The Reach Between Worlds (The Arclight Saga, Book 1) (9 page)

“What was the problem?” Taro asked as the dragon looked him over like cattle stock.

“If you were going to light a candle, you’d use a match, yes?” Antherion said.

Taro nodded.

“What if, instead, you used a blowtorch? You’d destroy the wick and probably melt the wax to an unusable mass. You, young man, are lucky to be alive.”

“Well, I’m alive,” Taro said, pulling himself up. “Did it work?”

Antherion plucked a pinecone from one of the trees and placed it into Taro’s palm. He then took Kyra’s inscriber and scratched a few tiny runes onto it.

“Direct your templar into this,” Antherion said.

When Taro did so, the runes glowed and the pinecone lifted an inch from his hand.

It might’ve seemed like a novelty, but to Taro feeling actual magic was a wonder unlike anything he’d ever experienced. For the first time in his life he felt powerful.

Whatever Mathan’s plans were didn’t matter anymore. Taro had to learn more about this. He had to see how far it could go.

Glory Days

Taro wanted to delve into his studies more than ever, but reality of teetering close to dead broke was of a more pressing concern.

Later that evening when Nima went to sleep, he set his coins out in small stacks. At final tally he had three crowns and four pence remaining. Not only did they have interest to pay, they also had room and board, food, and clothing.

A gentle rap came at the door, followed by a whisper. “Taro, you there?”

It was Ven, Pipes, and Yoresh. Ven ushered Taro into the hall. He and Pipes were in particularly good spirits, and Taro could smell alcohol on their breath. They were all in their Magisterium uniforms, which in the lower city was not a good idea.

“How’d you know I was here?” Taro asked.

“You said you were in Suri’s place,” Ven said. “We tried to catch you after class. I gotta say, Lower isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“We saw some taverns on the way. We’re going to check them out, care to join?” Pipes said.

“Ecruden val durra,” Yoresh said.

“Can we get that in Amínnic?” Ven asked.

Yoresh pointed to his temple. “I say Endrans are crazy in head. Air is cold. People are hostile. Why venture where we are not wanted?”

“To get a drink. To have fun,” Ven said. “Don’t they have fun where you’re from?”

“Freezing weather is not fun,” Sig said. “Neither is causing riot.”

“We’re going,” Ven said. “And I know you’re coming, Taro. You’re going to need a drink after today.”

“If it’s on you,” Taro said.

“Oh, no, it’s on moneybags.” Ven pointed to Pipes, who looked more than a little annoyed at the statement.

“Why him?”

“Because Ven likes giving me hell,” Pipes said.

“And because his father is Denith Crissom,” Ven said.

The name flew over Taro’s head. “Who?”

“Owner of Crissom Foundry. He makes all the metal the Magisterium uses. Every airship, every plate, every cannon.”

“The Magisterium’s gotta have its metal,” Pipes said, but seemed keen to change the subject.

Taro did need something to take his mind off everything. With Nima asleep, what was the harm? “I’d better change out of my uniform.”

Ven pulled him along. “You’re fine. Let’s just go.”

_____

Taro’s mother turned a blind eye to many things over the years; running packages for Mr. Boors, pickpocketing, and petty theft. She stayed quiet as long as the family was provided for. But her own father had been a drunk, and one thing she would not abide was Taro drinking.

Some years ago, Taro tried a sip of piss-nasty Helian bourbon with Sikes; when his mom caught a whiff of it, she went ballistic.

Near the Lower’s south entrance was a cluster of taverns. Only one wasn’t boarded up and empty. The sign over the door had a carved goat caricature. Past the post were two large metal pillars with seven grooves running up the sides. On the insides of the grooves were magistry enchantments, and through the cracked window Taro saw another pillar inside. Heat radiated from them.

“This is from the Artificium,” Pipes said. “Expensive, too.”

“At least we won’t freeze,” Taro said, hovering his fingers over the warm air.

Ven put one hand around Pipes’ neck and the other around Taro’s. “Gentlemen, that’s what the drinks are for.”

Taro wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Drunken singing and dancing on tables, perhaps. Bards strumming lutes and old men telling tall tales. None of these were present, and in fact the entire place seemed various shades of brown. It was warm, but it was a musty, oppressive heat that made the smell of alcohol more noxious.

There were eight older men inside, two of them were off-duty warders. Their eyes followed the boys in complete silence as they entered and sat down at the bar.

Pipes set ten pence on the counter. “Five of your best.”

The haggard bartender studied the boys. After a moment, he smiled, rearing his yellow teeth and fixed them their drinks. Taro was the last to be served, and when he got his pint, the bartender spoke. “You boys come down from the Magisterium, eh?”

The boys sipped their drink and nodded.

“That a problem?” Ven asked.

The bartender looked towards the men on the other side of the room. “Of course not. We don’t have a problem with magisters in these parts, do we fellas?”

One of the warders wobbled to his feet and set his ale down so hard that it splashed onto the already soaked table.

He put his face just inches from Taro’s. “It’s always a pleasure when our Magisterium overlords pay us common-folk a visit.”

Taro put a hand between him and the warder. “Excuse me.”

“We want no... eh... what is word?” Yoresh said.

“Trouble,” Pipes said.

“Who’s causin’ trouble?” The warder grabbed Taro’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m just offering my thanks. Fine work you lot do up there. Just wonderin’, any progress on that Arclight keepin’ us common folk from freezin’ to death?”

“Now, now,” the bartender said as he ran a rag across the counter, “they’re just recruits.”

Ven set his pint down. “Recruits with ranks equivalent to lieutenant.” He pointed to the warder’s rank. “Corporal.”

The warder did a mock salute. “You’re right, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“You should go back to your seat. You’re outranked and outclassed,” Ven said.

The warder placed his hand on Ven’s shoulder. “You think you’re better than me, kid?”

Ven reacted to the weight of his hand, but didn’t shove him away. He spoke calmly. “Take your hand off me and go back to your seat.”

“Or what?” The warder blasted his foul breath in Ven’s face.

Ven grabbed the warder’s wrist and brought the hulking man to his knees. At first, watching the skinny, scraggly Ven dominating a two-hundred pound man was amusing, but Taro quickly realized what Ven was doing.

“Let him go,” Taro said frantically. “You heard what Sullen said.”

Ven did so and the soldier cradled his bruised wrist.

“Just teaching him a lesson.” Ven peered at the other men staring at them from the tables. “If the rest of you want to end up on the floor with your friend, let’s get this over with.”

The men went back to their drinks, and the warder staggered back to his seat.

“You gotta put them in their place, otherwise they’ll never learn,” Ven said, sipping his ale.

After a few drinks, the mood was much lighter. The men hadn’t bothered them again, and the ale even started to taste almost drinkable.

Ven held up his sloshing cup. “To yet another year in this god-forsaken shithole,” he said, remarkably well for how much he’d had.  “Third year’s the charm, they say.”

“I sure hope not,” Taro said.

“I can count on one hand the number of recruits who pass the trial on the first go.” He nudged Taro with his elbow. “Kyra is one of them. Some brains on that one. Or some connections. I could get used to starin’ at that for a term or two.”

Pipes rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“What?” Some ale spilled from his cup as he gestured. “C’mon, she’s gorgeous.”

“Jar nor uru calaphor,” Yoresh said with a chuckle. He’d just downed his fourth pint, but barely seemed phased by it.

Sig nodded. “He says you should try for someone more attainable.”

Pipes grinned. “Besides, we all know that Taro’s the one she’s got her eye on, remember?”

Three hours later, they started back to Taro’s room. They bantered and shouted as they wobbled through the slush. Ven had been right, the cold didn’t feel so bad after a few drinks. Even drunk, Taro didn’t feel quite right wandering through lower city, but he could barely speak clearly, let along convince the others to walk along the colder surface.

“Did you see that warder’s face,” Ven slurred. “What a joke.”

“If Sullen finds out, there’ll be hell to pay,” Pipes said.

“How’s he gonna find out? None of you are gonna tell him, right?”

“Of course not,” Pipes said, and the others agreed.

“I’m sick and tired of getting flack for being in the Magisterium. Used to be that magisters were looked up to, but now we can’t even go out and get a drink without gettin’ pissed on.”

The boys passed several open rows on their way. Most of them had homeless people inside, huddled around lit trash bins. Wide stretches of cloth were tied from one row to another as a makeshift canopy. Some of them rattled cups at the boys and begged for money, but they didn’t even elicit a head-turn.

With the frequent beggars, Taro didn’t think it was strange to hear footsteps nearby. By the time he realized what was going on, it was too late. The warders from the bar ran up to them and slammed a wooden board across Ven’s head.

Taro punched one if the men in the stomach, but it served only to make them angrier. Yoresh put up a much better fight and knocked a bloodied tooth out of the warder’s mouth before he was overrun.

Taro got the beating of his life. Once the boys were so drunk and shell-shocked they couldn’t use templary, they were easy targets. The men paid special attention to Ven, and when they were finally satisfied with the curb stomp, the one Ven insulted pressed his foot into Ven’s stomach.

The warder gave him one last kick to the face. “Who’s outclassed now?”

Taro took the least of it. The men noticed early on that he was missing a foot, and perhaps beating up a cripple didn’t sit right with them.

When they left, Taro gathered the strength to get stand. The others were bloodied and bruised, but at least they were all alive.

“Can you walk?” Taro asked each as he helped them up. All of them could.

Despite two black eyes, a bleeding mouth, and probably a broken rib, Ven seemed more frustrated that hurt. “I can’t believe we let them get the drop on us.”

“We should tell Magister Ross what happened,” Sig said.

“We need the infirmary,” Yoresh said.

“Stagger into the Magisterium like this is going to draw some suspicion,” Taro said.

“Taro’s right,” Pipes said, stretching his back. “We can stay at my house for the night and get fixed up. My parents are on holiday in Celosa.”

Pipes’ house was a mansion like Taro had never seen. The gate outside was a quarter-mile from the front door. The snow-capped lawn was covered in metal art and antiques: old airship propellers, an artillery shells, and a tank.

Pipes fumbled with the keys and pushed the door open. Hundreds of tiny model airships (both of the air-balloon variety and propulsion-based) hung from every square inch of the ceiling. Cannons and escape-pod fuselages sat on pedestals with the name of the ship that had carried them. There were charts, compasses, maps, propellers from apparently famous warships, and so many framed blueprints that they may as well have been wallpaper.

“My dad’s a bit of a collector,” Pipes said.

“A bit?” Taro said wide-eyed.

There was a set of stairs to the left, and flickering candlelight shined from hall at the top, following footsteps.

“I thought you said your parents were away,” Taro whispered.

“The groundskeeper works late sometimes,” Pipes said coolly.

A man holding a candle appeared at the top of the steps. He was rather tall with thick, brown curls and glasses. He stared down at the boys. “Piper, what the devil happened to you?”

Pipes fumbled his words. “I thought you were with mom.”

Pipes’ father hurried down and held his candle to Pipes’ face. “I had to stay behind for business. Have you been fighting?”

“We got jumped on the road,” Pipes said. He was smart enough not to mention they’d been in the lower city.

“You reek of alcohol.”

“We were celebrating.”

“You know better than venturing out dressed like that. It’s not like it was when I was your age, the city isn’t safe.”

Ven spoke up. “It was my fault, sir. Pipes didn’t want to go.”

“There’s no need to defend him.” Mr. Crissom motioned for them to follow him to the dining room. “Believe me, I remember when I was a recruit, and I know listening to your father isn’t the first thing on your mind. I hope you learned something from this.”

Mr. Crissom went into the other room and came back with a small wooden box. He set it on the dining room table; inside were bandages, gauze, and various alchemical ointments and medicines. He dabbed a bit onto a cloth and spotted their bruises with it.

“This should fix your surface damage, but there’s more underneath.” He pressed his fingers into Pipes’ back and a slight white glow emanated from his fingertips. “You’ve got a fractured rib.” He did the same to Ven. “And you’ve got chips on the back of your skull. You’re lucky there’s no internal bleeding.” He did the same to the others, noting some minor fractures and cracks. “All in all, you’re extremely lucky.” When Mr. Crissom’s pressed his hand into Taro’s back, Taro felt his pain fade and a small ‘snap.’