Aethersmith (Book 2) (52 page)

“You think Dolvaen will discover the murderer or murderers?”
Kyrus probed.

“No. If anything, Dolvaen would be among my suspects, though
I doubt he would have done the deeds himself. No, I have my little guild of
rats pursuing the matter through more oblique channels. They will find out the
comings and goings around the sites of the murders, and narrow the list of who
might have been in all three places.”

“What if they cannot find out?”

“Then I will pick someone who has not been so cooperative
with my regency, and make them the scapegoat,” Rashan said, shrugging. Kyrus’s
eyes widened in surprise. “What? What is that look for? Why would I lie to you,
if I expect you to carry on in my absence? You need to know these things.”

“I suppose I am surprised to hear you admit it openly.”

“The wards will make our conversation gibberish to anyone
standing outside. It is just you and me here. You know me for what I am, and
have had no qualms yet in working with me.”

“There is a difference between brutal methods, and killing
innocents to make a point,” Kyrus argued.

“Who said anything about killing innocents? Any scrupulous
ruler keeps a few guilty men dangling by a thread of hope. It is a form of clemency
that is never openly granted, but remains contingent upon not needing to
connect a crime and a perpetrator.”

“Is that what happened with my father … with Brannis’s
father?” Kyrus demanded.
My father is a kindly farmer with a bumpkin’s
accent, alive and well a half-day’s ride from Scar Harbor. For a moment,
though, I would have sworn Maruk Solaran was my sire.

“No, quite the contrary. The rest of the Inner Circle are
all on a form of parole, as far as I am concerned, Iridan and Aloisha aside.
No, Maruk Solaran—as well as Stalia Gardarus and Gravis Archon—were very much
guilty of their crimes. Quite a number outside the Inner Circle are paroled as
well. Your traveling companion Faolen, for one, has earned his clemency in
earnest, as has Caladris, without whom I do not think I would have kept a civil
war from starting.”

“What if that is what was started last night?”

“Well, since you will be in charge here come dawn, I would
suggest averting it if possible, and winning it if not.”

“You are not worried?” Kyrus asked.

“You are young. I have seen a lot in my time, so I trust
that it will all work out in the end. I usually have a hand in ensuring that it
does so. Once I crush Megrenn and their allies, I will return and deal with any
trouble remaining,” Rashan said.

“Is that the reason for the jovial mood?” Kyrus asked,
suddenly piecing it together.

“Am I in a good mood? Hmm, I suppose I am.”

* * * * * * * *

Civil war
. The thought haunted Kyrus as he rode down
to the waterfront. He had not planned on making his inspection until the
morning after the coronation, but ideas were sloshing around in his brain,
attempting to coalesce into a plan. It bothered him that Rashan expressed so
little concern for the prospect, shrugging responsibility onto Kyrus, and
merrily heading off to war.

By the sound of it, Rashan and Dolvaen were going to be
conducting parallel investigations into the murders. By Kyrus’s reckoning,
given Rashan’s admission that the victims were supporters of his, the warlock
would be seeking the identity of the murderer while Dolvaen acted to obscure it
or cast suspicion on another.
But if Rashan suspected Dolvaen of
involvement, why would he not just confront him? He has never seemed shy about
such things before.

Kyrus’s own conversation with Dolvaen Lurien had left little
room for misinterpretation. He knew that the house-less sorcerer was aiming to
return Kadrin to the rule of the Inner Circle, and not an upstart emperor. He
knew he could bring that information to Rashan, and have the demon deal with
the matter as he saw fit. The problem was that Kyrus was not certain whom he
wished to prevail in the struggle. Dolvaen was powerful in his own right, and
entrenched in Kadrin politics. He had to be aware of the possibility of a
confrontation should anyone betray him; Kyrus could not imagine that Dolvaen
did not have a contingency in place. Whether it would be enough, he had no way
to tell but he suspected not.

Kyrus’s new sword belt chafed as it bounced against his hip.
There was nothing noteworthy about the blade, but he felt he ought to get into
the habit of carrying one. Of late, he felt much more at home among the
sorcerers of the Circle. It would be best for him to maintain at least the
illusion that he was still Sir Brannis, Knight of the Empire. Whichever side
the sorcerers of the Imperial Circle fell on, he wanted the knighthood and the
army to fall on his own … whichever side he decided on.

The eastern end of the Kadrin waterfront was home to the
shipwrights that built the vessels of the much-maligned Kadrin navy. With five
berths, five vessels under construction, and nearly a thousand workers, it
rivaled the palace in its orchestrated chaos. Greetings were called out to him
from various quarters as he was recognized. It felt good to hear a friendly welcome
without wondering about sub-context and ulterior motives. His workforce took
pride in the airships, and admired him for designing them. When history looked
back on the era, they would be the birthplace of the first aerial navy. That
historical perspective might have been lost on the more grounded among the
workers, but the palpable buzz of that energy pervaded the worksite.

“Sir Brannis,” called out a familiar voice.

Kyrus turned to see Goloway, Brannis’s personal armorer,
striding down the gangplank of the newest of Kyrus’s designs—the first
actually, since Brannis’s hand had described all the others. The
Daggerstrike
was the first of a new sort of airship; it was entirely unseaworthy. Built
around a flat-bottomed ship’s skeleton, the hull was plated in steel, slotted
with arrow-slits, and devoid of sails and rigging of any sort. The latter was
no oversight, but rather a change in locomotion.

The
Daggerstrike
was the first vessel that would be
powered entirely by aether.

Kyrus climbed down from his horse in time to clasp wrists
with Goloway when he arrived. Though taller than the armorsmith, Kyrus was
nowhere near Goloway’s girth, little of it anything but muscle; the man’s grip
was like the steel he worked.

“Is everything ready?” Kyrus asked.

“Just polishing door handles and the like now, makin’ it
pretty for inspection,” Goloway replied, beaming with pride.

“Know anything about how the runework has been going?” Kyrus
ventured. There was no reason to expect Goloway to know anything about how the
runes worked, but it was not unreasonable to suppose he might have heard how
the work was going.

“All finished, near as I can tell. The Circle boys workin’
at it took off ’fore dusk last night, and haven’t been back. I can go find one
of the superintendants if you’d like, Sir Brannis.”

“No, that will be quite all right, Goloway. I would just
like a look around,” Kyrus informed him.

Armorsmith in tow, he climbed aboard and admired the
craftsmanship. There was little wood used in the construction beyond the
timbers that gave the vessel its shape. The shipwrights could not work in metal,
and the metalworkers had no feel for shaping a hull. Future versions would be
entirely of metal, once the metalsmiths could learn the ship-building trade
well enough to get the shape right. Kyrus ran his fingers along the contours of
the runes that covered most surfaces of the ship. It was the largest, most
intricate pattern—no, system of interconnected patterns, he corrected
himself—of any of the airships to date.

“I’ve heard ’em grumbling, sir. Some of them sorcerers don’t
think this one will get off the ground. Too heavy. Too many runes for anyone to
activate. Not using the wind for power. So … what do you say to that?”

“If you can keep a secret for a few hours,” Kyrus said,
pausing to wait for Goloway to nod in acknowledgement before continuing, “you
can see for yourself.”

“I thought it was going to be activated tomorrow.”

“Was.”

Kyrus grinned. Goloway found it contagious.

* * * * * * * *

Juliana arrived back at her room with pockets heavier with
gold than when she had left that morning. Festival days were always lucrative
occasions for a port inspector, if they had the right frame of mind. There were
always shipments arriving with critically demanded goods, and men willing to
pay extra for theirs to make it through the process more quickly.
I would
not want to trade places with Aloisha. More work and less coin at the end of
it, plus a lot of folk poking around at your business
. Juliana was content
working occasionally, and keeping her own endeavors quieter.

The ward on her door took an effort to disengage, which
raised her hackles.
Someone has been in here
. Juliana was inexpert in
her ward-crafting; it had been Iridan who had carved the runes for their
bedchamber. With any luck, it was just Iridan who had been there in her
absence, but the ward felt different. It was the same pattern of runes; it had
not been recarved or anything so extreme as that. It was merely infused with
more aether than she was accustomed to putting into it when it needed
refreshing.

She entered the room with a hand under the back of her
tunic, on the hilt of Adventure. A quick scan in the aether revealed nothing,
but she was all too aware that assassins of late had managed to avoid such
scrutiny. The space was as disheveled as she remembered leaving it, bedclothes
rumpled, jewelry scattered on the bedside table, piles of soiled clothing on
the rug. Her black silk formal Circle uniform had been laid out on the bed,
folded clumsily. She relaxed a bit.
Someone let the servants in to set out
my attire for the evening?
Stranger things had befallen of late, but she
could not rule out the possibility that something was seriously amiss.

Having left herself little enough time as it was, she
decided that she was safe enough to strip out of her working gear and bathe.
She had spent the day consorting with the sort of folks who did so infrequently
themselves, and hanging about in locales that smelled of fish and ale. She had
long since become inured to the odors, but knew that they would stand her in
poor company at the ceremony. She was not so important to the proceedings that
her presence would be missed if she was a bit late, but coming in reeking of
dockside swill would draw attention she preferred to avoid.

After an all-too-brief cleansing, she donned enough lavender
perfume to cover any lingering odors. She did not use the little bottle of
honeysuckle that she knew Brannis remembered, and loved from when they were
both younger: that was only for special occasions, not mere coronations. When
she picked up her evening attire, she heard a crinkling sound. Turning the
garment about, she located the source of the noise, a note stuffed into one of
the sleeves.

Skip the reception afterward.

Head to the drydocks. Ask for Daggerstrike.

I will keep an old promise.

The note was written in beautiful Acardian script, casually
scrawled artwork that served as adequate identification for the unsigned note.
Juliana pondered for a moment, but knew that she did not have the time right
then to puzzle through it. She did, however, reconsider her decision to leave
her daggers behind for the coronation. Half the sorcerers in the Empire would
be there, ensuring that only suicidal violence would be possible. With the
change in plans for immediately afterward, she decided that she would be better
off finding a place for them under her formal attire. A quick check in the
mirror revealed slight bulges where the harness held Adventure and Freedom
against the small of her back. Brannis’s daggers were far superior to the ones
she had brought with her to Raynesdark, but they were also a bit bulkier.

It would be cold enough at the outdoor ceremony, she
decided, that wearing a cloak would not seem inappropriate. Any sorceress worth
the title ought to have been able to shield herself against a bit of chill—and
Juliana was certainly capable of doing so—but she was enough maligned among the
Circle for her idleness and lack of ambition that it would not surprise most
folk.

Juliana made her way across the room, and opened the
wardrobe. She found it half empty. Missing half her clothing would be a minor
inconvenience, but the half that remained was Iridan’s, not hers. She hurried
to her dresser, and began pulling out the drawers. Empty. Empty. Empty. She
looked under the bed and found her spare boots missing as well.

What have you got in mind, Kyrus? Are we making an escape
tonight? If you were going to do it, I would have rather it been the wedding
rather than an assassination that gave you the idea.

She went back to the wardrobe, and pulled out one of
Iridan’s cloaks. It did not hang quite low enough for her taste, but it would
do. She posed in front of the mirror to be sure, then left for the coronation
ceremony of Emperor Sommick.

* * * * * * * *

There must have been thirty or forty thousand in attendance,
Kyrus estimated. The tournament grounds in Kadris were used all too
infrequently, but they had been refurbished in short order upon Rashan’s
orders. The structure itself was a stepped bowl shape of cut stone blocks, covered
with an overhanging wooden roof supported by stone pillars. The roof only
covered the outermost half of the seats; the sod field of roughly tended grass
and the seats nearest it were exposed to the night sky. The stars themselves
would bear witness to the crowning of a new emperor.

The grounds had been opened up to anyone in the Empire who
wished to attend. The throng outside attested to how many more wished to
witness history than were able to actually get seats. The commoners crowded
together on bench seats, packed in so tightly they could scarcely move. Kyrus
thought back to all the things that Denrik and Stalyart had told him about the
lot of the peasantry of the Kadrin Empire as he watched them herded to their
seats like cattle to market.
There is only so much room to be had. It is not
as if anyone is forcing these conditions on them. They are at least allowed the
privilege of attending. More can have that privilege if more are allowed to
crowd in together,
Kyrus told himself from the Solaran section of the
reserved seating. The nobles, the sorcerous houses, the Circle members whether
they had a house or not, knights and officers of the army … all those were
allowed spacious seating, cordoned off from the rabble.