Caspar was already regretting his words by the time he reached the Principia. What had he been thinking, burning bridges with a superior officer like that? What if all he got today was a pat on the head and firm handshake for his efforts? He’d be in the soup then, and no mistake. Not for the first time Caspar wished he had the will to remain teetotaler for the rest of his life. It was all Venzini’s fault, really. Mother was right, he was a bad influence. Now he would squander the very chance he’d been waiting for all his life by showing up drunk as a skunk.
But what was done was done, and as the carriage rolled up to the gilded gates Caspar looked up at the smooth walls of imposing edifice and felt rather like the ant who beholds the boot that is poised to crush her.
The center of power in the city, the Principia had been carved into a narrow mesa of rock, its flanks studded with watchhouses and towers with alabaster minarets enhaloed by the noonday sun.
Legend had it that the First Ark had moored itself on the top of the mesa’s flat head, long epochs ago during the Rediscovery. That mighty vessel’s ribs and hull had been pried apart and now formed the sleek sides of the Principia’s central donjon, the menacing obsidian column they called the Spike. The lifting platform on the side of the Spike was reserved for members of Stahlka and foreign dignitaries. Caspar being neither of these, he was compelled to take the stairs.
Climbing fifteen hundred steps while reeling drunk was no mean feat, but Caspar lightened his load by emptying out the contents of his stomach on the balustrade once or twice, to the disgusted looks of the clerks passing by on their way down. Caspar wiped his mouth with a kerchief and pressed on, spurred by the knowledge that today he would receive his just deserts.
How right he was.
At the top of the landing a pair of halberdiers in bright orange vests crossed their polearms to bar his way.
“State your business,” one said in imperious tones.
Caspar would have made an equally haughty reply, but he was still out of breath from the climb and contented himself by holding up the wax-sealed missive. The halberdiers sprang aside instantly with a clang of steel-shod boots and Caspar was admitted into the presence of such grandeur and pomp that he could scarcely have imagined.
His feet trod on carpets of rich ermine and sablecat, while his nostrils floated in a cloud of perfumes, musk and oils as to make even a spice merchant giddy. Liveried servants pranced about like lordlings, bedecked in silken tunics and fur lined cloaks, their arms filled with rolls of parchment and vellum. The climb had sobered Caspar enough to realize the hot water he was in and he surreptitiously discarded his soiled kerchief into the nearest potted plant.
A stone-faced secretary found him through some miracle of telepathy and he was led into a expansive foyer dominated by a pair of beechwood doors wide enough to admit a bull elephant.
“Enter,” said a voice like the rasp of a pumice stone on parchment. And as the doors swung open Caspar realized who had just spoken, and blanched visibly.
Quartermaster General Heid vin Clausewin sat alone behind a small writing desk dwarfed by an enormous brass globe that spun incessantly through some hidden means of artifice. Yet the Quartermaster had an undeniable presence, a gravitas that made Caspar’s knees buckle slightly as he drew near. He disguised his weakening by dipping into a low bow. The presence he felt was physical as well as stately; he was in the vicinity of a fully developed thaumaturge. The sunlight glinted off his bald pate forehead as he bent over the sheaves of paperwork spilled across his mahogany writing desk, a pince-nez balanced on the tip of his vanishingly tiny nose. Like all truly venerable ancients the Rector was outgrowing his extraneous facial features, his cheekbones narrowing into thin ridges of bone as his cranium elongated to accommodate his burgeoning powers.
“Good afternoon. Name and rank?” Heid said without looking up from his sheaf of papers.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Caspar snapped a groggy salute, “Deputy-Commissar Caspar vin Destria, reporting as instructed.”
“Ah, vin Destria. Yes, I’ve been looking forward to your visit.”
“Indeed, sir?” Caspar wasn’t sure if that statement was meant to be encouraging.
“I’d like you to answer a few questions, if you can.”
Heid rose stiffly from his chair, the motion accompanied with the creak and pop of his joints. His spine had long ago crumpled into a painful arch to support the doddering weight of his head.
“Certainly, sir.”
“How long have you been in the service?”
“Including my time at the academy? Ten years, sir. Seven as junior administrative clerk at the old headquarters.”
Heid crept around the writing desk until he came to the globe set into the corner of the room, then brushed the lumenator hanging round his neck. With a shrug of his quintessence he gave the ponderous machine a nudge, gears shrieking as tons of brass and balsam wood rolled on its axis. Caspar couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the careless display of power. If field of lumonics was the absolute pinnacle of the High Art, then telekinesis formed the lofty tip of the pyramid. The most Caspar had ever managed were petty tricks of the light, and only within the visible range, at that. To reach out to the physical world with those same intangible forces, why, that was akin to touching the gods. Heid turned his back to them and gazed at the whirling surface of the globe before asking:
“Then let’s see if anything managed to penetrate that skull of yours in all that time. Tell me, vin Destria, how did we acquire all this?”
Heid brought the globe to a grinding halt and set the tip of his long fingernail to rest on the polity which dominated the central landmass, its borders chased in fine silver brushstrokes: the League of Light.
“Through an overwhelming advantage in absolutely everything,” Caspar chuckled, relieved at fielding such an easy question, “Our mastery of the High Arts meant that we quickly outstripped the petty human fiefdoms in both thaumaturgy and material sophistication. As for the gnomish collectives and the ogre chuundurs, their civilizations were already riven with ideological conflicts that stopped them from taking unified action. The other races posed even less of a threat. To quote Searitch the Cindermage: we had merely to conceive of victory, and it was all but won.”
“Impressive. You regurgitate state propaganda almost as well as a native,” Heid swiveled his head to enjoy the scandalized look on Caspar’s face before continuing: “When we arrived on this plane of existence our advantages in thaumaturgy were considerable, yes. But we also had to adapt to a world that was hostile to us in every way imaginable. Even as the firstborn conquered the heartland their numbers dwindled from disease and crippling infertility. Meanwhile, our enemies were quick to adapt. Proud Encaladon and their fleets of dragonauts, the Orcish Onslaught and the recent crisis with the Iron Axiom are a few instances where the contest actually became even. Few people know just how often we came to the precipice of defeat. What was the deciding factor in our eventual victory?”
“The question isn’t fair,” Caspar complained, “You can’t just boil history down to its fundamentals like some alchemical formula. Mortal decisions defy prediction,” Caspar chimed in, looking to save face.
“I’m sure they defy your predictive powers Caspar, considering you placed bottom in psionics two semesters running,” Heid sniffed, “Yes, I know your academic record, though it is of little importance to me. But those of us who paid attention in class know that emotions and thought are merely emanations like those found in other fields of thaumaturgy, and can likewise be manipulated.”
“Yes, but that ability breaks down on the larger scale,” argued Caspar, growing interested in the discussion, “Individual minds are difficult enough to influence with any degree of certainty. Trying to exert that kind of control over anything bigger than a village sewing circle is to invite bloody anarchy.”
“Is it?” Heid purred and stroked his wispy beard, sounding pleased at the challenge Venzini had posed, “The League is a vast conglomeration of species, nationalities and religions whose members harbor almost as much as hatred towards each other as they do for their elfin benefactors, yet we have held it together for over a millennium. Yet so far as I know, old grannies putting out each other’s eyes with darning needles is the exception rather than the rule. Why is that?”
Caspar nodded slowly as understanding dawned.
“Culture hegemony,” he said at last, and Heid gave a satisfied nod.
“Indeed,” Heid said, “Before we came along there was nothing here but tribes of knuckledraggers who liked nothing more than to stuff each other full of pointy objects. The only thing that sets us apart from our subjects is that we enact the will of the Lustrate without question! To our people, no offering is too great, no compromise too small on the path to transcendence!”
The Quartermaster General was aflame with passion. Caspar knew better than to interrupt someone when they got in this state and silently waited out the storm.
“When the legions of Noor Hawza Beydir spilled into the heartland in all their limitless fury,” Heid frothed, “who was it that put every settlement in their path to the torch so that the orcs limped back eastwards with naught to show for it but ashes in their mouths?”
Heid raised his arms and grimaced as if he were grappling with some invisible enemy, throbbing purple veins standing out on the sides of his head.
“When the dragonauts annihilated our fleet off the Whiteshield Cliffs, who was it that refused to sign the armistice? Who was it that scaled those same heights two years later, after three more armadas had joined the first at the bottom of the channel? They reasoned, they bartered, they begged with countless offerings of peace, but we built a stairway of corpses up the Wyrmspire and choked them on their pride!”
“Discipline! Duty! Deference! These values define us. We are Ephalim. We are the inheritors of an empire which stretches from the wandering jungles of Qwindi to these spell-blighted steppes of Utregoth. The Lustrate dictates, the Ephalim listens, and we enact its will. How can tribalism and speciesism stand in the face of reason and will? We are building the City of the Gods here on this earth. A city with millions of citizens across the continents, and every one of them has their appointed place within the grand scheme. Even you!”
There was a sound like the oil hissing on a griddle as the Rector’s passion manifested in arcs of lightning, the boys taking an involuntary step back as all the fibers on the bearskin rug stood on end. Caspar felt his own hair prickling up and quickly smoothed it down with a crackle of static.
“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I don’t quite understand the purpose of this interview.”
“Are you hard of hearing or merely dense? I already told you; I want you to answer a few simple questions. The second of which is this: why did you come here?”
Caspar blinked.
“I was summoned,” he said, “I answered the call.”
“Yet that is not your ultimate motive. I grow tired of your dancing around the point. I have no tolerance for fools and liars. Now tell me which one of these you are so that I may dismiss you forthwith.”
Caspar took a moment to marshal his thoughts as they reeled before this unexpected assault.
“Neither,” Caspar finally said, “I am an officer in need of advancement. I am also sworn to serve the Queen and the powers of the land, not the least of which is you, Quartermaster.”
Had he gotten the man’s measure right? Heid spoke as one who valued total honesty, yet something told Caspar to hold back a little and keep up the show of deference.
“Advancement,” Heid murmured, “And you deserve this, do you? To be elevated above your peers? Why?”
“Because I’m a bloody hero and everyone seems to have forgotten it,” Caspar blurted out before he could stop himself. Heid leaned back and steepled his long fingers, a smile playing about his thin lips.
“So there we have it. You are resentful that your actions the other day escaped notice. Well, now you may rest assured that your qualities did not go unappreciated.”
“But sir, the papers,” said Caspar, “They make no mention of my role in the incident. They only pass the parcel of blame to the Commissariat.”
“What else are the papers be for?” Heid said as if genuinely puzzled by Caspar’s confusion, “We are not a popular branch of government, vin Destria, and those who control the editorial offices are always looking to do us harm.”
Caspar marveled at Heid’s honesty. It was well known that the other services hated the Commissariat’s growing power and influence. What had once been an office dedicated to the rationing of bullets, boots and bandages for the war effort had since morphed in the peacetime years into a behemoth which oversaw everything from racial relations and internal security. Indeed, that was why Mother had insisted that Caspar take up the silver-and-gold sundial. No other service held such promise for rapid promotion, since the demands of modern warfare had made the Commissariat into the most meritocratic organization in the League, where even the scion of a lesser house like the vin Destrias could make his fortune.
“Just a little pluck and courage,” Mother used to say in her letters, “And soon you’ll be sipping iced sherbets in the palatial gardens.”
It had only taken seven years to prove her right. Seven years of drudgery and toil, of tax audits and petty complaints to the Committee of Racial Relations, of agricultural output reports and the endless clickedy-clack of the abacus counting out the dreary days of his existence. All of this leading to the present moment that would make or break his entire career.
“The Ministry of Inquiries and the Lord Lieutenant of the Civil Militia are of the opinion that our branch is in need of some ‘humble pie’. I myself have never cared for that particular delicacy, but the events of the Victory Day parade have dealt a serious blow to our credibility. We need a show of force to correct our faults. We need results.”
“What kind of results?”
“Vylem Redmaine’s head on a spike, for starters,” Heid said simply.
Caspar’s eyes went as wide as saucers.
“Yes, you heard me right. And we have the means to do it.”
“How? He’s eluded capture for nigh on a decade.”
“I could tell you,” Heid teased, “But then you would have to disappear.”
His tone was light and playful but Caspar felt a chill run down his back all the same.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Oh, no,” Heid said, noticing the look on his face, “Not like that. I wouldn’t dream of doing that. We are in need of an officer who track him down and do the deed discretely.”
“Why me, sir?”
“Because you are a very sensitive young man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are a sensate. A highly perceptive thaumaturge, if not a powerful one. You managed to pick out the terranist assassins in the crowd while everyone else was distracted.”
Caspar had heard the term sensate before, of course, but never thought it could apply to him. He’d never placed that highly on the Nikolic scale, the measure of raw power that a thaumaturge could generate. Compared to someone like the Vestal or Heid vin Clausewin, his reserves of magicka were insignificant. Hells, he wasn’t even capable of telekinesis.
“It was an accident,” he confessed, and regretted it immediately.
“There are no accidents! Only facts!” Heid said impatiently, “And the fact is, their emanations were masked by thousands of other sources. Yet you sniffed them out. We have a need for special talent like that. We have a need for Deputy-Commissar Caspar vin Destria.”
“Who is ‘we’? I have a sense you’re not talking about the Commissariat, sir.”
Heid smiled thinly.
“See? I was right about you. Sharp as a tack.”
Heid went over to his window curtains and pulled the cord, drawing it shut. Seconds later Caspar felt a crackle in his eardrums as an immense flux took place in his quintessence. A line of lightning appeared in the air like a split seam on the side of a canvas tent, edges crackling as if being shaken by a strong wind. The line widened into a doorway and for an instant Caspar glimpsed a stairway of lights winding up through a maze of impossible geometries, forests of jagged black crystals jutting out from amidst the shattered ruins of an obelisk. He blinked and in the next moment a woman stepped through the crack.
She wore full brigandine armor lined with the latest arachnoweave bulletproofing. Her chestnut hair was done up in a tight bun, and a good thing too, since it kept her face in plain view.
And what a view it was. She was several years older than Caspar by his reckoning, a woman in the full bloom of youth, full lips shapely as the petals of an orchid and lightly tanned caramel skin. Caspar could’ve lost himself
“You called, guv’nor?” she asked Heid in the most delightfully common accent. Upon noticing Caspar she cocked a thumb over her shoulder and added, “Who’s the boy?”
“Caspar vin Destria, at your service,” Caspar said, swinging into an elegant bow. Ringer frowned.
“He don’t look like much,” she told Heid, looking dubious.
“He will suffice,” Heid said firmly, “Under your tutelage, Ringer, I’m sure he’ll prove a most able member of our circle.”
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Caspar interrupted, “But what exactly am I getting into?”
“An opportunity,” Heid brushed off the question, “Leave it at that for now. Ringer will brief you in the carriage on your way to the job. If you get the job.”
“The full briefing?” Ringer said in disbelief.
“Naturally. Oh, and one last thing. You will be working directly under me now, vin Destria. The job will entail a certain degree of stress, and I understand if you find the need to indulge in certain vices. Your predecessor was much the same. A certain Janis vin Gault. They say he hung himself. Pressures of the job and all that. Tragic.”
He must’ve been under considerable stress to hang himself with a fishing line, Caspar thought grimly. A guillotine would’ve achieved the same effect and been less messy overall. They had discovered Gault in his personal study, suspended by what remained of his neck from a light fixture only five feet above the floor. An abnormally tall man, even for a fullblood, Gault had needed to fold his knees to even fit under the godbloody thing at all. The mortician assigned to the case had concluded that he would’ve had to remain in that uncomfortable position for at least several minutes to finally asphyxiate, the fishing line sawing into his jugular all the while. A feat of incredible perseverance to be sure, but Galt had always been known for his iron will, having spent most of his career butting heads with the other Chiefs of Staff. As for the boot print found on the nape of Galt’s neck, the mortician could offer no explanation, suffering from an acute lack of imagination towards the end of his report.
If only necromancy weren’t seventeen different kinds of illegal, Caspar thought. He was sure that Galt’s shade would have some very interesting things to say. Alas, all the experts in that field dwelled in the Wasting and harbored an unhealthy appetite for the flesh of the living, which made them unavailable for consultation. In any case, Heid’s implication was clear.
“I shan’t touch another bottle on the job,” Caspar hastened to reassure him, his throat going dry as sandpaper, “You may depend on me. I shall not disappoint.”
“You had better not, vin Destria,” Heid swiveled his desk around to face the globe and gave it a spin with his powers, ““Now go down to the warehouses by the docks. There we shall see if your talents can be put to better use.”
#
A steady drizzle was falling out of the gloom overhead, dampening his hair and spirits alike. River barges trundled up the slow waters, teams of bargemen poling with all their might against the treacle-like consistency of the bottom sludge. On the islets near the center of the river floated clusters of aquatic farms, where herds of squiggums bellowed and flopped inside their pens, cephalopodic heads flapping hungrily at the boats on the water.
The warehouses squatted between the tanneries and squiggum farms, massive structures whose edges sagged below the water line like a fat man’s belly spilled over his belt. The landward side was enclosed by a high brick wall with a gatehouse. The latter was topped with a barbican complete with arrow slits and murder holes from which a man could drop boulders on the heads of unwanted guests. It seemed the merchant guilds were dead serious when it came to securing their goods. Caspar thought it was all quite paranoid until he got inside and ran straight into an entire platoon of Civil Militia.
They were loafing about the yard in that unmistakably shifty manner that they only adopted near crime scenes, their eyes firmly fixed to the toes of their boots while they all pretended to look busy. Caspar was waved on through to a long, narrow corridor with iron studded doors on either end. It was the only entrance leading into the warehouse proper. The outer door had a splash of red on it which he almost mistook for rust if he hadn’t touched it and come away with sticky fingers.
Blood. Caspar quickened his pace, feeling suddenly giddy. Further inside he found Ringer examining a twisted heap of pig iron rods and wooden splinters which had once formed the inner door. Beyond the threshold was a cavernous expanse where mountains of crates and barrels and sacks of grain were arranged in even rows, darkness filling the spaces between them.
“What’s the damage?” Caspar asked.
“Three stevedores nursing cracked skulls,” she replied with a toss of her dark curls, “And one of the merchant’s sellswords will be eating soup for the rest of his life.”
“No corpses? Interesting. A robbery, then. What were they after?”
“That’s the wrong question, ensign-commissar,” came a voice out of the darkness. It had a dry, papery quality to it that reminded Caspar of the scratch of a quill nib on vellum, “One should never begin with the motive. It creates a series of false assumptions.”
“In that case,” Caspar said, hesitating a moment before he ducked inside, “How should I proceed?”
It was so dim he could barely see his own fingers in front of him as he stumbled around in search of some light. He didn’t have to look long.
A quarter blood with a waspish face stood beneath a shaft of sunlight streaming from a broken window, glinting off a pair of half crescent lenses. The face behind the lenses was stark and angular, with a chin as sharp as any fletcher’s chisel.
“How?” the stranger mused, “Well, I suppose ‘how’ would be a more interesting line of inquiry. Have at it, my lad.”
Caspar frowned. This was clearly a test, but for what purpose? Patience, Venzini had advised. He would play along for now.
“Do I get any details, or is this to be pure guesswork?”
“Ohh, but let’s not have it too easy. Your first impressions will do,” he replied, lenses flashing as he tilted his head to one side, “For now.”
Caspar stood in silence for a minute chewing on his lip, knowing that everything hinged on what came next. The only advantage of working with so few facts was that it was easier to organize them into a structure. Of course, that structure would probably collapse in on itself the moment someone farted in its general direction, but what else could he do?
“They smashed down the second door,” he said, thinking on his toes, “But not the first, which has bloodstains but an intact lock. Our friends preferred guile and stealth over brute force…which means they almost certainly didn’t cross the river.”
“Oh? And how’d you figure that?” the militiawoman broke in. She was slouching against a crate, cleaning her fingernails with a claw-shaped knife.
“Simple,” Caspar said, disliking her tone, “The squiggums would’ve smelled them coming and given them away. The beasts have insatiable appetites. They’d make excellent guard dogs if they weren’t so brainless. May I continue?”
“Please,” the stranger waved him on.
“They came at the warehouse from the landside, either coming up and over the wall or lying their way past the gatehouse. Probably the first option since any interaction with the sentries on the wall would only increase the chances of failure. Let’s say they did manage to deceive those at the gatehouse, perhaps with a set of forged papers. They would have to make that same gamble again with the man posted at the first door, and once more with the man guarding the second. That’s three tosses of the dice, so to speak, and should they lose their wager at any point, why, then they’d be completely fogged, if you’ll pardon my elvish. They would either have to fight their way through each strongpoint, or worse yet, batter down the doors while those from the guardhouse attacked their rear. Best to just simplify the problem by bypassing the gatehouse completely. A twelve-foot wall shouldn’t be an issue for master burglars.”
“Bless me, but we’ve got us a specialist here,” the woman murmured, “Climb a lot of walls at the academy, did you?”
“Play nice, Ringer,” the other gently chided.
“In any case,” Caspar said, a sinking feeling in his chest, “After bypassing the gatehouse they managed to finagle their way through the first set of doors. They crossed swords with the sentry and cut him down quick, but not before he raised the alarm. The thieves barred the entrance behind them to delay the reinforcements from the gatehouse while they smashed their way through four inches of reinforced oak. It’s safe to assume at least one of them was a thaumaturge—an alloymancer, judging from the wreckage.”
The stranger gave a slight of nod at that. Emboldened, Caspar gushed on:
“Only the best can afford to hire a thaumaturge. That rules out street gangs. Odds are we’re looking at a chancer crew. Truly desperate individuals with nothing to lose and everything to gain. In which case, their prize could’ve only been one thing…”
He paused for dramatic effect, but Ringer spoiled it by yawning loudly. Caspar shot her an annoyed glance before concluding somewhat lamely:
“A vestige. That’s what they were after.”
Amid the carnage of the Demiurge War each of the vying powers had tapped into titanic fonts of magic, unleashing destruction on such a scale that they had torn the very fabric of existence. The lucky few had survived by taking shelter in the Cities of the Line, cowering behind whatever last-ditch defenses their forefathers had flung up in the final days of the conflict.
Eventually the dust had settled and those cataclysmic energies had ebbed from a flesh-searing boil to a sort of mild simmer, suitable for brewing up a cup of tea. A vile, poisonous brew that would turn your guts inside out and relieve you of the troublesome burden of sanity, perhaps, but still better than chamomile.
The survivors had staggered out into the ruins to find a land mutilated beyond recognition, with entire nations trapped within twisted reflections of reality. Now there was nothing beyond Lufthaven but dust-choked wastelands beneath the glow of tortured skies, where monsters of every description bred and multiplied in the crevices, gnawing at the bones of the world that was.
But even with the apocalypse rapping impatiently at the door, some things never changed. One person’s misfortune was still another man’s opportunity. The same forces which had created the living nightmare had coalesced into pools of arcane potential. These tended to center around physical objects, such as relics and weapons from the war or even commonplace items that had somehow become arcane tether points. Thaumaturgists called them vestiges and some dedicated their entire careers to their study. Each was imbued with fantastical properties that defied all attempts at understanding, properties which ranged from deadly to mystifying and to downright useless. All were valuable commodities which sold well on the black market, though by law Stahlka claimed immediate ownership of all vestiges recovered from the wastelands.
“Did you have any other insights, or was that your conclusion?” the stranger asked, sounding disappointed.
“Just one other thing. Though I’m still working out its relevance to the case.”
“All the pieces matter, ensign. I’m listening.”
“This warehouse is a sham, a front. The Office of the Chiefs of Staff wouldn’t be directly involved otherwise. This place doesn’t belong to the merchant guilds—it’s a secret Stahlka operation. And you’re in charge.”
Caspar looked straight into his eyes as he laid out the accusation. But the man never so much as blinked. Old duffer was probably a devil at card games.
“Something was stolen from you, and you want it back,” Caspar went on, “But what I can’t understand is what you need me for.”
There was a pause. Ringer and the man exchanged a look.
“Fine. He’ll do,” she said simply. Without another word she got up and traced something in the air with her claw knife. He blinked and in the next moment Ringer was gone, the seam in reality stitching itself up behind her.
“Hell’s bells,” Caspar swore, “Where did she….”
“Ms. Ringer has her own errands to run. As will you in a moment. Congratulations, ensign,” he explained as Caspar goggled stupidly at him, “You got the job.”
“So I was right?”
“You came close.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. But I’ll bet it felt good hearing that, eh?” the stranger grinned, “You were so fixated on their motives when you should have been studying their method. For instance, you completely forgot about the four survivors. A real chancer crew would’ve wiped everything clean, and never mind the body count. As you correctly surmised, this place is a façade. But the workers here are ignorant of Stahlka’s activities—as far as they’re concerned, this is just another warehouse owned by the merchant guilds. One crate looks much the same as another to a working man. Their ignorance is the only reason they’re still breathing.”
“Maybe our thieves have a conscience,” Caspar offered.
“Worse. They have a set of beliefs and ideals. I don’t bother with such nonsense myself, but terranists care a great deal about preserving their image in the eyes of the public, minimizing civilian deaths whenever possible. Stems from a lack of intestinal fortitude, I think.”
“Terranists were behind this? I didn’t know they were so organized.”
“Ah, but your only experience of them was when you foiled their scheme at the Victory Day parade. Well done, by the way. Your heroism did not go unnoticed.”
“You exaggerate,” Caspar said with as much false humility as he could muster, “It was a practical joke. Insulting but harmless.”
“Was it really? To strike at Stahlka and the Sun-Giver herself with such feeble means—it sends a dangerous message. As a commissar you should know this. If even the lowest commoner can defy the highest symbols of power, then perhaps those symbols were never all that powerful to begin with.”
“Teywas tesarno viraes,” Caspar quoted in elvish, “Laughter is the death of fear.”
“Exactly. That’s why the Quartermaster General sent you here today. We need a man who can think on his toes. We someone who can match the partisans at their own game. We need,” he ended with a dramatic flourish, “Caspar vin Destria.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Caspar’s head was spinning. All his life he’d been waiting for this moment, but now everything was moving too quickly for him to grasp, “Except that I’m honored to be a part of this…this...say, what exactly is this? Who are you people?”
“Where are my manners? I am the Right Honorable Euremus Fulcher. Formerly known as Commissar Euremus Fulcher. Officially I’m retired, but Stahlka keeps me around on a retainer’s fee. It seems I have a talent for smoothing out their little problems.”
“Not so little, in this case,” Caspar said, glancing at the scorched crater in the wall.
“True,” Fulcher admitted, “But then Vylem Redmaine has always been a class of his own.”
Even now Caspar could hardly believe his ears. Vylem Redmaine? The most notorious partisan of the age, responsible for the massacre of the entire garrison at Fort Stalwart and the poisoning of two sitting Ministers. His campaign of terror had crippled the army’s supply lines for months on end and produced such a steep drop in morale that the Commissariat had been forced to send dozens of fresh young officers out into the Wasting to salvage the situation. Fewer than half had ever returned, and those who were shells of their former selves, speaking in whispers of a dread being who stalked them through fog and ashfall, a being whom the enlisted rabble had taken to calling Old Red.
Of course, things would’ve shaped up rather differently if he’d been assigned out there, Caspar knew. He certainly wouldn’t have stood around piddling in his trousers. A bit of spit and polish on ye olde dueling saber and he would’ve shown Vylem Redmaine the what for. Granted, he hadn’t practiced his fencing forms since his time at the academy, but all you had to do was take a firm hand with these ruffians and they would fold like an envelope.
“Yes, you heard that right,” Fulcher was saying, “And this was his target…”
Fulcher led him to the center of the warehouse where there lay a pile of smashed pallets and hogsheads, their contents scattered all over the floor. A single crate stood in the middle of the wreckage, seemingly untouched except for its lid, which hung open. Upon closer inspection Caspar noticed the fine silvery inlays winding around the sides of the box, thousands of miniscule glyphs arranged in intricate geometric patterns.
“The vestige was in there,” Fulcher said, “The chancers we confiscated it from called it a null-globe.”
“I’m familiar with the term,” Caspar nodded, “It’s a self-contained planar rift that consumes everything it touches.”
“It displaces, it doesn’t consume,” Fulcher corrected, “A null-globe shunts objects into a nearby pocket dimension.”
Caspar was reminded of the knife which the Ringer woman had used. Clearly these people had their hands on some fine toys.
“It would take the entire western bank of the river if its container was perforated. As a contingency we sealed behind three layers of pentagrammic wards, inlaid with the purest electrum.”
“And their alloymancer got through all that?” Caspar said, trying not to sound impressed. Caspar saw traps hidden between the lines, arcane tripwires thrumming with tension. The slightest error on his part would have conjured balls of lightning or bound entities from the netherworld who would arrive in a state of considerable irritation.
“He has some small talent,” Fulcher shrugged, “More importantly, he had help.”
“From a second thaumaturge?”
“From me. I had a flaw worked into the wards, a weakness that when probed could unravel the entire pattern.”
“You knew they were coming,” Caspar said, realization slowly dawning, “But you let them take the vestige on purpose.”
“I’ve been playing this game for so long that I’ve come to know Redmaine better than he knows himself. There’s only one reason he would strike so recklessly at the very heart of the capital: Redmaine believes he is close to victory. The partisans have found something out there in the Wasting, something so potent that they required a null-globe just to contain it. When I learned of their desperation, I baited the trap you see before you now, and the fools swallowed it hook, line and sinker. They are already doomed. Your assignment, which you will choose to accept, is to venture into the wastes and pry it from their cold, dead hands.”