The Tijervyn Chronicles
Chapter Seventeen

story by
Richard Fife

art by
April Herron

Chapter Seventeen: “Over Coffee”

Markus sighed at the rustling sound behind him. “Get out of the bush, Vlad.”

“Quiet,” the foreign man said. “You don’t know I’m here.”

“More like I know you aren’t all here.” Gavrial glanced up from his cup of coffee and over Markus’s shoulder. “Seriously Vlad, what are you doing in the bush?”

“Getting a better look at the manor,” Vlad said. “Now be quiet. You are blowing my disguise.”

Markus twisted in his chair and looked at the shrubbery that hedged the café where he and Gavrial had sat down. At first glance, there was nothing wrong with the bushes, but a flicker of movement betrayed Vlad, who was deeper in the foliage than Markus had thought.

“And how do you expect to see anything from in there?” Markus said.

“I’ll do things my way, you do things yours. It is easier to look through a bush and leaves than Gavrial, anyway. Try it sometime.”

Markus grunted and turned back to his coffee. Across the small table, Gavrial stared down into his drink with a scowl. Markus turned to the street and watched the people pass along, tending to their business, which in the case of the nobility, was most likely trying to find some way to wile the day away.

Across the street, the familiar structure of Tidor manor rose up over a wrought steel fence. Guards patrolled the grounds far more regularly than they had on the day of the thieves’ race, and they had already checked the path they had gone by on that day to find it additionally barred.

“That’s a fine nut to crack,” Markus said.

Gavrial grunted.

“I don’t know that we’ll be able to sneak in this time.”

Another grunt.

“And I doubt we’ll be able to convince enough other gangs to help us turn this area into a warzone, not for one kidnapped girl.”

Gavrial took a sip of his coffee and did not look up.

“Might be that it just isn’t worth it.”

Gavrial slammed his mug onto the table. “What’d you just say, revenant?”

Markus sighed and shook his head. “Just something to get a reaction out of you.”

“That better be all it was,” Gavrial said. “You best not be going belly up on us. It’s your fault she’s in this tight spot to begin with.”

“My fault?” Markus rubbed his temple. “What soft-baked idea have you gotten into your head now?”

“I don’t know how, but it’s your fault, I know it,” Gavrial said. “Bryon might say it isn’t, and that protects you for now, but soon as I can prove it—”

“Then I won’t hold my breath,” Markus said. “You won’t prove it, Gavrial. I had nothing to do with this, and for all the light under Troena, you should be able to see that. What is it that has you so upset? What did I do to earn your hatred?”

Gavrial crossed his arms and stared out across the street. Markus glanced the same direction, but when nothing seemed to be happening at the manor, he turned back to Gavrial.

“You aren’t getting out of this,” Markus said. “I am tired of you changing your opinion of me every time the wind changes. First you were suspicious of me, then you loved me for saving your life, then you thought me weak for not killing that businessman, and it just keeps going on. What is it, Gavrial? You didn’t fight in the war, did you? Do you hate me for what I am?”

“I didn’t find in no bloody war,” Gavrial said. “But a man has the right to change his mind about someone. You just give me lots of reasons.”

Motion from across the street caught Markus’s attention, and he adjusted his seat to get a better look. Two men had come out of the front of the manor, one a younger fellow dressed in the latest fashion of a tight, single breasted coat and a narrow brimmed top-hat, and the other an older man with whiskers, a bowler, and a cane. Oddly, the young man seemed to be in charge, despite the way the older man acted all of a mother hen around him.

The men climbed into a carriage and were off, and Markus noted the direction and the time in a small notebook that he had hidden away inside his coat pocket. After he had written his notes and put the notebook away, he turned back to Gavrial.

“It’s Kira, isn’t it?”

Gavrial scowled at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You love her.”

Gavrial spat his coffee out. “What?”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Markus scoffed and shook his head. “You love her, but she half can’t stand you.”

“Kira and I get along great, thank you very much,” Gavrial said.

“Oh, sure, she laughs at your jokes,” Markus said. “But I’ve seen the way she looks at you, or the way she stands when you and her are talking alone in the hall. I’d say she right near hates you.”

“That’s what you think, is it?” Gavrial said. “Not even been here a full season, and you think you know the whole of two people that have known each other for years.”

“Maybe not the whole,” Markus said. “But I was a spy, remember. One doesn’t live long in that profession without being able to understand people, especially from afar.”

Gavrial only frowned, and Markus took another sip of his coffee and looked back to the road. “So now, I come along, an interesting freak of nature, someone that she has latched onto to help from the streets. Is that why you’re looking for every reason you can find to hate me?”

“I don’t need to look,” Gavrial said. “I have plenty of reason with the back of your head.”

Markus made a dismissive gesture. “You aren’t a devout man, Gavrial. Don’t lie and say you are. And you weren’t in the war, and have never seen a cyborg until you saw me. Why should you hate me for it?”

“It isn’t natural,” Gavrial said.

“That is somewhat the point,” Markus said. “My natural bits were blown away in a ball of fire and shrapnel.”

“But they didn’t have to be,” Gavrial said. “A doc could have just cut your legs off and given you new ones.”

Markus took a deep breath. “That seems an awfully bad trade to me.”

“Is it?” Gavrial said. “You’re stronger, faster, and tougher than any man has any right to be.”

“You mean that I’m stronger than you,” Markus said. “Don’t tell me that hurts your pride.”

“I’ve known plenty of men stronger than me,” Gavrial said. “Not a one of them that wasn’t born that way or didn’t have to work at it, though. You just had some bone-saw doc rip off what you had gone and ruined and made you better than before.”

“Better?” Markus narrowed his eyes. “Having to constantly worry about if I have enough steam to stay alive through the night is better?”

“Bah, I worry about having a full enough stomach to get through the day,” Gavrial said. “And those metal limbs don’t seem all that bad. You can still feel with them, and you can turn them off when they hurt.”

“And they don’t heal on their own,” Markus said. “And while I can still feel, it isn’t the same as when I had flesh. It isn’t perfect.”

“You saying you’d rather be human again?”

“I am human, Gavrial,” Markus said. “But if I could have all my original parts back, yes, I’d take them in a heartbeat. And if you are so jealous of them, why don’t you think about everything I’m going through right now, and I’m one of—”

He cut off as a waiter moved over to their secluded table and asked if they needed anything. They both muttered that they were fine, and Markus took a deep breath and looked towards the manor, content to let the topic drop.

“And here I thought you liked being what you are,” Gavrial said.

“It’s better than being crippled.” Markus kept his voice down and his temper in check. “But it is still a sore patch on the real thing.”

With that, the conversation died, and the two men drank their coffees and watched a manor where nothing changed.

* * *

Vlad moved deeper into the bushes and snapped off various twigs to stick in his coat and hat, through hair and to his beard. He had to be sure no one would see him, less the whole surveillance would be moot. What good was a spy who was spied? And he was hardly just any spy; he was the Baron of Rasputnik. He had a reputation to uphold.

He moved so deep into the bushes that Markus and Gavrial’s argument become nothing more than a faint murmur, and soon was even lost to the noise of the street and rustling leaves. He pushed forward to the street, just a hair, and could see Tidor manor quite clearly. Now, long as the others’ antics didn’t scare away their quarry, perhaps he could discover some secret.

No, not perhaps, he would. He was a baron, after all, and barons did not fail at what they were about. Moreover, he missed Kira. She was quite a lively girl, and really brightened up the gang, despite her occasional outbursts. That, and Gavrial would perhaps stop growling like an irritated bear. The man was almost no fun to heckle, what with how prickly he had become.

A squirrel chattered nearby, and Vlad looked at it from the corner of his eye and smiled. “Why, hello there, citizen. I am afraid I am not sitting for petitioners today.”

The squirrel sat up on its haunches and looked him over with beady eyes. The animal had a surprisingly clean smell, somewhat sweet with a bit of a tang. The squirrel must have hoped to meet him, to have bathed so recently.

“Well, you did make quite an effort,” he said. “So I’ll make an exception, just this once. Speak friend. What would you have of your baron?”

The squirrel chattered some more and titled its head.

“Ah, would that I could, friend,” he said. “But I am extremely busy and cannot see to it this very moment. Find me next week in my salon, and if it is still a problem, I will address it.”

The squirrel leaned forward and twitched its nose at him, and again he thought of how oddly clean the squirrel was. Most of the creatures seemed to reek to the heavens when they came to talk to him.

“I shan’t leave you empty handed, uh, I mean clawed.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a few crumbs of bread broken from a loaf he was storing there. “Here. May you have many fat babies.”

The squirrel waited until he dropped the crumbs before it came forward and grabbed them, and the next moment it was off, but not before turning back and bobbing its head in a bow befitting Vlad’s station.

Vlad nodded as the squirrel left. So many lords neglected to care for their animal citizens, and he could not understand why. A friendly squirrel in the city could be useful, and a friendly wolf in the wild could save your life. If Vlad had more time, he would return to court and attempt to impress the idea on his fellow nobles, but between helping Bryon out and administering Rasputnik from afar, he doubted he would ever see to it. The squirrel was the least demanding of his subjects. The people were by far more trying. He reached into another coat pocket and pulled out the brick he had found at the rubble on Logain Street.

“What about you, eh? Are you a man of power among your people?” He rotated the brick around. “Oh, sorry, woman of power?”

He worried the brick around in his hands for a few minutes more, not expecting an answer, and keeping his eyes on the manor. A carriage had pulled up to the front door, but he had not seen anyone step out, so it was likely waiting for someone to step in.

He did not wait long to see who it was waiting for. The young man seemed familiar, but it was not until he saw the older fellow that came behind that he was certain he knew them, but from where?

He glanced back down at the brick and tilted his head to the side. Why was he holding the brick? It was a fine brick, perhaps a perfect brick, but it still seemed odd to be holding it. And what if other bricks found out?

No, wait, that was silly. It was a brick. He put it into his coat pocket and looked back up at the carriage, which was now rolling off. He wondered if a carriage like that had brought Kira here, and then the memory came to him.

Kira had dragged him to an alley and begged him to do something. His face went red for a moment then he remembered. He had to distracted the silly old man while she went and talked to the younger one. Afterwards, she had been eight different sorts of gloomy, and drank her Vladka like a man who had barely survived a shipwreck. Well, at first. By the end of the bottle, she was giggling and making fun of Vlad’s hat.

But, no, wait, the young man. He was important. He was a noble, and lived at Tidor manor, went off in a carriage with their seal on the door. And Markus had said a young Tidor had been responsible for Kira’s kidnapping. That was him! But why? Did he want back whatever Kira had stolen from him? Why did Kira not just give it back and get free? So many questions. He had to tell Markus.

He moved back into the bushes and walked slowly over to the café. He started to grow worried when he did not hear Markus and Gavrial, but it turned out they were only sitting silently and sipping their coffees like a pair of bitter old men Vlad knew that lived out in the countryside of his barony. The two men hated each other, or so they professed, and more often than not refused to talk to each other, but they still always met for a drink every third night.

He burst out of the bushes and stood tall as he beamed down at the men, and they both twisted to look at him with confusion on their faces. Vlad’s smile turned to a frown, and he realized why they were confused.

“It was me.” He started to pick the leaves and twigs from his coat. “See? I know it must be hard to see me against the bush, but I assure, I’m here.”

Markus covered his face with one hand, and was he laughing? No, crying, perhaps. He must be ashamed of not having realized it was Vlad. Gavrial smiled and shook his head. “Ah, I see that now, Vlad. What is it?”

“The young lord Tidor,” Vlad said. “He’s who kidnapped Kira.”

Gavrial smiled and nodded. “Yes, we know that. And I’d suppose that was him that just rode off in the carriage?”

“Yes,” Vlad said. “And I think I know why he kidnapped her, too. She stole something from him, and he wants it back.”

Markus finally contained himself and looked up. “I suppose that is possible. How does that help us get in there and save her?”

“Get in there?” Vlad looked over to the manor.

“Yeah,” Gavrial said. “The entire reason we are here? To try and figure out a way in?”

Vlad felt a smile slide across his face. Over the smell of the sap and bruised leaves that came off his clothes, he could smell coffee and fresh bread. His hand reached into his pocket, and he felt the loaf he had there.

“Ah, as to that,” Vlad said. “I just might have an idea. Let’s go find Bryon and see if he agrees.”

Gavrial frowned, but Markus stood. “Sounds good to me. Doesn’t seem as we are doing much good here. Coming Gavrial, or are you going to stare your coffee warm again?”

“Oh, fine.” Gavrial stood with a huff. “This better be good, Vlad.”

“Oh, it is,” Vlad said. “Rasputnik’s promise!”

* * *

The workshop should have been a disgrace to any meister. Half-finished projects were scattered about the numerous workbenches, and the dust was thick enough on the prototype tunnel-support in the corner to obscure some of the finer components. Qristina idly wondered if it would even work in its present state.

She shook herself from her reverie and looked towards the young man who still had his back to her. She had not be particularly quite as she approached the lab, and she knew the heels of her boots sent out an echo that could be heard all the way back at the stairwell. Despite this, the man seemed to not even realize the highest ranked meister in the country was standing right behind him. Well, officially ranked, anyway.

She cleared her throat, and he slowly lifted his head from his work. His shoulders tensed, and she could imagine the single drop of sweat that had beaded on his forehead and was starting a slow path down his temple. Yes, he knew now. He was not shocked, that much was apparent. Worried, perhaps, but not startled. He had heard her, but only now put together what the sudden stop of those footsteps had meant.

“Torbit,” she said.

Torbit spun around on his stool and slowly stood. “Meister.”

“We need to talk,” she said.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Whatever my brother did this time, I assure you, I have no clue about it.”

“Lector?” She raised an eyebrow. “Has he done something that I should know about?”

He looked at her with wide eyes, but was it in shock of having revealed something he should not have, or in confusion. “Why else would you want to talk to me? It isn’t like you ever actually care about my progress.”

“Keep a civil tone with a superior meister, Cennet.” She took a slow breath has he had the good grace to at least blush. “It would seem that you have been spending too much time with Meister Hares. Remember, he does not advance further for a reason, and only for his usefulness does he remain a meister at all. Tell me, Torbit, do you have such usefulness?”

“I’m sorry, Meister,” he said. “It was just that I’m tired and forgot myself. Meister Hares has been working me hard this past week.”

“I suppose he has,” she said. “Which is why I am here.”

Torbit swallowed hard. “Meister?”

Qristina crooked her finger and gestured to a table that had two empty stools next to each other. She then walked over and sat in one. She glanced at Torbit, and saw that he was blushing. She then noticed that his eyes were firmly on her hips.

“Now, Cennet.”

He blushed deeper and stammered an apology and came over, and she made a mental note to be sure to wear this dress more often. If it distracted Torbit, who was notoriously opaque to the fairer sex, then it could have uses elsewhere, as well.

When Torbit sat at the table, she pulled out the gear she had found. “Tell me, do you recognize this, Torbit?”

Torbit picked the gear up and looked it over, and for a moment she feared that he did not. Then, his eyes widened a hair, and he put it on the table.

“I, um, no.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s a gear.”

“I know it’s a gear,” she said. “Do you know where I found it?”

He licked his lips and looked from the gear to her and back, although his eyes passed over her hips again, she noticed. “The, um, supply closet?”

She took a slow breath and leaned closer to him. “Try again.”

“Um.” He so pointedly was not looking at her that it was obvious that was all that was on his mind. “The Davis factory?”

She narrowed her eyes. “They got what they deserved, but no, not there.” She took the gear from his hand, purposely brushing his fingers with hers, and turned it around, showing the stamp on the back. “Last guess.”

He stared at the symbol, an elaborately interlocked Q and L. “Um, Adervyn?”

She frowned and moved away from him. “I found it here, in the guild. Do you know what it went to? Don’t answer that, I’m tired of your lies. It is part of a cyborg, who was, unless I miss my guess, injured. Tell me, why would an injured cyborg come to my guild?”

Torbit swallowed hard. “Maybe he was, um, looking for, uh, well, parts?” His eyes drifted back to her hips.

She slapped him before she knew what she was doing. It was a satisfying, full armed blow, and her hand stung from the impact, but his head whipped around in a way that made her smile. She then grabbed him by his coat and pulled him to his feet.

“I know you and Jasyn fixed the cyborg, Torbit.” She spoke softly, almost in a whisper. “Tell me where he is.”

“I, I don’t know,” he said.

She backhanded him and split his lip. “Try again.”

“I don’t!” He was blubbering. “We fixed him at his hideout, and they blindfolded us in the slums and took us there in a carriage. I have no clue where it is.”

She pushed him away and let go, and he fell into the tunnel-support, shaking a cloud of dust free. “Let me explain something to you, Torbit, something that you might be failing to realize. This man is called many things—a revenant, a halfman, a cyborg—but what I call him is an assassin.”

Torbit looked up, but did not make an attempt to stand. “An assassin?”

“Who discovered the Secret of Silver, Torbit?”

He hesitated, perhaps thinking it was a trick question. “Quintin Lazris?”

“Yes,” she said. “And did you know that Quintin and my father were once friends? I say once, because now I’d say they are bitter enemies. And now, he has sent one of his monsters to kill my father.”

Torbit pulled himself up and felt his cheek. “But, I heard that Quintin is gentle as a lamb.”

“A pleasant fiction,” Qristina said. “But let actions speak louder than words, Torbit. Who actually bent a Secret for war? Who created monstrosities by the hundredfold, turning men into weapons? And, who built this revenant who has broken into the guild once already?”

“Markus isn’t an assassin!” Torbit put a hand to his mouth, eyes wide at his outburst.

“So it is Markus, is it?” She walked over to Torbit slowly until they were only a few inches apart. “Tell me, Torbit, are you a traitor like your brother? Are you helping this monster find a way to kill my father?”

“He isn’t—”

This time she punched him, a quick jab to his short ribs. He fell and coughed, and she sneered down at him. “Why else would a cyborg be here? Why else would one befriend a meister in secret? We turn a blind eye to you and Jasyn’s little side jobs, but this we will not ignore. I will have your bracer for this, Torbit, unless . . . .”

He looked up through tear-filled eyes. “Unless?”

“Unless you tell me where I can find this monster.”

“I told you I don’t know where he is!”

She kicked him. “Then what else is he after? He hasn’t struck here yet, so he must be waiting for something. Surely you must have overheard something of use while you fixed him.”

Torbit groaned, and she pulled her foot back for another kick.

“No, wait!” He held a hand up. “Captain Hares! He is trying to find a friend that was kidnapped by Captain Rojer Hares.”

“Hares?” Qristina put her toe to the floor, but kept the foot back. “Jasyn’s brother?”

“Yes,” he said. “Markus is trying to find out what Hares did with a girl named Kira. The slums fire was a cover for the kidnapping.”

“That seems a bit excessive,” she said.

“It’s all I know,” he said. “Please . . . that’s all I know.”

She kicked him again for good measure, then turned on her heal when all he did was keep blubbering that he did not know anything else. Captain Hares, was it? If she recalled, Jasyn and he were not on good terms, so questioning the meister would not serve any good. No, much better to go directly to the source itself. Fortunately, the day was still young.

* * *

The light in the room did not flicker. That was the first thing Wynfeld had noticed when he stepped in. It was like those lights in the Garden District, or some of the lower levels of the castle. A light that ran off Tesma’s lightning, the same as the device he had used on Joraz. But what was such a thing doing here?

He had not had much time to think over the light. He was surprised these men had been willing to see him; he had heard about how picky they were about granting audiences. He still smelled of the street and spirits, and probably looked just as bad as he smelled, if the looks they gave him were any judge. But they had seen him, nonetheless, and then they had drained him dry.

“That’s all I know.” He looked from the tall, lean one that wore a bracer to the man with the hook for a hand, Lord Spears. “Truly it is, my Lord.”

Spears held a scented kerchief to his nose. “I knew a Constable Black once. An upstanding fellow, with the mind of a steel trap. I see him in the wretch before me, but I cannot fathom what has happened to him.”

“The revenant, my Lord,” Wynfeld said. “He threatens our city, and no one will listen!”

“I see little reason that any of us should,” the third man said. “You are a raving lunatic, simply put, and I, for one have better things to do.”

The first man, High Meister Cennet, watched the third leave, then turned back to Black. “Don’t mind Mikhail, he is just testy that the general populace has been so slow to hear his message.”

“Our message,” Lord Spears said. “You have thrown your lot in with him as much as the rest of us, Lector.”

“I have thrown my lot in against Tesma,” Cennet said. “That is all that matters to me. Now tell me, Black, who else have you told this to?”

“I tried to tell my old prescient,” Wynfeld said. “But they wouldn’t listen to me. I tried to tell the Guild, but they turned me away at the gate as a vagrant.”

“So then only we have heard you?” Cennet said. “No others know of this Captain Hares’s involvement?”

“No one,” Wynfeld said.

“And how did you find out?” Lord Spears asked. “I doubt you would have been in the gutter if you had known before you were dismissed.”

Wynfeld looked between the two men. Spears still held his scented kerchief, and Cennet had a hand resting on the pommel of a shockrod. He also had a belt filled with the small cartridges of lightning sitting low on his hips. Between the two of them, Wynfeld was sure they would know if he lied.

“Lord Shadow,” he said. “He found me in the gutter, and told me.”

Cennet raised an eyebrow, and Lord Spears scoffed. “And why should the infamous Lord Shadow care?”

“I asked him myself, my Lord,” Wynfeld said. “He would not tell me, though.”

“Likely this is a wild goose chase,” Lord Spears said. “Shadow always was one to fancy an ill-gotten joke.”

“You would know, I’m sure,” Cennet said. “Dealt with him often?”

Lord Spears frowned. “A few times.”

“So have I,” Cennet said. “He liked to try and tease the Guild with his information from time to time. For as frustrating as he is, though, I never have known him to lie.”

“And I’ve never know his game,” Lord Spears said. “He is erratic. For all we know, he wants us to over-extend ourselves, going after this revenant.”

Cennet smiled and tightened his grip on the shockrod. “Still, there is nothing a polite question or two with this Hares would hurt.” He smiled and turned to Wynfeld. “Thank you, Black. And I’m sorry.”

He looked at Cennet in confusion. “Sorry?”

Cennet nodded slowly. “We can’t be having you tell anyone else. I want this nugget of information for myself. You must understand. And so, I’m sorry.”

“What do you—”

Faster than Wynfeld’s eyes could follow, Cennet took a step back and drew the shockrod. In the same motion, he brushed it against Wynfeld’s cheek as he toggled a small switch on the grip. Pain exploded in Wynfeld’s head, and he saw white, then red, and then nothing.