The Reach Between Worlds (The Arclight Saga, Book 1) Page 19

  “You’re Taro?”

  He nodded. “Is there something wrong?”

  “We’re to escort you to the Magisterium for court martial.”

  Taro felt like he’d just downed a gallon of coffee. He was now completely awake and his mind raced. Had his connection to Vexis been discovered? His cheating in the trial?

  He forced himself to appear calm. “What are the charges?”

  “Everything will be made clear once we get to the Magisterium.” The head warder moved from the doorway. “Please follow me.”

  The warders were strangely polite and made no attempts to restrain him. Taro even got to ride in the unlocked window seat of their carriage. The court martial chamber was arranged like a circular theater; there were four rows of wooden seating on an incline overlooking a single chair in the center. The chair had restraints on the arms and legs, and a strap that went around the chest.

  The outer rows were packed with tired magisters finishing off tall mugs of coffee. Ross sat at a raised podium, leafing through mountains of papers.

  The Sun King sat tucked between two warders. His face was gray and his eyes bloodshot. Kyra was two rows in front of him, craning her neck to check on him.

  Ross stared down at Taro. “Take a seat.”

  Taro’s body shook as he approached the chair in the middle of the room.

  “Not there,” Ross corrected. “You may sit with the magisters.”

  Kyra made some room for him to sit beside her.

  Ross cleared her throat. “Bring in the accused.”

  A warder escorted Sikes into the antechamber. His hands and feet were in shackles, and he looked like he’d taken quite a beating. The warder unlocked him from his restraints, only to force him to sit and latch him into new ones.

  “Mr. Sikes is accused of high treason,” Ross said.

  “It’s the Vexis fiasco all over again?” Magister Briego said.

  “I’ve long suspected a cancer in the Magisterium. I believe Mr. Sikes has been working for Vexis all along.”

  “You have evidence of this?” the Sun King asked.

  “Vexis and Mr. Sikes are both Helian. Sikes is, in fact, the only Helian currently in the Magisterium.”

  Kyra looked incredulous and spoke out of turn. “That’s not a crime.”

  Ross ignored her. “Taro, you and Mr. Sikes are both from Ashwick, are you not?”

  “Yes, Imperator,” Taro said.

  “Did you know him before his admission into the Magisterium?

  “I’d seen him around town.”

  “Did he have a job?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “In fact, according to the authorities in Ashwick, not only has Sikes never held work, but his parents have been dead for many years. Despite this, he was somehow able to afford a fifty crown tuition. I don’t know about the rest of you, but that strikes me as odd.”

  “I’ve had financial troubles too.” Taro realized that maybe drawing suspicion to himself wasn’t the wisest idea.

  “I know about your troubles,” Ross said. “And you’ve certainly not been legitimate in some of your dealings — pawning a book that didn’t belong to you, for example.”

  Taro’s face went red. He was suddenly very glad Moira wasn’t there.

  “Or your aurom. Yet, you acquired work at Crissom Foundry. You pushed to pay off your debts. These things are not uncommon amongst recruits of lesser means.”

  Ross fished the promissory note Mr. Mathan gave Sikes. “Tuition paid for in full by a man named Victor Mathan.” She held up another piece of vellum. “This was Vexis’ promissory note during her time here. They’re identical.”

  Taro finally understood something Mathan had said long ago: “You both look like fine, upstart children. Those Helian slum-kids attract too much attention, but you’re clean, you’re well-spoken. Proper Endrans.”

  Mathan’s entire reason for choosing them was that they wouldn’t attract attention. If that were the case, why would he allow a Helian to come along? Why pay for his tuition but not theirs? The reason was frightfully simple: Sikes was the fall guy.

  “Maybe you should bring Mathan in for questioning then,” the Briego said.

  The Sun King leaned forward in his chair. “This seems like flimsy logic to accuse a promising young artificer of treason.”

  “We haven’t gotten to the meat of the evidence yet.” Ross stepped from her podium clutching the same orb she’d shown the recruits at the beginning of their trial. She unlatched a tiny opening on the side, slid out a smooth green crystal, and replaced it with a new one.

  Rays of light shot from it and reproduced the trial area in remarkable detail: Taro stood opposite of Sikes. Sikes held the blade to his neck and just before he could stab himself, Taro smashed the artifact. This was the point that Taro had lost consciousness.

  The image paused and Ross spoke again. “As you can see, at this point Mr. Sikes has been released from the effects of the artifact. Can you confirm that, Taro?”

  “I can’t tell you what his state of mind was,” Taro said.

  “What about your own?”

  “The hallucinations I saw disappeared when the artifact was destroyed,” Taro conceded.

  The recording continued. Sikes walked up to Taro’s unconscious body, checked his pulse, and went straight to the back of the room. He yanked a panel off the wall, exposing power nodes and crystalline circuits. He slipped an object out of his pocket and attached it to the nodes. The recording ended.

  Ross pulled the mouth strap off of Sikes. “We recovered the device you planted. It caused the blackout that facilitated Vexis’ escape. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Sikes kept his mouth shut.

  “No defense? Then I have a question.” Ross held up the device Sikes had used to sabotage the power node. It had a smooth white case, and two copper bars jetting out the sides. It looked very much like the device Aris had given him to break into Ross’ office. “Where did you get this?”

  For a fraction of a second, Sikes’ eyes met Taro’s. Sikes was many things, but he was no idiot. By now he’d already figured out everything Taro had. This was the way Mathan designed it all to unfold, and there was nothing either of them could do to change it.

  Sikes swallowed hard. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Duplicity of Mr. Crissom

  A plate of Crissom steel weighed four thousand pounds, and took twelve men to hitch and secure for transport to the Magisterium. It was grueling and thankless work. Taro’s knuckles ached and his ears rang with the constant shouting of the foreman. On precious few occasions the plates from cooling pools came late, and he’d get a short moment to catch his breath.

  Taro pressed his back against the dock and slid to the floor. Today his team was short-handed; four had called off all the same day.

  “Where the hell is Lon?” Tomin said. He was the muscle of the group, and had worked at the foundry for fifteen years. He was a burly man, covered in tattoos from his time as a warder. He was the type of person Taro’s father would’ve gotten along with.

  “It’s not like Lon to miss a shift,” Taro said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  “He was hacking up blood yesterday,” Rin said. Rin was the youngest besides Taro, only twenty three, but after five years in the foundry his skin was leathery and he looked much older.

  “He could have the decency to get someone to cover his shift,” Tomin said.

  Rin took a messy gulp from a water skin and tossed it to Taro. “There were call-offs in the furnace too. Overseer’s furious.”

  While Taro drank, two people passed the corner of his vision. When he realized it was Mathan and Dr. Halric, he almost hacked up the entire water skin.

  “Slow down, the water ain’t going nowhere,” Tomin said.

  “I’ll be right back.” Taro tossed the skin to Tomin and fast-walked across the packing floor. He peaked over mountains of ra
cks and crates, and almost had his head taken off by a swinging crane. Mathan and Halric slipped up a metal stairway into the offices on the second level. Mr. Crissom greeted them at the top.

  Taro hurried up silently. The offices were laid out in a square overlooking the packing floor. Crissom’s office was the farthest from the stairs, and just as Taro got to the top, the door shut.

  He peered into an uncovered window. The walls inside were covered with airship memorabilia. Above Mr. Crissom’s desk were blocks of steel from fourteen famous ships (all neatly catalogued and engraved with their registry numbers), an award for being wounded in the line of duty, and even a letter signed by the Sun King himself.

  Just as Mathan was going to light up a cigar, Halric pointed to a ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall.

  Mathan gave Halric a death glare and put it back in his cigar box. “That’s going to be the first thing I changed when I buy the place.”

  “That’s no longer an option. With Sikes discovered, anything you do will be scrutinized.” Halric unpacked a brief-case like package. Inside were three long vials of viscous red liquid.

  Crissom paced his office. “Selling to him was one thing. What you’re asking me to do is treason.”

  Halric set one vial upright. “There’s no other way. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Vexis, would you?”

  “I need to talk to her,” Crissom stammered.

  Taro’s attention was broken by a faint brush of air on the back of his neck. Vexis crouched behind him, and set her chin right on his shoulder.

  Taro scrambled to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was invited. What are you doing here?” She poked him on the nose. She looked different somehow. Older. Her eyes were bloodshot, and there were hard lines on her face. The veins on her wrists were bright and her skin clammy and gray.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Why don’t you join us?” She took Taro by the arm. “Look what I found outside,” she said as they entered.

  Mathan greeted Taro like an old friend.

  “Taro, my boy. Congratulations on a job well done.” Mathan shook his hand. “Not only freeing Vexis, but not getting caught is no small feat.”

  “Sikes wasn’t so lucky,” Taro said bitterly.

  “A necessary casualty,” Halric said.

  “Once we’ve gotten control of the Magisterium, he’ll be freed. You have my word,” Mathan said.

  “Did you give Sikes your word when you baited him to help you?”

  “It’s just business,” Mathan said.

  Mr. Crissom was meandering in the corner, twisting the hem of his shirt. He and Taro’s eyes met. So much was exchanged in that one look. ‘You too?’ his eyes said. ‘I have my reasons. You couldn’t possibly understand.’

  Dr. Halric inspected Vexis. He pulled her eyelids up, checked her pulse, and inspected her neck and arms. “You’re taking your elixir regularly?”

  Vexis’ chest heaved. “I need more.”

  “Stress will only accelerate the symptoms.” Halric placed his hands on her cheeks and got her to smile. “Just a little while longer.”

  Vexis took the elixir from the desk and upended it into her mouth. The lines on her face faded and her eyes returned to their vibrant green.

  Taro inspected the residue in the vial, and rubbed it between his fingers. “Is that...blood?” He smeared onto a chair.

  “The blood of a god. Well, the closet thing we’ve got to one.” Vexis exhaled hard and the color in her skin returned. “What if I told you there was a man who never aged, who couldn’t be injured, and could never die.”

  “I’d say you were crazy.” He’d probably say this either way.

  She raised one finger. “He’s an ancient — and I do mean ancient — magister. He calls himself Aris.”

  Dr. Halric repackaged the other vials and retrieved a new one from his coat and handed it to Vexis.

  “He’s got a curious streak in him,” Vexis said. “We had his memory burned some time ago to keep him out of our hair, but we’ve spotted him snooping around.”

  “His mind is remarkable. It’s actually repairing itself,” Halric said.

  Vexis shook the green liquid. “So this is your next task, find Aris and get him to drink this.”

  Taro took the vial. “Is it poison?”

  “Gods, no. It’ll give him some peace of mind.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “He’d recognize us.”

  After all that’d happened, a chance to speak with Aris again was appealing. “Where is he?”

  “We spotted his wagon in the Downings,” Mathan said. “The words ‘Magister Extraordinaire’ are engraved on it. I wouldn’t expect him to stay there for long.”

  Taro tucked the vial into his pocket. “I have a shift to finish here. When I’m done—”

  Vexis glanced at Mr. Crissom, then back to Taro. “I think it’s safe to say you have the day off.”

  Taro didn’t bother changing or cleaning himself up. On the contrary, looking as he did would help him fit right in. The Downings was even more depressing than Taro remembered. Last time he’d visited, he was so single-minded that he didn’t realize just how much of a shithole it was.

  This was rock bottom. Along the curvature of the underground wall were wooden packing crates with ‘CRISSOM FDY’ stamped on the side. They were packed with the homeless; not just men and women, but children. Their clothes were filthy, their hair was nappy and unkempt, and they stank.

  These were the lucky ones. As there weren’t enough crates for all of them, many slept directly on the cold ground.

  Before the Arclight was damaged, the entire countryside was an eternally warm summer’s day. Because of this, winter clothing was largely unheard of. The best these people had were burlap sacks, rags stitched together, or repurposed blankets.

  Aris’ wagon shouldn’t have been hard to spot, but as Taro wandered the crates and burning trash bins, he found it hard to focus. If you’d asked him months, he would’ve said he was poor, but as he stared into the wide eyes of four-year-olds picking through dry bones and mothers wrapping their newborns in crumpled paper, he realized he’d never known what true poverty was.

  There was a line of six wagons and long wooden tables not far from one of the lower city’s exits. This was apparently a soup line provided by the Magisterium, and it stretched for what seemed like miles. Aris could’ve easily been hiding amongst the hundreds of people crowding the square.

  The crowd moved along like an assembly line. A fat, crooked nose man wiped his face with his sleeve and filled Taro’s bowl with a cup of the grayish muck. The smell was repulsive.

  Taro winced. “Is this supposed to be meat?”

  “Don’t like it, don’t eat it,” the fat man said gruffly.

  “Something tells me you eat better than this.” When he said this, the children in front of him snickered and their parents shushed them.

  Taro was given a glass of water and a cold dinner roll, and herded to a dirty table with the same family.

  He stared down at the gray beef chunks and almost threw up. The boney children (a boy and a girl, younger than Nima) scarfed their stew down like they hadn’t eaten in days. Their parents scraped a bit of their own food into their children’s plates.

  Taro slid his bowl towards them. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” the mother said. She had shaking hands that she didn’t seem to be able to control. “But you really should eat.”

  “I’m feeling sick.”

  “There’s a bug going around,” she said, she gestured to her husband. “Ashur’s got it, too.”

  The family divvied up his meal amongst themselves. When the mother scraped the stew into the separate bowls, Taro got a look at her wrists. The veins on her arms were inflamed and deep purple.

  “I don’t recall seeing you here before,” the father said. He was a slender man with a red stubby beard. Compared to most in the Downings, his clothes were clean and rel
atively well-kempt, but his complexion seemed unnaturally pale compared to that of his children.

  Taro cooked up a quick lie. “I’m from out of town. I got robbed, and I’ve been looking for a friend of mine that traveled with me.”

  “Rotten luck,” the little boy said.

  The father sized Taro up in one significant glance. A moment passed, and he seemed to accept the lie. “Lot of thieves have cropped up since the frost. People you’d never expect to steal. Farmers, ranchers, merchants. Those bastard magisters, I tell yah.”

  “Watch your language,” the mother said, picking at her crust of rye.

  The father hardly noticed her comment. “They stole everything from us, and they think they’re doing a service by giving us their scraps.”

  “My husband tends to ramble,” the mother said. “What Ashur means is ‘thank you for your generosity.’”

  “Dad says we’ll be getting real food soon,” the son said through chewing.

  “Did you find work?” Taro asked.

  Ashur picked at what little was in his bowl. “You could say that.”

  “Vexis is gonna help us,” the boy added cheerfully. “She’s gonna help everybody.”

  His father hushed him and hastily changed the subject. “You mentioned you were looking for someone?”

  “His name is Aris. Tall guy, ratty hair. Kind of crazy. He wears a—”

  “The magister.” Ashur looked like he’d scraped something disgusting off his boot.

  “He is a magister, yes.”

  “Everyone in the Downings knows about him. The kook’s on the south grate. Nobody wants him here, but he refuses to leave.”

  “Maybe I can convince him to.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Thieves and Liars

  Aris’ wagon was right where Ashur said it would be, amongst surrounded by crate-homes. It was covered in trash and filth, and the words ‘THEIVES’ and ‘LIARS’ covered the front in what Taro hoped was brown paint.

  Taro retrieved his inscriber from his pocket and wrote out a dispel that would keep the door from knocking him out.

  Inside, the piles of junk were shoveled into the back corner. On a cot in the center of the floor was a young woman in the late stages of an illness.