Thirty-nine Years Earlier — 12 June 1023 P.E.
Financial District, Darnan
Brilliant sunshine ricocheted around the street, bouncing from the bank’s polished limestone facade to the shining white pavestones, blinding any who might have peered into the shadows of a pillar where a young Brand watched a mechanohorse carriage approaching. He wiped a sleeve across eager amber eyes, brushed his sweaty dark hair aside, and licked his cracked lips. His stomach growled painfully. He gritted his teeth against the gnawing hunger and focused on the carriage.
He tapped his fingers impatiently against the smooth stone of the pillar as the carriage drew closer, its metal hooves clacking on the cobblestones, kicking up the thin film of dusty sand and spewing a light cloud behind it, warm golden bronze filigreed latticework skin shining like honey in the summer sun. Gears, pulleys, and pumps could be seen through the latticework, turning, twisting, and pumping to make the mechanical animal prance down the quiet street. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun’s blast furnace heat had emptied the street. Brand glanced around and saw only a mangy dog cowering in the shade of a barrel.
As the equine machine passed by, Brand sprinted out from behind his pillar. Already as tall as most grown men, Brand’s lanky legs carried him quickly across the gap. He leapt and grabbed the pole connecting the mechanohorse to the carriage it towed and heaved himself up until he could swing his leg over the metal horse’s back. He clambered up and hooked his heels around the filigreed belly.
The horse didn’t even pause. Once it was given a destination, mechanohorses only slowed or stopped for obstacles. And with no window in the front of the carriage, the passengers were none the wiser.
Brand pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and leaned forward so that he could reach the back of the horse’s head. A stiff false mane radiated like bronze sunbeams out of the back of its head, and to the right of the mane, Brand could see the dark little holes where the screws were. He stuck his screwdriver down one of the holes and began to twist.
Four screws later, Brand tugged on the false mane. It popped free, along with the panel it had been attached to, revealing a mass of wires. He brushed these aside, revealing a little black box underneath. Brand extracted the box, carefully maneuvering it through the wires and setting it between his legs. He reached back into the exposed cavity where a tiny marble-sized sphere of black diorite was held by five delicate prongs. Blue lightning skittered across its surface just under a thin transparent skin.
Brand yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and, using it to protect his fingers, he reached in and plucked the marble out. With his other hand, he yanked the black box free of its wires at the same time.
The mechanohorse froze in place. The momentum of the carriage shoved the metal horse forward to the cobblestones, flinging the boy forward.
But Brand was ready. He vaulted off the back of the machine just as the door of the carriage opened. A kashmari lord, face ornamented with gold rings and chalk-white curling markings, stuck his head out with a shout. A bullet whizzed by Brand’s head.
The boy ducked and swore, then dodged left while shoving his loot into a satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Stop, thief! Guards!” the kashmari screeched at a startled guard stepping out of the nearest pub. The guard stuck his head back into the pub and a moment later, a gaggle of city guards boiled out, stumbling and squinting in the brilliant sunlight.
Another bullet hit the cobblestones at Brand’s feet and sent the lad scampering as fast as his gangly legs could carry him.
Brand dashed into an alley. He scampered up a ladder, sweaty hands slipping on the rungs, heart hammering. He dragged himself over the lip of the roof and squinted into the sun. All around him was a whole new layer to the city, one of parched rooftop gardens and sun-bleached undergarments hanging from clotheslines. From here, he could see the mountains rising in the west like a great gray wall, the Southern and Eastern Train Depots wreathed in thick steam, and the four districts of Darnan laid out neatly before him.
Behind him, Brand heard the rattle and thuds of boots on the metal ladder. Grinning at the thrill of the chase, he ducked under a clothesline and sprinted to the edge of the building, and bunching his legs, leapt across to the next building, landing with a roll. He nearly rammed into a wooden structure beaten by the wind and bleached grey by the sun.
Behind him, city guardsmen shouted at him to stop. A bullet zipped through a flapping sheet and hit the wooden structure beside Brand, sending splinters at the boy’s face. With a yelp, Brand stumbled around to the other side of the building, then sprinted to the edge of the roof, muscles straining, preparing to launch himself toward the next building.
Just as he reached the edge of the roof, an arm surged upward and caught his tattered boot.
Brand cried out as he lurched downward, knees buckling, even as his momentum carried him over the edge of the roof. The hand hanging onto his boot wasn’t strong enough to hold him. His trouser slipped out of the guard’s grip and he barely caught a glimpse of the shocked face of the guardsman as he plummeted headfirst down the alley.
Then everything went black.
* * *
In the shade of the alley below, William slung his jacket over his shoulder, unbuttoned his waistcoat and the top button of the white undershirt below to try and relieve the heat, then pulled out his pipe. He glanced up at the shouts of “Stop!” and “In the name of the law!” coming from up above him on the rooftops. He rolled his eyes as he lit his pipe and stuck it between teeth bordered by a bristly mustache.
William blew out a cloud of smoke that rose lazily through the air and faded into the sunlight above the alley. He wasn’t sure why he still smoked. It didn’t calm him down like it did others; though, on the flip side, it also didn’t do him any harm, either. He wasn’t particularly fond of the smoky smell, and he wasn’t addicted to it. He looked down at the pipe, then upended it, pouring out the burning herbs to the sandy ground. He crushed the embers under his shiny shoes with a sigh and pocketed the empty pipe.
He listened to the guards above, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets, bored.
Was this why he smoked? he wondered, glancing down at the black-edged tobacco leaves. Boredom? Hm. What else could he do out here on break if not smoke? Maybe tomorrow he should bring a book.
The shouts above William drew his attention once more. He tilted his dark head to the side to listen better. They were drawing closer. William surmised that the guardsmen must be on the tail of a particularly spry thief if they hadn’t caught up to him yet. After all, most of the guards were in decent shape, William had to admit. They’d nearly caught him a few weeks ago one night, and that was no easy feat.
William lowered his eyes as a city guard with red hair clanked by William and hustled up the ladder to the roof. But then the guard paused, clinging just below the eaves like a lizard clinging to a rock, eyes fixed above.
Curious, William crossed to the other side of the alley and leaned his back up against the cool brick wall to get a better view.
A lanky adolescent boy appeared at the edge of the roof precisely where the guard lay in wait. The guard reached up like a striking scorpion, latching onto the boy’s boot. But the boy’s momentum was too much for the guard’s fingers to keep hold of, and the boot was ripped out of the guard’s hand. The boy let out a hoarse scream as he plummeted down five stories to the alley floor.
William barely had time to register what had happened before the boy crashed into a tall pile of crates and vanished.
He dashed over to the crates and started hauling broken boards aside. But when he had cleared them, instead of the broken body of a boy, he found only splinters and crushed vases that had been housed in the smashed crates.
The boy was gone.
William cursed and looked around the alley. It took a moment for him to find the lanky boy stumbling away, holding his head, a bit of blood seeping through his dark hair. He looked back and caught sight of William. Before the older man could say a word, the boy had turned on his heel and sprinted away, out of the alleyway.
The red-headed guardsman caught up to William, nursing his hand. The guard glanced among the crates and swore.
“Where’d he go?” he asked.
William pointed in the opposite direction the boy had gone. “That way, I think. How’d he survive that fall? That must have been fifty feet!”
The guard snorted. “I’ll ask him when I catch him.” And he trotted off down the alley, beckoning to the guards on the roof to follow.
William made a covert sign with his hand behind his back and followed the boy at a more nonchalant pace.
* * *
Brand’s head ached as he stumbled down the street. With every step he took, though, the pains in his shoulders and neck slowly receded. When he could no longer hear the city guards behind him, he slowed his pace and picked his way through the city until he found himself on a street that was shaded with huge sun-bleached cloth sails draped from rooftop to rooftop. Shops and restaurants lined the street. No carriages were allowed down this street, allowing pedestrians to flood the sidewalk and cobblestoned marketplace. Brand sighed and breathed in the relatively cooler air laced with cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom.
He’d been lucky those crates were there to break his fall, he thought. He touched the bruise on his forehead and winced. At least the thumping headache seemed to be easing.
The boy walked over to a green-tinged fountain and stuck his entire head in, scrubbing the grit and sweat out of his hair. He then scooped water into his mouth and all over his arms, like a bird bathing itself.
Dripping and refreshed, Brand paused to take stock of his surroundings. He glanced up and down the street and listened carefully for the clank and thud of guardsman boots. A couple of Duati women with shawls pulled up over their ghostly faces drew their purses closer to their bodies, but that was all. No one cared about him. He was just another scrawny brat among hundreds of dirty street urchins that inhabited Darnan.
So the lanky boy set off, dodging between pedestrians until he came to a shop brimming with mechanical odds and ends and pieces of scrap metal hanging from the eaves of every shape and size imaginable. He smiled at the smell of machine oil and old dirt. Brand felt as though he were stepping into a mechanical cave, thanks to all the metal parts hanging from the walls and ceiling.
It was blessedly cool in here thanks to two giant fans whirring away at the back, powered by a spindly robot peddling away on a bicycle-like contraption. A giant clock with exposed gears hung over a long counter crammed with all manner of clockwork knickknacks and robots in various states of disassembly and repair. Brand caught sight of the crumpled, greenish body of a corroded mechanohorse slumped in a corner.
He dodged through the piles of junk to the back of the shop. A tall fat man in spectacles perched on a stool that was too small for him, hunched over a mechanical sewing machine that had been pulled apart and laid out in front of him, the delicate pieces of metal glinting in the pale light of a tiny headlamp secured to the man’s forehead with a leather strap.
“Ah, young Cadmus,” the man said, his face breaking out into a broad smile. “What have you got for me today?”
“Hi, Mr. Alastair,” Brand said as he fished his spoils out of his satchel. He opened the handkerchief, revealing the diorite marble. The lightning that had been skittering across its surface earlier was gone, leaving only its polished black surface.
Alastair picked up the box gently and turned it this way and that, hazel eyes quietly analyzing and valuing it. His eyes lit up as he turned his attention to the marble. He picked it up with his bare, thick fingers. As soon as his skin touched its surface, explosions of blue burst under the pressure. Brand’s eyes widened.
“Why isn’t it burning you?” he asked the shopkeeper.
Alastair waved his free hand dismissively. “Calloused fingers.”
Brand frowned, but he knew better than to question the old man’s lie.
“Have I ever told you the story of the princess and the mechanohorse?” Alastair asked.
Brand loved listening to the man’s stories. The old mechanic loved to tell tales of another world far, far away from this dirty, hot, stinky mess of a city. But just then, Brand’s stomach growled audibly. The shopkeeper chortled, his great belly rolling.
“Maybe later?”
“I’d just really like payment for now, Mr. Alastair. I haven’t eaten in three days.”
“Three days? What did I tell you, boy?” The shopkeeper sighed, shaking his head. “I take it you haven’t taken your prophylactic today either, then.”
Brand shook his head. “I ran out yesterday.”
Alastair growled softly in the back of his throat and threw Brand an exasperated look. He pulled a small pouch out from a pocket inside his shirt. He wedged two thick fingers in and pulled out a tiny, red pill, which he handed to Brand.
“One a day—“
“—every day,” Brand finished, bored. He swallowed the pill.
Alastair pulled out another pill and swallowed it himself. “I’ll get you more tonight.” He reached beside him into a satchel and pulled out a roll, which he tossed to Brand. “Here. That’ll keep you alive another two minutes while I get the money.”
Brand ripped the roll apart and stuffed pieces of it into his mouth. He had to slow down, though, as the dry bread sucked all of the moisture from his mouth.
The marble vanished into a pouch at Alistair’s belt. The large shopkeeper stood and went around to the other side of the counter and started pulling out various drawers, searching.
“Remind me to tell you that story someday,” Alastair muttered as he shifted a heavy bag aside so he could get to another set of drawers. After another moment of rummaging, the big man exclaimed.
“Ha! There it is.” Alastair pulled a small leather purse out of a drawer. Leaning forward, elbows on a tiny circle of clutter-free counter, he held out the money purse to the boy. “Here you are. If you have a mind, I have a few chores you can do for a few more coins later, once you fill that bottomless pit of a stomach.”
Brand reached for the purse, but Alastair held on. “Mind you come back before dark, lad. The crews are working overtime this week. You had me in a panic when you vanished. I thought they’d caught you and left you dead in a ditch.”
Brand snorted, tugging at the purse. “They’ll never catch me.”
Alastair refused to release his grip. “Sundown, you understand?”
Brand sighed and nodded. “Fine.”
Alastair nodded, satisfied, finally loosening his grip.
Brand snatched the purse and scurried out of the shop.
Once out in the street again, Brand stopped to think of what he wanted to eat. Alastair expected him to use it all and had lectured him at length on the importance of providing his growing body with all the nutrients it needed. But Brand had taken to buying a bowl of flatbread and beans and then saving the rest of the money to buy cheap tickets to see the gladiators. There was a fight tomorrow, too…
Brand caught a whiff of roasting meat and his resolve evaporated. He was so tired of flatbread and beans, so dry and empty and tasting of wood shavings. He wanted meat and vegetables and fruit. Those were important for a strong, growing boy, weren’t they? He could eat flatbread and beans tomorrow instead. And besides, Alastair had said he had something for Brand to do for a few pennies he could use to buy a ticket.
The spicy aromas led Brand like a siren song to the front of a street cart with a huge hunk of some animal roasting on a spit off to the side. Brand hurried to the woman at the cart and ordered a flatbread and roasted meat, cut up peppers on the side. He gave her most of the money in the pouch, then scampered off around the corner. He sat down beside a ragged woman strumming a guitar and crooning softly below a tree with feathery leaves and purple trumpet-shaped flowers. Listening to her gentle music, the boy unwrapped his food and began to eat.
Brand ate as slowly as he could, savoring every bite, from the soft and juicy peppers to the crispy outside of the flatbread and its pillowy interior. The spicy meat made his head a little fuzzy and his nose run.
As he ate, Brand noticed a small girl watching him with large, hungry eyes. Her clothes were worn and tattered like Brand’s, and she was even scrawnier than he. The boy’s heart ached as he realized she was staring at his food.
Brand looked down at the food. He’d have flatbread and beans tomorrow, he knew, while this little girl may not get any food for a week. With one last sad look at the delicious food, Brand beckoned her over and offered her the last of his food. Her eyes lit up as she wolfed down the meat and flatbread. Brand smiled.
When the food was gone, Brand closed his eyes. The little girl curled up next to him. Together, the children let the warm shade and the soft whisper of the breeze in the tree above lull them to sleep.
* * *
William watched the boy go into the shop from across the street, twiddling his unlit pipe between his fingers. Then the boy came out, holding a small money pouch and looking up and down the street as though trying to decide something. Then he ran off.
Probably going to go get something to eat, William mused as he detached himself from the hot brick wall and sauntered across the street. Guardian knows he needs it.
William ducked inside the shop and looked around at the heaps of slightly organized junk.
”Hello there!” called a jovial tenor voice from the back. A tall, broad man with bright eager hazel eyes appeared. “Can I interest you in a refurbished servitor—?”
The shopkeeper picked up a motionless clockwork monkey wearing a threadbare top hat and flicked a switch at the base of its rusted iron skull. It shuddered, then turned its head to William with a creak.
“Hhow may Iassis—sss—t you?”
William grimaced. “Eh, no, that’s not why I’m here. I don’t want to buy anything.”
“Alright then.” The shopkeeper shrugged, then flicked the monkey’s switch again. The simian servitor crumpled. The shopkeeper set it back on the counter, then turned and proffered a heavy hand to William.
“What can I do for you, kind sir?”
William accepted the handshake. As he did, the shopkeeper’s sleeve slid back slightly, revealing a strange blue and green wave tattoo cut by sharp geometric lines starting at the man’s wrist. He noted that the same pattern peeked out from under the collar of the man’s shirt. William frowned slightly. Colored tattoos were rare in Darnan, as were the pigments required to ink them.
“What can you tell me about that boy that just came in here? Do you know him?”
William watched a wall slam down behind the man’s eyes, though the smile didn’t falter.
“The boy? Oh, he’s just a kid, an orphan, really, who hangs around here. Does odd jobs for me, sleeps in the back. You know how it is on the streets. I keep an eye on him. Why?”
William cut to the chase. “That kid fell off a five-story building into a pile of crates and walked it off as though he’d merely tripped over a rock.”
The shopkeeper looked like he’d bitten into a sour lime. “Look. He’s a tough kid and I’m sure the crates broke his fall. He’s completely normal.”
William drew himself up tall but still was a head shorter than the shopkeeper. He glared at the bigger man. “He’s not and you know it,” William said quietly.
The shopkeeper took a step closer until he loomed ominously over William.
“Drop it,” the shopkeeper hissed. “Get lost and leave the kid alone. Keep your mouth shut, or you’ll meet the business end of a rifle. Do you understand?”
“I can help him,” William whispered. “Without help, Fafnir will find him and kill him. You can’t hide him forever.”
The shopkeeper’s gaze never faltered, but something flickered behind those hazel eyes. William pressed on.
“Are you his father?” he whispered. The big man’s jaw clenched but he shook his head. “Uncle?”
Another shake of his head.
“Like I said, he’s just an urchin.”
William shrugged, unconvinced. The boy was already large for his age and shared some of the shopkeeper’s more robust features. Why the secrecy? William wondered. But he pressed forward. “You must worry about him, and what his abilities mean. Let me teach him to fight, to protect himself.”
The shopkeeper cleared his throat and looked away, and around at the tattered shop. William realized that this man was almost as poor as the boy, and perhaps had even given the boy his last few coins so the lad could have a decent meal. William thought he might be getting through to the big man.
Then something behind William caught the shopkeeper’s eye and the big man’s face hardened again. He wordlessly pointed out of the shop with one stiff hand.
William sighed and nodded, and left, frustrated and worried.
* * *
As the mustached stranger walked out, a stray breeze from the great fans dislodged a canvas tarp draped across the counter, exposing a vambrace made from a strange bluish metal that was impossibly smooth and free of tarnish. The tarp fluttered again, revealing a massive claymore etched with unfamiliar runes that lay beside the gauntlet. Alastair sidled over to them cautiously and readjusted the tarp, then tied a rope around the armaments to keep the tarp from slipping. As his hand brushed the gauntlet, the metal seemed to ripple slightly.
Alastair glanced up nervously and saw the stranger standing in the doorway, outlined against the bright street. The man was staring back at the tarp. Then he turned and left without a word.
The shopkeeper wiped at the sweat beading on his brow. Who was that man? Could he be trusted?
Alastair looked down at the vague lumps under the tarp. If that man said even a word to the wrong person, Cadmus Brand and he were dead men.
The big man stood frozen in indecision for a long moment, considering his options. He didn’t have many.
Finally, Alastair leaned down and took out a piece of thick paper and an old pen from under the counter and began to write a letter.
