Sourcethief (Book 3) (9 page)

"Frankly, I enjoy making him wrong," Kyrus
said. He released the door wards and strode past Celia into the hall.

* * * * * * *
*

"Well these seem to be authentic. I must say
though, this is rather irregular."

"Yeah, it's irregular. That's why it's coming
right from the top. Sir Brannis is all sorts of irregular," Tanner told
the old woman at the Sarmon home.

"Of course, of course, please come in,"
Faolen's housekeeper bid him. She was of an old mold; subservient by habit, she
would not meet his eyes.

"Where is the boy?" Tanner asked. He
looked about the stark entryway. It was clean, elegant. From it, he could see
into the adjoining sitting room and a small dining room at the end of the hall.
Everything was spotless and neatly arranged. There was no indication of any
sort of boy living there; at least not any sort of boy Tanner was familiar
with.

"Oh, I shall have to go up and fetch him for
you. He never comes when called."

"I'll come with you," Tanner declared. He wanted
to see the boy firsthand, before the old woman got to him and made him
presentable.

The housemaid was slow up the stairs, allowing
Tanner to catch up easily. At the second floor landing, she turned down a short
hallway and knocked on a door.

"Master Anzik, we have company. I am opening
the door," the housemaid called.

She entered the room ahead of Tanner, who looked
over her stooped shoulder. It was a quaint little bedroom, done up in frills
and lace, upholstered in pale blues and whites. A table and chair had been set
beneath a window. Atop the table was a heavy tome, spread wide with its
place-marking ribbon dangling over the edge. Lying next to it was a pile of
others much like it. Atop the chair was a twig of a boy, feet dangling just
above the floor, eyes flying like kites above the pages, seemingly unable to
break free.

"Anzik, this is Lieutenant Tanner."

"Hello, Anzik. Nice to meet you," Tanner
said.

"Anzik, say hello to Lieutenant Tanner,"
the housemaid prompted.

"Hello," Anzik said dutifully, never
flinching from his reading. He turned a page, the most movement Tanner had seen
from him.

"Is he always like this?" Tanner asked the
housemaid.

"Mostly, yes. He comes down for meals when he
gets hungry, but won't touch a thing I bring up. He only started answering in
Kadrin in the past tenday or so. I had a twist of a time with him speaking that
Megrenn gibberish at me ... pardon my saying so, Lieutenant. It's just ... he's
a trying boy. I don't mislike him, mind you, but the way he is, he wears you down
day after day."

"Will he come along willingly, you think?"
Tanner asked.

"No way to know unless you try, Lieutenant.
Never any way to tell with Master Anzik."

Tanner crossed the room, treading lightly on the
heavy rug. He felt a fool being so careful not to disturb a boy who barely
reacted to being addressed directly, but some cautious part of him could not
forget the stories of the killings Anzik Fehr had committed in Zorren before
his rescue (or kidnapping, depending on who you asked). He peered over the
boy's shoulder to see what he was reading.

"
Seram’s Children’s Stories
, huh?"
Tanner asked, though the answer was apparent. "My granddad read me those
when I was your age."

There was no response from Anzik.

"Would you like to go on an airship? You'll have
the best view of the Founding Day show. There will be lights up in the sky, and
pictures like paintings."

Anzik turned his head to look at Tanner. "I
like airships."

"You can bring your books if you like. Pack
up," Tanner said. To his surprise, Anzik began to comply without a word of
either protest or acknowledgment.

"You know you can tell no one," Tanner
said to the housemaid. "Faolen will be told personally by Sir
Brannis."

"Lieutenant, this is important business and
none of my own. I won't remember a bit of it once you're out the door. Wouldn't
want to, either. Messy business, rather keep myself clear of it."

Kyrus had assured him that there were charms on
Faolen’s servants to prevent them from revealing secrets, but he was not sure
he could trust that with his own hide at stake. Alterations to Kyrus's plan had
flitted about his head on the way over. Running the old housemaid through would
ensure her silence and make it look like a nefarious plot—which was perhaps a
bit too close to the truth. He had wondered whether he could convince the boy
to rip the maid's Source out, if he was even able to without the Staff of
Gehlen. That would make it look like the boy had run away, which would suit him
well enough.

Tanner looked at the old woman as Anzik shoved book
after book into a pack. He knew he would have to carry the weight of every book
the boy took. He could deal with that. He was not sure he could bear the weight
on his conscience of harming the kindly old housemaid.

"I'm sorry, but I never quite got your
name," Tanner said to her.

"My name is Mannia Dawnlark, Lieutenant,"
she replied. "So few visitors bother to ask it."
I didn't want to
know it, in case I had to kill you
.

"Nice to meet you," Tanner said. "It
is rather a shame you won't remember."

"A mixed shame to be sure, for I know you fancy
folk are up to things I want no part of. Best of luck, and take good care of
that boy."

"Come along, Anzik," Tanner called across
the room. The slip of a boy dragged a bulging pack across the floor. Tanner
scooped it up with a grunt and threw it over his shoulder. "Let's be
off."

* * * * * * *
*

Servants wandered the terrace carrying steaming
platters piled with haunches of lamb, pork and turkey. The palace grounds were
intended to give a prime view of the Founding Day display. Anyone welcome at
the palace tried to make his way there, despite the crowding. It was perhaps
the only occasion where one could be wedged between a member of the Inner
Circle and some royal cousin with neither of them calling for guardsmen to haul
away the offender.

"I've never had the chance to see the pageant
from here before," Celia said. She leaned against the railing of the
terrace, a small haunch of lamb clutched in one hand and a tankard of ale in
the other, tucked in against Kyrus's side. Kyrus had one arm wrapped around her
and a turkey leg in his free hand. A stern look from Rashan, who stood at
Kyrus’s other side, had forestalled a tankard of his own.

"I cannot remember the last time I was home for
Founding Day," Kyrus said. "Four springtimes at the least, perhaps
five. I wonder if the illusions look much different in the aether."

"I would stick to watching in the light,"
Rashan said, taking a swallow from his own tankard. "The sorcerers
controlling the show do not make them look like anything special in the aether.
It ruins the effect same as watching the hands of the puppeteer."

"I suppose I would have ruined it for everyone
anyway, if it did look better in the aether."

"It looks a bit better now, actually. Who
taught you life extension?"

"Caladris. He said he got sick of looking at my
Source. It has yet to weaken my draw, but he seemed happy enough to see me
dimmed a bit."

Rashan snorted. "You'll live to twelve hundred
by the look of you now." Rashan raised his tankard again and muttered
"dimmed a bit" to its contents.

Conversations halted mid-course as drums sounded,
heralding the beginning of the show. The beat was a rousing march, echoed by
troupes of drummers scattered throughout Kadris. Every eye turned upward to the
cloudless twilight sky.

A brace of trumpets heralded the traditional charge
that began the Founding Day pageant. The drums changed from a march to a
rolling gallop as soldiers the size of palace towers emerged from the
indifferent nothingness to break into a run, weapons bared, Kadrin pennants
streaming out behind them. The folk of Kadris cheered as the skies above came
alive.

From the opposite end of the city, soldiers of
similar proportion but different garb emerged onto the battlefield. Instead of
Kadrin reds and golds, they came in blues, oranges and greens, the motley
raiment worn by the scattered nations of the Megrenn Alliance.

The Kadrin force prevailed in convincing fashion and
the pageant moved along to another battle. The scenes played out in succession,
a non sequitur history of the Kadrin Empire, mostly of famous battles that even
peasants could identify by the races and colors of the opponents from previous
Founding Days, even if they could put no names to them. The pageant changed
from springtime to springtime, but some scenes were too popular to cut. “
The Great Ogre-Slayer” was a favorite.  Everyone loved the
nameless hero who took on dozens of ogres singlehandedly. “The Flight of the
Goblins” garnered uproarious laughter as Kadrin soldiers chased swarms of the
tiny, house-sized creatures in circuits about the city, slowly running them
down and slaughtering them amid pratfalls punctuated by gongs, trumpet flares,
and whistles.

Kyrus knew it all for what it was: a carefully
choreographed team of sorcerers and musicians working together to put on a play
of monumental scale. He smiled in spite of himself. He knew from Brannis what
to expect, but the whimsy and wonder of it—bloody overtones and all—evoked
memories of the street-corner puppet shows of Scar Harbor. They had always
played at the autumn markets where his family had sold carts of freshly
harvested vegetables.

"Oh my ..." Celia said. Kyrus was reminded
that she was still there, huddled against him for warmth. He followed her gaze
and caught himself before crying out.

"I guess this bit is supposed to be the Battle
of Raynesdark," Kryus said. Goblins were swarming up a hill that seemed to
extend above the palace, bringing them directly overhead. Up on the ghostly,
illusory walls, Kadrin soldiers swept the smaller creatures aside. "I
wonder if they have me up there on the walls."

"I doubt it. Too much effort and too few would
appreciate it," Rashan answered. "Founding Day is about the empire,
not heroes."

"What about the Ogre-Slayer, he—"

"Just shut up and watch, Brannis." Rashan
took his own advice and turned his attention skyward once more. A crash of
gongs rang out and the walls of Raynesdark exploded. There was a gasp from the
peasants throughout the city, followed by more cheering as plumes of smoke rose
toward the stars and blocked out the view.

Horns blared, deeper and angrier than trumpets—a
whole chorus of them. Screams of delight followed when a dragon appeared from
the parting smoke, a sight new and thrilling to the peasant crowd. Flashing
scales and fangs the size of trees plummeted from the heavens in a dive toward
the palace spectators who were poised above the false Raynesdark walls.

Kyrus felt a sharp tug at his Source as ale spilled
everywhere. Rashan's hands shot up at the dragon, lancing at the false beast
with forks of lightning.

There was a hole rent in the dragon's belly that
widened as the beast's descent carried it through the blast. There were no guts
within, and no illusion of spilled blood drenched the crowd below. The dragon
continued on its dive, frayed and unraveling. It pulled up after a blast of
fire from its jaws raked across the false hillside.

All over the terrace, important folk pushed and
jostled like peasants to move clear of the warlock. Kyrus felt Celia shift to
put him between herself and Rashan, and a collective breath was held as the
image of Jadefire limped away from Raynesdark and dissipated just outside the
city limits of Kadris.

"Part of the show," Rashan said to no one
in particular. His mouth twitched as he gave a nervous little laugh.

"Did the illusionists know that?" Kyrus
asked. He had not made any move to remove himself from the warlock's vicinity.
Though the result had been violent, the disruption in the aether seemed little
cause for alarm.

"Consider it a perk of having a warlock about
for Founding Day," Rashan said through gritted teeth. As he turned his
back from the pageant to leave the terrace, spectators scrambled to get out of
his way. Kyrus moved to follow but Celia held him back and he did not struggle to
free himself.

"Let him be," she said. Kyrus looked down
into her eyes.
Is that real concern?
"Stay and watch to the end at
least."

"I should go see what that was all about."
Kyrus extracted himself from Celia's grasp. "You stay and watch. Tell me
how it ends," He said, smiling at his own joke.

"Same as it does every year ..." Celia
glared after him.

* * * * * * *
*

"Where do you think you are going?" Kyrus
shouted as he spotted Rashan heading for the central courtyard. He had landed
his airship there, the
Looming Blade
, upon his return from Safschan.
"Your crew is off watching the pageant somewhere."

"I plan to be ready to depart as soon as they
return. In fact Brannis, go have someone round them up." Rashan spoke over
his shoulder, slowing but not stopping. Kyrus gained ground on him.