The Arcanist (46 page)

Evidently some of the people were listening to him. Only a few at first as they had more urgent things to do. But those who listened told others and one by one and in small family groups they began approaching him, and when they'd reached him and made it through the ward, he sent them on up the hill to the fort. There he knew others would be waiting for them. Janus was probably busy, overburdened with the wounded, while the handmaidens had to escort the refugees through the portal as quickly as they could.

Where they were sending them to he didn't know. He wondered about it off and on as the long hours of the day marched on. But in the end he was sure of only two things. The first being that they couldn't stay. Not in Breakwater. Not now. And the second that few of them would be returning even if and when they won the war.

They might have won the battle but in doing so they had still lost the town. Maybe forever.

Chapter Forty Five

“Hold still!”

Kyriel was far from gentle as she tended to his cheek, daubing it with a damp cloth, and it hurt. He would rather she left him alone. But she seemed unwilling to do so, and there was no one else. Janus was busy with his other patients, and he had several. Half a dozen of his guests had taken injuries in the battle, some of them serious, something he gathered the handmaidens believed to be his fault. They called him reckless. They called him a lot worse when they thought he couldn't hear them. But he didn't blame them.

Maybe it was his fault. Though he hadn't asked the others to stand with him. They had made that choice for themselves. And in his view it had been a good choice. Reckless maybe, but also brave and the right thing to do.

The people of Breakwater had been saved. Or most of them had anyway. That was what mattered. They weren't in chains any longer. They weren't being dragged off as slaves to labour for the rock gnomes. In fact many hundreds of them were now scattered across the nearby cities, making new homes and new lives for themselves. That was important. Compared with that the scratch on his cheek was unimportant, though it would be nice if the wound would finally heal over and the stitches could be removed. After three days of this it would have been very nice.

“I am holding still!”

“Then stop talking! Every time you open your mouth the wound tears a little bit. It's going to scar.”

“So?”

Scar? What did he care about another scar? Had she not seen his back he wondered? Even now it still cracked and bled from time to time despite Janus' care. Compared to that the scratch on his cheek was nothing.

“So you'll scare the children and frighten the ladies away.”

Edouard snorted in disbelief. Neither of those things was ever going to matter. He was a third son. Marriage and children were never to be his. Not at least marriage to anyone he might actually want to marry. He had long ago reconciled himself to that. The occasional liaison with a woman of the night was his lot in life, and those women did not care if a man had a few scars. Only that he had a few coins.

“I am the third son and fourth child of the House of Barris. A house that's now all but a pariah among the Court. Even my father couldn't find a match for me that would help the House.”

“Then you're free to marry who you want. Even more reason not to let yourself be disfigured.” She smiled at him for some reason.

“I am never free.” Edouard answered her simply, wondering why it should even matter. To her anyway. But it did matter he gathered as he got a frustrated groan and a stamp of the foot for an answer.

Edouard didn't know how to respond to that so he let her carry on with her work, cleaning the wound again and applying more salve that in theory should stop the bleeding and finally close the wound. If there was one thing he was learning about Kyriel it was that there was little point in arguing. She did not listen.

Instead he let his thoughts turn to the coming battles. He knew from Marcus that there were more planned. Big ones. War was coming. The army was more or less assembled just outside Bitter Crest, and he was busy drilling them. Preparing them for what was coming. In a few more days they would march. They would begin the long and difficult task of taking back their home. And after the battle of the previous days Edouard had made the decision that he would march with them. Breakwater was his home. And Breakwater was part of Therion.

Besides, there was little more that he could do here. There was little more to learn of the enemy. Not by him. He had given what he knew to the others and that knowledge had now been spread further. Others could carry on the research if it needed to be done. For the moment he was needed as a spark. Thus far they had two or three sparks of wind – hired for what he guessed were exorbitant amounts of gold – who could disenchant the armoured wind demons. But the ancient writings spoke of fire dog demons encased in armour that had been the heart of the Cabal wizards' armies. A spark of wind could do nothing against them. Only a spark of fire could. Edouard was sure they were coming. So he would march.

Of course he'd decided, he might do it in a rather better set of armour than most soldiers were given, which was why he'd spent most of the morning crafting one. A lightweight construction made of the best steel plates he could craft, overlaid and articulated so that he could move freely. When it was done he would have the best armour around, and since he would paint it black, it would hopefully not be too obvious as to what it was. With a jacket over it people might even imagine it was an ordinary vest. That way he would not look like a common soldier.

“There!” Kyriel announced herself satisfied with her work as she laid a fresh bandage over his cheek. “That should hold even you together for a bit. As long as you don't get yourself shot again.”

“Thank you. I'll do my best.” He got up from the chair she'd forced him into and headed off for the stairs and the basement. He had work to do. But before he got more than a couple of steps Kyriel stopped him.

“You're planning on marching with your brother to war.”

It wasn't a question. It was more of an accusation and he wondered why. He had committed no crime. No further crime anyway.

“Yes. Of course. It is my place.” He turned back to face her, wondering why she was even asking. It should have been obvious when he was crafting himself a set of armour to wear.

“It is not your place! You are a scholar, an inventor and a mage. Your place is here, studying these ancient enemies and finding ways to defeat them. You are also now the second son of the Count, and you have duties. You cannot risk your life in this reckless way. The Count could lose both his heirs.” She sounded upset for some reason.

“The research that I can do is done. Others can take it further as and when they need to do so. And as far as the house is concerned I may now be the second son by blood but I am still the third child. Innosen will make a fine Count in time should things come to that. He is a good man and Leona has a good head for the business to guide him should he need it. Father has held him back from the war for that very reason. Nothing has changed for me in that regard. I'm still quietly useless.”

And why he wondered, was she even saying these things? This was none of her business. Besides, he would have thought she would have been happy to have the house to herself for a while. She could work on her shrine and not have to worry about whatever new trouble he was dreaming up.

“You're wounded!” She tried again.

“But I'm recovering.”

And he was, slowly. Janus' skill was great enough to overcome even the foolish attempt he'd done at healing himself. His back still hurt – it might never fully recover – and he had to be careful how he twisted and turned, but he was a lot stronger now. The handmaiden though clearly wasn’t convinced.

“Not well enough! You know that. Janus keeps telling you. You should go to the Mother for a proper healing. She has the power that mere mortals do not.”

“Never!”

Edouard snapped a little at her, and immediately felt guilty for it. Maybe he shouldn't have been so abrupt with her, but the one thing Edouard was never going to do was visit the hamadryad or any of the other powers. Not again. He had had more than enough of them. Just being near them was like asking a dry twig to stand too close to a raging bonfire. There was too great a chance he could be destroyed simply by accident. But that was hard to explain to others without the spark. Those who could not see the powers for what they were. Something far beyond mortal.

“By all that's holy! It's like speaking to a child!”

Kyriel allowed a little annoyance to show in her voice and Edouard wondered why. Usually she didn't let her irritation out. She settled for criticising him endlessly while the irritation at whatever foolish thing he'd said or done remained on her face. But before he could ask she stamped her foot and marched off into the kitchen, leaving him standing there like a fool.

Could she actually like him? Was this all about something of that nature? He wondered as he watched her vanish. It almost felt as though she did. Except that that would have gone against everything else she had ever indicated. Although he had noticed her around more than before. He sometimes caught her smiling too, an expression that looked a lot better on her face than her normal stern disapproval. And he had to admit she was fair. Extremely fair.

But it would be a disaster.

Edouard knew that. He knew it with every ounce of knowledge he had. To be criticised by her morning, noon and night. Constantly found wanting and told off for his errant ways. That would be torment. And above all else he wanted to never, ever have anything to do with her precious Honoured Mother again. The woman was a handmaiden. Always. They all were. Even the ones who had supposedly left Tyrel's service to marry. Their leaving after all was just part of some complex plan of the hamadryad that he wanted no part of.

Yet despite all that she was pretty. Pretty enough that it made him think twice. It might almost be worth it he thought. Almost.

After she'd left he headed for the stairs and his workshop. He had armour to finish crafting and a war to prepare for. But still when he returned to his work his thoughts kept wandering back to her.

It would be a mistake to even suggest such a thing. It would be the worst disaster of his life. But still she was clever and witty. A proper woman whose company he enjoyed above all others. Well read too, though she hid it. Capable on the battlefield – perhaps even more so than he was. Actually almost certainly. And she was unashamedly pretty.

By the Seven! Maybe he had some of his father's and his brother's bad traits too when it came to women. The inability to know what would be a good match. After all his father was on his seventh wife and Marcus was consorting with a demoness. What would make him believe he was any wiser than they?

Chapter Forty Six

Bitter Crest had changed a lot since the last time Edouard had been there. And that had only been six months before. But the others had told him what to expect, so he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised.

They had told him it was overcrowded. And yet he somehow hadn't quite understood what they meant. That the streets were so full of people that there was no room for carriages anymore. That you couldn't walk more than a couple of paces without someone jostling you. And that the noise from so many people talking all at once was almost unbearable. Bitter Crest was normally a busy little city, full of noise and bustle but never like this.

The other thing that he noticed as he walked through the city was the stench. His family had mentioned the smell, and yet he hadn't understood it. But from his first breath in Bitter Crest he did. It was the heady odour of raw sewage floating through the streets, unwashed bodies, stale ale and the sickly sweet perfume that people wore to hide the odour and rotting refuse that was no longer being carried away.

The city was coming apart at the seams like a poorly fashioned suit.

Of course now that the nearby towns and villages had been emptying out before the rock gnomes started rounding up people and taking them away to become slaves, the city had quadrupled in size. The panic throughout Therion had spread faster than a wildfire once the news of the attacks had been passed on, and now most of south east Therion was pressed into the tiny city if they hadn't moved further on. At a guess more than a hundred thousand people had to be calling it home, and the city had only ever been built for thirty thousand.

Two thirds of those people lived in tents and make shift shelters surrounding the city, and spent their days trying to find work or trade things to get a little food and essential items. And most of them were stuck here for the moment, torn between the hope that the war would end and they could return home in time, and the fear that they couldn't and would have to leave for other towns and cities. It could not have been an easy time for them. And he understood that the cities of Farring Cross were in similar shape. When Theria had fallen the numbers of refugees had only been a few tens of thousands. They could almost cope with that. But when the rest of the realm had started being emptied out those numbers had grown exponentially.

The Golden Citadel was said to be almost overrun with refugees and the other two cities were in not much better shape. Further afield the free cities of Bridgeton and Cloverfields were also groaning as their numbers swelled.

And it was all, or at least in part, Simon's fault. Edouard was unbelievably glad as he pushed his way through the crowded streets, that no one knew who he was. The House of Barris was not well liked these days. Even if they won the war there would be consequences for that dislike that would be borne by them all for years to come. The house would survive but the chances were that there would be reparations demanded from the kingdom and trade would be poor for a long time to come. His father would have a lot of work to do, and Marcus too in time when he took over as the next Count.

As he walked through the city Edouard kept an eye out for cut purses. His family had told him that the streets were filled with them. Edouard did spot a few young boys in the streets eyeing everyone up and looking to be up to no good. But they stayed well clear of him. The pistols on his belt probably saw to that. There were easier purses to pinch.

At least as he made his way from the warehouse to the inn no one seemed to pay him any mind. He was glad of that. Carrying two of his oversized muskets slung over his shoulders and a pack on his back, not to mention the pistols on his belt and a sword, he was far less adroit at getting out of people's way than normal. And the armour didn't help. Perhaps they were just too busy trying to stay out of everyone's way to notice a man carrying heavy weapons. Then again maybe they thought he was a soldier. Overdressed perhaps, but still a soldier. Or maybe they simply didn't care. He suspected it was the latter for the most part. People were busy. They had things to do, and worrying about the other people in the streets wasn't one of those things.

Edouard made his way through the crowded streets rather more quickly than he would have expected, though not as quickly as he normally did. But then normally when he came to Bitter Crest he drove his horseless carriage there and then through the streets. If he'd tried that now the carriage would have never made it through. There were simply too many people to let a carriage pass. Even riders on horseback were few and far between and they were forced to a crawl. Most were leading their animals.

Ten minutes or so after he'd left the warehouse Edouard reached the Basilisk's Stool and was grateful for the sight of the ramshackle old inn if not for the smell. Unexpectedly the already bad smell became worse just outside the alehouse. With the added odours of vomit in the street and the hops from the ale the smell seemed to congeal into something that attacked the nose like a wild animal. It was actually worse than the smell in the sewers he'd had to wade through a few months before.

He was glad to make it inside where at least the vomit had been cleaned up and proper soap had been used. But inside the problems with the smell gave way to the new problems of overcrowding. It turned out that the masses in the streets were quite spread out compared to the press of people inside the alehouse, all desperately trying to drown their troubles in ale and cider.

Edouard had to force his way between the patrons to reach the stairs at the far end of the main room, and received a few angry stares for his trouble. But none of the patrons said anything. They were all too busy trying to reach the bar where the ale was being served by a single overwrought looking serving wench, and so he made the stairs without incident.

Half a dozen flights later he reached the landing to the attic room and banged on the door.

“Edouard!”

His mother opened the door and instantly started crying as she grabbed him and held him close. And she wouldn't let him go for the longest time as he stood there on the landing, half in and half out of the room. But he didn't mind and no one else seemed to be complaining. So he let her carry on as he gazed at the others all lined up in the little room waiting to greet him.

By the gods it was good to see them again! All of them, even squeezed into this tiny little room in a stinking city overcrowded with refugees. It had been far too long. It was a blessing to see with his own eyes that they all lived. And once his mother had let him go he went to them, all of them, and greeted them as he had been dreaming of for months. Hugging them all in turn, and kissing the women as well.

He felt guilty for having been away for so long, and more so because he knew he was bringing more worry into their lives. Especially his mother who had already been through so much. First she had lost him to the dungeons and for the longest time had not known if he was alive or dead. That must have been the darkest of the seven hells for her. Then she'd had to learn that he was alive but injured, and had not been able to see him because the fort was surrounded. And then when she'd finally had the chance to see him it was only after he'd hurt his brother.

She'd been so sad when she'd come through the portal to see him. Saddened by what she'd found, even though she'd done her best to hide it. He had not asked, he had not wanted to, but he knew that she had cried for him after she'd left. That she had seen the chill in his heart, the anger in his soul. His mother could not stand that. She had always been proud of him and he had failed her.

He hugged Th'yssen too, and apologised to her as well for hurting her son. Though she was not his mother she was family and he had known her all his life. He liked her. She was a good woman. And it was never her fault that Simon had grown up as badly as he had. He knew that. And when he saw her, the wrinkles lining her face as they never had before and the pain in her eyes, he knew it had been wrong of him to hurt Simon as he had. Not because Simon had been worthy of anything better, but because in harming Simon he had harmed her. And that was wrong. Another reason to know shame.

But now Simon was in his crib in the corner of the room, a makeshift device that someone had probably put together in a hurry and sold to them for a ludicrous amount of coin, and he didn't know what to make of that. On the one hand if that baby was truly Simon, then he knew he should still hate him. And that he should still face justice at the end of a noose. But on the other hand how could you hate a baby? And who could ever hang one?

Then there was the other question. The one that surely terrified Th'yssen to her soul. If he truly was Simon, would he grow up once more to be the same terrible man he had been before? Edouard didn't know, and as Cassandra sat there rocking the cradle he tried not to think about it. He just smiled at his newest and now obviously pregnant stepmother and moved on.

His father looked much older than he remembered. Smaller and whiter than ever, the lines in his face were deeper than they should be. But then he was the head of the family and he bore the responsibility of keeping them safe and the house solvent. He also carried the ultimate burden for all of Simon's crimes. It could not be an easy load to bear. And now he had to risk losing two more children in a war. Still, he clasped his hand firmly and told him he was proud of him. That was something unusual. His father was never one to give out praise easily.

Next Edouard hugged Marcus' mother Valeria tightly and promised her that he would do everything he could to see that Marcus made it home safe. It seemed a strange thing to say. Her son after all was the bull, the mighty warrior while he was the dilettante tinker. But it still had to be said.

He continued down the line, hugging Eselle, Sousie and Derys each in turn but saying nothing to them. There wasn't really much to say. And at least their children were not in any immediate danger. If things went wrong and the rock gnomes overwhelmed them, they would hopefully have the chance to flee before the city was invaded. Of course Sousie probably wouldn't go with the others. With April now part of the temple the chances were that she would join her daughter there. Marcus had told him that there was an entire village next to the temple, and since they had an alliance it would be a safe place to stay. No one was going to threaten the hamadryad.

Perhaps it was a place where they could all retreat to if things turned ugly. Not that many would find it easy to live in such a place. Not the men anyway. Though it was becoming clear to him that a lot of what he'd heard about Tyrel and her temple was either exaggerated or wrong she was still no friend of the male of the species.

After that it was the turn of his brothers and sisters, and all of them save Marcus were there, waiting for him. All of them were clearly worried by what was coming. And they had reason to be. If the rock gnomes completed their temple then they would lose everything. In time Bitter Crest would be overrun and many other cities as well. Houses including their own would fall. To attack them before that happened was the only thing they could do. But to do that was to take a risk. And as everyone there knew, in war there were never any guarantees. Neither of victory nor survival.

Leona felt that risk keenly, and she was trying to hold back tears as she squeezed him as tightly as she could. He would in the end always be her little brother. The one she had always felt the need to protect. But she held her fear in and simply told him to be careful. He in turn told her to take good care of his home while he was gone. Edouard couldn't leave the house vacant in his absence when he had guests staying, and so Leona and her family would be in charge of it while he was away. Between Kyriel's ward and the portal he thought they should be safe there, and it was far more comfortable than this overcrowded and dingy little room above the alehouse.

Everything seemed normal until he reached April, at which point he suddenly got slapped. Then hugged. And then slapped again as if he wasn't already confused enough.

“April?” His cheek hurt, even through the bandage, and he had a horrible feeling that she might have torn his stitches again. They'd only just started to settle. But he didn't understand why she was so upset with him, and that was what really hurt.

“You heartless, brainless fool! How could you?!” There were tears in her eyes and he didn't know why. She had always known this was coming. That he would stand beside his brother. And he had no plans of dying. Which was why he was wearing his armour.

“April I'll be all right. I promise you. I'm not stupid and Marcus is a savant when it comes to battle.” Of course he was probably only saying the same things that every man setting off to war said to his family. And many of them weren't all right. But it was what had to be said.