Sourcethief (Book 3) (40 page)

None of the Megrenn fighters survived, and only a
few minor injuries were reported among his own men. It was the third time they
had found real live enemies to defeat. He was building quite a reputation for
himself—once they got home and he could tell everyone.

"Um, Warlock Danilaesis, sir, two men have
surrendered to us. They asked to see you," one of the soldiers informed
him.

"Hmm, that's new. Do we take prisoners?"
Danil asked.

"Not as a rule, warlock, no," said the
ship's captain, a beleaguered man named Prough, who had been supplanted as
ranking officer by a boy of seven summers.

"Well, then just kill them. I want to do things
the right way."

"If you pardon, warlock, they claim to be Kadrins,
and said they had the right to demand to see the warlock," the soldier
said.

"Well, fine. They can see me, but we will still
probably have to kill them, since we don't take prisoners," Danil
declared. He stood with his dragon-bone blade resting on his shoulder, keeping
every man standing within three paces of him ready to dive for safety.

The would-be prisoners arrived before him in Megrenn
uniforms, which reflected poorly on them in Danil's mind.

"Well, here I am. What did you have to say to
me?" Danil asked.

"Well," one began, then turned to look at
the other, who shrugged in reply. "Well, you see, we work for the, um,
other warlock ... the first one, Warlock Rashan."

"He has people working in the Megrenn
army?" Danil asked.

"'Course he does! We're like, um, spies, ya
see," said the Megrenn-uniformed Kadrin spy. "All the army 'sposed to
know if some fella says he's workin' for Warlock Rashan, they got to bring him
to Warlock Rashan, see. If they's lying, it'll go bad enough from the warlock,
um, Warlock Rashan, not you, I mean."

"Is that true?" Danil asked, turning to
the captain.

"'Fraid he's right on that one, warlock."

"Very well, head us home. We probably don't
need to tie them up, I guess."

Faolen pressed his eyes closed as Warlock Rashan
reached out for him. He felt the cool, smooth skin of the demon's fingers as
they locked about the front of his skull. With conscious effort, he resisted
the temptation to watch in the aether as the spell took hold. He had done so
only once, and the creeping feeling of watching aether being poured into his
own mind still gave him shudders when he thought of it.

"Just relax, you are making this harder than it
needs to be," Rashan cautioned. Faolen realized that his jaw was clenched
and that all the muscles of his neck were pulled tight as bowstrings. He filled
his lungs and released a long breath, forcing himself to ease them loose once
more. "Better. Now, go wake your twin."

Wendell's eyes opened in a dirty little rooming
house in Takalia. It was dark save for the moonlight that squeezed past the
shutters. After allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows, he could make out
the sleeping forms of Jadon and Zellisan—though he could have found the latter
by his snoring.

The boy was still thin, but not in the same sickly
way he had been when Wendell and Zell first found him. One could still see and
name any bone of his little body, but the skin no longer tried to suck in and
around them. Jadon's hair had grown long as well; Wendell brushed a lock of it
aside as he reached down to mimic the warlock's grasp upon his own skull.

* * * * * * *
*

Anzik Fehr had never considered trying to be a hero.
He had been several things in his short life, he knew: a suckling baby, a
toddler who soiled himself, a boy with voices in his head that no one could
stop, a thief of valuable staffs, a necromancer, a runaway, a bad son who
betrayed his father. But now when everyone looked at him ... well, they
looked
at him. He was no longer a bystander. They asked him for help with things, and
nothing stopped him from being able to give it.

There were not many of them left. The palace was
badly damaged and the princess who lived there was dead, along with her father,
the king. He had saved his mother and siblings—and their mothers. A few others
he had been able to save as well, including the nice general lady who used to
pat him on the head, and tell him to be a good boy for his father; he had
learned her name was Kaynnyn.

There was much to be done. Peasants from the
surrounding areas had been coming back, but not many of them. Anzik used his
magic to help clear debris and patch walls. He had always used his magic, even,
he realized, when he was not really thinking about it. Things were starting to
be so much easier to think about.

When he felt a tingling in his mind, he knew that it
was magic not of his own making. He felt it crawling out from the center of his
brain, wriggling around his eyes and into his ears. He shut his eyes.

"Excuse me a moment," Anzik said, and took
his leave from the crew of workers, highborn and peasant alike, who were
restoring the hallways of the palace. He had only been there a few days, but
already knew his way through every room he had been allowed in, and knew the
counts of steps. No one challenged him leaving.

... thirteen, fourteen ... turn
... one, two, three ...

When he opened his eyes, he saw his own eyes staring
right back at him. His nose touched the glass, and his breath fogged the mirror
in little puffs. He stood in his mother's bedroom, which had been largely
untouched in the attacks. He knew because he had counted the steps correctly;
he made sure he could see nothing but his own eyes, never breaking his
concentration to dart a glance at the room behind him.

"Wendell, go away. You and Faolen helped me,
but I paid with the staff. That was the deal. Jadon still likes you, I think,
but I can make him hurt you if you don't go away."

* * * * * * *
*

A stumble and the creak of old floorboards woke
Zellisan from his hibernation. He was finding his sleep less restful as his
worries over pursuit gnawed at him; smaller and smaller sounds awoke him of
late. He rolled over and grabbed for his sword, lying by the bedside.

"Aw, pus and spit, it's just you. Wendell, what
are you kickin' about for at this hour?" Zellisan asked, keeping his voice
low.

"I needed to piss. I just tripped, that's all.
Go back to sleep," Wendell replied in a whisper. He crept back over to his
bed, and worked his way under the blankets.

"Thought you needed a piss?" Zell asked.

"I was on my way back," Wendell replied.

Zell let the comment pass. He waited until he heard
Wendell's snoring resume, then a little while longer, in case he was faking.
There is only so long a man has patience to fake a snore, and Zell thought he
had the measure of it. He shifted, peering over his pillow to the floor in
front of the door. Zell's bed was right up next to the door—a first defense if
they were attacked in the night—and he had left his helm in front of it. Had
the door opened, there would have been a clamor.

Wendell didn't piss in the pot;
there's no stink of fresh urine in the air. He didn't move the helm or I'd have
heard him.

Zell reached over the end of the bed. He hooked the
helm with a finger and lifted it, careful not to let it scrape along the floor
and wake the two sleepers. Slipping it over his head, the helm shifted him into
aether-vision. All the occupants of the rooming house appeared in his view.
They had mundane, ordinary Sources, mostly asleep; even the seated figure
slumped in the common room below likely slumbered. Only two stood out.
Wendell's Source glowed a bit brighter than the rest, though Tanner might have
been his equal in a draw, which was faint praise. Jadon's stood well apart, as
if the same glow all the adults held within them was compressed into a smaller
package.

Looking closer, he saw that there were marks on the
boy's forehead, splotches of darker aether that lingered. Even with his limited
experience with aether-vision through the helm, Zell knew that something was wrong,
something had been done.

Zell slipped the helm from his head, and gently
placed it back against the door.

Though he lost a night of sleep for it, Zell kept a
vigil, and knew that Wendell tried no other magic while Jadon slept.

* * * * * * *
*

Faolen jerked from his reverie, still finding
Rashan's hand tight around his head. Though the spell had ended, the demon had
not released him.

"He was aware of us, he caught—"

"You were sloppy," Rashan told him.
"I saw the whole of it, remember? You marched into his mind like a
monohorn at parade."

"My twin isn't the sorcerer I am. He has a much
weaker Source, and he had just gotten out of bed. It was the middle of the
..." Faolen let his string of excuses end unfinished. He found the
warlock's eyes fixed on his own, his expression unwavering.

"Much better," Rashan said after a
moment's pause. He released Faolen from his grasp. Faolen reached up, dabbing
at his temples and inspecting them for signs of blood, but they came away
clean. His head throbbed. He blinked a few times to reorient himself.

"Since you seem unable to provide further use
in this endeavor, what of your other assignment?" Rashan asked. He turned
and paced away from Faolen.

"I have tried a number of nights. Sir Brannis's
wards are impassable, and he rarely releases them. I know he plots against you,
but I have yet to snare him in anything concrete. He seems paranoid, and of
course, that would stand as evidence that—"

"Evidence?" Rashan shouted, interrupting
him. "Evidence is the one thing you have been unable to provide. You tell
me of feelings, of looks you see; I can see and feel and look all I like as
well. I want tangible. I want culpable. I want his confession chiseled in stone
before I act against him—if I am to act at all.

"You have yet to provide me anything beyond
your guesses. I will not act against the strongest Source I have ever seen in
this world or the other based on guesses. Even those of you who serve me fear
me, secretly or otherwise. Even Caladris was a bootlick at heart, it turns out.
Brannis is the closest thing I have left to a friend. And if
he
were to
tell me
you
were working against me, at this point I would take his word
over yours. I must be sure, do you understand me?"

"I have played Crackle with the man,
warlock," Faolen replied. "This may mean nothing to you, but it is a
special skill of mine to see behind a man's thoughts without using any magic;
my twin had little enough else to rely on. I will keep my feet in his shoes as
best I can until I can give you the evidence you require."

"I have heard your conjecture," said
Rashan. "I do not need to be reminded of it. I have told you, I do not
care what means you use, Unfettered, but do not bring me another bone until it
has meat on it. If Brannis cannot be caught up directly in your net, find an
accomplice. I would suggest Juliana Archon, but I believe Brannis has placed
her permanently beyond our reach."

"Yes, warlock," Faolen replied, and turned
to leave.

"One last thing," Rashan called after him.
"If you can find hard evidence that he is in fact
not
working
against me, I would be most relieved to receive that, as well."

* * * * * * *
*

Tanner eyed the bottle, scrutinizing the label and
turning it to watch the contents slosh about within.

"This is expensive swill to be drinking first
thing in the morning," he commented. "Pretty sure it ain't legally
binding, either."

Stalyart swung a chair around, and sat straddling
it, resting his arms on the back. The tavern was sparse in the late morning,
with a mix of devout drunkards and those who preferred tavern food to that of
proper eateries. Tanner and Stalyart looked the part of men who deserved a
table off in a corner to themselves, and thus they had one with no trouble.

"It is a tradition, and a good time for one, I
think. We must have caught them this time. Their habit is to flee like a slow
ship. They make a run from one hiding spot to the next, hoping that any pursuit
will lose them. Tonight, we may meet our fates in this world, if they are still
here," Stalyart said.

"Yeah, but I don't get how this makes us
partners. We've drank together before."

"It is the pirate way, to celebrate success
beforehand. Either you win and earn it, or you do not, and die. Why not drink
now?" Stalyart asked.

"How is this going to work, anyway? You work for
Zayne," Tanner said. Even as he questioned Stalyart, he worked the bottle
open. He took a sniff, and blinked several times. Takalish whiskey was as
strong a liquor as one could hope to purchase.

"We will make our plans in Veydrus, and sail
together there. I will teach you the trade of a smuggler, and you will make me
a better swordsman. Here, we go our separate ways after this, but keep our
efforts working as one. We can make great coin, I think, with a more mercantile
arrangement. I can think of great ways to create coin, for a man with pockets
as deep as your own, Mr. Tanner," Stalyart said. A grin spread across his
face. Tanner guessed it was supposed to be the contagious kind, but he failed
to catch it.

"You're the brains, I hold the purse strings?
That about it?" Tanner asked. He held the bottle up, addressing it more
than Stalyart.

"You have made vast amounts of coin by your
blade, and those of your friends, I understand," Stalyart said. "A
year from now, five years from now ... eventually your blade will slow.
Misfortune might claim you on even your best day. Also, I think that your band
of coinblades has ridden together for the last time. When you met Mr.
Hinterdale—or his twin—you lost your girl to him. Miss Soria has a hold of his
heart, but Mr. Hinterdale has no brigand in him. Think of him what you will,
but he thinks himself above it. She will throw in her cards before he will, I
assure you."

Tanner kept his eyes on the bottle, as if the
contents would show him what was in his heart. "Been years since it was
just me, Zell, and Rakashi." Tanner swallowed, taking a moment to think.
"Zell's showing his age more and more; his blade's already too slow for
his own good. Rakashi ... I don't know if he'd stay around if it was just me.
Neither of us really ran things much. I mean, I bet he could, but I wouldn't
follow him, book-weevil that he is."

Stalyart stayed silent as Tanner worked his thoughts
aloud, kneading them like dough until they were fit to bake. Tanner looked up
from the bottle. "You're right. Let's do this. To a new partnership."
He took a swig from the bottle, and handed it to Stalyart.

"To the successes. We will have earned
this," Stalyart replied, and took a long drink of it himself.

Tanner took the bottle from Stalyart's hand, and
plunked it down on the table. "Leave the bottle here. We have work to
do."

* * * * * * *
*

Two men in midnight blue cloaks walked the edges of
the snow-dusted streets of the Takalish city of Riyani. They wore wide-brimmed
hats, much favored by the locals for keeping the sun off in the warm months and
snow out of the eyes in the cold ones. They also disguised faces, if you kept
the brim angled low.