Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) (23 page)

Tyrissa set out for Under Forge an hour after
dawn when the morning air still possessed a hint of chill that promised to burn
away into a warm day. Tyrissa couldn’t help but compare the weather to home
where they might have seen their first, fleeting snows by now. A full week had
passed since she resolved to find Settan the former Stone Shaper, but the growing
paranoia in the city showed no signs of abating anytime soon and the Cadre had plenty
of contracts to fill. She wore her guild coat, hoping that the status would be
of some minor use, and the new harness fit comfortably underneath. Her staff
stuck firm to the strip of magnets through the fabric the coat and swayed above
her shoulder as she walked into the northwestern district of Khalanheim known
as Forge.

Forge bustled with activity despite it being a
day of rest in the Khalanheim work-week. As she walked up the main boulevard
known as Smith’s Row, Tyrissa passed countless smithies and factories that
showed no sign of slowed work. Many buildings had the peaked gables of other
neighborhoods, but all wore soot-stained facades with none of the ornamentation
of the rest of Khalanheim. The ubiquitous shops and markets of the city were
limited to a few scattered food vendors. This was a neighborhood of pure
production that left the style and selling to the professionals in other
districts. A forest of chimneys and smokestacks lined the rooftops and belched
out steady plumes of smoke that the riftwinds carried up and away from the
city. Color was in short supply, with everything shaded gray, black or brown
except the clean and bright guild crests that hung over every building’s main
entry. Workers dressed in simple, stout brown clothes and leather aprons weaved
their way through traffic dominated by oxen-drawn cargo carts that plodded
along the timeworn streets.

Tyrissa followed the dominant flow of traffic and
came to her first waypoint: the intersection of Smith’s Row and an equally
broad avenue known simply as North Street. This was the heart of Forge, an
orderly square lined by the most prestigious production companies. Here Smith’s
Row split around a tall half-circle tunnel entrance at the center of the
square. Cargo carts bearing piles of ore and metals streamed in and out of the
tunnel, passing through a check point before carrying the fruits of the
underground to their respective buyers. The Central guardsmen manning the checkpoint
paid fleeting attention to passing foot traffic, giving Tyrissa only a cursory
glance as she entered the under district.

The tunnel was wide enough for four wagons
abreast, two in each direction, plus foot traffic. It descended at a gentle
slope for hundreds of feet, turning at a switchback before spilling out onto a
square that appeared to be a mirror of the one above. Stepping aside the flow
of traffic from the tunnel, Tyrissa paused and gazed around the massive urban
cavern. The roots and bases of many of the same factories and processing plants
from above lined the underground intersection, some built as full towers that
burst through the earth, others connected to the surface by lifts that rose through
gaps in the ceiling. Countless skylights sent angled shafts of morning light down
into the under district.

Tyrissa began her search, politely pulling aside
the rare worker that looked less harried, or asking stall merchants selling pieces
of fruit or bread wrapped in protective cloths. Their responses were uniform,
either having no idea who Settan or the ‘Pact Witch’ were or returning rueful
shake of the head. Soot and smoke hung heavy in the air, and many of the people
going about their daily business were stained with a layer of grit on their
faces and clothes. A few wore bandanas over their mouths and noses, and after a
few minutes of soaking in the sight and smells of Under Forge, Tyrissa wished
she had one of her own. Blast furnaces belched out heat and seemed to be
everywhere she went, making a warm day even hotter. It was nothing compared to
the Vordeum Wastes, but well above comfortable, particularly in her guild coat.
Channels of water ran along many of the wider streets, most carrying blackened
wastewater toward the Rift. Despite being underground, the riftwinds
occasionally stirred her hair and kept the air from being overpowered by the scent
and heat of industry.

Her search began to look fruitless after an hour.
Any veins of information on these streets were mined out and exhausted. Tyrissa’s
wandering brought her away from the heat and smoke of the central forges and
into side streets that looked equal parts cave and carved. She traveled against
the flow of the riftwinds, when she could feel them, eventually coming to a
quiet residential area of tenement houses stacked against the stone walls like
a half-circle of smelted metal bars. The ceilings pressed lower here, and night
lamps provided illumination instead of skylights. The rough paving stones of
the street sunk down a few steps toward the center of the half-circle, where water
flowed from an open pipe into a clear, communal pool. A cluster of washerwomen
worked nearby, fighting a losing battle against the grit of Under Forge.
Tyrissa hadn’t been down here long and already the whites of her guild coat
showed some graying from the soot and dirt in the air. When asked, the women were
just as innocently ignorant of who she sought, if kindly offering pieces of
advice.

“You take care now,” one said as Tyrissa bid her
thanks and goodbyes. “Some streets down here aren’t safe for a girl walking
alone, even one such as you.”

Tyrissa smiled at her concern. “Thanks, but I can
handle myself. It’s not like I’m going to be accosted by a trio of street
toughs looking for ‘a bit ‘o sport.’”

Sometimes I love being wrong,
Tyrissa
thought as the end of her staff slammed into the side of the final thug’s head.
The wood thrummed in her hands from the impact, a feeling of pure satisfaction.
Her would-be assailant dropped his blade and fell to ground in a heap. One of
his comrades lay groaning nearby and the third shuffled down the alley from
whence they came with a severe limp. The fight was almost too easy, the weeks
of training with Kexal and now the Cadre leaving their mark. The street was
otherwise quiet, a nearly abandoned section of Under Forge’s web of narrow side
streets and alleys.

Tyrissa planted an end of her staff at the center
of the conscious thug’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. As he gasped for
air, she leaned over and said, “Let’s try this again. I’m looking for someone.
Could you
please
help me?”

Might as well be civil.

A thinning trickle of blood ran down her arm to
her wrist and left a chain of bloodstains along the sleeve. A few drops fell
and pattered onto the thug’s chest. One of the three had landed a lucky blow on
her arm just above the elbow, leaving a mild gash and a damaged guild coat.
Tyrissa could feel the flesh knitting itself back together and she wished the
coat could do the same. Caliss will be incensed, though the Cadre’s matriarch
of uniforms had assured her that she would have a properly fitting new coat
soon. Below, her new friend coughed and managed to draw in a full breath.

“Who’re you looking for?” His voice sounded even
more ragged than before their brawl but held an air of near politeness. A quick
beating can result in vast attitude improvements.

“Word has it that a mystic or witch lives down
here and that she can remove Pacts. A Pact Witch, if you will. Know anything
about that? Maybe someone who made use of her services?” Tyrissa tilted her
head to one side and gave him a cold stare for emphasis.

“Settan,” he said with a nod. “He used to be one
of them Shapers, but not anymore. Now spends his time and coin at the
Miner’s
Pick
, trying to drown.”

Tyrissa continued to stare at him. His answer
came out quick and sounded earnest enough, and between gasps for air he would
glace at the butt of her staff with a worried look. She eased off.

“Shaper? As in Stone Shaper?”

He nodded, taking grateful deep breaths.

“Are you sure?”

“He makes no secret of himself and let’s just say
losing his Pact hasn’t made him any less vulnerable.”

Must have decided I was easier prey.

“Why don’t you tell me where the
Miner’s Pick
is?”

The
Miner’s Pick
stood along a narrow street
just off the main road that mirrored Smith’s Row aboveground. Like the other buildings
along this street, the tavern was older and built of soot-stained wood instead
of stone. The second story had been abandoned long ago, the windows boarded up
and the interior forgotten, but light and sound drifted out from the ground
floor to counter the lifeless second story. Tyrissa wondered if the name was
supposed to be some bawdy reference then saw that the wooden sign hanging above
the doorway depicted a helmed man with a mining pick positioned
just so.

That would be a ‘yes’.

Bolted to the front door and taking the place of
a normal handle was a secondary eponymous mining pick. The tavern was half
empty, the crowd a subdued set of off-shift workers from ore processing or foundry
jobs wearing tough, soot stained clothes but cleaned hands and faces. A handful
of eyes spared her a glance or a curious look, but quickly returned to their
conversations or card games. Tobacco smoke collected between the ceiling beams
and gave Tyrissa’s lungs a change of pace, the haze in the air tasting of
agriculture instead of industry.

Tyrissa stepped up to the bar and received a nod
from the tender who matched the exterior of his tavern, grayed and weathered
but still standing. A pair of casks were mounted on the wall behind him,
between which stood a rack of dubious liquor bottles of made of smoky glass.
All were unlabeled. She assumed he had a system.

“Well. You seem to be out of place, miss. What
can I do for you?” She suspected he didn’t mean her guild coat.

“I’m looking for Settan.”

“He’s there in the back,” he pointed at the far
corner to a second sitting area partitioned from the main floor, connected by
two empty doorways. The wall between bore a painting of a mining town nestled
among conifer covered mountains.

“You’re not bringing him any more trouble, are
you? Fellow’s seen enough for twelve men.”

“Nothing like that. I only have a few questions.”

“Always starts that way.”

Tyrissa nodded her thanks and weaved through the
tables to the back. Shadows shrouded the partitioned room, the only light a steady
candle at the single occupied table. This would be the best spot in the tavern
for roguish business, with a clear view of the door and fewer eyes and ears on
you. Every good tavern had a table like this one.

“Settan?”

Though he watched her cross the room to his table
he still gave a small start when she drew near.

“Yes. You are?”

Settan’s face contained all the ravages of age
and rough living, run through with crags and ravines but lacking the beard
stubble she would expect of a man trying to wash away his whatevers in a
run-down tavern. In fact, Tyrissa could see no hair on him at all, not even on
his brow or eyelashes. Flecks of stone protruded from the skin of his neck and
upper arms like raised scabs, and his eyes were the color of slate. He wore
rough spun clothing, and the only pieces of ornamentation on him were a pair of
polished stone bracers clasped around his forearms. Settan was clearly imbued
with earth magicks, an example of the obvious Pactbound that she’d imagined in
all the stories.

“Tyrissa. I heard about you and just have some
questions.”

Settan pointed at the Cadre’s badge on her coat.

“Strange. Most security guilds do not take our
kind,” he said at a measured pace.

Well that was a quick reveal.
She hoped to
keep that fact unsaid until later. Something about her Pact must set off
signals in other Pactbound. Hali knew, as did that fire juggler in the Harvest
Market. This made three out of three.

“I… keep a low profile. I’m looking for the Pact
Witch.”

“Ah.” He didn’t look surprised. His face betrayed
barely any emotion at all. Calling him stone faced would be too easy, but
appropriate. He motioned to the chair across the table. She leaned her staff
against the wall and sat down. Settan considered her for a moment, those slate
eyes steady.

“Why?”

“I’m looking for her for the same reasons you
had.” As soon as the words were out Tyrissa realized that they were partially
true at best. She couldn’t even tell herself what she wanted out of this Pact Witch.
Answers first, certainly. Some degree of clarity. Then perhaps freedom.

“Yes. However, we haven’t the
same
reasons. You are more like her.”

Tyrissa’s heart rose at that comment, some of her
vague suspicions solidifying into a faint hope.

“What do you mean ‘like her’?”

“You have that same curious… gravity.”

“Who is she? Please, I need to know.”

Settan took a slow drink and said, “An older
woman, though ‘witch’ is unkind, her strange magicks aside. Yes, a witch. Also
a huntress. Most of all an angel providing a certain sort of salvation, the
true meaning of which I’m still working out all these months later. She arrived
in the city a few years ago, though more rumor than fact at first. Then Pactbound
started turning up dead. Always the rogues, the criminals, the outcasts.”

“The huntress part, right?”

“Right. She became known as a witch from stories
of those who escaped her attacks. Stories of pact magick going awry. Magick
that refused to touch her. After she cleared out the less desirable Pactbound
she started offering a way of removing pacts. Those that took up her offer were
cleansed. When they survived.”

All that Settan had said aligned with and
expanded upon what Tyrissa had heard from Liran or read in the newspaper
archives. She waited as Settan took another drink before continuing.