Quintessential Tales: A Magic of Solendrea Anthology (11 page)

"Did we win?"

"Not this time," Faxon sighed. "How do you feel?"

"I been through worse, lad. I'll live." He tugged open his doublet to reveal a patch of fine green and black lines that traced out from the point of impact like a drunk spider's web. "Don't reckon I'll be winning any beauty contests, though."

Faxon bent down to get a closer look at the wound and wished he hadn't. The acrid tang of rotten meat wafted up off the diseased skin and made his stomach churn. Gunther was a sturdy soul, but Faxon wasn't sure the dwarf would survive without the intervention of a healer. Or better yet, a cleric. Even as he watched, new lines were forming from the old, spreading out across the healthy skin to consume it. Unfortunately, the lawless nature of the Lower City made finding a
bona fide cleric well-nigh impossible.

"Not sure you're going to live through this one without some help, old friend." Faxon pulled the doublet closed and helped Gunther to his feet. "
Tionne’s magic is insidious."

"The magic mirrors the mage," Gunther grunted.

"Doesn't it just."

"Ye wasting time, lad." Gunther put two fingers in his mouth and issue
d a piercing whistle that echoed through the great warehouse. "Ye need to go after Tionne, and be quick about it."

A young woman dropped from the upper level and landed lightly on the balls of her feet. Clad
in a forest green tunic and leggings, she had short brown hair that spiked out like a cactus on top. Half a dozen gold rings ran the length of each pointed ear.

"You were here the entire time?" Faxon asked sharply, his ire getting the best of him.

"Watch your tongue, lad. Furia knows when to keep quiet and out of the way. Don't you, love?"

Furia nodded, her oval eyes flicking from Faxon to the Dwarf. Those brown eyes were troubled, and they had every right to be. Gunther's condition would become dire.

"You'll get him to a healer?" Faxon asked the elf, who nodded vigorously. "All right. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Faxon shifted into sphere sight and the world took on the strange, washed out silver-white glow that all mages saw within the Ethereal Realm. He let his sense of the supernatural guide him, and he followed its gentle pull to a place where the cohesion of the Quintessential Sphere had been torn apart and put back together with a sloppy hand. A section of the front wall, beside the main doors, had been weakened. This was where Tionne and her companion had entered the building. A shadow portal had been forced open, allowing his former apprentice to pass into the Ethereal Realm and bypass the physical wall.

Shaking his head, Faxon opened the front doors wide enough to slip out sideways and then closed them behind him. He listened for the loud clank of the latches falling into place. He had to admire Tionne's cavalier faith in her own skill. Traversing an ether portal or gate was something that most mages only dared to attempt after years of study and specialized training. The odds of accidentally getting your soul stuck in the Ethereal Realm were just too great. Time and space operated differently within the boundaries of the Quintessential Sphere. Sidestepping past a physical obstacle could be just as dangerous as trying to traverse the width of a continent. Slipping through the wall of the warehouse could easily have cost Tionne her life. Or worse, her sanity.

Cool night air slapped him in the face and turned his thoughts to more pressing matters. The Trade District squatted along the waterfront, away from the busy taverns, brothels, and hostels that made up the bulk of the Lower City. It was darker, quieter, and the few people out in the streets were less likely to take note of things going on around them, or talk about it if they did. He was going to have to track down Tionne on his own, without any assistance.

Faxon dropped out of sphere sight. It wasn't gaining him anything. There were no residual eddies or disturbances in the Quintessential Sphere for him to follow. Tionne hadn't been stupid enough to use any magic that he would be able to trace. She'd given him a clue, though, and that was enough. Her buccaneer friend would have come from a ship moored further downriver. Overwatch tolerated a lot within its jurisdiction, but bringing a pirate ship into port was a fine way to end up in a dungeon and having your ship and all its cargo confiscated for the city's benefit. She'd have to find a way back to that ship, and that would give him time to catch up.

It didn't take very long for Faxon to reach the wide dock that ran the length of the Lower City riverside. Overwatch never slept, so even at this hour, there were deckhands scurrying to and fro with bundles of cargo. Surly ship captains perched against rails, barking orders to the men who carrying them out. Faxon stopped a deckhand passing by.

"Have you seen a girl pass through here in the last few minutes?"

The seaman shrugged off Faxon's hand as if it was no more than a bothersome insect. "Saw nothin'. Heard nothin'. Forget it, mate."

A quick bit of rummaging in the purse on his belt and Faxon produced a ten crown coin. He made it dance across his knuckles, then handed it to the man, who bit down on it before dropping it in a pocket.

"Ah. That girl. Right, mate. Passed through here, got in a right small dinghy and shoved off down river."

"Oy! You lazy sod, back to work!" the captain called from above, standing on the ship's rail. The seaman lowered his head and hurried off. Faxon briefly considered knocking the captain from his roost, then decided against it. Every second he wasted here was one that Tionne would be getting a bit further away.

Scanning the dock, Faxon found what he needed in short order, a little skiff bobbed in the gentle river current. He stepped aboard and pulled the mooring lines free. He'd have liked to have Gunther along to help man the little boat, but with a bit of effort, he could manage.

At least he wouldn't have to worry about Tionne spying on him through the Quintessential Sphere. Large bodies of water, especially running water like the Trade River, or worse yet, seawater, did strange things to the connection to the Ethereal Realm. Even the most skilled mage found it impossible to cut through the spiritual noise. Even cantrips, simple spells that could be mastered by anyone, were useless on the water.

Faxon dropped the oars into the oarlocks and pulled away from the dock. The strong current, downriver from Overwatch's grand waterfall, did most of the work for him. Faxon's main focus was on steering the boat where he wanted it to go. As the lights of the city dwindled behind him, only the sliver of moon overhead provided any luminance. That made it difficult to make things out on the rippling water. Whatever ship was moored in the river, Faxon didn't want to run up on it with no warning.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Rounding the bend in the river made the ship readily apparent. Light blazed from every porthole, the reflected light from the river making the huge ship seem even larger than it was. Lanterns and torches festooned the deck. Men moved up and down the rigging, making preparations to set sail. They looked for all the world like industrious insects.

Faxon needed to get to shore, and quickly. They'd see him coming long before he reached the ship, and while Tionne couldn't reach him with a spell, one of her mercenaries could easily do the job with an arrow or a bullet. He managed to ground the skiff and struggled up onto the riverbank, forcing his way through the mu
lch and thick reeds. A frown spread across his face like a spreading storm as he contemplated the precariousness of his position.

Swimming to the ship was out of the question. Robes weren't well suited to water pursuits. He was beginning to understand why Adamon eschewed the traditional garb for simpler clothes. There was a certain amount of prestige that came with the Order's robes, but it wasn't enough to warrant dying over. Besides, drowning didn't sound like any fun at all.

He had to figure out how to get on that boat. That was his first, and for now, his only, priority. Now that he was off the water, he could use his command of the Quintessential Sphere to disguise himself. First he had to get rid of the robes that would be more of a liability than an asset. He stripped down to his under tunic and breeches. He shivered a bit. It wasn't quite warm enough to be comfortable, but it would have to do. Enchantment hadn't been his strongest skill at the Academy of Arcane Arts and Sciences, but he was confident he could pull off a decent disguise.

He closed his eyes, envisioning the changes he wanted to make to his body and calling to mind memories of the people with the most prominent features he wanted to invoke. As he whispered the ancient words of dead languages, wrinkles creased his face, turning him from a man of middling years to an older man. The
days’ worth of stubble he had on his cheeks and chin grew longer, creeping down his face like kudzu, turning white as they grew in a wild, unkempt beard.

Another mage would be able to see through his disguise in an instant, but he doubted there were any other Quintessentialists on Tionne's crew. She didn't play well with others, but an eccentric old man looking for passage probably wouldn't be seen as much of a threat. Even to Tionne.

Faint in the distance, he heard rough voices raised in an old sea shanty. Faxon slipped into the Quintessential Sphere and raced along the river's edge. There, on the riverbank not too far off, he found a camp. Faint gray doppelgangers of pirates were huddled around a spectral fire. They were almost uniformly gray souls, in balance between the forces of good and evil, of light and dark. These were men who did what they needed to do to survive in a harsh world. Some souls were darker than others, but not half as dark as they would have been if they'd been following Tionne's leadership for any considerable length of time. She was as black and twisted a soul as Faxon had ever seen. He owed it to these men to see that she didn't drag them down with her when she descended into the depths of the Deep Void.

Drawing himself back into his body, Faxon made his way down the riverside toward the camp. His under tunic and simple breeches would draw little attention from men who most often dressed in the castoffs of society. He added a limp to his disguise for good measure, though he doubted that these men would give him so much as a second glance. There were plenty of people looking for whatever work they could find. The variety and lawlessness of a pirate ship appealed to many
men.

Even with the limp, he reached the pirates' camp in short order. A few box tents with peaked roofs were scattered around the fire. Bed rolls were laid out in the grass or next to the tents. A man with a torn, ragged ear stirred a heavy iron pot over a secondary fire.

Faxon walked into the camp unchallenged, but as he stood taking in the scene, a bulky man in a blue waistcoat ducked out of the largest tent. By no means a short man, Faxon was dwarfed by this giant, who would have given Torus a run for his money in size. The giant man laid his hand on Faxon's shoulder.

"Sorry, Sir. You need to move along. There's nothing for you here."

"I's lookin' for work, lad," Faxon said, thinking fast on his feet. "I's can do odd jobs, or cook, or clean. Just lookin' for passage to the next port, is all."

The giant stroked his wiry black beard, curious violet eyes scanning Faxon's face as if he saw something deeper there. Faxon knew that wasn't possible, but it still made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"No work," the giant grunted. He waved a hand by the heavy iron pot. "And we got a cook. You'll need to move along."

Faxon cast a speculative eye at the man tending the pot. "That's slop there, not food. I's can cook you a proper meal with nary but what ye've got."

"Is that so?" the giant chuckled. "Well then, have your shot. Do better and we'll take you aboard. Do worse and you stay here when we shove off."

"Fair enough."

The giant went and spoke to the man cooking over the fire, who then shrugged and gave Faxon a rather predatory grin. He tossed the ladle onto a small slab table and went to the main fire. He took a bottle of rum passed to him by one of his mates and seemed for forget what he'd been doing moments prior.

"All yours,
Old-timer." The giant grinned as he passed, and Faxon's blood went a little cold.

The pirate's larder was a sad state of affairs. It was a study in the dreary nature of seafaring life. Everything was packed in salt. Salted beef. Salted fish. Salted hardtack. Faxon peered into the pot. A thin broth of some kind, it looked utterly inedible. Pieces of shaved beef and a few anemic vegetables floated listlessly on the surface. Hardly enough to make a man fee
l as if he'd eaten.

Wrapping towels around his hands, Faxon made a show of struggling with the pot. Slipping it off the fire, he tipped it into some nearby reeds. The giant raised an eyebrow at him, but offered no comment. Faxon dragged the pot back over the fire and filled it half full from jugs of fresh water near the slab table. Then he went to work.

Under the table he found a sack of potatoes and a few onions. In the cook's kit, he found a blade with a reasonable edge and a cutting board. Faxon smiled to himself. He was proficient enough in enchantment that he could beguile the senses through magic, but he didn't want to. The truth of it was that he loved being in a kitchen and didn't get to cook nearly enough. Potatoes and onions went into the pot. Then the last of the sad looking vegetables. He cubed some of the salted fish and added that as well, forgoing any additional salt.