater. Ye could dally with the Crowns themselves and become something more.”
“And our little coven has lacked for a Maiden in far too long,” Rheannach added. She glanced at Saoirse, and they exchanged a nod of mutual intent. “We’d like to invite you to take that role.”
Ellaenie did something sensible: she glanced at Lord Drevin. And Lord Drevin in turn did something even more sensible: he declined to advise her, with a small non-committal tilt of his head.
“I have…responsibilities,” Ellaenie said, carefully. “I serve millions of people.”
“And I serve tens of thousands,” Saoirse retorted. “Take it from me, ye will grow in your ability to do right by them. ‘Tis not neglect we are inviting you to.”
The first test. Could the girl be decisive?
Rheannach watched her for a second, and delivered a small nudge. “And…if I may. There are changes coming. Major changes, ones I believe would benefit from someone in your position having the fullness of the Craft. I know it is…much to ask. I know the risks better than most.”
“What risks?”
“Heartbreak. Pain. Perhaps death. All life’s dangers. You’ve already faced and overcome one of the worst, however.”
Saoirse said nothing. She watched Ellaenie’s face, and the thoughts behind it. Saw the understanding…and the decision. The resolve.
“…Tell me more.”
----------------------------------------
> Rheannach goes by many titles: Beloved Soul, First-Crone, Crownwife, Witch-Of-The-Mountains, and more. She is Eärrach’s greatest love and his only wife, wed to him since the First Day, though the marriage has often been tempestuous and fraught. She is known to spend long spans of time apart from her husband, walking among humankind (nearly exclusively among women) and sharing her secret knowledge. Crown and Herald alike decline to reveal whether their union has borne children. If it has, one can only imagine what power such a child would inherit.
> —Anoloa Nwodike, The Heralds
NILS CIVORAGE’S STUDY, ONEIST MANOR
Long Drop City, Ajhazra, Alakbir Earthmote, Sayf
09.06.03.06.05
Civorage’s mind was like an imminent storm, or a vast stone slab teetering overhead and threatening to come crashing down. Jerl could feel it bearing in on him from all angles. He hadn’t been anything like this last time…!
Or maybe he’d just had preferred to play rather than dominate, then. Whatever the truth, the pressure against Jerl’s mind now was immense, crushing, overwhelming. Around the room, Jerl’s companions lowered their weapons to the carpet, their expressions slack as though they were awestruck by the sight of something.
Civorage’s puppet turned and frowned at Jerl. “…Put those guns down.”
The command hit like a hammer blow. Jerl clenched his fists tight around his pistols’ grips. “Fuckin’…come here…and take ‘em yourself, you bastard.”
Even through a thin cloth mask and another man’s face, he saw the brief look of disbelief give way to fury. “I said—”
“I heard you the first time, fuckface.” Jerl willed his fingers to hold on. His head was pounding, but…but he could hold it. Somehow, he was afloat even while Civorage’s will raged around him like a flash flood.
There was a long, dangerous pause as Civorage’s puppet regarded him coldly. The pressure waxed and pounded in Jerl’s ears, but couldn’t break through.
Eventually, a sneer of understanding twisted the face behind the cloth. “…You opened the box. You must have.”
Jerl groaned. His mind was starting to fray at the edges. Sheer hostility held him together. “Saw you die, too. Y’…You squealed like a bitch.”
“Whichever word you claimed, it grants you protection. But not enough. I will peel you open, Jerl Holten. If I cannot have the Word from your hand, I will tear it from your mind. The rest of you: take him to the cellars.”
There was a long, silent paused. Nobody moved. Astonishment writ itself behind the puppet’s mask.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said—”
A new voice interrupted him: Mouse’s. “I think…it’s time for you…to shut up and leave us alone.”
Jerl turned. Mouse had forced himself to his feet, his face a mask of effort and pain. In his right hand, the box from the safe was alight, and open. The raw, mind-bending non-substance of the Word crawled up his arm as he looked Civorage’s puppet dead in the eye.
His mouth moved, and there was a sound that wasn’t a sound, a word that was far, far more than a mere utterance. An opposing flash-flood of willpower crashed into the torrent flowing from Civorage’s puppet with enough force to knock Jerl down to his knees, and leave everyone else in the room writhing on the floor in agony.
Then the pressure released, with an abruptness that left Jerl totally off-balance as though he’d been pushing against the wind as it died to nothing: Civorage’s puppet and all his Oneists had fainted.
Mouse gawped at him. “Holy shit. Holy fuck. I just, I—You’re all…there’s so much…!”
Jerl swept up to him and forced the box in his hands closed. “You spoke a Word of Creation.”
Mouse looked at him. The pressure was back, but this time it was different. This wasn’t an attempt to invade and pillage, this was…more like a plea for help. A need to know what ought be done.
“You can’t hold onto it all,” Jerl warned. “You’ll go as mad as that bastard. Keep only a little, something that fits you, something that’ll get us out of this mess. Let the rest go.”
“But what if—?!”
“Mouse. Look into my mind.”
Mouse did. The sensation of his awareness reaching in through the invitingly opened door was unlike anything Jerl could even describe, but then there was a sense of…withdrawal. And understanding. Mouse glanced back down at the box in his hand, then shut his eyes and turned his thoughts inward for a moment.
Then he was calm again. he took a deep breath, nodded. “Right…Right. Huntsman’s cock.”
“Right?” Jerl agreed. “What did you do? How did you do it?”
“I…I’d just grabbed the box when he made his big entrance. The second I touched it, it—it opened. And then I could see it, see what he’d done to them and I…” Mouse paused, and flapped an expressively hopeless hand. “I broke the circle.”
“All of it?”
“Just…them.” Mouse waved a hand at the others. Their friends were clambering back to their feet with a series of groans: the Oneists were still out cold. “No way I coulda done the whole thing. He’s much too strong…we need to go!”
Jerl didn’t need telling twice: There was shouting from elsewhere in the building. And out in the gardens, too. “Keep that safe,” he advised, and darted to Sinikka’s side.
She waved him off. “I’m up. Fuck me upside-down…”
“You don’t look up. Get moving!”
Sin cursed again, but lurched to her feet, shaking her head violently to clear it. “What happened?”
“Tell you later if we survive this. Get ‘em going!”
Amir was already upright. He dabbed at his lip where blood was leaking from his nostril, and shook himself just like Sin had. “…I’ve never felt a will like that. Not even Yngmir’s. How did you stand it?”
“Word protected me. Same goes for Mouse. Hold that door shut!”
Amir nodded, turned, thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out a magestone. He thrust it toward the door just as it smashed open, forcing it back into place with a crunching force that clearly knocked somebody flying.
Jerl looked around. Derghan had lumbered to the window, only to jerk back sharply as bullets splintered the glass. He spat a curse, pulled the bolt on his rifle, and returned fire. “There’s a good six or seven out that way!” He called, worked the bolt again, fired and corrected himself. “Five!”
“Still our best way out of here!” Whisker stumbled over to join him, pistols in hand. He flinched aside as a bullet nearly flayed the tip of his ear, then squeezed off several shots into the gardens below. The firepower let up a little.
“Sin!”
She was at the window in a flash. “Ready!”
“Pile it on! Pin ‘em down!”
Guns along the windows, mages at the doors. Jerl smashed out the pane with his pistol, cleared the glass away, and sent a cultist cowering behind the statuary in a rain of stone chips. Beside him, Ju-Wi brought a lever-action carbine to the fight, and put it to work.
Sin went out the window, landed cat-like on the gravel path below, and blurred. There was a white-grey streak across the lawn, and then the oneists were all collapsing in unison.
She waved up at them. “Clear!”
Jerl swatted Derghan hard on the shoulder. “Go!”
Derghan didn’t need telling twice. He shouldered through the window, dropped to the gravel path below, rolled through the landing and then scrambled into the scant cover of an ornamental wall.
“Holten! I need a hand!”
Jerl turned. Ju-Wi had moved to his side. “Short legs!” she explained.
Jerl nodded and turned his back for her. “Climb on!”
There was a heavy slam on the door as she scaled him, and the wood splintered. Amir grunted with effort as he drew a fresh magestone. “Clear out sharpish, please…” he warned.
“Here!” Ju-Wi dug out a paper-wrapped bundle from a bag at her waist and tossed it down by the door. It had a length of fuse.
“Perfect!” Imdura agreed. “Now, out!”
Jerl nodded, and barged through the window. He twisted, grabbed the sill, dropped down, kicked off the wall, staggered a bit under Ju-Wi’s extra weight but kept his footing well enough to storm across the gravel path, vault the wall and land on the lawn on the far side. There was a sharp crack as a bullet from inside the manor house missed him by a foot or two.
“Shit!” Ju-Wi dropped off his back, got into cover and returned fire.
That just left the mages, and they wasted no time. In fact, they took no caution at all, but leapt from the study windows at a dead run.
The reason why became apparent an instant later. There was a heavy splintering crash as the door failed behind them, shouting as Oneists barged into the room in pursuit…
Ju-Wi’s powder charge blew out what little unbroken glass was still up there, leaving behind billowing smoke, the orange flicker of flames, and the shrieks of those few wounded Oneists who’d survived the blast.
“Nice!” Whisker called. He took aim, shot, then waved vigorously. “Come on! We can get out over the wall, this wa—”
Something hit him in the chest. He fell back onto his rump, looked down, and frowned at the red stain spreading across his shirt, as though he couldn’t quite believe it was there.
“Dad!” Mouse tried to break cover to reach him, only for a storm of rifle fire to pin him in place. Jerl flung himself flat as bullets cracked and spat overhead, killing-close. Mouse tried again, tears streaming down his face, then turned toward the mansion and shrieked.
“LEAVE US ALONE!”
Jerl heard it as much in his soul as in his ears. Anguished, desperate command backed up by the power of a Word of Creation cracked out like a whip and seemed to echo in ways impossible for mere sound: *The shooting instantly stopped.
None of them were foolish enough to let such an opportunity go to waste. Derghan and Jerl grabbed Whisker under his arms, hoisted him between them, put their heads down and ran. Up ahead, Sin reached the boundary wall and sprang over it like a flea, paused on the top to secure a rope and grappling hook, then dropped back down to give Ju-Wi and Amir a boost.
None of the Oneists seemed to come to their senses. There was no shouting, the shooting didn’t resume. The sheer quiet made Jerl’s spine crawl as though a bullet might find him too, at any moment. But…no. Even though it took them a long few seconds to maneuver Whisker over the wall, silence reigned.
Jerl was next over. He heaved himself up the rope, vaulted the top and dropped down to an all-too-familiar scene. Whisker was propped against the wall, pale and glaze-eyed with blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, while Imdura and Amir combined their efforts to save him. They’d torn his shirt open, and the air above his skin was seething with healing magic.
“How bad?” Jerl asked, dropping down next to them.
The only reply he got was a sharp “Shh!” The mages’ brows were damp with effort.
Well…that was in its way encouraging. Amir knew a mortal wound when he saw one, so if he was putting in this much effort…
Mouse was holding his father’s hand tight. He looked up at Jerl, pleading, but Jerl could only shrug. He hadn’t foreseen this. He didn’t know how it would go.
“How long do we have before whatever Mouse did wears off?” Sin asked.
“I dunno.”
“’That’s how long we have before they come looking for us.”
“Yeah. I dunno.”
“Great.” Sin sniffed grimly, and turned a sharp eye down the street. “…What’s our next move, assuming they don’t?”
Jerl at least did know that one. “We contact the crew, get to the Queen. We use Mouse’s new power to get the dockmaster to let us go. And we find somewhere else to be.”
“Got anywhere particular in mind?”
“Sin, I’m flying by feel here. I don’t have a premonition. Right now…all I know is, we can’t stay on Alakbir. We need to go somewhere else.”
“Thundering Hall?” Derghan suggested. “From what you said of last time…”
“No.” Jerl shook his head. That didn’t feel like the right answer. “No…no, we need somewhere the Oneists don’t have any eyes. Somewhere there’s no circles or preachers.”
“And it needs to be somewhere Whisker can rest,” Amir added. He stood and wiped blood of his hands.
“He’ll live?” Derghan checked. “Thought for sure he was fucked.”
“The bullet passed through his lung and clear out the other side. It’s ugly, but survivable…with the efforts of a healer and some good fortune, if he doesn’t get an infection.”
“I have an idea, then,” Sin declared. She looked to Amir. “How far is Ilẹyede earthmote?”
Amir closed his eyes and calculated “About…sixty days?”
“Damn. We don’t have enough provisions,” Sin scowled. “And can Whisker handle a voyage that long?”
“Honestly, with Imdura and me looking after him, the Queen would be even safer for him than a hospital.”
“As for provisions, I have some ideas,” Jerl said. “But why Ilẹyede? What’s out there?”
The Rüwyrdan Tribe.”
Jerl frowned, trying to recall if he’d ever heard that name. The last time he’d sailed to Ilẹyede he’d been…what, sixteen? Though it had been a memorable trip. “I don’t know ‘em,” he admitted.
“Pyrfey. One of the four tribes I’m a sibling of. They know me well, they’ll help. They’ll want to help.”
Amir’s lips were moving as he muttered to himself. “Rü…wyrd…’Endless Lament?’”
“Something like that.”
Jerl met Sin’s eye. “…Chal-an-chal,” he guessed.
She nodded grimly. “Yes.”
“Right. That feels right. We’ll do that. Ilẹyede earthmote, you say.”
Sin nodded. “They move around the Oho’anga grasslands, maybe the Ansai river delta if it’s in flood, or near Mehoom if they’re trading for metal. Don’t worry, they leave markers for returning siblings. We’ll find them quick enough.”
“Right.” Jerl glanced over his shoulder. Derghan and Imdura were doing their best to try and lift Whisker safely. They needed a litter. They needed…
They needed direction and leadership. And that was the captain’s job.
“Alright. You two round up the lads. Just tell ‘em from me it’s an emergency and I’ll explain when we’re away. Go cautious, and stay away from any Oneists.”
They nodded, and vanished.
“Mouse! Ju-Wi! You two know these streets, scrounge up something we can use for a litter. Derghan, Imdura, we stay here and we guard Whisker.”
Mouse looked like he wanted to argue, and Jerl felt the feather-touch of his new power as he probed, watched, heard in ways that had nothing to do with the body’s normal senses. Whatever he saw, though, gave him pause, and then he nodded. He tapped Ju-Wi on the arm, and the two of them slipped away among the stables and storehouses to go find something useful
Jerl crouched down next to Whisker. “How’re you feeling?”
Whisker tried to laugh bitterly, coughed once, and groaned. “Like I got…shot through the fuckin’ lung…” he rasped, in a voice that sounded like a mouthful of bloody gravel. “Thank fuck…for healers…right?”
“You’re welcome,” Imdura replied. His expression was worried for his friend, but not grief-struck. That boded well.
“You’re not out the woods yet,” Derghan pointed out, tactlessly.
“Oh, you’ve just got the….fuckin’ perfect bedside manner…ain’tcha?” Whisker coughed again, glanced away in the direction Mouse had gone, then gripped Jerl’s shoulder firmly. “Listen well. I’m gonna…fuckin’ weather this. But…if I don’t. You’re the only other one Mouse can…can look to, now. You’re the only…other one who knows what…havin’ one of those Words in your…in ‘yer head is like. So you look after him. He’s…more vulnerable than you’d think. You hear?”
Jerl gripped his hand in return. “I hear.”
“Now shut up and spare that lung,” Imdura told him.
Whisker grunted, winced, and fell silent. Jerl turned and for the first time since they’d made it over the wall he took a moment to really look at where they were, rather than the cursory assessment he’d given it for Oneist gunmen.
Rich houses had poor buildings around them, it seemed. Just nice enough to not uglify the surrounding manors by contrast, but definitely built to an inferior standard. Coach-houses, stables, storerooms, groundskeeper’s sheds, that sort of thing. All, for the moment, silent.
All was silent, in fact. A gun battle in Caverntown ought to have brought the Clear Skies guards running. Jerl would have expected to hear whistles, bells and shouting by now. But instead…silence. That was entirely wrong enough to make Jerl itch. Surely the city authorities wouldn’t just…just…
Just leave them alone.
…Oh, shit.
Mouse had power now, still had the Word on his person. And in extremis, he’d screamed a command with the full, psychic weight of pure Mind behind it. When Jerl had spoken Time, he’d reeled all the worlds back to a particular point as easily as winding in a cable. He’d embarked on a different path, and brought his friends back from the dead in doing so. And he’d been careful and deliberate in his choice and application. But Mouse…had not. Mouse had been desperate.
Just how far might that scream have carried?
Something tickled in Jerl’s mind. Some kind of future-sight, or premonition, told him that it had carried a long, long way indeed. Hopefully for the best, but…
But no. There’d be ramifications to this. Unwelcome ones. He just knew it.
Mouse and Ju-Wi returned, armed with a couple of gardening tools, a length of rope, and a tarpaulin. It was the work of only a minute or two to lash them together into something they could carry Whisker away on. He groaned in pain as they moved him onto it, but nothing worse than that. Jerl took one side of the litter, Derghan took the other…
And though they passed dozens of people in the streets, not a single one so much as glanced at them.