The Wondersmith: Book One of The City of Storms

By Tyler Lynn Starwalt

In the city of Arcan, there is a giant. A massive man standing ten feet tall with strength capable of lifting ships from the water. His skin is impervious to all forms of damage, and his mind is that of a superhuman. His name is Vogal, and he's tired of the monotony of life. In this city of Arcan, technology hasn't progressed far past the use of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyler Lynn Starwalt
• Release date: Apr 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218176587

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The Wondersmith

The Wondersmith

The Wondersmith

Book One of The City of Storms

Tyler Lynn Starwalt

Tyler Lynn Starwalt

Contents

Dedication

Map

I Prologue

II Ω 1

III Ω 2

IV Ω 3

V Ω 4

VI Ω 5

VII Ω 6

VIII Amp 1

IX Amp 2

X Amp 3

XI Amp 4

XII Amp 5

XIII Amp 6

XIV Amp 7

XV Amp 8

XVI Vo 1

XVII Vo 2

XVIII Vo 3

XIX Vo 4

XX Vo 5

XXI Vo 6

XXII Vo 7

XXIII Vo 8

XXIV W 1

XXV W 2

XXVI W 3

XXVII W 4

XXVIII W 5

XXIX Epilogue

Copyright © 2023 by Tyler Lynn Starwalt

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2023

To my friends who helped see this work to its completion.

Nerds.

Map

I

Prologue

Prologue

Karguile picked at his guardsman’s uniform as it started to stick to his skin again. It was like wet paper was forming around his arms and back, trying to make a perfect Karguile statue using the original as the framework. The pants fit fine after he pinched a new hole in the belt, but the ivory and cobalt chainmail were just a tad too tight on his swimmer body. Couldn’t they have just killed a bigger guard for his uniform? He chafed uncomfortably and shifted on his spear. Spears. For a town within spitting distance of the forest. He would have thought the Helashians might have given their guardsmen some handguns or a musket to defend their lives with, but he supposed a spear would be just as effective against a nightboar as a rifle.

Cut it out, Pamandrion said beside him. He was a freak of nature with a slight frame and muscles that actually fit inside human attire. Damn unfair, that one was. Pamandrion needed extra dark contact lenses to hide his eyes though, so Karguile could believe the Green Man made the two of them with separate but equal care. You’re a guardsman right now. Guardsmen don’t squirm like drowning lemurs.

I can’t help it, Karguile whispered, stamping out another squirm. Man-clothes stick to me like sap. Why aren’t you fidgeting about?

Discipline, Pamandrion said, almost defensively. The festival behind them was roaring loud enough to prevent locals from hearing their conversation, but if a guard patrol came by to ask about a change in the post that they weren’t aware of, they would be in serious trouble.

Karguile’s eyes narrowed. He took a guess and sniffed at the air. It was hard to tell through the summer scents of the bonfire and grilled animals but he could almost make out…

Lotion! Karguile snapped, pointing. You’re wearing lotion under all that to keep your skin from going all clammy!

Pamandrion set his jaw and stared daggers into Karguile. Shut up a minute, you idiot. I hear someone coming.

Give me some, Karguile persisted. Just a little for my arms and I’ll—

He stopped when an all too familiar, cold, ironlike grip pressed down on his shoulder. Karguile snapped to attention and stared a thousand fathoms forward into the forest. He felt the warm breath tickle the back of his neck before he heard the raspy voice.

Now, what’s all this then I’ve been hearing on Watch Station Seven? their employer asked breathily into Karguile’s ear. The man had a voice so harsh that Karguile wouldn’t have been surprised if the man was some kind of drowning survivor. He wore a leather face mask that cut off just below the eye and just above the Adam’s apple, covering everything from his mouth to the bridge of his nose. It looked impossible to breathe through. When he spoke, he did so quietly with an underlying threat that Karguile found hard to ignore. Their employer was an unpleasant creature, with the happiest times Karguile had had in the last two weeks being when the man took a shift sleeping. At least then his malice was directed toward whatever beast haunted his dreams—rather than his two hired fae.

When Karguile and Pamandrion were rented via accord, the grizzled man went only by The Employer. Less than a week into their march on this nameless village, Pamandrion had gotten tired of the melodrama and searched their master’s rucksack for clues on his identity. Stenciling on his skivvies revealed his name to be Captain Cruptulus Signant. Karguile would never call the creature by name, of course. Best not to rouse the beast’s ire.

The forest is less than a quarter-mile from here. Do I need to hire two more faefolk for this little excursion?

Karguile could see Pamandrion shivering at the mere mention of a renegotiation in the field without their superiors there to mediate. No, the other faux guardsman squeaked before coughing. No sir, we’re just very excited to see the fruits of our preparation come to.

Signant shifted his gaze to Pamandrion then back to Karguile. After repeating the motion for what seemed like ages, he finally let go of Karguile’s shoulder, letting loose a dam of held breaths. Cruptulus dug into his inner coat for that damned shoe he always talked to. He held it up to his ear, adjusted the laces, then held it up to his ear again. He replaced the shoe and—as if he hadn’t just been listening to a moccasin like it was a seaside conch—fixed his coat, grunted, and gestured for the two faefolk to follow him.

Shouldn’t we stay here, sir? In case someone comes back? Pamandrion said, with far more guts than Karguile would have ever thought capable.

No need, Cruptulus rasped while he walked away. Whole town’s as good as scuttled in a few hours.

Karguile and Pamandrion shared looks before following Cruptulus toward the bonfire, leaving their spears. The village was in full swing for some religious or historical festival that Karguile didn’t have time to inquire about. Something to do with the first grounding of Arcan to the south, maybe something about Fairies. Karguile the guardsman didn’t really care. This was a tiny village with old traditions. If he didn’t respect the old laws saying you can’t get hammered on a weekday then why would he care about some asinine festival?

That was Karguile the guardsman, though. Karguile the original couldn’t get enough of historical context. When he wasn’t bound by contract or lack of funds, he would take trips to The Old Steppe and visit a few ruins. It killed him not to learn about such a niche culture so close to the forest that he hadn’t heard of yet. Hopefully, Cruptulus would let him pick through the wreckage for clues.

Cruptulus pushed through the crowd with the air of a watch captain on patrol. Karguile had to admit the man was good, much better than employers of the past. Sure the name thing was odd, but everyone had their quirks.

Shoe notwithstanding.

The three of them moved throughout the crowd of celebrant townspeople until Cruptulus glanced up toward some food stands, the motion reminiscent of a startled deer. Karguile attuned his ears to where his superior was looking to overhear a conversation that was taking place in front of a mead tent.

Alright there, Donny. I think you’ve had enough fun for tonight. Maybe pack it in then, yeah? Have some water.

I dun need water, a slurred reply came immediately. Cruptulus was moving toward the tent, pushing past couples and families alike who made way as soon as they saw his officer’s badge. An’ I dun need you telling me what I need.

Cruptulus lept behind the drunk man quickly and threateningly enough to grab his attention. Donny the Drunkard swung backward on reflex, trying to get at Signant’s face. The sailor brought his hand up to catch the blow and twisted Donny’s arm around his back, the man letting out a yelp of pain while his fellow festival-goers looked on in shock. Within a few moments, Donny was restrained. Karguile went to secure his legs.

Pamandrion stepped up to take control before Cruptulus could speak and destroy their cover with his accent. He raised his hands—without chafing, the lotioned bastard—to let the townsfolk get a clear view of his guardsman attire. Everything’s fine, he said, quieting the murmurs. Everything’s fine. Our friend here is just gonna spend the night in the holding cell to cool off.

He didn’t do nothing wrong, officer, said the mead seller who had been talking to the drunk earlier. Honest, Donny just had a bit too much to—

It’s fine, Karguile said. No one’s pressing charges, we’re just going to take him somewhere he can’t hurt anyone or himself. The crowd kept staring but their murmurs were turning from Donny’s nearly striking an officer to Donny’s party foul.

The three imposters dragged the drunk to the center of town where the village hall stood atop a small rise of stairs. Cruptulus dropped Donny unceremoniously onto the concrete with a dull thud. He gestured to Karguile then back at the drunk. Kill him. If he cries out I’ll kill you both.

Karguile drew his lips to a line. Honestly, this was all he was good for, wasn’t it? No one hired him because of his infiltration expertise, nor did they ever want an authority on Steppe archaeology. They wanted him for this and this alone. He took off his right glove, watching as his palms began to collect condensation. Karguile hesitantly straddled the drunk, hand outstretched to kill.

He buried his fist into the man’s diaphragm. Donny let out all his air in a single rush and doubled forward, his back arching up while his eyes tried to pop out of his skull. Setting his feet, Karguile pushed just a little harder to get the rest of the air out of the man’s lungs before shoving his dripping wet, slough-skinned hand over the man’s face in a practiced motion. Within seconds the drunk was sucking up water instead of air as his lungs thrashed themselves apart silently. Karguile let the man fall prone after he was done.

He hated drowning men who still had air in their lungs. The most dreadful sound came when air rushed past water through a throat, like a scream from the deep. He had enough nightmares looking into the dead eyes of waterlogged men—he didn’t need to hear them too.

The fae, kelpie by creed, looked up at the macabre captain. Cruptulus nodded. Karguile nodded back. He stood and followed his employer to the door of the village hall. Cruptulus got to one knee at the face of the door and brought out those bits of metal he had used to get the watchman’s barracks open for their equipment. Sure enough, he dug into the lock like an anteater fishing for a prize. Within seconds, the lock clicked open and the three slipped inside.

Pamandrion took a chair that had been sitting near a receptionist booth to prop against the door quietly. It looked less than secure.

You call that a barricade? Cruptulus asked.

Pamandrion looked chagrined. I’ve never actually been in a town this big, sir. I’ve never had to—

Teach yerself, Cruptulus rasped. Karguile looked down the hallways to his front and right. Their master didn’t even try to lower his voice. Wasn’t he worried there was a post here in case vandals got in and trashed the place? We have another three towns after this. Stand aside, let me show you how it’s done.

Karguile and Pamandrion made space for their temporary master. He hadn’t lifted a finger to help, not in anything that required more than the barest amount of strength. Hell, he didn’t even light the campfires while they were making their way out of the forest. Everything was tasked to either Pamandrion or Karguile. The two looked at one another, then inspected closely.

Cruptulus took off his gloves and made two fists. His stance went from imposing to full-on threatening as he shifted his legs into a fighting position. Cruptulus’ shoulders tilted back with his fists raised like a city boxer, like he was about to knock the tar out of a chair for its minimal contribution to his daily headache. Karguile narrowed his eyes. Yes, that was exactly what he was doing. His left hand stayed forward in a defensive posture while his right reared back slightly.

Pamandrion sniffed at the air. Is that...rain?

Cruptulus Signant punched toward the chair at a blinding pace, knuckles just far enough to keep his fists from contacting the metal frame. Karguile gasped, recoiling as a condensed ball of lightning flew from where Cruptulus stopped his blow. Static charge connected at the point where the chair met the door with a sharp sizzling sound. Karguile fell to the ground. Cruptulus shifted to a jab, just as quick. Then another punch, another jab, another punch, each impact letting loose a blinding orb of energy that melted the chair and fused the metal to the door frame. Once the bombardment was over, Karguile’s human employer tested the door. It was welded shut. Pamandrion was saying something, a look of fear in his eyes. Cruptulus responded with some twitching at the beard, then looked at Karguile.

What?! Karguile tried to say. It sounded like he was under deep water. Of course, lightning made thunder. Thunder was loud, Karguile. Stupid Karguile.

Signant pulled Karguile up to his feet and spoke directly into his ear. We’re going to the roof of the building now, faefolk. Take the stairs past the receptionist booth.

Another voice sounded behind Karguile. What in the name of the Father’s mighty bull was that? A guardsman, standing not ten feet down the hallway. There was a watchman on duty tonight just in case someone came in to smash some property or throw lightning around. Of course, there was.

Lotion, Cruptulus rasped at Pamandrion, not taking his eyes off the guard. Drown him. Do it, do it now.

Pamandrian blanched. A kelpie can’t drown someone unless they’re touching them. Our fae magic has a range of a few inches away from the skin at max and—

Cruptulus let out an irritated growl that grew into a small roar. His eyes looked hot as he drew a revolver from his coat pocket and shot the guard. That last crack seemed enough to blow out Karguile’s eardrums, since he had to look to Cruptulus’s mouth to read the next order off his lips. We’re going now.

Dragging Pamandrion toward the ladderwell to the roof, Cruptulus nudged past Karguile who stared dumbly at the guard. He was still twitching; the shot probably hit his stomach and leaked acid into his innards. Somehow that felt worse than drowning. Cruptulus doubled back and grabbed Karguile before shoving him up after Pamandrion.

Karguile’s eardrums were slowly recovering from gunfire and thunder. He followed Cruptulus and his colleague up the ladderwell and onto the roof of the village hall. It was easily the tallest building in the tiny little town that Karguile never learned the name of. A metal railing surrounded the patio to prevent falls. In the consuming dark of the night sky, the trio were surrounded by the light and reverie of the bonfires below. There couldn’t be more than two thousand people living here; why did their master want to be in this little forest border town so bad?

Karguile prepared his ears while Cruptulus sealed the door to the roof. Pamandrion was right, there were rain clouds gathering overhead. These townsfolk should get inside before they get wet, Karguile’s colleague said.

I think that’s the least of their worries. He paused. What did the Captain say? That this town was ‘scuttled?’ That’s a shipwreck term, right?

Only you’d know something so— Pamandrian cut off in a scream as Cruptulus slapped him on the cheek with the shoe he’d been talking to earlier. The fae flailed about, trying to get away from the moccasin, but Cruptulus Signant pressed harder. Karguile stepped back, hip against the railing that separated him from a five-story drop onto the pavement. Pamandrion’s face was turning into a branching network of scars and sizzles, all originating from the point where the shoe met face.

He finally released his grip, letting Pamandrion kick him off. Cruptulus held the shoe with newfound reverence. Karguile went to pick up his friend but Pamandrion waved him away, pointing at the sailor, illuminated by distant sky-fire.

‘Ll be honest; ye weren’t me first choice in a crew when I struck off on this voyage. Ye faefolk live closer to the Court than ya give yerselves credit for. I needed yer magic and me magic to copulate and commission me a ship sea-worthy of the Signet name. He raised the shoe above his own head. Storm clouds were definitely gathering above them. Storm clouds with lightning pulsing through themselves like dark veins in an embryo. Karguile wished they would have just remained stunted. Have ye ever thought about yer namesakes, faefolk? Pamandrion shivered, not answering. Cruptulus waved the shoe at Karguile who shook his head fervently. "Not yer species, the name of yer division. Karguile kept shaking his head. The rain was getting intense. Well, ye lot have another three towns to think about it. Behold, ye ol’ power of Stormseat!"

Another crash of thunder came, followed by a nearly instantaneous typhoon of rain. Karguile turned in horror, regarding the town he didn’t know. The people were clamoring to get inside to shelter themselves from the frigid torrents that threatened to drown them.

Then, the rain drowned them.

The swells began to condense into physical rivers from the sky before raining down in streams toward the townsfolk. It got into their mouths and lungs and forced the townspeople to breathe in its freezing liquid. Screams of pure horror, agony, and desperation echoed throughout the night as people slowly realized they were to spend their last moments fighting for breath. The tendrils of rain from the sky began ripping at doors, dragging people out into the open only to fill their lungs with more water. Cruptulus didn’t laugh, but Karguile could see the smile in his eyes.

When a human being is asphyxiated by liquid, they let out a certain sound. A most dreadful sound. The sound of the last bits of air escaping their lungs to rush past the water that held them under. The sound was louder than any scream a man could produce and could chill even the hardiest of sailors to the bone.

Karguile dropped to the wet roof and held his ears as the sounds of drowning echoed from two thousand mouths. And he let the too-sparse rain hide his tears in the night.

People died under the town hall, and Cruptulus sang.

Oh, in the frothy white channels I served my time!

More death throes echoed from below. He was looking to Karguile as if waiting for a response. Karguile gave none, so Cruptulus continued.

"Where black-water chases took that fair ship of mine!

"I wish I may claim anudder ship so stable,

Ol’ Kirk gave me Arcan so I’ll soon be able!

Pamandrion blacked out, falling limp in Karguile’s arms.

If only he were so lucky.

II

Ω 1

Ω 1

Forty-nine years ago.

"You’re leaving now?"

Vogal sat in the unfinished wooden building that was to be his on the First Tier. He absently kicked a small piece of wood off the wall, sending it flying into his own shins. It stopped on his awakened skin without leaving so much as a scratch.

They need me, Yald, Jebarion said. I have to uphold my end of the bargain.

You saw what they did, Yaldabaoth protested. You know what they can do. Father’s dead. We need leadership, we need—

A Stormcaptain, Jebarion finished. You can be that Stormcaptain. Keep the peace, until the Rubulins leave on their own. They’ll realize the city has no resources and move on to Helash.

Vogal picked up the wood piece in a vice-like grip. The wood cracked and bent under his titanic pressure, and he wasn’t even seven feet tall yet. He absently wondered how far his strength could take him when he reached his full size.

You don’t believe that, Yaldabaoth said. His voice sounded like he was pacing behind Vogal. "How many more Coronation Days are we going to have until they’re satisfied?"

One, Jebarion answered. Because you’re going to sit on that throne, and be a Stormcaptain that won’t bow to these bloody bureaucrats and their rule.

Silence fell on the two sane brothers. Vogal carved a chunk off the ironwood, his fingers acting like a knife to its pear.

What about him? Yaldabaoth asked. They talked about Vogal as if he wasn’t in the room, sometimes.

He can’t be a Stormcaptain, Jebarion said. Getting him to say three words is like drawing sap from driftwood.

"No, I mean what about Vogal? He’s going to wonder where his brother went, and he’ll never accept that the heir went off into the forest to join some Fairie war."

More silence. Vogal heard footsteps coming from where Jebarion was standing. He used his palms to sand a little bit off the edges of his new wooden trinket, making the surface smooth. When Jebarion knelt, Vogal held the object toward his brother.

Oh Vogal, that’s a nice… Jebarion took the wood block from his brother. Flat house?

Coaster, Vogal said. Water on table.

Ah, well it’s a good one at that. Jebarion twisted it in his hands while Vogal stared out at the set wood planks that would be his prison. Listen… Vogal, I need to go away for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Vogal shrugged. He wasn’t an idiot. Jebarion had asked his redcap friends to help win back Arcan from the Rubulins. It didn’t work, and now Jebarion had to go serve in their fight against… whatever it was that faefolk fought. Other faefolk?

I’ll be back as soon as I can, Jebarion said. I promise. Then you can show me all of the things you wanted to make, right? Remember the toys you used to carve?

Vogal said nothing, didn’t even shrug. Jebarion hung there for a moment, shuffling in place. People liked to use their words a lot more than Vogal did nowadays. Some of the landlords who survived Coronation Day visited Vogal sometimes. They used words like ‘battle shock’ and ‘repressed memories,’ like Vogal was a puzzle for them to solve. One even suggested shipping the Stormprince up to Demmid for treatment, then having Vogal return when he could talk better.

Vogal, Jebarion said. Can you look at me, brother?

Vogal swiveled his neck slowly—sometimes it was easier than moving his eyes. Jebarion’s light blue gaze had a look of concern to it. Jebarion opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Eventually he closed it, and gave his brother a half smile.

What followed was the most unsatisfying hug of Vogal’s life. Jebarion knelt to one knee, wrapping his arms around his brother. The hilt of the former Stormcaptain Select’s sidesword jabbed at Vogal’s stomach. After the awkward exchange, Vogal’s brother patted him on the shoulder.

Get well soon, brother. Jebarion’s half smile looked more forced now.

Just go, Yaldabaoth said from beside the pair. You wouldn’t want to keep your friends waiting, right Jebarion?

The blue-eyed Stormprince’s expression turned hard, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he stood from the knee and brushed off his coat and pants.

Right, he said. Bring the city back to greatness while I’m gone, brothers.

Jebarion stepped off, not addressing either brother further.

Vogal kept staring into the space that Jebarion occupied. There was a window in his gaze, where he saw the remnants of a triage division of corpsmen taking wounded to the compound down the street. It used to be the First Tier markets, but accommodations had to be given to the casualties.

The Stormprince’s rebellion had lasted nearly two years, and all the Brothers of Leshrian had to show for it was triage tents and angry cityfolk.

Come on, Vogal, Yaldobaoth said, lifting his brother by the arm. We need to get the roof started while the rain’s gone.

*   *   *

Vogal’s childhood left something to be desired, but in the end it was his. Every day was a new experience and new adventure through his hometown of Arcan, the Ten-Tiered City. His eldest brother Yaldabaoth was a man of the sea and would take Vogal out on trips with his skimmer when both were free from their father’s tutelage. Yald was sweet on one of the dock worker’s daughters for a time, so Vogal got to spend some free afternoons down by the shoreline chasing waterminks and jayflies. In the afternoon, he’d replenish his calories with some tarts made by Mrs. Pekip and her gaggle of sewing club members.

Vogal’s second-oldest brother, Jebarion, was the would-be inheritor of the Stormthrone before Yaldabaoth gained Father’s favor. When Vogal was nine, Jebarion spent his evenings down by the Darkwoods moonshining. Father turned a blind eye even though the practice was technically illegal for tax reasons, but he needn’t have. When Vogal was ten, Jebarion found friends amongst the Woodsmen and spent his time dueling. His impressive strength lent to him by the Stormborn lineage of nature and nurture gave an advantage most outsiders would call unfair, right up until the very same people saw the Stormprince spar with a single redcap. Jebarion kept a one to four win-loss ratio in his youth, which Vogal had to admit was impressive.

The Rubulins served their function as the city’s new protectors, well enough anyway. Yaldabaoth got to sit at the Stormseat as the city’s face, ensuring the lineage would be secured. He might even have another child by now, if the Rubulins made any progress in coaxing him into mixing the bloodlines these last few decades—however that was going to work. Yes, the Father’s line was fine. Compromise was the nature of things after all. Vogal had to be glad Yald was prepared to take the throne all those years ago, since Jebarion was much more focused on the sword than politics. Vogal was just a child barely through his twelfth year.

Just a child.

Just a child stepping back into the palace with some tarts for Father.

Just a child knowing he’d get a light scolding at best from Father for missing evening weights training.

Just a child climbing steps that led to his father’s bed chambers, meant for greater men.

Just a child pushing his weight against doors as heavy as concrete, reluctant hinges creaking with age…

Just a child staring within the confines of that room—

And what do you remember after that, Mr. Vogal?

Vogal started, removing his finger from his face. He adjusted uncomfortably on the small chair meant for a much tinier man. He had been going to Doctor Li’s office for four years by that point, and never once asked for a chair that could fit his body.

Nothing, Vogal said, brushing a bit of sweat off his brow. That’s where the memories always end. I think I dropped the tart, but I don’t remember exactly.

Doctor Li was silent for a moment, the woman making notations on her board with a red pen crafted from her own blood. Rubulins looked emaciated to Vogal; their art literally drained them of their lifeforce as they used it. Doctor Li couldn’t have weighed more than one-ten. Vogal doubted she could lift a barbell, let alone any weights. Regular men were always weaker than Stormborn, but the Rubulins especially so.

Well, we’ve certainly made progress today I think, she said, finishing her note. These memory recollection exercises are working then, yes?

Vogal nodded. He wasn’t really trying to recollect too hard—he rarely had the drive to do anything these days. What was the point? Yes, I can remember Mrs. Pekip down by the docks. That’s new. Her and a few trips inside the forest with one of my brothers.

But your father’s death is still lost to you.

Vogal felt his jaw clench. He wasn’t angry, probably. It was just reflexive at this point. Years of failure and placidity kept him from feeling any extreme bursts of emotion these days. Doctor Li must’ve seen the gesture and moved to change the subject.

My ward has told me you’ve started taking commissions again, Doctor Li said, setting her pen and pad aside. She always did this. She’d pretend for just a moment that she was a friend asking after Vogal’s interest and whatever he said was off the record, but not five minutes after he would leave, he would hear the familiar scratching of blood-pen on rice paper. A concoction that dissolves meat quickly? That must be exciting, yes?

Not really, Thought Vogal. Instead, he spoke. "It’s going to be a reimplementation of the hardtack formula we use—used to feed the deckhands in the Arcan Fleet, he said, trying to put a hint of bitterness into his monotone voice. Failing. It’s going to use the same formula 16-T Sodiomancy solution we use to resupply nitrates to the tills on the Fifth and Third Tiers. I had my niece start drawing up patents."

Doctor Li nodded along with his statement, eyeing him. It was a lie of course. Both of them knew it. There was no patent. There was never going to be a patent. Formula 16-T was real, and it was really used for putting nitrates back into the soil, but it was just a building block for Vogal’s real goal.

Poison.

Vogal was creating poison inside his home. For the first few weeks that the Stormprince was seeing Doctor Li, her knowledge of Sodiomancy was rudimentary at best. She knew what it could do, but not the designations and limitations of the art. Once she became more well learned, her questions became more probing. Vogal had learned to shut down in response to the harder ones in order to not incriminate himself, but conclusions were being drawn quickly.

He only needed a few more tests.

Doctor Li’s face softened, the aged woman finally growing tired of Vogal’s impassiveness. Perhaps not as much progress as I would have liked… she said soothingly. "How are your other studies going?"

The Stormprince glanced at the long leather case beside the door. I’ve gotten an hour of practice so far.

Li frowned. Stormprince, you must take your treatment seriously if you’re ever going to heal. The result is ninety percent outlook.

Vogal reached over to unbuckle the case, letting his sitar fall into his outstretched palm. String instrument, Vogal thought as he adjusted the tuning knobs. This one had thirteen strings, with a series of movable frets tied to clamps at the back. Vogal set the body of the instrument in his lap, positioning the neck just above the doctor’s bookshelf.

His hands moved across the strings, finding voice. Strumming was less effective than the guitar he was given, so plucking was the play of choice. He plucked the strings with little effort, teasing the song from the wooden bowels of the sitar.

Soon he was playing in force. He turned notes into music, music into a solo symphony with notes playing off one another in tandem. He erupted the strings into a chorus of The Storm Up High, Arcan’s official song. He played the first verse, then the second. He ad-libbed a new section between the second and the third, producing something that he believed would add to the song’s majesty.

Vogal set the sitar back in its case. He recognized the beauty of what he just produced like a seasoned doctor would recognize the miracle of the child he just delivered—calculatingly and with only a fraction of the joy that he once felt.

Only Vogal hadn’t even that modicum of joy.

Doctor Li sat observant, flanked by her stacks of notebooks and stationary. The music hung in the air, surviving off the remnants of talent thrust into the office by supernatural fingers.

How do you feel about the sitar, Vogal? Doctor Li asked.

The sitar, Vogal breathed, resting his head on his fist. String instrument produced by the Doctrina in the third millennium. Repopularized in 5569 under the Blood-King’s revitalization campaign. It’s an unwieldy instrument. I’d rather our citizenry master a tool of music that can better fit in an orchestra. I can’t imagine such a foreign sound fitting well in the hands of people used to the weightiness of cellos.

"How does the sitar feel in your hands, Vogal?"

The Stormprince sat in silence, analyzing the question. It doesn't.

Li blinked just a fraction of a second longer than she usually did. Vogal sensed irritation in the expression—an emotion that was fading from his repertoire just like the rest.

I think this is a good stopping place, Stormprince. Doctor Li stood, gesturing for Vogal to follow her toward the door. Leave the sitar if you wish. Shall I have my ward call a carriage for you?

Thank you, Doctor, Vogal said with a curt bow. I will walk. See you next week.

*   *   *

Dawson watched across the snowy street as the old man left the office. Dawson adjusted his belt again, standing in a forward-facing isosceles stance that his employer hated. The Stormprince was a mountain of muscle and bone so thick that he had to turn sideways to pass the office doors. His gaze was never really set on anything, as if he would rather look through objects than at them.

There was an emptiness in Dawson’s coat pocket where his cigar box usually sat. There wasn’t any tobacco in the forest, but he made due with some transforming Salt and a few mundane leaves he had gotten permission to take from the trees. What he wouldn’t give for some faux tobacco right about now.

The lack of a cigar box didn’t mean a lack of smoke. Arcan was full of the stuff—smog rolling up from the steel mills on the lower tiers that sat on the shoreline. It felt like a design flaw, but none of the locals seemed to mind it. To Dawson, it smelled like a constant forest fire.

Is it him? Hatches asked, the short man squinting against the bright snow. He wasn’t arboreal, so the fascinations of nature tended to inconvenience him rather than enhance. To Dawson’s eyes, the brightness of the snow turned toward the Prince, as if illuminating him further.

It’s him, Dawson said. How could Hatches mistake the man for anyone else, even with the distance? Unlike his less elegant cousins—the kelpies—redcaps could draw upon the strength of the Green to enhance their bodies and Raiment. He used this ability to strengthen his eyes and magnify them on the Stormprince’s stonelike face. He dug his fingers into his hips, the wound resealing itself and locking a finger in flesh. The fake blood his Raiment produced stained his pants as he bore his fingers deeper. The pain registered as a dull warmth to Dawson and he smiled. Hatches turned away, disturbed. He was just a city-born, not accustomed to the talents of the Woodsmen.

We’ll follow the Prince to decide when best to make a move. I need you to somehow get permission for me to enter his domicile.

Hatches looked at Dawson quizzically.

Oh, how Dawson wanted to tear this man’s eyes out when Hatches looked at him. He was very rude toward the Raidwaker when he visited the Forest, looking about, meeting everyone’s gazes whether they wore a mask or not. Had the case not interested them so, Hatches would have returned to his Lady in a convoy of packages.

You need permission to enter the homes of others? Hatches asked, dumbly.

It’s a matter of respect, Dawson explained with a sigh. If you intend to kill a man, he’s entitled to see you walk through his door before the axe falls. Or, in this case... Dawson peeled back the outer layer of skin to show his mechanical interior. Protruding just outside his hip-flesh was the hilt of his copper sword. Copper could kill an ironwood if you somehow got past its thick hide, but even Dawson had his doubts about its ability to kill a Stormprince.

These quirks of yours were not part of the initial deal…

Tough, Dawson said, shifting the hilt back into his flesh. It was uncomfortable, but he kept his Raiment from healing his wound just yet. His untucked shirt and loose trousers could allow for quick access in a pinch if the monster across the street decided to charge. Men and hippos had two things alike, as far as Dawson was concerned—their kill count and their sheer unpredictability. Regardless of what the Raidmaster said, looking human did not give Dawson any illusion of safety in the dangerous city of Arcan.

Hatches sighed, his already droopy jowls falling further past his chin. I had wanted to avoid conflict, but I see now that’s not an option. If you want permission into Vogal’s home, you need only ask the man. He won’t deny you no matter how much bloodlust you show.

Dawson frowned. This man is a Prince, no?

The third son of Leshrian, yes.

Dawson disagreed with that. Vogal didn’t look too perturbed to be living in the slums rather than Stormseat. I don’t understand. Wouldn’t your ‘Father’s’ line have some sort of around-the-clock protection assured for themselves? Someone who would disapprove of my being in his home?

Hatches shook his head, looking after the carriage. If you could so much as scratch him under any circumstances, then my mistress wouldn’t have required a redcap.

*   *   *

Vogal’s home was in the First Tier of Arcan, the Ten Tiered City. The tiers were layered like a wedding cake, with each of the lower sections of the city larger and poorer than the ones above them. One could use ladders or ramps to move between the sections of the city unimpeded, but coin would grant access to cable cars for accelerated traversal.

The Stormprince had the coin, but not the will. From Doctor Li’s office on the Sixth Tier, Vogal’s trip home would take just over three hours by conventional means. The cable car would take fifteen minutes, and most of that would be boarding. Still, Vogal chose the city streets. Jebarion often talked about the catharsis of walking the streets of Arcan, and Vogal felt he could chase that feeling, if only one last time.

There was just one stop he had to make on his way home.

He needed Salt.

The main access to the Fifth Tier would be crowded on a Franzday. People often were paid on the ninth day of the week, so millworkers and dockhands would be traveling upstream to cash their checks at a bank on the Eighth. And so, Vogal chose a ladderwell.

The one nearest to Doctor Li’s office was tucked between a residential building and a defunct bakery. The lack of scents of oven-flame and rising dough from the latter either lowered or raised property value for the former. Vogal couldn’t decide which. The ladderwell was likely a selling point for those looking for hospice, though. Quick access to the Fifth Tier with its entertainment sections and galleries likely made the apartments a choice place to live.

When Vogal reached the ladderwell, he reconsidered. The wind played wicked tricks with the rusted sections of the iron stairs, causing the structure to groan and creak in anguish. Snow littered the walkway, pushing the hazardous steps into dangerous territory.

No one’s going to use these steps, Vogal decided. He looked out onto Arcan, out onto the buildings with their marble tops and snowy hills. Every few blocks, the city would fall and make way for another Tier. The pattern repeated until the city met the bay—the ringing of port bells and shipyard calls crisp in Vogal’s supernatural ears.

Below the ladderwell was a drop. The iron-grated steps let one see the entire distance between the Sixth Tier and the Fifth—a distance that reached past a hundred feet. It was a fatal fall for anyone stupid enough—or hasty enough—to use the ladderwell without the handrail. Anyone except a Stormprince, of course.

To Vogal, the drop would be a nuisance. He’d fall for about 2.86 seconds, land on the city street, then be forced to pay for the damages his falling body had caused. With the marble carved an artistic pattern—as the Fifth Tier often had—he’d likely pay around seven-hundred denars for the ordeal. That or eighteen-hundred marks.

Vogal elected to take the ladderwell, if only to save time that would be spent writing checks.

There was no one at the base to meet him. Vogal’s suspicions about the ladderwell were confirmed when he noticed the lack of people even on this busy day. The stairs had gained a reputation for their hazard, it seemed.

Vogal kicked some of the snow off his pant-leg, and made his way to the shop. His shortcut afforded him a short trip through the main thoroughfare of the Fifth Tier—a road filled with shops and pedestrians calling out to one another.

The Stormprince towered over the men and women of the crowd. The overcast day—well, the last fifty overcast years—robbed him of a view of faces. Men wore stove-pipe caps or bowlers with dark-wool peacoats buttoned up to the chin. Women braced against the cold similarly, wearing thick scarves and tailcoats made for mobility as well as protection. Skirts and dresses were fashionable in the Tiered City, but never practical. Everyone wore trousers unless one was going to a special event or had the luxury of wealth.

Marble turned to cobbles under the Stormprince’s feet. He scanned the shops for a potential secondary source of Salt, but the substance was growing rarer these days. Book stores and general goods dotted the street, but Salt was too rich for the inhabitants of the Fifth to have a shop on every corner.

"This can’t be all of it. Where’re you hiding her wallet?"

Vogal stopped. He picked out the voice quickly, placing it in the alleyway to his far right. Before his brain could react, he was moving through the crowd with a determined gait. People made way for a Stormprince, regardless of his station.

Please, this is my secretary! The second voice was older—mid fifties. Nervous. We didn’t come here to shop, she’s just here for—

A dull thud crept to Vogal’s ears. He quickened his pace.

"Don’t lie to me, granddad. A third voice. This one had a dockworker’s accent. It seemed as though someone on the docks felt they weren’t being paid enough. What’s a pretty young thing like her doin’ walkin’ through the market like you’ve got her on sale?"

I think I’ve got an idea! The first voice again, likely the one with the club or bat. It was accompanied by a shriek of terror.

Vogal ran his finger along the edge of a building, taking a marble chunk with them. It snapped into his palm, raining chips down on the man he reached over to get to it. He rounded the corner, standing and blocking the alleyway exit.

The Stormprince’s shadow casted onto two pairs of people. The defense consisted of an older man laying in the snow and holding his gut. He had dropped his bowler to his side, and the chain for his wallet was cut. The woman accompanying him had her wool shirt tucked into deep-blue trousers. Her hair was kept secured in a bun, with her wrist secured by one of the aggressor’s hands.

The offending party wore patchy