A Plague Of Shadows: Book Two Of The Three Gifts

By Gerald L. Coleman

A Lion That Walks has emerged in Kal'ada'abassa for the first time in an age. While some rejoice, others find his arrival disturbing. Far out on the Macca Deep, Basil chases down black ships as chaos erupts on the high seas. Onya Onoto, makes her way to the ancient city of Saladon, wondering what a once in a lifetime m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerald L. Coleman
• Release date: Jul 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692920930

Gerald L. Coleman

Gerald L. Coleman is a philosopher, theologian, poet, and Science Fiction & Fantasy author. He did his undergraduate work in philosophy, english, and religious studies, followed by a master's degree in Theology. He is the author of the Epic Fantasy novel series, The Three Gifts, which currently includes, When Night Falls (Book One), A Plague of Shadows (Book Two), and the upcoming When Chaos Reigns (Book Three). His speculative fiction short stories and poetry have appeared in: The Cyberfunk Anthology: The City, the Roaring Lion Anthology: Rococoa, the Urban Fantasy Anthology: Terminus and Terminus 2, the 2019 JordanCon Anthology: You Want Stories?, Dark Universe: Bright Empire, Cyberfunk! by MVMedia, the JordanCon 2022 Anthology: Neither Endings Nor Beginnings, Whether Change: The Revolution Will Be Weird, and the upcoming World Fantasy Award winning Year's Best African Speculative Fiction (2022). His essays appear in the polish language Con-Magazine: KONwersacje, Apex Magazine 127, and the Hugo nominated Fanzine: Journey Planet. His poetry collections include the road is long, falling to earth, microphone check, and Nappy Metaphysic.He has been a Guest Author at DragonCon, Boskone, Blacktasticon, JordanCon, Atlanta Science Fiction & Fantasy Expo, SOBSFCon, The Outer Dark Symposium, World Horror Con, Imaginarium, Multiverse, and a Guest Poet/Lecturer at Berea College, University of Kentucky, Centre College (Governor's School), Transylvania University, Western Carolina University, UNC Charlotte, the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning, and the Martin Luther King Jr. Cultural Center.He is a Scholastic National Writing Juror, a Co-founder of the Affrilachian Poets, an SFWA member, a Rhysling Award Nominee, a recipient of The Hero of the Horn Award at JordanCon, and a Fellow at the Black Earth Institute. He is currently working on new editions of When Night Falls, A Plague of Shadows, and writing book three in that epic fantasy series. His newest releases include a collection of SF&F short stories entitled, From Earth and Sky, and a collection of poems and micro-essays entitled On the Black Hand Side. You can find him at Geraldcoleman.com.

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A PLAGUE OF SHADOWS

THE THREE GIFTS

Book Two

by Gerald L. Coleman

Copyright © 2017 by Gerald L. Coleman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

A PLAGUE OF SHADOWS

Gerald L. Coleman

Smyrna, Ga. 30082

Geraldlcoleman.co

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Art by Godwin Akpan

Map Design by Gerald L. Coleman

Map Art by Gregory Shipp

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

THE THREE GIFTS

by Gerald L. Coleman

When Night Falls: Book One

A Plague of Shadows: Book Two

For my Mom, for believing …

FOREWORD

Sometimes people surprise you. Since the release of Book One in this series, I have been the beneficiary of a rising tide of support and encouragement. In part, due to the nature of the series, and in part due to the kindness of friends, family, and fans of the genre. People have had a true desire for inclusive characters in what we call Speculative Fiction. The fact that The Three Gifts centers on what we would call a ‘black character’ has been a source of inspiration for some of the support of this series. But, I must thank my friends, too many to name here, who were among the first to purchase the novel. My family was also right there, in the beginning, among the first to buy a copy. I certainly thank each of you for your support.

Now, a few shop keeping details. First, my apologies for the length of time it took to get this one to you. After I finished Book One, I was a bit surprised by the level of writer’s fatigue. I didn’t write for months. Add to that the work of marketing and publicizing the series and you have a recipe for a late start. I know what it’s like as a reader to wait for the next book. My aim was, and continues to be, to release the next book within eighteen to twenty-four months. I hope to keep to that schedule. Secondly, after seeing some of the comments and getting questions about it, I want to be clear that The Three Gifts Series is not a trilogy. Now, don’t worry, I’m not going to compete with Robert Jordan for longest series. While this is not written in stone, I can say that the series will be longer than three books but less than seven. I am aiming at a Pentalogy - a compound greek word meaning a literary or narrative work divided into five parts (as an aside: Quintology is a mixture of latin and greek and not the ‘correct’ term). But please be aware that it will depend on how far I can carry the story in each book, while aiming at the ending, which has already been written. So, having said all of that, let me conclude by saying thank you again for continuing this journey with me. I worked hard on this one, with you in mind, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it for you.

Gerald L. Coleman

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

THE WORLD OF THE THREE GIFTS

PRELUDE

Enemies

CHAPTER ONE

Idle hands

CHAPTER TWO

A tethered goat

CHAPTER THREE

A small matter of the Forbidding

CHAPTER FOUR

Sister's Right

CHAPTER FIVE

Consequences

CHAPTER SIX

Serendipity

CHAPTER SEVEN

Shadows at night

CHAPTER EIGHT

The cost of failure

CHAPTER NINE

Summons

CHAPTER TEN

The Code

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Incentives and provocations

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saladon

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The High Marshal

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A little reckless

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Unexpected guests

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A good start

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Mothers

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mistakes were made

CHAPTER NINETEEN

By the light of a half-moon

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Thin man

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Plan

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Friends and foes

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Eye of Hamza

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The Song of Remembrance

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Dig two graves

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Calling

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

At sunset, the darkness is inevitable.

~Millis Ogden

Bellman and Towncrier

The village of Berrington Del’

Northern Province

A

PLAGUE

OF

SHADOWS

PRELUDE

—————

Enemies

I hope they ate him. It was a cold, sneering thought. Over the course of the last few hours, Nduma had savored the singular pleasure of picturing the great cats of the Sedengatti gnawing on the bones of the First Son of Omorede. Where did they come from? Did they leave the open plains of the east to cross the mountains? Or had they left the western grasslands and made their way through the Dagoonzu? It was a curiosity, for sure. But oddly, Nduma did not care where the lions had come from, because the thought of Bantu’s demise kept him company while he ran for his life.

Nduma managed a hasty escape through hidden passages, known only to the Baba’a’funde of the Corral. Once he was out of the Shining Walls all that had been left to him was running. And he had run. He ran well into the night with his heart racing. Finally, as the rolling foothills gave way to the mountains, Nduma was able to stop running. With his hectic scramble for safety over, he collapsed to the ground. It took a moment to catch his breath. He leaned back until he felt the rough bark of a tree on the nape of his neck. Sitting there, slumped against the tree, he stewed in the only emotion he had left. Hate. It was hatred that made it possible. His hatred of Bantu, which was reignited in the past seven days, had kept him on his feet past the point of exhaustion. The yari wielding Mfundade of House Omorede had pursued him for nearly an entire day. They hounded him, relentlessly, like a pack of jackdaws on a wounded gazelle’s trail. They chased him until he reached the foothills of the mountain range surrounding Mount Kilimajoon. It was close. They nearly ran him down. Nduma could only hope they wanted him so badly because Bantu lay dead in the Hall of Masters. I hope they are gnawing on his bones. The thought almost made him smile.

Nduma sat there, leaning heavily against the rough, grayish bark of a ballubune’ tree. Nduma was still gasping for air, even as he tried to catch his breath. Through your nose, out through your mouth, he told himself. Fat, cold drops of rain crashed through the canopy of the tree’s thick leaves. Each drop that fell on his shaven head was like a wet fingertip, tapping him, as if to get his attention, so that he could be reminded of his abject failure. A crow was squawking somewhere off in the night, sharing its displeasure over the miserable weather, with whomever was in earshot.

Periodically, lightning flashed high above Kilimajoon’s peak, momentarily brightening the dark, night sky. The sound of thunder rumbled down through the passes, mocking him. The storm clouds were laughing at him.

The First Born of the N’kosi gazed down the muddy slope, through the murky darkness, at what was left of his following. A little more than thirty of the Mfundade huddled together where three of the ballubune’ trees had grown, in a small cluster, providing a measure of cover from the rain. Half of the men wore the red of his House. The rest were of various Great Houses, including Mandisa of Omorede. Mandisa was, no doubt, sulking over losing his grip over his Great House. The long absence of the First Born of Omorede, along with the growing doubts that he would ever return, had left an opening for another part of the family tree of that Great House to take over as its First Family. Nduma had gained the man’s loyalty by promising him support in his bid to become Omorede’s new First. Thanks to the return of Bantu, that plan was in shambles.

Nduma had labored meticulously, with incredible patience, for years, in order to create the web of influence he had woven over the Great Houses. He had bribed, cajoled, and threatened men, even going so far as to hold their secrets over their heads in order to bring them under his control. In a single day, the long lost First Born of the Omorede had torn it all asunder. The rain soaking his head should have been boiling away, in wisps of steam, given the heat of his rage. He could only hope that Bantu had died during the battle in the Hall. There had only been enough time for a quick glance over his shoulder as Nduma fled through the door in the rear of the Hall of Masters. Bantu had been surrounded by the Baba’s of the Houses. Those hardened men, whom Nduma controlled, had been preparing to kill the Omorede First. Lions had burst into the Hall, followed closely by the rest of the man’s Honor Guard. Where the lions had come from was still a mystery, but Nduma prayed the man had been eaten alive. One could only hope.

Thunder rumbled farther off to the west indicating that the storm was beginning to pass. But he just sat there, in the darkness, soaked to the bone, watching the momentary flashes of intense light as it lit up the dark clouds overhead, arcing across the thick blanket of the night sky. Strong, cold winds blew down through the passes from the east. He pulled his outer robe more tightly about himself. The small lions embroidered on his sleeves were soaked through, muting their brilliant, golden color to a dull yellow. Huddling even deeper into his robes, he sat there fuming. He had not spent a lifetime rising to the highest seat in Kal’ada’abassa only to have it ripped from his grasp. Ossassande Bantu A’ Omorede, if he still lived, would pay. He would pay dearly. If he was dead then there were others upon whom he could vent his rage. In that moment of muted anger Nduma did the forbidden. He swore it on his House. The First of the Omorede would pay. By the Ancient, on the lives of the N’kosi, he would pay. The Greater Seat, in the Hall of Masters, would be his again. A shiver ran up his spin. But he knew it was the cold that caused it, not the fact that he was swearing on his House.

Nduma had not achieved what he had, thus far, without the cunning it took to devise a plan, or the ruthlessness it took to follow through on one. The first thing on the list of his new plan was finding shelter. He needed to get out of this accursed rain. Looking up, over his shoulder, he let his gaze fall on the narrow, muddy path that wound up toward the high passes through the mountains. Once upon a time, they had been goat trails, but now they were something altogether different. It would be dangerous, but it was unavoidable. If he was going to return to Kal’ada, Nduma needed yari, and a lot of them. He would take them wherever he could find them. It was the worst kept secret in Kal’ada’abassa. There were yari high up in the mountains. No one knew how many, only that they were there.

The mountains were populated with disgraced men. Some of them had simply fled rather than accept whatever punishment their House had handed down. Others had been banished from their House. But whatever the reason, they had chosen to flee to the mountains. It would be risky. But Nduma knew there was no other choice. His outland friends had been willing to assist him as long as they could remain in the shadows. They were unwilling to reveal themselves. A loud clap of thunder echoed through the mountain pass, as he schemed, while he sat there in the cold, wet darkness. It was as if the dark clouds overhead did not approve. Others would not approve either. Nduma continued to gaze up the mountain pass. A single word echoed in his mind while he gritted his teeth against the cold. Jinai. It meant outcast.

†

The coach rocked gently, back and forth. Its wooden wheels rolled over unevenly cobbled stone. The sound of falling rain made a steady, rumbling drum beat on the roof. It was a frigid rain. Winter was on its way. This far north, autumn was a brief engagement, a sublime interlude, between the heat of summer and the cold of winter. Ersel Hopebreaker rode in silence. He sat in the warm, dry, plush interior of the black-lacquered coach. The entire interior was padded with a soft, red brushed-cotton. He was so lost in thought that he did not really pay attention to the luxurious appointments of his cab. Or maybe it was because he was so used to comfort that he no longer paid any real attention to it. The Da’shara had closed the small, red curtains, which hung on either side of the tiny windows, inset in each of the two doors, in order to avoid distraction. There were a few matters he could not keep himself from running over and over in his head. He needed time to think.

The house Ersel Hopebreaker was being taken to belonged to a fool. The man was a member of the local aristocracy. Like so many of his kind he was easily persuaded to help their cause. All it had taken was the promise of coin to bring him to heel. Greed was one of Ersel’s favorite vices, mostly, because it worked. Some people could be enticed by the promise of power. Inferring that the object of their lust could be theirs was tremendously effective at corrupting even more. But, more often than not, it was a simple appeal to a person’s greed that did the job. Conquering men’s souls was not as difficult as it sounded. Dangle their desire in front of them, and people would do just about anything. The trick was in knowing what they really wanted.

The man was a distant relative of the King of Mees. He was a very minor noble whose father had squandered much of their family’s wealth, leaving him with a title but very little coin. A single, small trunk of Meesian-struck, gold coins, along with the promise of more to come, was enough to put the man at their disposal. He jumped to do Ersel’s bidding like a dog after a bone.

The large Manor was in an advantageous part of the city. Bree was of middling size, located in the northern part of Mees. Mees, located just west of Province, was similar to it in that many of its cities were nestled in the mountainous region of the far north. Bree sat high on a hilltop, tucked away in the rolling, mountainous landscape of the northcountry, surrounded by alwaysgreens and thatchnettle trees. It was breathtaking country, covered, as it was, in a blanket of green year-round, but it also managed to be cold for much more of the year than lands farther south. Snow had not yet come to the North country but the cold rain said it was on its way.

Ersel Hopebreaker wrapped his fur-trimmed cape more closely about him as the coach rolled to a stop. He waited for the driver to climb down from his seat atop it. The coach rocked one more time as the man stepped off the ladder onto the ground. After a brief pause, he was opening the door for Ersel to exit. Ersel stepped out of the coach, waving the man off as he took the three strides that carried him to the side walkway. He stopped there to take in his surroundings. It was an old habit. Beris den’ Ballic’s manor stood on the corner, in an affluent neighborhood, close to the heart of Bree. There were cobbled streets, smooth, stone side walkways with tall night lamps, and vast homes that were nestled among sculpted trees, accented by fanciful shrubbery. The neighborhood also seemed to have very little traffic. Ersel noticed a few coaches, similar to the one he had just stepped out of, a handful of servants on their way to, or from, an errand and the occasional member of the City Guard. Ballic’s manor was near other influential people. It came with the added benefit of being in a neighborhood that would not be closely scrutinized. That made it ideal for Ersel’s purposes. He made his way to the entrance of the manor while turning his mind to the work that had to be done. The List had to be dealt with. He had sent word that he was ready to begin. By nightfall, the help he had requested should have arrived. When it did he could begin. He could not keep the delicious smile off his face.

†

Polshem Delver huddled in the thick, damp brush. He was just a stone’s throw from where the forest ended and the flat grassland, which ran up to the mountains, began. The rain was seeping through his cloak, and into his coat. The junior Inquisitor was wracking his brain trying to come up with a way to avoid returning to Baquent Hevendere empty-handed. He had come very close to catching his quarry. Were it not for the misfortune of walking into the middle of a fight between the Ki’gadi and the Da’shara, he would have had the man he had been tracking since Gaul. Polshem lost the entire detachment of Legionnaires he had been commanding in that battle. He also lost track of his quarry in the aftermath. Servants of his true master had appeared from the shadows at the call of the Da’shara. When the Legionnaires saw the darkspawn they attacked before Polshem could stop them. Somehow, during the carnage, he managed to escape.

It took some time, but Polshem managed to track his quarry to the base of the Black Hills. While he had caught a few glimpses of the man along the way, he had never been in a position to capture him. His quarry remained in the company of the Ki’gadi. Their white hair made them unmistakable. He was also with men Polshem surmised were Watchmen from Alexandria. They had entered a hidden passage in the base of the mountains, only to come rushing out a few moments later, just ahead of its collapse. Polshem barely managed to make it back to the cover of the forest before they could notice him.

It had been a miserable trek. Polshem had not been willing to risk a fire for fear of being discovered. He had run out of food a few days earlier and now it was raining. It was actually pouring down rain. So Polshem huddled there, hidden among the thick foliage, ignoring his rumbling stomach while he considered what he had managed to hear of their plans. He was only able to make out bits and pieces of their hurried conversation as he strained to hear them from his hiding place. But he watched as one of the Watchmen headed east along the base of the mountain range. The portly member of their band, an ostentatious looking fellow with an odd manner, had turned south. Polshem’s quarry, along with the rest of their party, raced off to the west. He knew he could not return to the senior Inquisitor with nothing to show for his time and effort beyond dead Legionnaires. Quietly, he made his way back, deeper into the forest, to where he had hitched his horse. The junior Inquisitor shivered as a trickle of cold rain, which had seeped through his cloak, ran down his neck between his shoulder blades. It was pitch black now. The moon was out, but its muted glow was masked by dark storm clouds. He would have to walk. It would be too dangerous to ride. Polshem unhitched his horse from the tree. Wrapping his gloved hand around the reigns, he led his horse out past the forest’s edge. Turning his attention to the west, Polshem Delver tried his best to ignore his gnawing hunger and rain-soaked clothes. Instead, he focused on tracking his quarry again.

A clutter of spiders,

a cloud of flies,

a mischief of rats,

a tongue of lies,

a clamor of rooks,

a murder of crows,

an unkindness of ravens,

a plague of shadows.

~ A children’s rhyme

Believed to have originated during

The Black Death 278 B.C.E

Hope is an abundant spring, but it must be fed by the deeds of human beings.

~ The Tallam

Book 5: Tract Sol humanus

Holy Book of the Pascha

There is always work to be done.

~ Master Companion at Arms

The Peoples Company

CHAPTER ONE

Idle hands

Alexandria felt cool, even for midday. The air was brisk as it blew in off the Macca Deep. Fall had come to the empire, though a bit earlier in the year than usual. A bright blue expanse, clear and cloudless, stretched overhead for as far as the eye could see. The breeze brought with it a hint of the salty, murky smell of the ocean. With members of the Company either off to lunch, consumed by their studies, or otherwise engaged, Sanctuary was relatively quiet. Orah saw the odd cadet, here or there, in their white coat, walking quickly - one of them cut across the grass - in an effort to reach their destination on time. The cadet had better hope she did not run into one of the groundkeepers. They would not be happy to see her bounding across the grass when there was a perfectly serviceable walkway nearby. The thought made Orah smile. She had been on the receiving end of one of those hard stares, which said find your way back to paving stone immediately. A shadow passed over her, blocking the sun and cloaking her in shadow for a moment, as she wandered aimlessly around the compound. There was no need to look up. It was one of the Pradas drifting past the spire atop the Tower on its way down toward Aerie.

Orah was bored out of her mind. Her Team Leader was off to the ancient city of Saladon. She did not doubt that Saladon was going to be exciting. Her face twisted up into a frown just thinking about being left behind. The Captain-Commander left her and Tom-Tom behind, despite their objections, to recuperate from the mess that had been the mission in Gaul. But that was weeks and weeks ago. She was itching for something to do. Having pestered Tom-Tom, unceasingly, but to no avail, Orah had taken to wandering around looking for something to get into. The arboretum, though beautiful this time of year, did nothing for her malaise. Trying to get a rise out of a small group of Deathsingers also ended in futility. She was just about to return to pestering Tom-Tom when she passed the Peoples Tower and spotted the Master Companion at Arms.

Yahima Zumaria walked along one of the paved walkways that wound through Sanctuary with a flowing stride. The hard soles of her leather boots made a soft clop clop clopping sound. She moved like a soldier; her back was perfectly straight. When you were in her company, her commanding presence was tangible. Most of the Master Companions were like that. At six spans, Yahima was just a fraction taller than Orah. The three stripes encircling the cuffs of her coat, along with the star embroidered on her collar, caught the light of the sun against the unrelieved black of the Company uniform. Though she was a few steps lower in rank than Orah, the Master Companion at Arms was always given a certain modicum of respect from everyone. She was in charge of the office that received those who came to Sanctuary looking for help. It was her job to evaluate the request. If it was legitimate she would forward it to the proper Order in the Company. The leader of the chosen Order would choose the right members for the mission and allocate the appropriate resources. She held one of the few positions that stayed in direct contact with Commander-General. Bantu always wanted to know what was going on with how the Company helped people. It was one of the things Orah loved about him. He did not stay ensconced in the Tower like some above-it-all noble.

Yahima’s long, dark hair hung to the small of her back. It would be braided when she went into battle. Today she wore it loose. Her light-brown skin, with golden undertones, glowed like it was soaking up the sun. She had the angular face and strong, narrow jawline of the Ainõs. They lived on a small set of islands off the southern coast of Pana-tirith. The Ainõs were a beautiful people with a fast, rhythmic language. When she spoke the common tongue it was musical, with a thick accent. On the rare occasions when she was angry, she would slip back into her native language. You may not understand what she was saying, but you knew what she meant. Yahima also tended to forego the traditional, beautiful tones of paint that some Ainõs decorated themselves with. There were broad strokes of red across the eyes, trimmed in white. Or short white lines drawn on at equal intervals over the cheeks, chin, and forehead. Orah had even seen the face fully covered in red paint, with a broad swath of black across the eyes and nose. The only time Orah had seen Yahima decorated in that way was when she was going into battle - face painted, hair braided.

She had nothing else to do, so Orah decided to follow her at a discrete distance. Yahima circled around to the rear of the Peoples Tower. She took the walkway past the Quiet Blossoms building on the left and the Armory on the right. The Master Companion at Arms strolled past the structure where Orah’s Order resided, the Rain Catchers, and did not stop until she was standing in front of the edifice that housed the Windchasers. They were at the very rear of Sanctuary, next to the back wall. When Yahima arrived at the front of the building, a Windchaser was standing by the front door waiting. Orah leaned on the corner of the Rain Catchers home where she could be out of the way but still see the two of them.

Yahima saluted the small woman who returned the gesture. After a few words passed between them, Yahima handed the woman a sealed missive. When she received, what looked like a thanks and a dismissal, Yahima saluted the Windchaser again before turning on her heel and leaving. The Master Companion at Arms did not return the same way, but took the walkway that led in a more roundabout way back toward the Tower. Orah did not blame her. It was a lovely day to be out for a walk.

Orah waited to be sure the Master Companion was gone. Rubbing her hands together, she smiled. Finally, she thought. Something to get into. The Master Companion at Arms would have only come to the Windchasers with a mission in hand. Orah pushed herself off the side of the Rain Catchers building and made her way over to the front door of the home of the Windchasers. The woman had already gone back inside, likely to give the request to the ranking member of the Windchasers, but Orah knew her.

Unlike some of the other homes for the Orders, the front of the Windchasers building had no steps or porch. The walkway ended right at their front door. In fact, the door was the only distinctive thing about the brick building. It was red. Though, like every Orders main door, it was decorated with the symbol of the Windchasers. Three-fourths of the way up, the door had a large monocle, trailing a chain, carved expertly in the wood. The carving was painted silver, white, and red. Orah knocked.

After a moment, a young Windchaser, with a single stripe around the cuff of his coat, with a star embroidered on his high collar, answered the door. Since he was standing inside the House of his Order, the lower ranked Companion-Third was not obligated to salute her. He took one look at the two silver pips on her collar, the emblem of the Rain Catchers over the heart of her coat, and briefly inclined his head. When he raised it, he said, Yes, Lieutenant? What may I do for you?

Orah said, Good afternoon, Companion. I wish to speak with Amara Verissmo.

The young man said, Yes, ma’am. One moment, please.

He closed the door. Orah turned and gazed out across the rear section of Sanctuary. Across the compound, to her right, she could see the Sanctorum. It was a wide, tall building, which housed the Makers. Black smoke was coming from a window several stories up. She chuckled. It was a wonder the Makers did not blow the entire compound up on a daily basis. She wondered what that particular Maker was working on or what had gone wrong with the experiment. Several minutes passed while she stared off across the compound at the smoke, which billowed up into the sky, before slowly dissipating. Finally, a light, sing-song voice lilted over to her ears from behind her. Good day, Lieutenant. What may I do for you?

Orah turned with a big smile on her face. Good day, Amara. It’s good to see you. How has your morning been?

Amara Verissmo was a bit darker than Yahima. She had sultry, dark-brown eyes, full lips, and a perfectly shaped, slightly-long nose. Her face was round, but with a firm jawline, which ended in a small chin with a slight dimple in the middle. She had long, thick, black hair that was naturally wavy. Today it sat high on her head. It was tied into a small bun in the back, giving the impression that it was short from the front. But it was loose, and a little messy. Orah guessed Amara pulled it back as an afterthought. The woman was completely lovely.

Amara’s high collar held one full pip and one hollow pip pinned to its left side. She was a Second-Lieutenant, and one step down in rank from Orah. She wore the preoccupied affectation on her face that all Windchasers had, with a cute aplomb. Amara managed to be paying attention to Orah, but also completely somewhere else in her mind simultaneously. She replied to Orah, with that sing-song voice that pronounced every syllable of every word, saying, My morning has gone well, Lieutenant. In fact, I have just received orders.

Orah looked around, conspiratorially, before putting her arm around Amara’s shoulder and saying, That is actually what I have come to talk to you about.

†

It actually took very little convincing to get Amara to agree to allow Orah and Tom-Tom to join her on the mission. Orah looked out the window of the flight carriage at the night sky. The Pradas tilted left as he dropped through the clouds. Cloud cover was unnecessary given how dark it was but the Mountain Feather Pilot was not taking any chances. Amara spent most of the afternoon, into the early evening, going through the information the Magistrate of Ferenguess gave her. They were on the ground in the small town for hours, while Amara gathered evidence. The Windchaser visited the various sites where the missing people were last seen. All told, the town had lost twelve people, without a trace, in the last several months. Krendell Jerund finally decided it was time to seek help. So he made the trip to Alexandria to ask for the assistance of the Peoples Company.

Orah worked hard at not laughing at the thin man while he prayed to the Ancient of Days. It was his first time in the air. Tom-Tom served the man the tea they gave to anyone who got sick from flying. It calmed the stomach and helped settle the nerves. But by the time they landed, just outside Ferenguess, along the northern edge of the Old Wood, the Magistrate was as pale as a white sheet. Orah covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing in his face. It was terrible of her, she told herself - just terrible. Tom-Tom gave her a stern look, which said she should be ashamed of herself. Later she told him she certainly was ashamed and she would do better. But then she walked off chuckling to herself.

Soon enough the intrepid Windchaser had an entire story pieced together from hoof prints, personal histories of the missing, bits of leaves, likely times of the abductions, wagon tracks, and where they were located when they were last seen. Amara also factored in bits of news from other neighboring towns to get, what she said, was a probable location. Orah spent that time finding some choca in the local tavern. It was surprisingly good. Ferenguess was the kind of small town that benefited from being a merchant stop on the road to and from Alexandria. It had good Inns and a strong, local market for crafts. She actually saw a woman who made boots. It was an impressive shop. Orah bought a pair and stored them on the flight carriage for the trip back.

By the time night fell, they were all dressed in Strike Suits, and flying north, through the darkness. Amara figured she had a fix on the culprits. The Pradas banked left, and then right, soaring through the night sky on powerful reddish-brown wings. Amara scanned the ground through her spyglass. Meanwhile, Orah managed to be impressed by the sturdiness of Ferenguess’ Constable. After his initial wide-eyed surprise during the Pradas’ take off, the young man settled down into a quiet enjoyment of the experience. The Constable of Ferenguess’ only real struggle was trying not to stare at Amara. The moonlight streaming in through the windows of the flight carriage bathed her in a soft white glow. Orah couldn’t blame the man as much as chuckle at him, Amara was remarkable. The young man was tall, thin, and average. His brown hair curly, though all over his head. He was not hard to look at but he also was not memorable - at least in Orah’s mind. He seemed like a nice fellow though.

Orah adjusted a few of the leather belts on her Strike Suit and considered making choca while they waited. They would be all but invisible in the black suits used for missions of this sort. Tinker kept them outfitted with the best. But before Orah could move to start making the choca, Amara pointed toward the ground and said, There.

Orah looked out the window of the flight carriage in the direction the Windchaser was pointing. Sure enough, there was a distant glow on the ground that was clearly a campfire. Finally, something to do, she thought. Orah could not keep the smile off her face, exacerbated by the perplexing look the constable gave her. She knew what he was thinking. Why was this woman excited by what was surely going to be a dangerous battle? As the Mountain Feather nudged the Pradas back around so that they would pass right over the camp, Orah chuckled and opened the flight carriage door. Just as they were passing over the campfire, she turned to the constable, flashed him one last smile, and jumped. They were several hundred feet high, over the campsite. As she leaped from the flight carriage, she heard the constable ask Tom-Tom, Is she holding onto a rope?

Orah fell through the air imagining that Tom-Tom simply said, No, she is not. And then he likely jumped out behind her. She spread her arms and legs as she dropped through the sky. The wind buffeted her. Orah pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her knees. Rotating over in a flip, she opened up with her feet below her just in time to crash into the middle of the campfire. Burning sticks and embers flew all over the camp as the fire exploded from the impact. Orah stepped out of the fire as she pulled her partial veil up over the bottom half of her face. She generally went without the full headwrap because she liked to let her hair hang loose. Her face was still covered up to her eyes by the black cloth. The soft rasp of steel on steel accompanied the freeing of her sword from its scabbard. The leather grip was as comfortable in her hand as the handshake of an old friend. Orah was among the brigands even as they began to get their wits about them.

All around the camp, members of the Company in their black Strike Suits fell from the sky, landing on the ground with loud thumps and displaced earth. Soon, the entire team was on the ground engaging the brigands. Amara had recruited four Stone Hands, two Quiet Blossoms, and one other Rain Catcher. All-told, there were nine members of the Company on the ground, including the Windchasers. Amara moved with a remarkable grace. Her movements were precise and deadly. Although she was small, at only five and a half spans tall, the gift made her a match for any opponent. Brigands fell under her sword as she cut a path through them in the dark. They were heavily armed, though with mismatched leather breastplates. Some wore bracers on their forearms or chainmail shirts. They were a smelly, unshaven lot. Most were large, burly men with beards. Orah saw a few helms along with a halberd or two. One man held a crossbow, but only managed to get off a single shot before a Stone Hand cut him down.

Orah ducked under an axe blow meant to cleave her head in two. She stuck the man in his wrist, dragging her sword up his arm until it sank squarely in his armpit. He was gone before he hit the ground. She danced the dance of death in the darkness. The sounds of men screaming and dying did not bother her. She knew who these men were - what kind of evil they represented. They preyed on the innocent. They looked for the defenseless - sought them out because they either could not or would not fight back. These were the kind of men the Company lived to fight. It was over almost as soon as it began. When her last opponent slumped to the ground, Orah tapped her com-gem and said, Clear.

The voices of the Strike Team came back to her through the green glow at her collar, Clear. Orah circled back to where she landed. Arielle Kass, one of the Quiet Blossoms was restacking wood. In moments, she had a large fire going, which bathed the area in flickering light. Orah felt the warmth of the fire as she walked past. Amara was at the back of the large wagon on the other side of the camp. The Stone Hands were stacking bodies next to the campfire. By the time Orah got to the wagon, Amara was helping the people down out of it. When she saw the shackles chaining them together, she trotted over to where the brigand’s bodies were stacked together like logs. After rifling through their garments, she came up with a large keyring. It did not take long to unshackle them. They were immensely grateful. Orah was appalled to see several children climb down out of that wagon.

By the time they were free, the Constable had joined them. The man took one look around the campsite before nodding his head matter-of-factly. He shook Amara’s hand and then Orah’s. His smile was grim but relieved. He walked over to talk with the rescued members of his town. When he did, Amara motioned to Orah. The Windchaser was looking, through the door, into the back of the wagon. Orah watched her climb into the wagon while she was walking over to join her. Windchasers seemed to have a compulsion when it came to putting their noses in a situation as deep as they would go. It could be exasperating, but it often led to useful discoveries.

When Orah got to the open door on the back of the wagon she looked inside. Amara was sitting in the wagon, the roof made it seem like a small room. With a torch in hand for light, the Windchaser was looking at several trunks with barrel shaped lids stacked in the very back. There must have been a halfdozen of them. She motioned for Orah to join her. When Orah climbed into the wagon, Amara handed her the torch. Soon, the woman was working on the padlock with a small set of metal picks. It only took a few heartbeats before Orah heard a telltale click. Amara flashed her a sly smile in the shadowy light given off by the torch. Yanking off the lock, Amara lifted the lid. Opening the trunk was immediately followed by a frown. Orah did not know what Amara was expecting to see but rolls and rolls of parchment likely was not it.

A hesitant voice drifted over to them from the wagon door. Um, pardon me, but whatever you found is the property of Ferenguess.

It was the Constable. Amara looked at Orah who shrugged. The man had a point. The Company was not in the habit of confiscating everything they found on a mission. Besides, Ferenguess had likely already paid the Company for their service. Orah did not believe they were poor enough to have been given the assistance without having to hand over some coin. Either way, she climbed out of the wagon with Amara right behind her. The Constable stammered apologetically, I … I’m sorry Lieutenant, I have been given my instructions from the Magistrate. I -

But before the man could finish, Orah said, Not to worry, Constable. We are not offended. You have your instructions and we have ours. Orah looked at Amara and the Windchaser nodded. Returning the nod, Orah tapped her com-gem and said, Time to go People.

Looking back at the Constable, she said, You are only a few miles from Ferenguess. You have the wagon and the brigands’ horses. I’m sure you can make it back on your own. She turned to leave. The man continued to thank her as she walked away. By the time she communicated with the Mountain Feather, who told her where the Pradas had landed, the Stone Hands had set the pile of bodies on fire. Their work here was done. A few minutes later, the Strike Team was back in the flight carriage, high in the sky. Orah took the time to break out a bottle of aloubon she knew was tucked in the baggage along with small steel cups. She passed around the drinks before settling into her seat. As she sipped on the strong, light-brown spirit, she gazed out the window at the night sky. It was good to get back to doing something. The only question was what was next. She did not want to go back to stalking around Sanctuary looking for something to do. The aloubon made her warm. Taking another sip from her cup, Orah let her mind wander. There was an old saying, just on the tip of her tongue. It was something about idle hands.

I dreamed, a dream, of a lever reaching to the sky

I pulled, and pulled, and pulled at it

Watching, as the brilliant heavens passed by

With one hand, I pulled down the bright stars

With the other I held onto the moon

When I awoke, I could not fully decide

If I was dreaming or planning something soon

~ Mera Orrellum

Excerpt from his epic poem

The Dream of Dantallis

If you give me a lever, and something to brace it against, I will move the world.

~ Perritruse

Maker

CHAPTER TWO

A tethered goat

Tinker woke to the smell of fresh choca filling her nose. A fascinating idea had crept into her mind the night before. She threw on some clothes and returned to her workshop. Her intention was just to get some preliminary sketches down. But she could get lost in her work. It was not surprising when she found the workshop utterly unoccupied. The hour was late. She told herself she was just going to get the idea down before she forgot it. Instead, she ended up working well into the early morning before falling asleep at her drafting desk.

Tinker sat up slowly. A diaphanous piece of drafting paper came up off the desk with her. It hung precariously from her cheek. She blew at it, but it did not move. Tinker snatched the paper off her face. After laying it back on the desk, she took a quick look around her workshop. Three Journeymen makers were moving carefully around the spacious shop. They had obviously been there for a while but were managing to go about their various tasks quietly. The workshops of makers were notoriously noisy, so what could they possibly be doing? They were also usually bright. But the lamps seemed to be turned down low, leaving the chamber dim. She just sat there for a moment, perched on the high stool like a whippoorwill on a thin tree branch, staring blankly off into space. Her eyes began to water just as her mouth stretched wide in an involuntarily reflex. The yawn stretched on for what seemed like an entire day. Then, as if it had a will of its own, her body contorted in a broad, extended stretch. She crinkled her nose in an attempt to force her blurry eyes to focus. Bleary-eyed, her clothes uncomfortably rumpled from sleeping at a desk, she shrugged her shoulders up around her ears. Exhaling heavily, Tinker tried to fight off the foul mood she could feel descending on her temperament. Waking up in the workshop, though it happened often enough, was not a joy. What she needed was a very hot shower. A hot shower would change everything.

It was only then that Tinker noticed Lieutenant Commander Akar Jalani, standing quietly, to her immediate right. The maker was squared away like a soldier. His knee-high, black boots were polished to a bright sheen. His black breeches looked freshly pressed. But that was as far as his uniform resembled the one worn by the rest of the Peoples Company. Makers wore high-collared, black vests adorned with several pockets. When in their workshops, a maker’s vest pockets tended to have small tools sticking out of them. They wore black shirts instead of white ones. Wearing a white shirt in workshops would have been asking for unnecessary irritation. Their coats were longer, hanging to the knee, with large, turndown collars. Their rank insignia and com-gems were pinned on the high collars of their vests. Akar was a Master Journeyman of the Makers Guild, so his vest was trimmed in gold brocaded scrollwork.

Akar’s perfectly straight, raven-black, shoulder-length hair was still a bit damp - presumably from a recent shower. His brown face was freshly shaved. He stood there calmly, watching her. Though his complexion was as brown as her own, Akar was from Calcut. None of Tinker’s people had perfectly straight hair like his. Though Akar was not unique, there were only a few of his fellow countrymen in the Company. Tinker could only think of one other woman offhand - Bantu’s personal assistant Macrina. But they all had immaculate posture. Somehow, Akar managed to look relaxed, with a back so straight you could run a plumb line across it. His black eyes did not seem to blink as he stood there watching her. Tinker realized that the choca smell was emanating from him. Akar’s right hand rested easily against the small of his back. His left hand held the cup and saucer, from which steam gently wafted up into the air. Tinker put her face in her hands. Rubbing vigorously, she tried to rouse herself. She blinked several times, in a final attempt to make her eyes focus. Wake up, she told herself. A quick look at her silver, pocket timepiece told her she had only managed to get a few hours of sleep. Sliding slowly off the stool, she took three steps over to where Akar was patiently waiting. When she lifted the cup of choca off its saucer, she grumbled what she hoped was some kind of greeting. The Master Journeyman knew how she liked her choca. It was hot, creamy and sweet. Tinker drank half the cup in a single gulp while Akar continued to stand there, silently, holding the saucer.

Tinker savored that first gulp, while using the time to finally, fully, wake up. After a deep breath, she turned the cup up again. Akar gave her a look that plainly said he wasn’t sure how she could have possibly enjoyed it. Setting the cup back on its saucer, which Akar was still dutifully holding, she flashed him a quick smirk before turning to leave. Tinker wove her way through the various tables, covered in what others might obliviously call clutter. She did so without sparing so much as a glance for the projects, sitting in the open spaces of the large chamber, in various stages of development. What she wanted was a hot shower and clean clothes. But before she could reach the door, Akar - who had apparently fallen into step behind her - nearly startled her when he said, "Maker, an emissary from the Citadel is waiting for you at the front gate. Tinker pulled up, abruptly, just shy of the door. Akar nearly ran over her. Wiping a hand across her face, she turned to look at him. With a half-muffled voice she said, Say that again?"

Akar cleared his throat. Maker, an emissary from the Citadel has announced himself at the front gate of Sanctuary. He’s requesting to see you immediately. Tinker took a deep breath. Another one, she thought. Exhaling slowly, she said, Tell him I will join him shortly. And tell the guards, he is not to be allowed entry until I get there. Tinker still needed to clean up. The visitor would just have to wait. She turned back to see one of the other journeymen holding the door open for her. Makers rarely saluted. They were not members of the warrior sect of the Company so they showed deference in other ways. Tinker gave the woman holding the door a brief nod as she stepped past her into the hall.

There were only a handful of people in the hallway at this early hour. The ninth floor, along with the six floors below it, was reserved for workshops. The upper floors of the Maker’s tower, known in Sanctuary as the Sanctorum, were for private quarters. She pointed herself in that direction. Tinker strolled to the end of the hallway where the tower’s lift was located. She placed her hand on the large, blue sapphire embedded in the wall at chest height. It glowed to bright, pulsing life. There was a slight hum behind the door to the lift letting her know it was on its way. Just as the hum stopped, the door to the lift slid open. Tinker stepped inside. She was greeted by a familiar voice. Good morning, Maker. Which floor? Tinker smiled to herself. The door closed behind her with a soft hush of sound. Good morning, Saza. Twelfth floor please. Saza was one of her proudest achievements. There were as many questions about that disembodied voice as just about any other thing she had created. They were questions that went unanswered. It irritated the members of the Company when she left them in the dark but the secrecy surrounding that voice was necessary. The lift hummed to life. Tinker could feel it moving upward in her stomach. It only took a few ticks of a timepiece for the lift to travel the three floors to where her quarters were located. The doors slid open onto the twelfth floor. Several strides down the hall brought her to her door.

Tinker entered her rooms with getting clean on her mind. She walked across the spacious main room, past the small workshop on her left, and the kitchen on her right, into her bedroom. Getting undressed was an afterthought. She did it as she crossed the rooms. By the time she reached the armoire, set against the near wall of her bedroom, she was naked. The casual garments she had been wearing were strung all across the floor like breadcrumbs. She would gather them up later. Wrapping herself in a heavy, white robe, she grabbed a towel, a small handcloth, and a white bar of soap from a drawer.

She was out the door of her quarters almost as quickly as she had entered. Thirty steps down the long hallway brought her to the washroom for the floor. Tinker walked in and selected one of the empty, darkwood washstalls. The washroom smelled like fresh olive oil and rosewater. Hanging her towel and robe on the silver-colored hooks along the outside of the stall, she stepped inside. After adjusting the levers in the wall so that she would get the right mix of hot water and cold, she pulled on the chain hanging from the shower spout. She felt, rather than heard, the click. Hot water came pouring out of the spout overhead. As steam filled the washstall, Tinker lost herself in the cascading fountain of hot water.

The washstall had been one of Tinker’s favorite projects. But as much as she would have liked nothing more than to stand there soaking up the steam, and lounging beneath that steady stream of hot water, she did not have the time. The white bar of soap, which smelled like gardenias with a hint of lemon, was wrapped up in the handcloth she was still holding. Being careful not to get her long, wooly hair wet, she quickly cleaned herself. Once she was clean, she set the bar of soap on a tray attached to the wall. Tinker took an extra moment to wash away the remaining soap lather. She reached up and pulled on the spout-chain until she felt the telltale click. The stream of water from the spout trickled to a stop. She stepped out of the stall trailing steam. Drying off as quickly as she could, she wrapped up again in the thick towel. Now that she was clean, dry, and warm, she made her way back to her rooms. Tinker had managed to keep her thick, curly hair mostly dry so that dressing did not take long. Soon, she was in a clean uniform. As she reached the door to her quarters she grabbed her black boe. It looked like a staff to most, though it was covered in glyphs. In a matter of moments, she was on her way to the front gate of Sanctuary.

When Tinker stepped out of the front entrance of the Sanctorum, she paused to take in her surroundings. It was a gorgeous morning. The air smelled sweet like honeysuckle or nicotiana. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the white blooms of the nicotiana clustered among the landscaped arrangements along the front wall of Makers Tower. Tinker made herself move. There wasn’t enough time for flower gazing. After adjusting the placement of the wide strap of her black, leather Maker’s Bag across her chest, she gripped her boe and made her way along one of the walkways that wound lazily through Sanctuary. Off to her left she could see the Peoples Tower, stretching high into the morning sky, where it sat at the heart of the compound. Off in the distance, on her right, was a smaller set of buildings that housed the Cadets.

Tinker walked along enjoying the morning sun on her face. Soon, the training grounds came into view. The morning training session had already ended, but there were a few clusters of people still milling about. Once she passed the training grounds, she turned right. The walkway Tinker was on merged smoothly into the broad thoroughfare used by traffic entering or exiting Sanctuary. She remembered teaching the builders how to lay the large, flat, square-cut stone so that it made a seamless, level surface. There were only a handful of carts on the road at this hour. When she walked past one of the few carts entering Sanctuary, she took note of how its wooden wheels rolled effortlessly over the stone surface. With a smirk, she looked up from the wheels. The front gate of Sanctuary stood just a few hundred paces ahead of her. Tinker did not change her leisurely pace.

When Tinker approached the two guards at the gate, they snapped to attention. The woman was a Bannerman. There was a single, silver pip on the high collar of her black coat. She must have been a full span taller than Tinker. But that only meant that she was slightly above the average. Tinker was not tall. The man behind her was taller still, though a few rungs below her in rank. He was a Companion of the First Rank. The single, silver star on his collar was not a small, metal pip. It was embroidered on in silver thread. The brocade star on his collar was accompanied by three, glistening, silver stripes embroidered around the cuff of his coat sleeves. Tinker also noticed that both guards had the small, stylized eye, sewn in gold and brown thread, over their hearts. Far Eyes. The Bannerman saluted Tinker while the Companion-First, standing behind her with his hand firmly on his sword hilt, watched the man who was waiting just inside the gate.

Tinker nodded to the Bannerman. In lieu of a salute she said, Thank you, Bannerman. At ease.

The woman took a single step back before turning on her heel. Both of the Far Eyes went back to watching the gate. Tinker waited a moment for them to cross the twenty paces back to their posts. When their full attention was, once again, back on the entrance to Sanctuary, she gave the man who had been waiting for her the once over. He was average height, though he seemed a bit on the thin side. The man just stood there leaning on his black boe. It reminded her again that most people mistook them for walking sticks. Tinker knew better. The man was clearly a Maker. Besides the black boe in his hand, there was his gray coat. It wasn’t