Meister of the Secret
The Tijervyn Chronicles: Volume Two
Prologue and Chapter One

story by
Richard Fife

art by
April Herron

Prologue

My Dear Maaike,

I hope that Tijervyn has found you well, and that your purposes and dispositions have in some ways been advanced in these months since you left our humble city. I am afraid that news from Sentat is still something of a rarity here, but I am sure such a scandal as you are attempting to prevent would be heard of, even in our introspective halls. Still, even the fall of the Barony of Kanadis might go past my notice, so often am I in my lab and isolated from the comings and goings of the world at large.

Yes, I know you are indeed Kanadis, not Vorenna as you would have had the people of Adervyn believe. And while you are safely out of the city’s grasp now, rest assured, your secret is safe with me. You are not the first Sentatian I have had the honor of meeting during the war, and in fact it was a mutual acquaintance of ours that was the other. But, I am sure you already knew that as well. I have not heard from this person in some time, but should you happen to cross paths, send my warm regards and wishes for safety.

Ah, but I ramble, as so often I know I am accused of doing, so allow me to be forthright now. Avoid Tesma Barak. From your interest in me and my work prior to and during the war, I have no doubt you will find a fascination in the man and his work, but rest assured, there is only ruin in an association with him. He seeks dominion over what he cannot control, and the path he has chosen will lead to travesty.

Indeed, I would further urge you to be quit of Tijervyn and its court. I know you feel that your business in the city is pressing and urgent, and perhaps even the only course open to you now, but you must believe me: there are worse fates than those you would imagine.

I hope, truly, that you take my warnings in earnest. I close with a final request. Help Qristina. I knew the girl as a child, and I still hope against cause that she might somehow eschew her father’s malignancy by way of her mother’s nobler blood. Whatever contact you may have had with her, please understand: she was not always her father’s daughter.

I am, forever faithfully, yours,

Quintin Lazris

Chapter One: “A Life Chosen”

The autumn storms had brought with them the crisp, chill air of their namesakes, and all of Tijervyn, capital city of Sentat, had started to bundle itself up against the approaching winter. Children wore their heavier coats whose lighter twins had been more than oft forgotten in the heat of the summer. Noble women held their hands in mufflers, and the lords donned thick scarves about their necks that tucked into their greatcoats as well as any ascot. Even the servants and wait staff were changing into their winter uniforms early, with tall collars and scarves and layers of wool instead of cotton.

But if the clothing and weather spoke of fall, the city had a hidden feeling of spring. The shorter days seemed to bring a fresh breath of life to the nights. People were realizing the war with Adervyn was truly over and the curfew was indeed lifted. More and more soldiers were returning, and if they noticed their homecoming was lackluster from the indecisive outcome of their labors, they did not seem to care. Indifferent civilians were a thousand-fold preferable to the Adervynian Devils, the revenants. And while those abominations were left behind at the front for their own country to deal with, the memory still lingered in the minds of soldiers and civilians alike.

Perhaps it was this lingering fear that was speaking in hushed voices over pints of lager and by the fireplaces that many taverns still kept despite the more efficient radiators. No one told stories over a radiator, but there was always discussion around a fireplace, and discussion made men thirsty, and thirsty men spoke more freely of what they heard.

There was a revenant in the city, gossipmongers would say. It had destroyed a house in the Downtown District. It had attacked the Meister’s Guild. It had burned down an entire block of the Slums. It was robbing nobles’ mansions left and right. And worst of all, Sunset House and the constables seemed powerless to stop it. They did not, in fact, even acknowledge that it existed.

Markus McGrigor knew these rumors. He had heard them from men who claimed to be witnesses to the revenant’s dire work. Their accounts were usually the most listened to, but not for any veracity of their tales. They also said the monster was ten feet tall and had red glowing orbs for eyes and more hands and feet than any creature Troena ever made had a right to.

Markus had seen revenants that might have been described that way, back in the war. He had seen plenty of things in the war, truth told, a good many of which most people probably would never have believed. But that did not mean they needed to believe anything they heard. No, a good amount of skepticism was good for a person, and it would be good for Markus too.

He walked past a group of women who were talking about this so called revenant. One then turned to him and gave a start. Markus turned carefully midstride and smiled at her.

“Hors d'oeuvres?”

The woman looked over the tray Markus held and picked up a small cracker with some crab-spread on it. She then eyed him a moment longer then turned back to the conversation, which had fortunately moved on to gossip about whose husband was sleeping with whose wife.

Markus sighed inwardly and continued on his path through the garden party, keeping his tray held up high and in view in case anyone else wanted to flag him down. In all truth, being on a wait staff was not all that bad, at least if this was to be any measure of it. Walk around catering to your betters’ needs and simply be invisible when they did not have needs. A simple enough life, long as you did not end up with a master that was cruel. But, seeing as slavery was illegal in Sentat, a master had to at least skirt the border of decent work, less his staff quit on him. Yes, being a servant was not bad, at least compared to working in a factory or being a soldier.

Then again, as Markus thought on it, it was not really the life for him. A life of bowing and scraping, of knowing you were really your master’s equal while pretending you were beneath him. Markus doubted he would last a week at it. Fortunately, he only had to deal with it for a few hours today.

The modest manor was really just a step up from the neighboring Uptown townhouses, but it still had a separate door for servants to enter the kitchen. Markus slipped into it, despite his tray still being half full, and sat it down on a counter. As he did, a round, boisterous man that could only be the family’s chef turned and looked at him.

“What’s this, then?”

Markus put a hand to his gut and leaned over slightly. “Sorry, cook. I just don’t feel on top of the weather, if you catch my meaning. Where’s the privy?”

The chef sneered. “I knew we shouldn’t have hired on extra help for this. A bunch of layabouts and ne’er-do-wells. Get back out there!”

Markus made as if he was about to vomit, and the chef rushed over to him.

“Fool! Not in here! Servants’ privy is down the hall, and be quick about it, or I’ll turn you out on your ear, I will.”

Markus nodded and rushed in a hobbled gait out of the kitchen. Soon as the door closed behind him, he stood upright and quickly made his way out of sight of the door. As he passed the privy, he loudly opened and slammed the door, just to make sure the chef would not think he had been lying. Sure, he would be discovered soon enough, but by then he should be blocks away.

He turned a corner and went up the narrow servants’ stairwell, quiet as a mouse. He checked nearby rooms to make sure they were empty, then pulled out a rope from where he had been hiding it in his clothes and lowered it through an open casement. Moments later, a woman crawled through the window.

She was pretty, with blond hair down past her shoulders and the lean, hardened look of someone who can survive on the street but did not let it destroy them.

“Everything alright?” she said.

He smiled. “Would I be lowering you the rope if it wasn’t, Kira?”

“I’ve seen men do foolish things a plenty,” she said. “Gavrial is still keeping watch below. Let’s hurry this up.”

Markus nodded and they went up another flight of stairs to the third story. Kira lagged behind, keeping an eye out for trouble, and drew a gun from the inside her coat. It was one of Gavrial’s, Markus could tell. Only he had any of the fancy Meister built weapons they made in Tesma’s compound. This one in particular had a thick, elongated barrel with a small hole at the end. Whatever the purpose of that was, Markus did not know. He only hoped it work. Gavrial had a habit of acquiring prototypes.

The top of the house consisted of a single narrow hallway with locked doors on either side and at the end. Markus looked at each door in turn, then back at Kira. She glanced down the stairs then looked back and nodded, and he moved to the first door.

There, he stooped down and removed the glove from his right hand to reveal the brass plates and gears and tubing that not only made his hand, but more than half his body. Ten feet tall and with glowing red eyes he was not, but he was most assuredly the revenant the people spoke of, and while he had not directly done most of the things they gave him credit for, he was involved in a shockingly good number.

Revenant. The term still felt wrong to him. It was the Sentatian word for a cyborg, coined from how the Adervynian soldiers who were shot would seem to come back from the dead. Honestly, he had always preferred the Adervynian slur: halfman. It seemed far more appropriate, especially in his case. Both legs, an arm, and part of his heart were now made of brass, steel, and silver, and silver spike was lodged firmly in the base of his skull, connecting his mind to his new parts via wires that were burrowed just under his skin and alongside the steam-tubes that connected to a reservoir he wore at his side. It was abhorred, and to this day he was still disgusted on some level with what he was, but he had to admit, it was better than being dead, and it had other uses as well.

He twisted the knob on the back of his hand, and a lockpick popped out of the tip of his finger. Along with another tool pulled out of a groove on his hand, he made quick work of the lock on the door and moved onto the next while Kira went in to check around the first.

They had a specific target, and knew more or less where it would be, but the client who had hired their gang had requested the theft look like common burglary. In fact, a good portion of the payout for the job was whatever they could carry off and keep. And that was why Kira was there. She could tell the value of things far better than Markus. That and if the target was not where they expected it to be, she would have a far better chance of finding it than him. He was no simpleton, but she understood the minds of the nobles and the wealthy far better. She should, seeing as she spent her early life before being a common thief as the daughter of a lord.

No, not common. She was one of the best that Markus knew, not that he knew many. Still, he felt he could tell. Kira had devoted herself heart and soul to her new life, and unlike many, had actually chosen it of her free will. She was far from common.

Markus finished the opening the last lock and went on through the door. Inside, bureaus and cabinets lined the walls, and small chests were piled on top of each other in the center of the room. A thick layer of dust covered most everything, and Markus had little doubt that there would be little of value in this room. He still looked, though, keeping an eye out for any place the dust seemed thinner. What he found was mainly old clothing and mothballs, although the occasional family portrait was rolled up in drawers.

He returned to the hallway, leaving the room behind him in a disarrayed mess, and found Kira with a folio under one arm. She looked past Markus into the room and smiled.

“A right regular burglar, aren’t you?”

He looked back at the room, then over into hers. If he had to guess, nothing was disturbed. It was almost as if she knew exactly where the folio had been and had not rifled through every drawer and file cabinet in the room. He shrugged.

“Well, now they’ll think we weren’t even in that room.”

“Only if it’s still locked,” she said. “Can you do that while I check the final room and mess it up for you?”

He blushed and nodded, and she went on to the final room while he closed the door and carefully went about reengaging the lock. As he worked on that, he heard a loud crash from Kira’s room, and a moment later, she appeared in the door with a grin from ear to ear.

“Guess that was a little loud,” she said.

He finished relocking the door and stood up. “What was that?”

“A vase,” she said. “Probably from Old Gorlido, from the looks of it. The lid was on pretty tight, though, and it felt like it had something in it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, did it?”

She pulled her hands out from behind her back with a collection of gold and gem encrusted jewelry. He gave a low whistle, and she smiled broader, if that was possible. He nodded and then undid a line of buttons along the side of his leg. The moment they were open, an empty compartment opened up in his thigh. Kira quickly stashed the loot in it, and he closed the folding doors and buttoned his pants leg back up. He could feel the jewelry inside him, shifting around, and he took a moment to get used to the uneven feel of weight between his limbs.

“Come on,” she said. “Someone had to have heard that.”

They rushed down the stairs to the window, and Markus stuck his head out and saw Gavrial still leaning unobtrusively against a lamppost across the street. He saw Markus instantly and, after looking up and down the street, nodded. Markus lowered the rope again and held it while Kira shimmied down. He then pulled it back up just as he heard a gun cock near his ear.

“What’s this then, eh?”

Markus dropped the rope and turned slowly to look down the barrel of a revolver held by the chef. “That’s not a ladle.”

“And this isn’t the privy.” The chef gestured with the gun. “Right then, back with you.”

Instead of obeying, Markus took his chance when the gun was pointed away from him mid-gesture. He pivoted around, and brought his right arm, his revenant’s arm, up and grabbed the gun by the barrel. The chef, shocked at the speed, flinched and squeezed off a round, but it harmlessly buried itself in the wall. Markus felt the heat through his glove, but it did not bother him. It would take quite a bit more before his metal parts felt discomfort from a little warmth.

The chef tried to pull back, but Markus ignored his struggle and instead squeezed his fist shut, bending the gun in the process. The sound of metal straining and bending filled the hallway, and the chef suddenly went slack and stared at Markus. Markus smiled, pulled the ruined gun free of the chef’s hand and then flung it casually behind him. The chef turned to run, but Markus grabbed him with his left hand and held his right hand up where the man could easily see it.

A moment later, the fabric of his shirt and coat ripped and a blade as long as Markus’s forearm spun out, hinged around his wrist, and locked into place alongside his hand, which also placed it a hair’s breadth away from the chef’s neck.

“You know who I am,” Markus said.

The chef nodded weakly.

“Then I suggest you forget it. Next time, it will be your head instead of the gun.”

The chef swallowed hard, and his eyes shifted and fixed on the shriveled mass of metal that had been his six-shooter. He then looked back at Markus, although his eyes kept flicking to the blade.

Markus nodded and pulled the blade away. The chef sagged in his grip, and Markus let go and pivoted around on one foot as he brought the other around and squarely into the man’s chest. The chef half fell and half flew down the hallway until he crashed into the wall at the end. From the feeling, Markus had probably broken several ribs. That would teach a chef to try and play at being constable. He had chosen his life, he should be content with it.

He picked the rope back up and looked down at the dazed chef. The man was alive, but then again, Markus had not hit him as hard as he could. He nodded to the man again and tapped his temple, then jumped out of the window.

The ground rushed up to meet him, but his legs absorbed the shock easily. He then rushed over to Gavrial and Kira. She had a worried look on her face, but Gavrial seemed faintly amused.

“What?” Markus said.

“Just had to show off,” Gavrial said. “And you ruined a coat. Cook is going to be right cross over that, at least if Bryon tries to get her to mend it.”

“I had an issue I had to solve,” Markus said. “It isn’t like I actually killed him. Do you know how annoying it is to clean blood out of the slot that thing goes into?”

“Alive, eh?” Gavrial huffed. “I guess that will just be adding to the legend of the revenant in the city, then.”

“Like people aren’t adding to it on their own daily anyway,” Markus said. “It would take ten of me a year to do everything people say I have. Anyway, can’t we have this conversation someplace less conspicuous?”

Kira elbowed Gavrial. “Yeah, you trying to get us caught?”

“I didn’t see you urging us on,” Gavrial said. “Come on then, there’s a nice mess of alleys we can get lost in a few blocks down.”

They started walking, and while Gavrial led, Kira fell back next to Markus. “Hey, I had a thought.”

“Careful,” he said. “Those are a good way to get a person hurt, least if you follow Gavrial’s way of thinking, or not, case as might be.”

She smiled at his joke, but her face quickly went back to being serious. “Markus, what if there is more than one of you?”

Markus started to make another jibe, but let it die on his tongue when he saw her face. He cleared his throat and looked around. “Let’s hope there isn’t.”

“But there could be,” she said.

“I doubt it,” he said. “I’m the only revenant not in Adervyn. All the others were in their army.”

“You were too,” she said.

“As a spy.” He sighed. “And I ran away soon as I could, thinking that I’d get some sort of hero’s welcome back here. It wasn’t until I was well back on our side of the lines that I learned our military wanted to just sweep me under the rug. By that point, I didn’t have much of a choice on where to go.”

“You could have gone back to Adervyn,” she said.

“As a traitor and known spy,” he said. “No, Tijervyn is my home. This is where I belong.”

“But what if another revenant ran away and decided to come here?” she said.

“I highly doubt it.”

“Why?”

He looked at her for a moment then shook his head. “Come on, Gavrial’s getting pretty far ahead.”

She frowned, but dropped the subject, although Markus could see in her eyes that it was only just for now. Still, he would take what reprieve he could get. Especially since he had been having the same thought himself lately. It would not do to brood on it now, though. He pulled his coat tighter, being sure to keep the collar up high where it would hide his spike, and followed after Gavrial.

* * *

The new hideout Bryon had found for them was a marked improvement over both The Hole, their old underground lair, and the Aviary, a converted attic used by another gang that had taken them in after constables had raided The Hole and burned down a city block while they were at it.

This new hideout was a converted warehouse, with small, false rooms and hallways built in front of the few windows that were not boarded up, and the rest converted into a two story complex that was half orphanage and half thieving gang. Bryon had not lost his soft spot for street urchins, and now they occupied the upper floor by themselves. Downstairs housed a vast dining area, a lounge, and even a library.

Still, despite all the space, Bryon had insisted that they remain “The Hole”. To that end, he had hired one of the foreign meisters that was still trying to ply his trade without joining the Meisters’ Guild. The man brought his strange machines and converted the basement level into a decently habitable area, and even cleared out and rebuilt an old tunnel that connected to the slums large sewer system.

And in this basement, the gang had its own dormitory, Bryon’s office, a separate lounge, and the storage for their ill-gotten gains. It was here that Markus deposited the contents of his thigh compartment until such a time as Margot and Bryon could sort through the odds and ends and find a place to fence them.

As he walked out of the storage room, he nearly walked head on into Vlad. The strange man seemed oblivious, despite deftly stepping out of the way. He then looked up from the brick he was holding and smiled.

“Ah, Markus! Just the man I was looking for.”

Markus could not help but try and place the man’s strange accent, which was still to this day unlike any he had heard. Once, he had asked Bryon where exactly it was Vlad was some, and also claimed he was the Duke of, and all Bryon had said was “Rasputnik, wherever that is.” Regardless, the man had proven himself reliable, if in his unique way.

“Evening Vlad,” Markus said. “What did you need?”

“I was wondering if you’d be joining us for dinner, and perhaps a nip of Vladka afterwards, eh? Everyone is there.” He held up a hand and started counting off his fingers. “Kira, Gavrial, Bryon, Margot, Gust, even Cook!”

“I know who ‘everyone’ is, Vlad,” Markus said. “And sure, dinner sounds fine. Any clue what Cook’s made?”

“A classic,” Vlad said. “Cabbage stew and old bread!”

Markus sighed. “I knew the good eating wouldn’t last.”

Vlad tilted his head to the side. “You don’t like stew and bread?”

Markus waved the question away. “Lead on to our feast, Vlad.”

They went up to the dinning room, not that Markus needed the guide, but Vlad was funny that way, and if he came to fetch you for something, Troena above help him he was going to see it done right. It was the Rasputnik way, he would say.

They walked into the dining hall and Margot, a short and stout woman that had a smile which could assure you and make your skin crawl at the same time smiled at him.

“Hello there, Brassman!” She called.

Markus sighed. “Evening, Margot.”

“Heist go well?”

He grabbed a bowl of soup and crust of bread and sat down in the only open seat at the table, which was unfortunately right across from her. Gavrial and Kira were further down the table, talking to Bryon, and Gust sat to his side, silently eating his stew.

“Well enough,” he said. “I had to put the fear of Praedin into a nosy chef, though.”

Margot’s eye lit up. “Did you bleed him good?”

“No.”

Markus focused on his soup and tried to ignore Margot. It was not that he disliked her, not really. It was more that he could never read her that well. One moment she was bubbly, if in a grisly sort of way, and the next she was like to have a knife to his belly.

“Don’t leave me hanging Brassman!”

Then there was her nickname for him. “He had a gun to my head, so I might have bent it up in my hand then kicked him down the hall. At most I probably broke a few of his ribs.”

Bryon cleared his throat from his end of the table. “At most you left proof that a revenant robbed that house.”

Markus looked down the table. “Should I have let him shoot me?”

“Of course not, old chap,” Bryon said. “But you could have been a little more careful about leaving an obvious calling card. A crumpled up gun is going to spawn a lot of questions, including a wonder at why a revenant wanted to rob that house.”

“Then they will just think he was in it for money,” Kira said. “We left no trace that we were near the documents, and plenty that we were just after the jewels in the vase.”

Bryon made a hushing motion. “Calm down, Kira. I’m sure there is no harm in the end. Likely there would have been people claiming the revenant did it even if he was never seen. I was just pointing out that we should still be cautious. Sunset House is looking for revenants in particular, according to my sources. I’m sure one crumpled gun isn’t going to lead them here, but it still lets them know it was us.”

“Enough about slapping Markus’s wrist,” Margot said. “What kind of goods did you get?”

“Some jewels, some gold,” Gavrial said. “A good amount.”

“How good?” Margot said. “What kind of jewels.”

“Oh, you know, the colorful ones.”

She stood up. “Gavrial Thrust, if you don’t give me a straight answer . . . .”

He shrugged. “I’m not really sure, I didn’t see them. I was out standing lookout duty. By the time Markus got to me, he had them safely in his leg.”

Margot glared at Gavrial, her fingers twitching like they wanted to reach for a concealed gun, then a smile split across her face and she laughed.

Markus spent the rest of dinner quiet, mulling over his thoughts, and when everyone started off to their various personal entertainments, Markus waved Bryon over. The middle aged man gave Markus a quizzical look, then walked over and sat down across from him at the bench.

“What is it, old chap?”

“Bryon, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to all these revenant rumors.”

Bryon laughed. “And that explains the long face. Markus, you should never let rumors worry you. I could find you five reputable men within the hour that would tell you they saw Count Jaeger dead in a gibbet yesterday.”

“It’s more than that, Bryon,” Markus said. “I’ve purposely been slipping up, leaving obvious clues that I’m a revenant, just to see how they get fit into the rumors. And, the thing is, you can tell a difference. If you listen closely, you can tell which rumors are actually about me, and which aren’t.”

“Okay,” Bryon said. “So some of the rumors are true, and some are from drunks jumping at shadows and trying to make themselves look less like the fools they are. What’s your point, Markus. Don’t tell me you actually think there is another revenant in the city.”

More than one, he thought, but he did not say it. “Bryon, it isn’t safe for me to be here. I’m more of a liability than an asset to you.”

“If that is how I thought, old chap, I’d work for the military,” Bryon said. “That is certainly how they thought when they cut you loose. But this isn’t the army, Markus. You are one of us.”

“I’ve only been here for three months,” Markus said.

“And proven yourself admirably.”

Markus shook his head. “Since I joined you, one of your gang betrayed you, one died, one was kidnapped, and your home was destroyed.”

“A spot of bad luck, that’s all.”

“And that bastard with the shockshield?” Markus said. “Are you going to tell me that having someone stalk you that can’t be hit by bullets was just bad luck?”

“And you took care of that, or at least so you’ve told us.” Bryon furrowed his brow. “What are you getting at, Markus?”

Markus took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bryon, I really don’t want to say this, but I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. I think that . . . I need to leave.”

Bryon looked at him and folded his hands on the table.

Markus waited several moments. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Bryon shrugged. “I can tell your mind is made up. I guess it doesn’t much matter that I’d prefer you stayed. You make a good thief, Markus.”

Markus looked up, and Bryon leaned forward.

“What is it, old chap? You look like you just realized something you don’t like. Is being a thief so bad, really? When it is the only recourse left to you, it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Markus stood. “It isn’t my only recourse. I chose what I am, Bryon, and it isn’t a thief.”

Bryon did not stand, but instead only looked up at him. “And what is that, old chap?” There was the faintest hint of worry in the man’s voice.

Markus smiled down at him. “I’ll always remember the kindness you showed me, Bryon. Don’t worry about that.”

“Should I have been?” Bryon waved the answer off. “Where will you go?”

“I still have most of the money from the Docktown job,” Markus said. “I can live on that for a bit, while I figure things out.”

“Just do me a favor?” Bryon said. “One last order from your boss?”

Markus smiled. “Yes?”

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Bryon said. “There is a darkness about you, Markus. A blind man could see it, I think. But, no matter what happens, just remember, you do have a family here now. Yes?”

Markus nodded. “I’ll remember. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll get my things and be going.” He started towards the stairs to the lower level.

“Are you going to say goodbye to the others?”

He stopped and turned halfway around. “I’m not good at goodbyes.”

“Then you could get some good practice.”

Markus shook his head. “You are a man of words. You explain it to them.”

“And what are you?” Bryon said.

Markus took a deep breath and walked out of dining room, only answering under his breath.

“A soldier.”