The Dark Ability (16 page)

Stepping into the crowd, Brusus led them toward the harbor. After all his time spent in the mines and wandering at night over the last few weeks, so many people made Rsiran uncomfortable. They pressed in all around him, eager to squeeze past, always pushing from behind. His back itched, a reminder of the injuries he had sustained during the mine. A reminder for caution.

Brusus moved quickly, his cloak billowing out around his shiny boots. “Keep up with me,” he urged.

“Where are we going?”

This was not the main thoroughfare leading through the city, the wide path that wound up from the harbor toward Upper Town and the palace, but was nearly as busy. As they made their way, the crowd thickened, and the sense of purpose changed. No longer were people simply ferrying items from the harbor to Upper Town. Now there were dockworkers and tanners and merchants squeezing around, all dressed for their trade. Rsiran did not recognize where they were, but if he followed this down to the harbor he could eventually figure out how to get back to Upper Town.

But if he Slid, he would never really have a need.

Upper Town was named for more than its location in the city. Set up above the harbor, above the water, it also housed many of the trades, families like Rsiran’s. Smiths, weavers, potters all lived there, and many had their own stores and shops. Those living in Upper Town had a different idea of wealth compared to those in Lower Town, something Rsiran struggled adjusting to.

“We are going to see a little project of mine down near the harbor. I thought you might be interested in seeing a different part of the city.”

Rsiran laughed. “I’ve been to Lower Town.”

“Not the Lower Town I know. Living here, you’ll get to know it. Different from where your father’s smithy is, but still Elaeavn. Even those living in the palace couldn’t manage without the harbor. Need the dockworkers to keep it running smoothly. Merchants rely on the ships to manage their trade. Food comes in and out of the harbor.” He shrugged, eyes casting out toward the sea as they neared the end of the street where it intersected with the long curving road. “Once we lived differently. Once we lived among the trees, taking what the forest provided.” He turned to Rsiran and smiled. “Not sure I would have been able to live that way, at least not well.”

Rsiran laughed. Brusus walked with a purpose, eventually veering off onto a small alley between two massive low buildings that stretched back away from the harbor.

“What do these store?”

Brusus waved a hand at the warehouse on the left. “Most are temporary stores. Hold cargo and merchant goods until ships come in. Shippers like Firell and merchants rent space and the building owners pay for guards to keep watch.” He motioned at a thin man watching them carefully.

He was dressed in strange black pants and a long-sleeved tunic. A heavy tan marked face and a thin moustache that wrapped around his mouth. A deep red cloak hung from his neck, loose and immobile as he moved. Rsiran was surprised to see a longsword sheathed at his waist.

“I thought only the constables were allowed swords in Elaeavn.”

Brusus waved, and the man frowned at him. “These men are not from Elaeavn.”

Like with Shael, Rsiran noticed the guard’s eyes first. Steel grey eyes flickered around, seeming to watch everything at once. They paused on Rsiran for the briefest of moments, as if passing judgment. Even Readers trying to crawl through his mind did not make him feel as unsettled as those eyes did. Cold and callous.

The guard moved with a casually light step, but every muscle in his body seemed tensed, as if he were a coiled spring ready to unload at any moment. One hand hovered near his hip, ready to grab his sword in the blink of an eye. The other drifted toward his back as they approached, sliding underneath his cloak.

Brusus looked over to the man and held his eyes, almost as if daring the swordsman. A half smile twisted his mouth. “Neelish sellswords. Quick and deadly with the sword, but it’s the weapon you
don’t
see that is the real threat.”

Rsiran watched the man as they moved past, his eyes never truly leaving them as he patrolled the street between the warehouses. Brusus paid him no more mind than he had anyone else, choosing instead to simply walk past, the same half smile never leaving his face.

After passing one long warehouse, they stepped into a narrow alley before reaching the next. Brusus moved more quickly now, motioning Rsiran to follow. The street felt much like the narrow alley outside the old smithy, the buildings piling atop one another as if trying to squeeze the light away. Little made it past the overhangs. Pools of water were common, and they had to step around areas where mud and other filth sat. A few rats scurried along, ignoring the sun. A single cat yowled around the corner somewhere.

Rsiran shivered. Bad luck.

Other than the shape of the buildings, everything seemed much like what he saw in front of the old smithy. The only difference was that there was no garbage here and there were no people sitting forlornly staring at nothing.

“Where are we going?”

Brusus raised a finger to his lips to shush him. “Quiet here. Can’t have them see us. Not yet.”

Rsiran did as Brusus asked, but felt a shiver of nerves at the comment, wondering what Brusus intended to do.

He didn’t need to wait long.

Reaching a short and narrow door that looked as if it had once been a window, Brusus kneeled in front of it and took a leather roll out from the pocket of his cloak. Setting it carefully onto the dirty stone, he unrolled it and took out a slender metal rod. Then, slipping it into the lock, he twisted and wiggled it until something clicked.

“Brusus?”

Brusus shook his head as he rolled the rod back into the pack, and then tucked it carefully into his pocket. He pulled open the door and ducked inside, motioning Rsiran to follow.

Rsiran glanced up the alley, remembering the lithe movements of the sellsword, before he followed Brusus into the building.

“
C
areful with the steps
,” Brusus cautioned.

Rsiran was thankful for the distraction; thoughts of what he was becoming—the criminal his father swore his ability would lead him toward—led down a path he still wasn’t prepared to travel. Perhaps, as the healer said, some day he could confront what he had become, look back at how he got there, and know that there wasn’t anything wrong with him.

Now was not that time.

Plunging into darkness, he felt Brusus’s strong hand on his arm, pulling him into the warehouse. Rsiran slid his foot forward and felt the lip of the step, easing his way down. Block walls pressed against him along the stairs, heavy with the scent of damp earth and dirt. After a half dozen steps, he reached a dirt landing, and the massive warehouse opened up in front of him.

The warehouse was mostly dark, but light squeezed through cracks in the roof. A few dirty windows set into the rafters let more light through, barely enough to keep Rsiran from crashing into Brusus as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. His eyes sparkled and a thin smile split his mouth.

“What are we doing here, Brusus?”

Brusus motioned around him. “What do you see here?”

Rsiran stepped past Brusus and looked around. Wooden crates filled the warehouse. Hundreds were stacked, some two or three high, lined up evenly and carefully, almost as if in some sort of pattern. Some had writing on them in faded lettering, the type that Rsiran had seen somewhere before. Others were blank. A thick layer of dust covered everything.

“Boxes,” he answered.

Was this the secret Brusus wanted to share with him or did it have to do with how Brusus had broken into the building?

Brusus grunted. “Too simple, Rsiran. These are boxes. Shipping crates, to be exact. Carried on our ships from all over the world to be left here, in this warehouse, stacked to the ceiling and covered in dust and age. Crates stored for years, some for hundreds of years. All owned by the Elvraeth.”

Rsiran’s heart skipped a beat. “Brusus… I worried about borrowing lorcith from my father’s smith and forging knives because I would attract the attention of the smith guild. We agreed that would be dangerous.” He had risked his safety in returning to the mine. “This…” he started but didn’t know how to continue. What was Brusus hiding from him? Why did he dare risk the mines if Brusus was going to taunt the Elvraeth?

Brusus laughed, and the sound flooded out along the dirt floor of the warehouse. “The Elvraeth don’t even know what they have here! Their palace could not hold all of this. Some of these crates are hundreds of years old, never touched during all that time. Do you think the Elvraeth care?”

Rsiran couldn’t begin to imagine what the Elvraeth cared about. They lived high above Elaeavn, sitting in the Floating Palace, ruling by the power of the abilities granted them by the Great Watcher.

“Then what is all this?”

He felt uncomfortable even being in the warehouse. Did he want to risk drawing any more attention from the Elvraeth? Rsiran imagined the council learning of him forging lorcith weapons, sentencing him to Ilphaesn, forced to find enough lorcith to earn his freedom. He couldn’t go back to the mines… not to stay. But worse than Ilphaesn was banishment.

Brusus saw the anxiety on his face and set a comforting hand on his arm. “There is nothing to fear standing here,” he said softly. “Most among the Elvraeth don’t even know about the existence of the warehouse. How many of the Elvraeth have you ever seen leave the palace?”

As far as he knew, none of the Elvraeth ever left the palace, sending servants instead. Those servants Rsiran had met over the years carried themselves with such an air of superiority that he almost believed
they
were Elvraeth, if not for the forest green cloak they wore to mark their station.

“How could they not know about the warehouse?”

Brusus looked at him with sadness. “Even living in Upper Town didn’t give you a clear understanding of the Elvraeth, did it? How many Elvraeth do you think live in the palace? How many separate families that we simply think of as one?”

“There’s only one family. The Great Watcher—”

Brusus cut him off. “Not one family. There are
five
separate families—all Elvraeth and all claiming gifts given to them by the Great Watcher. But how are their gifts any more special than what he has given you or me? What has given
them
the right to rule?”

“Why are we here, Brusus?” Rsiran felt altogether too uncomfortable with where the conversation took them. What did Brusus think to do with a warehouse full of crates owned by the Elvraeth?

“Secrets.” He looked out over the crates, reaching his hand to run it along one of the old and dusty boxes with faded black lettering that Rsiran could not read. “Think of what must be here, the stories that must be hidden within these crates, some here for nearly as long as this building has stood.”

“Why do the Elvraeth store this here?” He was curious in spite of himself.

Brusus stepped out into the warehouse. His stepped lightly, barely stirring up any dust, a confidence in his step in spite of how dark it was. With as weak as his abilities were, how did he manage? “Because what is here is not important to them.”

Brusus walked down to one of the crates and tapped the side. The lettering on this box was faded but not nearly as badly as others around the warehouse. Rsiran recognized the style of writing but not the words.

“This is from Asador,” Brusus said.

Rsiran looked at the box. Asador was nearly as well known for its silks as for the university. And, to him, an exotic and foreign place. “What’s inside?”

Brusus shrugged. “Don’t know. The Elvraeth don’t even know. And they don’t care.” He tapped another box farther down the line. “This is from Cort. And Thyr. And Gahlan.” He said each place, tapping another crate. “Think of what could be stored within these crates. Silks. Precious stones. Swords.” He tapped the Gahlan crate. “Could some have sent food? Herbs for healing?” he asked, knocking on crates from Cort. “Or had they sent fabrics, cloth so fine that even here in Elaeavn we would find them beautiful?” Brusus shook his head. “Most of what is here will never be known.”

Rsiran thought of the child starving outside his new smithy. “But why? If it’s all so valuable—”

Brusus nodded. “I had the same reaction, Rsiran. But as the Elvraeth have wealth, they do not value things the same as the rest of us. From what I’ve learned, everything stored here was simply gifted to the Elvraeth.”

Rsiran looked around, seeing how massive the warehouse was and how many boxes were stored here. There were probably thousands. He could not imagine so much wealth that you simply did not care about it. “And you want to do what with this, exactly?”

Brusus snorted and wandered farther down the line of boxes. Rsiran had to hurry to catch him, feet stirring up clouds of dry dust that sifted into his mouth with each step. He quickly raised his arm across his mouth.

Rsiran almost reached Brusus as he ducked in between two towering stacks of crates that stretched nearly to the ceiling. They were carefully aligned so that they could not fall. The lowermost had barely visible lettering with lines that angled backward, sloping in harsh unreadable lines. The exterior of these was different than some of the others, and he ran his hand along the lower boxes, touching smooth wood that felt almost slippery to the touch, as if coated with fresh oil. As much as he hated the urge, he wanted to pry an end off, peer inside, and learn what secrets the Elvraeth hid here. Though they may not value the wealth stored within, Rsiran still did.

He finally found Brusus standing in a small clearing of boxes. A window above had been cleared of much of the dust and dirt, leaving it smeared but letting more light stream into the warehouse, almost as if focused on this spot. The clearing was framed with six of the massive crates, all arranged in an even shape. All looked much like the last, strange angular lettering barely visible, the same smooth and glistening wood. He touched the nearest one and ran his hand across it, rubbing the oil between his fingers.

“Why did you bring me here, Brusus?”

Brusus turned and look at the crates, shaking his head, speaking softly. “Not long ago, I was hired for a job. Brought here to see an example of something before I did the job. I cannot imagine all that is stored here. Hundreds of years of history. Items of value and power.” He turned to look at Rsiran.

He led Rsiran to a crate along the edge of the small clearing. Two other boxes were stacked atop it, both made of the strange old and oiled wood, their surfaces marked with the faded lettering that he could not read.

The end of the crate had been forced open. Rather than splintering, the wood seemed to peel away in layers, looking more like stacked paper than any type of wood Rsiran had ever seen. Inside the crate, were other smaller boxes. It was then he recognized the lettering. “Jessa had one of these.”

Brusus nodded and an angry tilt came to his eyes. “She reclaimed one, yes.”

“What’s in them?”

Brusus slipped one of the boxes out. It was long and narrow and made of the same wood that the rest of the crate was made from, the surface slightly less slick. Two faded brass hinges mounted along one side, and a solid clasp held the lid closed. The lettering appeared burned into the wood, charred into the surface with the slashing writing.

“Is there a key?” Rsiran asked.

Brusus shrugged. “Probably was once. Not sure that even the Elvraeth would know anymore. It took me quite a while to figure out how to get into the crate. The wood wouldn’t gouge at all. Wasn’t until I tried chiseling it off that I realized I could simply peel apart the layers. Then it opened easy enough.”

Rsiran grabbed one of the stacks of peeled wood. It bent easily enough but was still stiff, like bark peeled from a tree, nothing like the stiff sheaf of parchment it appeared to be. Taken together, the stack peeled from the crate seemed more like layers of something other than wood, with whatever oily substance he felt on the surface used to hold it together.

Brusus pulled the worn leather pack out of his pocket and unrolled it again. Rsiran noted that he set it away from the crate and the stacked pieces from the end, careful to let the leather touch nothing but the packed dirt ground. Thumbing through the slender rods placed within the pack, he settled on one and took it out. As he worked it in the lock, he muttered to himself inaudibly. Finally, there was a soft
click
, and the clasp popped open.

Rsiran realized he was holding his breath. As Brusus opened the lid, he let it out slowly. Inside, tucked into a soft velvet pad to keep it from moving, was a long metal cylinder with strange markings along the side, almost runes of a sort Rsiran had never seen, running from one end to the other.

Brusus carefully lifted it and held it up, twisting it. The color of the metal seemed to shift and shimmer, drifting from gold to bluish grey to silver as he spun the cylinder. The runes along the sides took on more or less light, depending on how he twisted it, almost seeming to move.

Rsiran blinked, and the effect stopped.

Brusus handed it over to Rsiran, and he took it carefully. The cylinder was heavier than he expected, the metal denser than steel or even lorcith. Up close, the colors shifting along the shaft glimmered faintly, sliding from one to the next depending on how he held it. The markings, characters etched with painstaking detail and looking like animals or trees or even figures holding weapons, still moved, the effect unsettling this close. Each end of the cylinder was open, one seemingly tapered slightly more than the other.

“Do you recognize it?” Brusus asked.

Rsiran shook his head. “Not any alloy I have ever seen.”

“What if it’s not an alloy?”

Rsiran looked over to Brusus. “Then this is even more impressive. What sort of metal shimmers like this?”

Brusus placed his narrow lock pick back into the leather pack and carefully rolled it back up, sliding it into his pocket before standing. “After hearing you talk about the different metals, I had hoped you might recognize it.”

“What’s this for?” Rsiran held the cylinder in front of him. The craftsmanship that had gone into making it was impressive. More impressive was the level detail in the runes. He could almost imagine the tiny characters were alive.

Brusus took it from him and set it back into the box. After closing the lid, he locked the clasp again. “I don’t know. I’ve opened nearly a dozen, and each is a similar shape but has different markings. Most seem to be made of the same metal, but a few were different. One was solid gold. Another silver. Haern thinks they are all part of something greater, meant to be assembled once the crates arrived in Elaeavn. Of course, he also tells me I should leave this place alone. Not sure how I could when they simply collect dust here in the warehouse.”

“They are skillfully made.”

Brusus nodded. “And likely worth nothing other than as a curiosity,” he said ruefully. “Oh, the gold one has value. As does the silver. But these,” he pointed to the small box, “made of some unknown metal are only valuable to collectors. The only collectors are the Elvraeth or those close to them.” He shrugged and pointed toward the opened crate.

“What about outside of Elaeavn? There must be collectors in other cities.”

Brusus nodded. “I’m certain there would be. The universities in Asador or Thyr would likely have interest, but there are problems with trying that. First is simple transportation. These boxes are quite heavy. Weight equals cost.” He smiled and shrugged. “The other is as problematic. I’m not ready to draw the full attention of the Elvraeth upon me. So… worthless. I’ve sent what I can with Firell—items that could come from anywhere—but there is much more here, much that I don’t fully understand.”

Rsiran kneeled next to the box and ran his hand over the surface. He didn’t know what the cylinders were made from or their purpose, but was sure they weren’t worthless.

“This crate is probably five hundred years old,” Brusus said. “And someone thought it important to ship to the Elvraeth.” He thumped the crate with an angry smack. “Now we’re left with questions, curiosity only, trying to understand what it is that was forgotten here all those years ago.”