The Reach Between Worlds (The Arclight Saga, Book 1) (20 page)

The Duplicity of Mr. Crissom

A plate of Crissom steel weighed four thousand pounds, and took twelve men to hitch and secure for transport to the Magisterium. It was grueling and thankless work. Taro’s knuckles ached and his ears rang with the constant shouting of the foreman. On precious few occasions the plates from cooling pools came late, and he’d get a short moment to catch his breath.

Taro pressed his back against the dock and slid to the floor. Today his team was short-handed; four had called off all the same day.

“Where the hell is Lon?” Tomin said. He was the muscle of the group, and had worked at the foundry for fifteen years. He was a burly man, covered in tattoos from his time as a warder. He was the type of person Taro’s father would’ve gotten along with.

“It’s not like Lon to miss a shift,” Taro said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“He was hacking up blood yesterday,” Rin said. Rin was the youngest besides Taro, only twenty three, but after five years in the foundry his skin was leathery and he looked much older.

“He could have the decency to get someone to cover his shift,” Tomin said.

Rin took a messy gulp from a water skin and tossed it to Taro. “There were call-offs in the furnace too. Overseer’s furious.”

While Taro drank, two people passed the corner of his vision. When he realized it was Mathan and Dr. Halric, he almost hacked up the entire water skin.

“Slow down, the water ain’t going nowhere,” Tomin said.

“I’ll be right back.” Taro tossed the skin to Tomin and fast-walked across the packing floor. He peaked over mountains of racks and crates, and almost had his head taken off by a swinging crane. Mathan and Halric slipped up a metal stairway into the offices on the second level. Mr. Crissom greeted them at the top.

Taro hurried up silently. The offices were laid out in a square overlooking the packing floor. Crissom’s office was the farthest from the stairs, and just as Taro got to the top, the door shut.

He peered into an uncovered window. The walls inside were covered with airship memorabilia. Above Mr. Crissom’s desk were blocks of steel from fourteen famous ships (all neatly catalogued and engraved with their registry numbers), an award for being wounded in the line of duty, and even a letter signed by the Sun King himself.

Just as Mathan was going to light up a cigar, Halric pointed to a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall.

Mathan gave Halric a death glare and put it back in his cigar box. “That’s going to be the first thing I changed when I buy the place.”

“That’s no longer an option. With Sikes discovered, anything you do will be scrutinized.” Halric unpacked a brief-case like package. Inside were three long vials of viscous red liquid.

Crissom paced his office. “Selling to him was one thing. What you’re asking me to do is treason.”

Halric set one vial upright. “There’s no other way. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Vexis, would you?”

“I need to talk to her,” Crissom stammered.

Taro’s attention was broken by a faint brush of air on the back of his neck. Vexis crouched behind him, and set her chin right on his shoulder.

Taro scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited. What are you doing here?” She poked him on the nose. She looked different somehow. Older. Her eyes were bloodshot, and there were hard lines on her face. The veins on her wrists were bright and her skin clammy and gray.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Why don’t you join us?” She took Taro by the arm. “Look what I found outside,” she said as they entered.

Mathan greeted Taro like an old friend.

“Taro, my boy. Congratulations on a job well done.” Mathan shook his hand. “Not only freeing Vexis, but not getting caught is no small feat.”

“Sikes wasn’t so lucky,” Taro said bitterly.

“A necessary casualty,” Halric said.

“Once we’ve gotten control of the Magisterium, he’ll be freed. You have my word,” Mathan said.

“Did you give Sikes your word when you baited him to help you?”

“It’s just business,” Mathan said.

Mr. Crissom was meandering in the corner, twisting the hem of his shirt. He and Taro’s eyes met. So much was exchanged in that one look. ‘You too?’ his eyes said. ‘I have my reasons. You couldn’t possibly understand.’

Dr. Halric inspected Vexis. He pulled her eyelids up, checked her pulse, and inspected her neck and arms. “You’re taking your elixir regularly?”

Vexis’ chest heaved. “I need more.”

“Stress will only accelerate the symptoms.” Halric placed his hands on her cheeks and got her to smile. “Just a little while longer.”

Vexis took the elixir from the desk and upended it into her mouth. The lines on her face faded and her eyes returned to their vibrant green.

Taro inspected the residue in the vial, and rubbed it between his fingers. “Is that...blood?” He smeared onto a chair.

“The blood of a god. Well, the closet thing we’ve got to one.” Vexis exhaled hard and the color in her skin returned. “What if I told you there was a man who never aged, who couldn’t be injured, and could never die.”

“I’d say you were crazy.” He’d probably say this either way.

She raised one finger. “He’s an ancient — and I do mean ancient — magister. He calls himself Aris.”

Dr. Halric repackaged the other vials and retrieved a new one from his coat and handed it to Vexis.

“He’s got a curious streak in him,” Vexis said. “We had his memory burned some time ago to keep him out of our hair, but we’ve spotted him snooping around.”

“His mind is remarkable. It’s actually repairing itself,” Halric said.

Vexis shook the green liquid. “So this is your next task, find Aris and get him to drink this.”

Taro took the vial. “Is it poison?”

“Gods, no. It’ll give him some peace of mind.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“He’d recognize us.”

After all that’d happened, a chance to speak with Aris again was appealing. “Where is he?”

“We spotted his wagon in the Downings,” Mathan said. “The words ‘Magister Extraordinaire’ are engraved on it. I wouldn’t expect him to stay there for long.”

Taro tucked the vial into his pocket. “I have a shift to finish here. When I’m done—”

Vexis glanced at Mr. Crissom, then back to Taro. “I think it’s safe to say you have the day off.”

Taro didn’t bother changing or cleaning himself up. On the contrary, looking as he did would help him fit right in. The Downings was even more depressing than Taro remembered. Last time he’d visited, he was so single-minded that he didn’t realize just how much of a shithole it was.

This was rock bottom. Along the curvature of the underground wall were wooden packing crates with ‘CRISSOM FDY’ stamped on the side. They were packed with the homeless; not just men and women, but children. Their clothes were filthy, their hair was nappy and unkempt, and they stank.

These were the lucky ones. As there weren’t enough crates for all of them, many slept directly on the cold ground.

Before the Arclight was damaged, the entire countryside was an eternally warm summer’s day. Because of this, winter clothing was largely unheard of. The best these people had were burlap sacks, rags stitched together, or repurposed blankets.

Aris’ wagon shouldn’t have been hard to spot, but as Taro wandered the crates and burning trash bins, he found it hard to focus. If you’d asked him months, he would’ve said he was poor, but as he stared into the wide eyes of four-year-olds picking through dry bones and mothers wrapping their newborns in crumpled paper, he realized he’d never known what true poverty was.

There was a line of six wagons and long wooden tables not far from one of the lower city’s exits. This was apparently a soup line provided by the Magisterium, and it stretched for what seemed like miles. Aris could’ve easily been hiding amongst the hundreds of people crowding the square.

The crowd moved along like an assembly line. A fat, crooked nose man wiped his face with his sleeve and filled Taro’s bowl with a cup of the grayish muck. The smell was repulsive.

Taro winced. “Is this supposed to be meat?”

“Don’t like it, don’t eat it,” the fat man said gruffly.

“Something tells me you eat better than this.” When he said this, the children in front of him snickered and their parents shushed them.

Taro was given a glass of water and a cold dinner roll, and herded to a dirty table with the same family.

He stared down at the gray beef chunks and almost threw up. The boney children (a boy and a girl, younger than Nima) scarfed their stew down like they hadn’t eaten in days. Their parents scraped a bit of their own food into their children’s plates.

Taro slid his bowl towards them. “Here.”

“Thank you,” the mother said. She had shaking hands that she didn’t seem to be able to control. “But you really should eat.”

“I’m feeling sick.”

“There’s a bug going around,” she said, she gestured to her husband. “Ashur’s got it, too.”

The family divvied up his meal amongst themselves. When the mother scraped the stew into the separate bowls, Taro got a look at her wrists. The veins on her arms were inflamed and deep purple.

“I don’t recall seeing you here before,” the father said. He was a slender man with a red stubby beard. Compared to most in the Downings, his clothes were clean and relatively well-kempt, but his complexion seemed unnaturally pale compared to that of his children.

Taro cooked up a quick lie. “I’m from out of town. I got robbed, and I’ve been looking for a friend of mine that traveled with me.”

“Rotten luck,” the little boy said.

The father sized Taro up in one significant glance. A moment passed, and he seemed to accept the lie. “Lot of thieves have cropped up since the frost. People you’d never expect to steal. Farmers, ranchers, merchants. Those bastard magisters, I tell yah.”

“Watch your language,” the mother said, picking at her crust of rye.

The father hardly noticed her comment. “They stole everything from us, and they think they’re doing a service by giving us their scraps.”

“My husband tends to ramble,” the mother said. “What Ashur means is ‘thank you for your generosity.’”

“Dad says we’ll be getting real food soon,” the son said through chewing.

“Did you find work?” Taro asked.

Ashur picked at what little was in his bowl. “You could say that.”

“Vexis is gonna help us,” the boy added cheerfully. “She’s gonna help everybody.”

His father hushed him and hastily changed the subject. “You mentioned you were looking for someone?”

“His name is Aris. Tall guy, ratty hair. Kind of crazy. He wears a—”

“The magister.” Ashur looked like he’d scraped something disgusting off his boot.

“He is a magister, yes.”

“Everyone in the Downings knows about him. The kook’s on the south grate. Nobody wants him here, but he refuses to leave.”

“Maybe I can convince him to.”

Thieves and Liars

Aris’ wagon was right where Ashur said it would be, amongst surrounded by crate-homes. It was covered in trash and filth, and the words ‘THEIVES’ and ‘LIARS’ covered the front in what Taro hoped was brown paint.

Taro retrieved his inscriber from his pocket and wrote out a dispel that would keep the door from knocking him out.

Inside, the piles of junk were shoveled into the back corner. On a cot in the center of the floor was a young woman in the late stages of an illness.

Aris knelt beside her and took a long syringe from the counter. He stuck it into his arm, drew a full vial of blood, and injected it into her. Her symptoms eased immediately and she sat up, wobbling like the whole world rushed into focus. “Who are you?” she asked. “What did you do?”

“Go home,” Aris said flatly. When he went to open the door, he saw Taro. “Would it kill you to knock? Manners, boy.” He shuffled the dazed woman out.

“Does she have what I think she has?” Taro asked.

“Depends on what you think she has.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. It’s the same sickness my mom and dad have, isn’t it?”

Aris washed his hands in a porcelain water basin. “I believe so.”

“How did she get it this far from Ashwick?”

“Let me ask you a better question. What kind of infectious disease only affects adults and completely ignores children.”

“There are plenty of diseases that only adults get—”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand. This is an illness that someone seventeen years, eleven months, and thirty days old cannot contract, but add one day to that number and it strikes them immediately.”

“That’s impossible.”

Aris batted him upside the head. “Are you an artificer or not? Use your brain, boy.”

Taro thought it over. “It’s not a natural sickness.”

“Very good.”

Taro pressed his back against the wagon wall. “But my parents...”

“You don’t think it’s odd that both your parents contracted the same illness at the same time, while you and your siblings remained untouched? No, they were lab rats for Halric and Vexis. It’s in the water.”

“That doesn’t add up. Vexis isn’t an adult, and she’s sick.”

“Unless she’s older than she appears.” Aris tapped his temple knowingly. “Magic-based diseases are horrendous amalgamations of alchemy and magistery. It shouldn’t be possible for an ordinary human.”

“Maybe she isn’t an ordinary human.”

Aris’ eyes perked. “Excuse me?”

“I went to visit Vexis’ sister. She’s locked in an asylum, completely mad. She had the same void magic as Vexis, but wasn’t in control. Something was inside of her.” He thought back to his time at the asylum. “Valon uru danik-es... and ith-something.’ That’s what it said to me.”

Aris rummaged through some shelves before he found one of the journals he’d stolen from Mathan’s back-alley mansion. He laid it on its cover and ruffled through the pages. When he found the one he needed, he spun the book around and pointed to a word. Ith-harus.

“That’s it,” Taro said.

“You’re certain that’s what she said?”

Taro nodded. “Without a doubt.”

Aris shook his head. “Afraid she’s just out of her mind.”

“Why?”

“Ith-harus is another name for Nuruthil. It was claiming to be Nuruthil.” Aris put the journal away.

“Maybe it was.”

“Claiming to be Nuruthil is like a homeless man claiming to be emperor of the world. It was probably a lesser lieutenant — a step above the void apparitions. Nuruthil wouldn’t waste his time speaking through a nothing girl to talk to a nothing like you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s just a fact. It would be like going out of your way to stomp on an ant a thousand miles away. What would be the point?”

“Maybe Vexis is a bit more important than an ant.” Taro removed the green vial Vexis gave him. Is this why she wanted Aris’ memories gone? To avoid Taro finding out what she’d done to his mother and father?

“She has vials of your blood. Any idea how she got those?”

“She must’ve taken them when they were holding me. Maybe to resist her own disease.”

Taro handed the green vial to Aris. “I’m supposed to get you to drink this. It’s supposed keep your memories suppressed.”

While Aris examined the elixir, there was a thump at the door.

“Inspection. Open up!” a voice called from the other side.

Aris sat the vial on the counter. “Inspection my ass.”

The warders barged in without further warning. They fished through Aris’ things, checked his packs, and patted him down. They pulled out mostly worthless junk: some bottle caps, a crock pot, and a ceramic beagle.

“Excuse me, those are family heirlooms,” Aris said, snatching back a circus poster. “You have no right to be in here.”

“Sit down,” the warder barked. “This lot is Magisterium property, and by order of the Imperator and all items are subject to search.”

The larger of the two warders checked Taro’s pockets, and found his aurom. “Who’d you manage to steal this from?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You expect us to believe you’re a magister?” Both warders laughed.

“Believe what you want.”

“I think we’d better bring them both back for questioning.”

Their captain appeared in the doorway. It was at this moment that Taro noticed what was going on outside. It wasn’t just Aris’ wagon being searched, warders rummaged through every crate and cot outside.

“Have you found anything?” the captain said.

“Not yet. But this one’s stolen a—”

“You’re not looking for thieves. Stop wasting time.”

The captain left and his men followed. The larger one tucked the aurom in his pocket.

“Give that back,” Taro shouted.

“I’ll be keeping it for evidence.”

Taro snatched the aurom back and made a run for it. The crowds passed like a blur as he bolted. When he reached the soup line, he found Ashur and his family kneeling with their hands over the backs of their heads. The children sobbed as their father was put in chains. The mother tried to plead with the warders, but was casually shoved aside.

Taro helped her up. “What’s going on here?”

She was in tears. “They’re arresting him.”

“What did he do?” Taro asked the warder.

The warder unfolded a piece of parchment that he’d gotten from the man’s pocket. It was propaganda written by Vexis supporters urging Lower citizens to rise up.

The warder chasing Taro caught up and pointed a sweaty finger toward him. “Take that one too.”

The warders herded Taro and a dozen others into armored carriages, and hauled them to a jail complex downtown. The administrator entered minutes later carrying a parchment with a wax seal. “By the authority of Imperator Amelia Ross, and the will of the Sun King, you have all been detained for conspiracy. If you wish to see your families again, all we want are names.”

One by one they took the men into an interrogation room. Ashur sat on a stone bench gripping the bars, waiting for his turn.

“What have I done?” He pressed his forehead against the bars. “I just need to tell them whatever they want to hear.”

Taro paused. “Give them me. Tell them I’m the one that recruited you and I’ll play the part when they interrogate me.”

“They’d lock you up for the rest of your life, or worse.”

“Let me worry about that. You worry about your wife and kids.”

One of the warders pointed at Ashur. “You next.”

The cell opened and they ushered him into the interrogation room. He was in there a half-hour longer than the last man. When he was done, the interrogator pointed at Taro. “You.”

The room was small and bare with nothing but a table and two chairs. The interrogator was a magister, though not one that Taro knew. He had a stiff, thin nose and greased hair combed over a bald spot. He was rummaging through his notes as he spoke.

“Good evening, I’m Magister Kubrin. I’ve heard an interesting tale... Taro, is it?”

This wasn’t the first time Taro had been interrogated. The warders in Ashwick questioned him on occasion, with no success. It used to be a point of pride, but this time he had to work for different results.

“So, you’re a pretty piss-poor interrogator,” Taro said, leaning back in his chair.

Kubrin set his pen down. “Excuse me?”

Taro pivoted the seat. “I just saw you talk to Ashur. So now I know he squealed.”

“You admit your ties to Vexis?”

“I’ll only talk to Imperator Ross herself.”

Kubrin scoffed. “Out of the question.”

“All right, but you don’t know the opportunity you’re passing up. I know where Vexis is.”

Kubrin’s eyes perked. “You’d be willing to tell us?”

Taro tapped the table. “I’ll only talk to Ross.”

Kubrin thought about it for a long moment, then laced his fingers. “If you’re wasting my time, I’ll make sure you wind up in the deepest, darkest dungeon in Endra.”

Taro was put into shackles placed back in the cell.

It was nine hours before Taro got any kind of update. While he waited, he played cards with the other prisoners. Generally speaking, the nicer the man, the poorer the card player. Unfortunately for these gentleman, they were all very nice.

Taro slapped down his hand face-up. “Full house. Aces over Jacks.”

“Damn it,” one said.

“Wild cards are a bad idea,” Taro said. “They muck up the game. That’s four pence from you, three from you, and seven from you. The second we’re out of here, I’m coming to get paid.”

A middle-aged man with a long curly mustache, shuffled the cards and passed two to each person in the group. “The way things are going, I don’t think we’ll be getting out of here any time soon.”

The sounds of rattling keys rang from the cellblock door. Magister Ross entered with Kubrin. When she saw Taro, it seemed to take her time to notice who he was. The clothes, the hair, the smudges on his face obscured him but she finally figured it out.

“Taro?” she said, then changed her tone to be more accusatory. “Come with me.”

Ross brought Taro back into the interrogation room and told Kubrin to stay outside.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Ross said as soon as the door shut. “And what the hell are you wearing?”

“They arrest me for stealing an aurom,” Taro said.

Ross laughed aloud. “Dressed like that, I’m not surprised. Your work clothes, I presume. I’ll talk to Kubrin and have you released. You couldn’t have had them summon a lower-ranking magister for this?”

“I thought you might be interested what’ve learned about Vexis.”

Ross rapped her fingers on the table. “I’m listening.”

“Her supporters are corrupting the waterways in lower city with some kind of disease.”

“Disease?” Ross said. “There hasn’t been a disease in Endra Edûn in centuries. The Arclight would purge it in seconds.”

“But the Arclight is broken. Maybe this was the reason. Without it, the sickness is free to spread. Look at the Sun King, he’s dying. I think Vexis infected him.”

Ross looked unsettled by this. “To what end?”

“The murder of the Sun King, unrest in the lower city, what more of an end does she need?”

“If that’s the case, there may not be much time. The Sun King’s on his last leg. He’s dying, Taro.”

“How much time does he have? Months?”

“I’d be surprised if he lasts the week.”