The Martyr's Deception: Arabeth Barnes, #3

By Gin Hollan

Altered by the things she's seen and done, the same old Blastborn doesn't feel the same anymore. In her frustration, she lets slip that Blastborn citizens were unwitting captives by order of their own government when the wrong reporter was listening. Soon after that, the protests started.

She's got more than bad press to worry about when an old man asks her to free people held in a temporal anomaly, inside the mountain range separating Blastborn from the rest of the world. When they turn out to be prisoners convicted for their role in the same war that resulted in Blastborn being started, you would think recapturing them is the hard part.

Sam and Melanie are still in Vensay, and Graham is far too interested in the crystals Arabeth brought back with her. This time, her world is changed by a strange man in a mechanized suit of over-sized armour.

 

This is book 3 in the Arabeth Barnes Fantasy Adventure series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gin Hollan
• Release date: Feb 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393140139

Book preview

// Chapter ONE //

ARABETH BARNES stared at the soft brown leather-bound Sages' book she’d been given in the country of Vensay. The formulae inside it travelled into the reader’s blood, and those formulae were activated by will from within the bearer’s mind, giving their use the illusion of magic.

Considering her current location, she’d built things to make it look like a device was activated, causing the outcome. Otherwise, she might be outed as a witch, true or not.

But those formulae... they would be another matter. The few known users, called Sages, were executed for their part in the last great war. That she instinctively knew how to use them was troubling, and their draw on her, pulling at her like an itch in the mind that she couldn’t reach, was distracting.

If that wasn’t enough, there was the subtle promise that the book held the truth to why the people of Blastborn had been locked between a mountain range and the ocean for the past 200 years.

Not now, she muttered, pushing back a length of short messy brown hair. She sighed and tried to push the book out of her mind.

Physical, tangible things - that’s what she preferred. Tingly, mobile patterns of energy and liquid metal that shimmered just under the skin sat outside her comfort zone. Luckily, with her carrying a device or showing off a shiny crystal in a contraption, there would be no questions. They would schedule no burnings, not that Blastborn did that sort of thing. It was... uncivilized.

She closed her eyes and rubbed them. She had still been staring at the book.

If you don’t want the cookie, get out of the kitchen, she said. She turned to look for Marble, her pet fox of seven years. The little fox was still a little pudgy from her recent litter of two kits. No more riding on Arabeth’s shoulder - at least not for a while.

As Arabeth locked the door behind her, she tried not to look at Marble. She’d set up a warm, fox-proof box in the workshop so she could keep an ear out for the kits. Marble needed to stay with them. The room wouldn’t be a hazard until they were bigger and running around, but Marble wouldn’t want to leave them on their own for quite some time.

The blacksmith’s shop would be open soon. Arabeth picked up her pace, wanting to reach the south end of the city before there were a lot of people up and about. This new project required discretion, and while the blacksmith was a curious fellow, he wouldn’t pry too deeply. Really, she should have a forge built in her large workshop, but it was crowded enough. She was early but pushed the door and smiled. Open. Perfect timing, then.

Ben, I’m going to my usual spot, she called out to the smithy owner. As she pointed to a forge in the far corner, she chuckled. It stood stocked, heated, and ready.

Coming out to a semi-public smithy served a dual purpose. She wanted as many people on her side as possible when it came time to vote on the gadgeteering ban. She wasn’t about to let curmudgeons or the ones already in power determine the fate of the region. Change scared them, but survival depended on change.

This hovering metal would scare a lot of people. And the strange words that now pulsed under her skin, appearing as magic when she used them, would terrify most citizens of Blastborn.

The heat of the forge brought her back to the moment. It was at the lowest temperature possible without the fire going out completely. She needed to test the metal at a speed she could track visually. Last time, it had gone almost instantly from a solid-state to gas, bypassing the liquid phase she was hoping for. She’d seen the liquid state as it cooled again.

Was it odd for the gas to gather the way it did? How would she explain that little tiny blue cloud to the blacksmith if it happened while he was watching?

She split the mould open and pulled out a long slender metal rod, no thicker than her forefinger. With a heat-resistant glove on each hand and a couple pairs of tongs, she held the metal as close to the heat as she dared. It had to heat slowly, or she’d miss the transition again. At the first sign of change, she pulled the rod away from the heat and looked at it closely.

Here, Ben said, nearly causing her to jump at his sudden hovering. He pointed to an area on the rod where the discoloration was obvious. This is a new discovery, isn’t it?

Arabeth didn’t look at him, instead nodding and waiting for him to walk away. Inching the rod back to the fire, she watched as the colour change became more obvious. The metal rod became lighter in her hand. When she noticed, she pulled it back and set it down on the table beside her.

Last time, the heat had been the correct temperature for working with the new metal. The new metal cooled faster than any other metal she had worked with.

Perfect, she whispered. She took the rod over to a cutting machine, chopping it up into lengths she could easily tuck in a carryall bag, one cut at a time. She suspected that her home workshop could do the rest of this job. She needed nothing as hot as the forges here.

As she packed up, the blacksmith walked over. There is a riddle my instructor gave me when I was young and starting training here. It speaks of floating hills and sorcerers. Would you like to hear it?

Not wanting to appear rude, she nodded.

In the page or under skin, the metal flies. At common forge, it won’t begin. It thinks alone and chooses wise, then sinks down deep to sleep again.

It’s a good thing that’s a riddle. It makes lousy poetry.

The blacksmith scowled. I’m married, Miss Barnes.

She blushed. That’s not what I meant to imply.

I’m not sure where you got that metal from, but it’s nothing I’ve seen before. I’d be happy to take notes, keep the archive of information growing, as it were. You don’t have to tell me how you found it.

I’ll think about it. There isn’t much to say just yet.

Arabeth checked her pocket watch. It was mid-morning. Nate should be at the large workshop. The home workshop would be a better place to test out the vagaries of a low-heat-sensitive metal, anyway.

It crossed her mind that Nate, being from the other side of the mountain, might have some knowledge about this metal. She shrugged it off. Until recently, it was illegal to tinker in Vensay, so he’d braved the tunnels of the mountain, travelling to Blastborn based on myth and legend. His knowledge started here.

//

In the twenty minutes it took for Arabeth to return home, the metal became ice cold. To the touch, it felt colder than room temperature. One more odd thing to ponder, she thought.

If she could contain this metal when it became lighter than air, the applications would be interesting. A metal that had to be contained in a box or tube could be useful, she hoped.

If a temperature as low as body heat made the metal lighter, it could lighten or be used to make lighter tools for the aged or infirm, lighter carriages for horses to pull, maybe even a table that rolled softly, gently transporting patients. These were all high priority projects for her. But the amalgams and ratios would take years to figure out.

There was, however, one project hinting that it could happen now. It sat at the edge of her mind. Flight. Even something as simple as an airship steered with propellers, like an airborne ocean vessel, would be amazing. More importantly, were he alive, her grandfather would definitely approve.

For now, she needed to apply for a mining permit and lock in the mineral rights to her discovery. She’d heard about some shady practices in that regard, but she would have her father turn in the paperwork for her. No one would try to shaft him, so to speak. It might be expensive, but she was sure it was worth it.

She locked up her metal bits and headed out towards her father’s office downtown. The sound of even, consistent footsteps broke her train of thought. Someone trailed her at what sounded like a deliberate range. Another normal part of her day in Blastborn.

This time, it wasn’t Larry. The young news photographer may look for ways to vilify gadgeteer’s in general and her specifically, but he wasn’t this quiet. And her mother’s spies would not be so sloppy as to be heard at all. That left Bernie.

He was her favourite informant, although he insisted on being called a newspaper Scoop Hunter. He usually followed her for one of two reasons – he wanted a news headline of any sort, or he had information to sell her.

Professional courtesy divided up the potential story-makers among the informants. How did she wind up with two? At least today it was only Bernie.

You might as well catch up, Bernie, she said loud enough for him to catch.

The padding of soft-soled boots sped up and Bernie tipped his hat as he fell into step beside her.

Good day, Miss Barnes. I hope the day finds you well.

She nodded. To the point, Bernie.

Yes, right. I have a... potentially rude question, he started. Why don’t you wear the customary hat of your social status when out in public? Isn’t it a rule that a lady or gentleman must wear a hat, or words to that effect?

I do when the occasion calls for it. Arabeth’s face broke into a smile. It is considered proper decorum, but I find hats get in my way, and before I realize it, I’ve tossed it off somewhere. It makes little sense for me to throw money away when I could easily not. You might mention, more to the point, that I’m in trousers.

A lady is permitted trousers when she is a horse owner.

You’ve been reading outside your usual scope. I hope that’s a good sign. Arabeth laughed. Bernie, fashion isn’t your usual topic. Is the paper’s assignment clerk angry at you, or something? What do you really want to know?

Well, this probably isn’t interesting to you, but the paper is developing a high-paying column about local celebrities. I figure if I ask you enough questions, I’ll find something interesting. You can tip me off to others of your sphere, if you’d like to toss a decoy in. Some handy gossip or similar. Your personal life is kind of ... drab.

Ouch, she laughed. I’m not sure if that should offend me or not, although I’m happy to not be interesting to the average person. My work requires I get around unnoticed, when possible.

Well, being a bounty hunter wrecked that for you, he chuckled. And the trousers, of course. Being a celebrity is a burden, right? He looked around as they walked. Even at late morning, heads half turned to discreetly observe. I mean, by association, I’m kind of popular now. The paper knows my words sell, so the boss is driving me crazy. Work was sparse while you were off adventuring. Care to share that story?

Not yet. Arabeth wasn’t sure any of that would be welcome in the local paper, considering the social temperature towards adventuring. And how would she leave the bit about Graham out? His safety depended on no one finding out his part in their adventure.

She changed the subject. Ask me something else.

Bernie laughed and pulled out his notepad. Okay, slice of the job question – what is the one thing most people don’t understand about gadgeteer’s or tinkers?

Arabeth paused, wondering how that would interest anyone. Oh well, it was his choice, his pay cheque.

"We have a highly-tuned sense of hearing, listening for subtle changes in our environment. It’s an occupational side effect. Goggles limit our field of view, and we use them a lot because we often adapt them to a specialty or for fine detail work, as well as safety.

A friend of mine has a pair goggles with a sequence of adjustable lenses that give degrees of magnification to the microscopic level. He also has a set of colour filters he can swap in, and the colours reveal things that might otherwise go unnoticed. Anyway, we learn to keep our ears open so we can work on one thing and listen for the progress of another project while we work.

That explains why you always seem to know when I’m tailing you, he laughed.

Now you know, she laughed, too. Is that enough for today? I really need to get moving here. I will tell you my news when there’s something definitive to say.

Sure, sure. But first, he leaned over to whisper, there’s something electric going on in the Pendar district.

Her step faltered. Is that literal, or figurative?

A bit of both, I’d wager. Bernie tried to look nonchalant as he shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets, notepad and all. For a moment, Arabeth envied the large capacity of pockets in male clothing.

Bernie tipped his hat and slowed his pace again, pulling back to his trailing position. He’d once told her that half of the interesting stuff he found came from seeing the behaviour of the people around her. Most of it was useless, but he said it paid off more than it didn’t.

Arabeth snorted then covered her nose. She had to fix her habit of telegraphing her opinions. She was being observed by more than Bernie. Her mother’s people followed her. Spies. It drove her squirrelly.

She couldn’t explain why it felt different from when she watched people via a yellow crystal. Somehow, this felt more like they were trying to annoy her, letting themselves be spotted as though by accident.

She stuck her hand in a pocket, looking for her watch. As she did, her hand brushed the cold, smooth surface of the red crystal perpetually in a pocket somewhere with her. The messages it relayed were few and far between. They became fewer as the weeks passed.

'Arabeth, Sam's going around the bend,' Melanie's message started. He hasn't been like this since ... Melanie paused. Well, you may as well know. He hasn't been this work-obsessed or moody since the time you were married to Matthew. Anyway, get that stupid booth built and contact him, would you?"

Arabeth groaned. The communication booth, or 'grimshaw' by its proper name, sat in its original packaging on the floor of a small office space she'd rented. It was part business idea, part contact with the other side. People would like instant communication, and she could charge a fee for that.

Too bad she let slip to the wrong reporter that newspapers and other information sources would need it, because Blastborn citizens were unwitting captives by order of their own government. Soon after that, the protests started. That alone had created a series of newspaper articles that made her want to forget she’d ever seen a grimshaw.

She wanted Sam to finish his work for the new King of Vensay and come back. She tried not to resent that he chose to stay there instead of coming home. If actions spoke louder than words, this was the second time he’d let her go.

That was the irrational part of her talking, though. She knew that. If his goal had been to remind her how lonely life would be without him around, he’d succeeded. Life was weird without Sam around. They'd been best friends for more than half their lives. When marriage propriety meant they couldn’t talk, let alone be friends, he still seemed to be on the edges of her life somewhere. Now he was out of reach, not just out of touch.

Sighing, she had to admit that she missed his voice, his smile, his random chatter. She’d never admit it to him, so this was trouble of her own creating. He'd accepted this new role as though he had been created for that specific purpose. She could understand that. Vensay needed a national police force, not a series of isolation-inclined regional sheriffs, and they had no one qualified to set it up. Enter Sam.

Melanie staying in Vensay was more understandable, in a way. That was the only place she could use her new abilities as a seer.

Her two best friends were both gone. At least for now. Having experienced the larger world, would they be happy in Blastborn? The options and opportunities of life on the other side where indeed tempting.

The surrounding air seemed to close in a bit. Picking up her pace, she now craved the privacy of her workshop. She needed her own forge. Not here in her house, she conceded. She needed it at the big shop - the one her Grandfather gave her.

It was her own fault that she had no friends, no social life. Eat, work, sleep. Why not? That's how things got done, how life moved forward. At least she had Marble... but no. Marble was busy with her new babies.

Arabeth needed to get the lighter-than-air metal into a usable form. Maybe Nate would like to handle the grimshaw project on his own. Unlikely, but he might surprise her. Crystals made him nervous.

// Chapter TWO //

D O YOU think you can do it? Arabeth and Nate stood in front of the stack of parts boxes, curved sheets of frosted glass, and a wooden control pedestal that reminded Arabeth of a preacher's pulpit.

He made a Pshhh sound that Arabeth had come to know meant silly question.

Let me know when you need a hand with the glass walls and remember -

I know, don't tell anyone. It's top, top secret, he cut her off, with a grin. I'm just guessing, but is this related to you early morning trips to the Blacksmith?

No, not even close. Your project is going to amaze everyone and simplify our lives. Mine will take a little longer to prove useful.

And what's this thing do? You said someone called a Seer uses it as person-to-person communication, but not how.

It's just a little magic, she winked. She'd begun to think of him as a brother, and it was fun to have someone to talk to, someone to joke with. Sam had been gone a long time. Months. Okay, only three months, but if not for her work, it would have felt like an eternity. She had to figure out if what they had was really love, or just a deep and abiding friendship.

Keep your secrets, then. Nate folded the instruction diagram and stuffed it into his back pocket. Prying this first of the wooden crates open he glanced back at her. Let me get to it then.

Have fun, she waved as she left. She had rented a small office space in the downtown area, thinking that this would be a good location if they offered it as a service to the public. She could charge fees for message transmission and receipt, just like two way radio. The hard part would be explaining it to people. I'm locking the door behind me.

As she stepped out, the morning late hit her in the face. The moment later a voice greeted her. Miss Barnes, if you wouldn't mind, the mayor would like a word with you.

To the left stood a painfully thin blond woman in her thirties, wearing a pinstripe skirt and ruffled white blouse under her bright red cardigan. The mayor's assistant and her least favourite former classmate.

Hello, Penny. It's a little early for meetings, isn't it? Penny Saislee was a friendly-to-your-face kind of person, a fact Arabeth had learned while in school with her. Behind your back, she worked against anyone not in her small group of followers, and doubled-up her effort if she genuinely didn’t like you.

When the mayor's been up all night, every meeting is too late, she sighed. Come on. The carriage is waiting, and you're one of many people he's talking with today.

I don't think I can, Penny, Arabeth said, with an exaggerated sigh, noting the irritated flick of Penny's lashes as she did. I left things in process that need my immediate attention. Arabeth turned away to lock the door.

What? Penny seemed to go paler than her already impossible shade of