The Dark Ability (17 page)

Each crate in the warehouse was nearly ten paces long and half as wide, standing nearly to his neck. Stacked as they were atop each other, the topmost one touched the ceiling. Inside each one there was so much wonder. Rsiran could not help but feel curious about what was in the others.

“Is this the only one you’ve opened?”

Brusus smiled and shook his head. “The only one that has proved interesting. Each has been challenging to open. I suspect the design is particular to the Elvraeth, something they requested, which is likely why these are so damned hard to break into. Probably why they store them here so openly. Who else would waste so much time trying to break into these crates?” he asked disgustedly. “The first took me nearly two nights to crack open. Two nights! And all it held was stacks of paper. The quality was fine enough, but had I known…” Brusus sighed. “Another held fabrics woven in a rough design and nearly worthless. There was one full of fine porcelain. Nice quality and painted with interesting detail, but
that
box took me a day and a half to crack.”

In spite of Brusus’s apparent annoyance, Rsiran smiled. “How long did this crate take to open?”

Brusus saw the tilt of a smile on his face and glared at him. “Nearly a week. Took me most of that time to figure out how to peel away the layers. Once I learned that, then it opened easily.”

Could he Slide into one of the crates to see what they contained? Likely he would end up trapped… or worse. Injured or impaled on something inside. To Slide successfully, he needed to know there was an open place to emerge. He could not always tell that when he started. Maybe with enough practice he could get better, but for now, it would be safer to not risk it.

“What were you asked to do?”

“I wasn’t asked to do anything with the crates stored here,” Brusus admitted. “They were shown to me as an example. Probably a warning too. If they can leave all this wealth here, why do I matter?” Brusus ran his fingers along the nearest crate. “I doubt he even knows I’ve returned. Or maybe he does. The man who brought me here is like that crate. He works in layers. The outermost layer is not often the real reason. With him, I have learned to look deeper, peel away until I find something beneath. I still don’t know if I have peeled away enough, but I think there was another reason I was brought here.” Brusus looked with a longing expression at the crates.

Rsiran could almost see him calculating how much wealth was stored within, could sense the disappointment he would have felt when this crate was finally opened only to learn that whatever was stored inside was not something he could easily sell.

“Who showed them to you?”

Rsiran knew this must be where Brusus had gone the day after he’d first met him.

Brusus looked up and met Rsiran’s eyes. For a moment, Rsiran thought there was a surge of green there but decided it must be some trick of the light coming through the dirty windows overhead.

“Someone who is more at home here than I am.”

“A merchant?”

Brusus shook his head. “No merchant is allowed within this warehouse. As I said, I don’t think any but a select few of the Elvraeth even know what is stored here.”

“If none other than the Elvraeth know about the warehouse, then how did your…” Rsiran trailed off as he suddenly understood. “One of the Elvraeth
showed
this to you?”

Which meant Brusus owed money to one of the Elvraeth. Brusus’s desire for Rsiran’s knives took on new urgency. Brusus didn’t simply need a little money. With the Elvraeth involved, Rsiran couldn’t begin to fathom the sums Brusus might owe. And maybe the overheard comment about a rebellion had something more to it.

Brusus held his gaze. “Not from one of the high families, but he knew and showed me to this place.” Seeing the puzzled look, Brusus explained. “As I told you, the Elvraeth are not simply one family—they are many, all joined by common bloodlines. But only the high families rule, the families that trace their ancestors back generations ago to when they claim the Great Watcher himself gave them a gift.”

The Elvraeth were gifted with varying degrees of all the known abilities. Some manifested more powerfully than others, but every member of the family had each ability in some form. It was this that granted the Elvraeth the right to rule, and they had ruled over Elaeavn since before it moved to the sea.

“So the Elvraeth you owe money to brought you here?”

Brusus shot him a look. “He brought me here to discuss a job.”

Rsiran felt an itching in his head, like someone trying to Read him, and looked around. Other than Brusus, he thought they were alone.

“Is that why you didn’t fear the sellsword seeing you enter the warehouse?”

Brusus shook his head. “I’m not certain my friend was permitted to share what he knew of the warehouse.”

“Not permitted? Why would one of the Elvraeth share it with you if he wasn’t permitted?”

“That is another of the layers I have yet to peel away.”

“How much do you owe him?” It was only one of the questions he wanted to ask.

The itching in his head continued, and Rsiran turned, pretending to look at the boxes.

“Doesn’t matter. Not if I do this.”

“Brusus—this is one of the
Elvraeth
!”

Brusus’s eyes narrowed and his face hardened. “I think I understand that better than most. Besides, he’s hired me several times before. Always the jobs have been simple and paid well. The last… let’s just say it didn’t go as he planned. He’s offered me a way out of that debt.” He looked around the warehouse and shook his head. “Probably didn’t intend for me to return and open the crates, but what choice did he give me?” He shook his head again. “He knows I have to do what he asks or he’ll report me to the constables. And my coin won’t get me out of that when one of the Elvraeth does the reporting.”

“Brusus… are you sure you should be doing this? I mean, you are working for one of the Elvraeth but also against the Elvraeth. Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”

Brusus clapped a hand on Rsiran’s shoulder. “You have been spending far too much time around Jessa.”

Rsiran felt his face flush.

“That is the same question she asked. I will tell you the same as I told her—I don’t know. There are Elvraeth politics at play here. I suspect even if I hadn’t taken this job I would somehow end up mixed into them. I would rather be in control, if possible.”

Rsiran looked around the warehouse before turning to look at the open crate, the long box still lying on the floor. Something about the dirty floor or possibly the thin light reminded him of the mines and the men sentenced by the Elvraeth council to serve, and he wondered—with the Elvraeth, could one ever really be in control?

A
s Brusus tucked
the box containing the strange metal cylinder back into the crate, Rsiran looked again and counted the boxes that remained. From what he could tell, there were nearly two dozen, all lined and stacked neatly. He couldn’t help wondering what they were meant for, what purpose had the people that made and shipped them to the Elvraeth intended for the strange items?

Given the space remaining, it would seem other boxes had not been returned to the crate. “What did you do with the others?”

“Others?” Brusus turned and looked at him.

“You said there was one of gold and of silver?”

Brusus shrugged. “Those I’ve kept.”

“Will you try to sell them?” Rsiran imagined one of the Elvraeth learning of something missing. How much more trouble could Brusus get himself into then?

He shrugged. “Not in their current form. Too many questions.” As he led the way away from the small clearing, Brusus waved his hands around and tried to explain. “They’re solid gold, solid silver. I would have to melt them down before I could try to move them.” He shrugged again. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to sell them quite yet. They’re a part of whatever it is that is stored there, and until I know what that thing is, I don’t want to give up any of its parts. And… I will have another source of income soon.”

Rsiran felt some of the pressure coming off of him. If Brusus didn’t need him to create weapons of lorcith, he wouldn’t need to risk Sliding back to the mines.

Brusus turned. “If you ever manage to get that forge working, we can sell those blades of yours. If this job goes wrong…” He forced a smile. “Might need something else to offer.”

Rsiran nodded slowly. How could he
not
help Brusus? “The forge isn’t the issue.”

“I saw that.”

“After seeing this place, I do wonder if there might be anything here that we could use. Even tools that I wouldn’t have to forge would help.”

“There might be, Rsiran, but seeing how long it takes to open a single crate, searching through them all would take far too much time. Better to simply move forward with your plan.” Brusus took a few more steps, moving away from the lighted part of the warehouse, now where long shadows stretched that reminded Rsiran too much of the mines. “You do have a plan, don’t you?”

“I do,” he answered quickly. Except, after what happened last night, he wasn’t sure that he could go through with it anymore.

When they reached the door, Brusus motioned for him to be silent and pulled it open a crack. Sunlight and fresh air spilled through. Brusus shoved his face up to the door and looked. Once content, he slipped through and ducked along the wall, keeping his head low. Rsiran followed, pulling the door closed behind him. Dust from the stairs stuck to his tongue.

The sun had shifted during the time they were in the warehouse. Now it glinted over the top of the roof, reflecting with a bright light that bounced into his eyes. Muted sounds of water splashing along the shore reminded him again how different Lower Town was from what he was accustomed; the waves were rarely heard well along the rock wall in Upper Town, only the circling gulls and the distant water a reminder of the bay. A single cat yowled nearby and then hissed. Rsiran paused and look for what disturbed it.

Seeing nothing, he started after Brusus, staying close to the warehouse, keeping his head ducked low under the overhanging roof. As they started down the street, a shadow separated from the buildings. A glimmer reflected sunlight.

“Brusus!” he shouted.

Brusus had seen it as well and jumped back. A sellsword—not the same man they’d seen before entering the building—seemed to melt onto the street. One moment there had been no one, the next, his deep red cloak hung limp in the slight breeze blowing between the buildings, his sword half unsheathed as he faced them.

Rsiran’s heart fluttered. Old injuries on his back and neck itched. This man had the same heavily tanned face and steel grey eyes that stared icily at them. He wore dark leather pants with maroon that seemed stamped along the edges. His hand lightly gripped the hilt of his long sword.

Brusus waved his hands. “Just leaving, friend.” His words had a strange inflection, almost a sense of pressure.

The man’s face changed immediately, and he pulled his sword completely from his sheath. “Friend?” The word carried a thick accent, as if spoken from the back of his throat. “Not friend. You come from stores.”

It took Rsiran an extra moment to process what he said. Brusus seemed to recognize immediately.

Surprisingly, Brusus nodded, tilting his head toward the warehouse they had exited. “Needed to inventory. Recent shipment received and had to make sure the captain didn’t try to filch half.” His tone changed, going from soothing to more conversational. Still there was a sense of pressure to the words that Rsiran could not explain.

The sellsword shook his head. “No shipment. Not to that store.”

Brusus turned his head slightly. “I think you are mistaken. Check the logs if you need to.”

The sellsword slid forward a step. Though wide and solid, he moved with a languid grace, only his face showing any evidence of tension. His eyes seemed to shift, darting from Rsiran to Brusus, then back. Eventually, he settled on Brusus, as if dismissing Rsiran. His sword swiveled as he held it, moving like an extension of his hand. “No log,” the sellsword said. “Unauthorized. You come with me.”

Brusus spread his hands, his palms facing out toward the sellsword. “Listen, friend,” Brusus tried, “even though you are mistaken, we were leaving.” This time, there was no mistaking the strange pressure of the words, almost as if he tried to force them upon the sellsword.

The sellsword frowned. “It is you mistaken.” His voice filled with his thick way of speaking. “You Pushing will not make it so.”

Brusus lowered his hands and his smile changed, twisting from the friendly grin he had been showing the sellsword to one of acceptance.

The sellsword waited, tilted on his toes as if expecting something different from Brusus.

Then Brusus slipped forward.

The movement was so sudden and unexpected that Rsiran wasn’t sure what he was seeing at first. One moment Brusus had been standing, hands at his sides, and the next he practically flew forward, a slender blade appearing from somewhere beneath his cloak and flickering toward the guard.

The sellsword simply stepped to the side, moving with such speed that Brusus nearly barreled past him. His sword twisted, and there was a clang of metal, sword against sword, and Brusus jumped back.

The sellsword’s eyes had changed. The icy grey seemed to dance, almost excited.

Brusus had changed too. His face no longer drawn and sallow, his greying and thinning hair pulled back behind his head. Now the flesh of his face flattened, drawing tight, making him seem years younger.

Eyes blazed a dark green.

Rsiran froze, unable to look away. How had Brusus’s eyes changed so suddenly?

Brusus darted in and then back, sword tipping and swinging, but the sellsword did not back away. Rsiran knew little of swordsmanship, but it was clear that the sellsword did not fear Brusus.

Then there was a quick movement, and Brusus grunted, jumping back. Blood trickled down his side, staining his cloak and pants. The green of his eyes faded.

The sellsword moved forward, sword flashing toward Brusus again.

Rsiran saw it almost as if time had slowed. Blood drained from Brusus’s chest, and his arm hung limp at his side, unable to even lift his sword. There was no way he would be able to stop the attack.

Rsiran did the only thing he could think of: he Slid.

The Slide took him to Brusus, and he grabbed the man’s hands. One was wet and sticky, and Rsiran squeezed, careful not to let go. The scent of blood reminded him of the time he had been attacked in the dark. That it was not him injured this time did not make it better. The air whistled as the long sword swung.

Rsiran Slid again.

He had never Slid with another person before, never with anything heavier than the lump of lorcith. Had he not rested as long as he had during the day, he didn’t think he would have the energy. As it was, he did not risk a long Slide, deciding in an instant where to emerge.

There was a warmth from the sword nearly striking him, like a hot breath of air against his arm, as they Slid from the alley between the warehouses. As he did, he thought he saw someone else come out of the warehouse.