Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (52 page)

“You would do well to consider helping the Megrenn cause,
Mr. Hinterdale,” Denrik offered. “It sounds as if you do not have much love for
your countrymen, and I do not imagine that the life of a brigand pays nearly so
well as life as a spy. You could never be caught, since you could pass
information in this world without ever giving cause to suspect you. Just worm
your way into some position of value and feed information through me.”

“You have given me much to think on, Captain. I trust
I do not need to decide right away,” Kyrus said, taking another sip of his
wine.

“No, there is no rush. But I think it is high time we
let everyone else in and celebrated,” Denrik said. “Stevin!” he called out, and
the young man opened the door promptly. “Bring the officers in.”

“Aye, Captain,” the lad replied.

*
* * * * * * *

The game had been going on for hours. Kyrus had played
Crackle a few times, but mostly as a child with his brothers. He had never had
much money and certainly had not frequented places where Crackle players could
be found. There were no games quite like it in Kadrin, so Brannis had no
experience to draw from, either. The trade bars they had been given by Stalyart
earlier in the day represented sums too large to be used for a game, but most
of the crew had money of their own, of various currencies. Stalyart had a list
he chalked onto a slate board that gave the exchange rates, which made it
easier for Kyrus to keep track of how much money was actually being passed
around the table.

Kyrus had suspected cheating going into the game. The
reputation of pirates was legendary, and none of it included fair play. He did
not expect to catch any of them at it, since he was so new to the game and they
all seemed to be much more comfortable with it—or at least they all made it
seem that way. There was a good chance that he would be going to bed a poor
man, despite his share of the loot that he had received only hours earlier. He
had traded a few of his trade bars for an impressive-looking stack of zimbals,
the coinage of Feru Maru. The small, octagonal zimbal coins had a square hole
in the center, which Kyrus thought made them look exotic, certainly more
interesting than the plain round eckle coins he had grown up with.

Early into the game, Kyrus had been losing regularly
and steadily. He apologized for his many miscues in the etiquette of the game,
which were easy to forgive when it was someone who was losing large sums. There
had been jokes at his expense, and he seemed to be losing some of the mystique
he had hoped to create in his persona. He was the land-dweller, the scrivener,
the kid.

Kyrus decided to try his own hand at cheating.
Well,
if I am to be a pirate, I might as well try their way of playing. Let them just
try
to catch me at my way.

Kyrus—or rather, Brannis—had long been able to tell
when a sorcerer was lost in aether-vision; he had seen the dreamy, vacant look
often enough at the Academy and in his own family home. He had no reason to
believe that Captain Zayne, or possibly even Mr. Stalyart, would miss the
telltale sign of someone oblivious to the world of light. As the game went on,
Kyrus tried slipping his sight just partly into the aether and, after an hour
or so of practice, was comfortable enough with it that he could put his plan
into effect.

As the cards came to him, he marked them with tiny
wisps of aether, each uniquely identifying the card for him. After several
rounds, he had touched every card and could begin taking advantage. Knowing who
held which cards made Crackle—a child’s game—seem like child’s play. Kyrus was
careful not to be too blatant about his change in luck, but began to allow his
pile of coins to steadily increase. To his zimbals and a pair of gold trade
bars in front of him, he now had eckles, darshis, clay-bones, and fonns,
collected from stashes that the various players at the table had brought with
them from their homelands or acquired elsewhere in their travels throughout
Tellurak.

“You are not so bad at this game, Mr. Hinterdale,”
Stalyart complimented him after Kyrus had taken a rather large pot from the
first mate.

The man’s expression was inscrutable during a hand,
but he became quite amiable when he was not involved, and he seemed to take his
losses in stride, which was gracious of him since his pile had grown steadily
through the night.

“Aye, Mr. Hinterdale seems to have caught the gist of
our little game,” Holyoake commented, chomping on the end of his pipe.

Holyoake, though, seemed less charitable than
Stalyart, and had been involved in the same hand until dropping out halfway
through when he decided that either Kyrus or Stalyart had him beaten.

“Well, I had not played since I was a boy,” Kyrus
said. “You cannot expect me to jump right in and play with the likes you
fellows. Now that I have got my legs under me, I expect you will find me less
of an easy mark.”

Kyrus tried not to sound smug. He was enjoying
winning, and was actually learning quite a lot about his fellow crewmates in
the process. Being able to tell what cards they held, he knew when they were
bluffing, and when they were trying to trick their opponents by feigning
weakness when they were strong. Stalyart for one, seemed to almost be able to
tell what the other players held as well as Kyrus could.

I wonder if he has some trick like mine
, Kyrus mused.

“It seems our ship’s wizard is a quick study. I wonder
if he could learn to read nautical charts as quickly,” Captain Zayne said. “We
have put to sea with no proper navigator aboard. A few of us can manage well
enough to get us where we want to go, but it would be good to have someone take
over, and frankly, Mr. Hinterdale, you could do with an occupation while at
sea.”

“I suppose I could learn it easily enough. I know how
to read a map, certainly, and the rest ought to sort itself out from there. How
hard could it be?” Kyrus said.

He had certainly seen nautical charts before. Davin
had a handful of them, which he had taken with him to Golis when he had left.
Kyrus had never paid them overmuch attention, but he was at least familiar with
the basics of what was included: tides, water depths, hazards, and the like.

“This is serious business, Mr. Hinterdale. You have
proven your worth with that magic of yours, but a mistake in navigation could
run us aground. I shall have you apprentice to Mr. Stalyart until he says you
are fit to plot our course unassisted. I trust you will take his tutelage to
heart,” Denrik said.

“Cap’n, wouldn’t it be a bit, err, safer havin’
someone with experience doin’ the navigatin’?” Scradd objected.

The thin quartermaster seemed to be in his cups a bit,
but there were nods of agreement around the table.

“I am not letting him navigate until Mr. Stalyart had
trained him to his satisfaction. I have every confidence that Mr. Hinterdale
will be quick as a lightning bolt taking up the trade. If he learns it as quick
as he picked up Crackle, he shall be guiding the ship better than any of us
within the fortnight,” Denrik replied.

Kyrus was a bit dubious at the confidence the captain
showed in him but was more surprised that he had not reprimanded the
quartermaster for questioning him. Kyrus was no scholar of naval comportment,
but he was fairly certain the Acardian navy took a dim view of underlings
questioning their superiors’ decisions. He had assumed that among pirates, the
tolerance for such brazenness would have been nearly nil.

In fact, Kyrus was beginning to question just how much
danger he was truly in aboard the Denrik Zayne’s ship. Despite most of them
carrying blades, he had yet to see anyone draw one in anger against another
crewman. With all the drinking during their night of Crackle, there had been no
brawl or serious threats, just a general joviality. With the captain and first
mate in on the secret he carried, there was even a certain sense of protection
from above.

For the rest of the evening, Kyrus kept his winnings
moderate.

Let them think I had a run of luck, and nothing more
, Kyrus thought.

He even strategically lost a few hands to Holyoake and
Scradd, who had seemed the least cordial toward him. He figured that it would
be easier to like someone when you can take their money at cards.

*
* * * * * * *

By the time the game broke up and each of them had
retired to their quarters, Kyrus had added a hefty sum to the share of loot he
had been awarded. He figured upon it being roughly a haul of sixty thousand
eckles, once he converted the various currencies using Stalyart’s exchange
rates. It was more than he had made in his lifetime up to that point. It was
hardly a sum to retire on as a country gentleman, but it was certainly a strong
start toward such a fortune.

If Kyrus was ever were to make his way back to Acardia
to reunite with Abbiley, it certainly would not hurt to be wealthy by then. He
doubted his reputation would allow him to ever settle within the city again,
but with enough gold, he could start a new life and take Abbiley along with
him. Certainly there was gold enough to be had among these pirates that such a
goal was not unrealistic.

Kyrus sighed, thinking about the last night he and
Abbiley had spent together, and wishing that he had not left her to go back to
his shop and work.

Brannis would have known better
, he thought, punching his feather pillow in
frustration.
I was a fool to assume I had forever to court her
.

Kyrus walked the few steps to his now warded door and
angrily poured aether into it, yanking a bit back at the last moment when he
sensed it was about to burst.

Let the ship crash against the rocks; that door still
is not going anywhere
.

He could still see everyone in his vicinity aboard the
ship, their Sources overlaying his vision of the world of light; Kyrus was really
appreciating his newfound trick of keeping his sight balanced between the
worlds of aether and light. He wondered briefly if the world of aether was
truly another world like the one that Brannis lived in, or whether the aether
world was common to both. It was a bit too philosophical for the late hour, and
Kyrus’s moderate drinking had nevertheless taken a small toll on his
wakefulness. He resolved to ponder the question another day.

Read a bit more from
Basic Wards
tonight, Brannis, if you do not mind
,
Kyrus thought before drifting off to sleep, feeling much more secure than he
had the previous night.

It was an odd feeling, knowing there was someone in
another world watching over you, conspiring with you, sharing your thoughts and
memories. Now that Kyrus knew the secret of his connection with Brannis,
though, he found it comforting. It was like finding out a childhood imaginary
friend had been real all along.

Chapter 26 - For Old Times

Brannis and one of the palace porters clattered down
the halls of the palace, intent on the stables. Their arms were filled with the
provisions Brannis had expected they might need on the journey to Raynesdark.
While Brannis carried the pack with the books he had taken from the Tower
library, a number of maps of the countryside, and a few changes of clothing,
the porter was carrying much of Brannis’s armor, whence came much of the
considerable noise they were making.

Brannis wore a traveling cloak over mail armor and a
steel breastplate, as well as his Solaran tabard. Mail covered the leather of
his leggings down to just above the knee, but his lower legs and boots were
unarmored. It was a compromise—armor that would lend some protection if they
ran into trouble on their journey, but not so heavy that a journey of a tenday
would wear him down physically. He expected to ride hard, at least so much as
his sorcerer companions could handle.

Brannis was under little illusion about his
companions. Sorcerers among the Kadrin Imperial Circle were not known for
partaking of an active lifestyle. Iridan’s adventure in Kelvie Forest with
Brannis had been by far the exception, and even after the whole expedition, he
was hardly in the shape of a common conscript. Juliana—for all else he admired
about her form—was built better for the ballroom than the road, with thin arms
and slender legs and shallow, graceful …

Never mind that now
.

The other two he knew not, but neither looked the
least bit rugged. Ruuglor likely weighed twice his own twenty-five
gallons—well, probably not, but it certainly seemed like it. And Faolen must
have spent as much time on his appearance as a courtesan, and appeared more
dainty than even Juliana, who could at least act the part of the fierce warrior
when the mood struck her.

And yet, should we be ambushed on the road, it will be
them protecting me, not the other way around
, Brannis thought ruefully.

He knew he was being sent to Raynesdark for his
leadership rather than his sword arm, but it was still a bit off-putting to
know that any of the four of them could almost literally tie him into knots if
it came right down to it. Kadrin sorcerers were a far cry from the novices the
goblins in Kelvie had thrown at them.

When Brannis and his assistant made it to the stables,
they found Rashan waiting for them. Unlike the previous night’s dinner, they
had arrived in advance of the rest of the attendees. The warlock was dressed in
his usual black robes and cloak, but he was carrying an ornate breastplate.

“Fair morning, Brannis,” Rashan greeted him. “I ought
to have sent word to leave your armor behind, but I have had so many other
tasks to attend to that I fear I overlooked that detail. Now, before everyone
else arrives, get that stuff off and get changed.”

“What do you mean? I have no time for fitting a new
set of armor at this point. If you need my measurements to have it fitted while
I am away, I use Goloway as my smith. He is the best in Kadrin these days and
has all my measurements, unless I have lost girth with how busy I have kept
myself this last season or so. Um … you did not already have Goloway alter that
armor for me, did you? I cannot imagine that was made anew in the two days
since you have returned.”

“No, Brannis, do not concern yourself. It will fit you
plenty well enough without alteration. Quit arguing and just put it on. You
shall see,” Rashan said, proffering the breastplate at arm’s length.

Brannis looked about and saw what appeared to be the
rest of the matching plates hanging from pegs that normally would have held
riding tack, had five horses not already been outfitted that morning.

“Very well,” Brannis agreed, reluctantly.

He hoped that the warlock was at least a good enough
judge of his size that the armor would not be too uncomfortable. Given the
choice of looking like a grand marshal and actually wearing comfortable, fitted
armor, he would choose the latter every time. For someone unaccustomed to
needing armor, Rashan just would not understand the vast difference between
“close” and “just right” when it came to the fit of a suit of armor. Goloway made
a princely living for a commoner by being a master at understanding that
difference.

He enlisted the porter’s help in getting out of his
own armor, a task he could manage on his own if time was not at issue. When he
went to put on the long-sleeved mail shirt that went on under the plates of the
new armor, he found it to be laughably oversized for him. Brannis found that
unusual, as he was among the tallest knights in the Empire, and his hands would
not even exit the ends of the sleeves until he bunched the mail up at his
wrists.

As soon as Brannis had fully donned the mail shirt, it
began to shrink until it fit snugly against the padded woolen under-layer he
wore. His eyes immediately sought out the warlock and found Rashan watching him
with amusement.

“I told you it would fit,” the warlock said, smiling.

“Where did you get this? I doubt even five knights in
the Empire own aether-forged armor. I daresay none would give theirs up while
they yet lived,” Brannis replied.

Brannis’s own armor was runed but not aether-forged.
It held protections that a sorcerer could renew with aether, but aether-forged
armor was not only stronger, but also capable of remarkable feats like the
resizing trick Rashan’s proffered armor has just performed.

“Please tell me that you did not murder some poor
knight to get this.”

“No, I merely made a search of the emperor’s private
armory. It was hanging on a display rack, apparently unused since Liead wore it
into battle with me,” Rashan said, sounding sad.

“So you made this armor?” Brannis asked, impressed.

As he looked over the rest of the plates, he could not
help admiring the exquisite detail—etched patterns and writings that were
hidden among the raised relief artwork, gracefully flowing lines, and, on the
inside, runes.

“No, no. Sadly I cannot take credit for that. It was
hundreds of summers old when I first laid eyes on it. I never took the time to
research its history, but many an emperor, those that were of a mind at least,
wore it when going to battle or when fighting in tournaments. Once long ago,
our emperors were not craven canaries, kept in gilded cages to be put on
display for the commoners at holidays.”

“If this is from the emperor’s armory, I should not be
wearing it. This should only be worn by the emperor.” Brannis began removing
the mail shirt.

“Stop that. Be sensible. You talk as if there were an
emperor to offend. My all-wise Inner Circle saw to it that the canary in the
cage was replaced with the mere reflection of a bird. It did all it needed to
on high balconies on feasting days, but I think it lacked the ability to take
offense. While I am regent, I will not allow such useful magic to go wasting
away in a dusty room while I can put it to use in battle,” Rashan said.

“Well, then …” Brannis trailed off, and he started
putting the armor on.

The porter loitered around to help, but the armor went
on with ease as each piece was comfortably oversized as it went on and then
fitted itself like a second skin as soon as it was in place.

When he had finished, Rashan conjured up a shimmering
force in midair that reflected like a mirror. “Well, see how you look. More
befitting the Grand Marshal of the Imperial Army, would you say?”

“I must admit, I look the part now, at least,” Brannis
said.

He was dressed head to foot in gold and quicksilver,
materials that would never be used in more functional, mundane
armor—quicksilver could not even have held a shape without magic—but as mere
vessels for the magic they bore, they were impressive and far more functional
than any armor Brannis had ever worn.

“Here is the best part,” Rashan told Brannis.

Without warning, the warlock drew Heavens Cry and
lunged for him. Brannis could barely begin to lift an arm to ward off the
unexpected attack before the blade struck him squarely in the chest. Brannis
rocked back slightly under the blow, but instinctively he had expected the
blade to pass right through him. More rationally, he had figured that the
aether construct worked into the armor would have held firm and he would have
just been driven back by the force of the blow, but that had not happened,
either. He looked down at the breastplate and noticed a small dent that was
already growing smaller as the quicksilver flowed back into a mirror-smooth,
perfectly unblemished surface.

“I admit it, that was impressive.” Brannis smiled and
went back to looking over his reflection.

There were dragon-claw clasps at the collarbone for
attaching a cloak, and the ridged blades rode down each arm from elbow to
wrist. Similar blades worked their way from knee to ankle. The boots were made
with a thick sole to them, making Brannis seem a half hand taller even, on top
of his already impressive stature. The gauntlets were serrated on the backs of
the knuckles, but the palm side was just leather, which gave them a comfortable
feel on the hilt of his blade—and there was a hook on his belt to hang them
from when he was attending to less bloody work. The helm was a masterpiece:
shaped into the countenance of a demon—the storybook sort, not like Rashan at
all—with twisting horns and jutting edges and angles around the open face that
seemed to cast the wearer’s face in ominous shadows unless lit from directly in
front.

Rashan handed Brannis a new cloak as well, bloodred to
match the trim of the Inner Circle’s robes, as well at the emperor’s personal
colors.

“There is nothing special about the cloak,” Rashan
said. “It is just well made and matches the armor better than the plain one you
wore back from Kelvie.”

As Brannis was fastening it on, the rest of the group
arrived, apparently all having just come from the dining hall’s morning feast.
Brannis, being of a more martial and practical bent, had expected them to break
their fast on the road with trail rations, but it appeared as if he had been
overruled by the majority.

“Excuse me … Warlock? What have you done with Brannis?
And who is this scary-looking fellow in the sharpened armor?” Iridan asked upon
seeing Brannis in Emperor Liead’s armor.

Iridan was dressed like Rashan again, in his black
tunic and leggings, and steel-epauletted cloak. Brannis supposed it would serve
well enough as traveling attire, if Iridan had some magic in mind to deal with
the cold.

The other three were dressed more reasonably for the
late-autumn trek to the mountains. The robes of the Imperial Circle had been
replaced with riding leathers and heavy jackets and cloaks. Brannis had to make
a point of not letting his gaze linger overlong on Juliana, as he reminisced
about the last time he had seen her dressed for riding.

“I hear he is the new grand marshal,” Juliana said.
“He must be trying to look the part. I would have suggested a few grey hairs
and some wrinkles, myself.”

She looked Brannis over with much less discretion than
he had used, making him a bit uncomfortable with everyone else there watching.

“Now that we are all here,” Rashan began, ignoring the
jests, “I will reveal the surprises I have in store for you.”

“I hope he does not have one of those outfits for me,”
Iridan muttered to Ruuglor, whom he seemed to already know.

“I have five horses here, all fitted with runed
shoes.”

The five would-be travelers looked at each other,
puzzled. None of them had been expecting horses with runed shoes.

“They have been fully drained for now, but when
charged with aether, these horses will run easily twice their normal speed, and
their hooves will not quite touch the ground. That will allow you to cross
rough, muddy terrain, as well as bodies of water. Take care not to stop on the
water, as the effect does not persist once they stop moving.”

“That could save six or seven days off our journey,”
Brannis said, impressed.

He could not predict how long the goblins would spend
consolidating their hold on Illard’s Glen before advancing to Raynesdark, if
they had not already done so. Six days would markedly increase their chances of
reaching the city ahead of the anticipated siege.

“No, it will save three days, four if you press,”
Rashan said. “Besides allowing you to move faster, the shoes will let you take
uncut paths through the mountains. You will not have to take High Pass and
follow the Cloud Wall south along the western side. You can head straight west
and come at the city from across the mountains directly.”

“How will we know where to cross the Cloud Wall if
there is no road?” Ruuglor asked.

“You are smart little boys and girls, and Brannis is
carrying maps. I am sure you will figure out how to find Raynesdark from the
east side,” Rashan replied. “Now mount up, and be gone. You have already wasted
enough of the morning. Head north along the road for an hour, then activate the
horseshoes and begin heading west from there. That should confuse any spies who
might take note of your departure. So long as you have privacy when you veer
west, you will not be seen again by any who might try to follow you.