commands, pens that could write on paper from miles away, and cruel iron weapons that burned as well as cut. Below a trap door lay the least wholesome and least legal stock of all, such as artifacts to cut through glass without making a sound, lift objects from afar, or open locks without leaving a scratch.
But the man who stood in the doorway wasn’t interested in anything they had in stock. This was Streshim, Captain of the Guard. He stood tall in his glittering mail, with an arrogant sneer resting beneath a crooked nose and a thick gray mustache. “Fetch your master,” said Streshim. “And clear off your workbench. I have some real work for you.”
Erenkirk was already hustling down the stairs, tightening his belt as he came into view. His wispy white hair was unbound and flapping in all directions, his boots were unlaced, and his shirt was haphazardly buttoned. Hungover and barely awake, just as Darvik had suspected.
Commander Streshim sniffed. “I hope this,” he gestured at the old master artificer, “is not meant as an example to your apprentice.” Erenkirk wiped his nose on a sleeve. “Gods, man, show a little dignity. I come to you as a representative of the Duke of Windmire.”
Erenkirk spat. “You don’t like me, find a new artificer. What does the Duke want me to make for him, for free I might add, today?”
“The Duke has been kind enough to exempt you and your apprentice from taxes, military service, and weekly inspection. You will repay his kindness by crafting whatever he desires.”
Erenkirk sighed. Darvik could tell the old man had some retort planned, but wisely held his tongue. Erenkirk knew full well what happened to those who drew the wrong kind of attention from the city guard; he and Darvik had built most of those consequences.
“I need another tool,” said Streshim. “Lately, prisoners have an ugly habit of dying before we get answers. We need a way to continue our interrogations.”
Erenkirk’s face went pale. He leaned heavily against the wall and smoothed his hair. “You’re talking about necromancy. The Sangrooks…”
“No,” said Streshim. “I’m talking about interrogating suspected traitors and heretics, and that’s how the Duke will see it. Make it happen.”
Erenkirk leaned the back of his head against the wall and breathed deeply. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “I have some ideas, but it will take a few months. The boy and I will need to make a trip.”
Streshim raised an eyebrow. “A trip?”
“Research,” said Erenkirk. “Maybe some tools.”
“You’re talking about the Manor?”
“I’m talking about the fastest way to make an artifact for nec— for posthumously interrogating prisoners.”
Now it was Streshim’s turn to think. “You can’t do it from scratch?”
Erenkirk for once stood tall and met the guardsman’s eye. “No.”
Commander Streshim shrugged with a jingle of mail. “Then see it done. This is too important to the Duke for half-measures. I’ll post a guard on this building until you return.” He turned on his heel and stalked out onto the street, but not before grabbing a spirit-lamp from the shelf.
Erenkirk followed Streshim to the door and slammed it shut. “A damn guard in my shop. I’d rather take my chances with the thieves.” He shook his head. “Did you extract that pig?” Darvik nodded. “Good. Take it to the butcher and trade it for some smoked pork for the road. Then come straight home. Don’t go sneaking off to that brothel like you always do. We leave at noon.” He clapped Darvik on the side of the head. “Why did you let him in? Hmm?”
Darvik spent the rest of the morning in a haze. Sangrook Mansion. That evil place had been abandoned for decades, and for good reason. The Sangrooks had ruled this country through their dark magic, necromancy and worse, leveling curses upon their
But the man who stood in the doorway wasn’t interested in anything they had in stock. This was Streshim, Captain of the Guard. He stood tall in his glittering mail, with an arrogant sneer resting beneath a crooked nose and a thick gray mustache. “Fetch your master,” said Streshim. “And clear off your workbench. I have some real work for you.”
Erenkirk was already hustling down the stairs, tightening his belt as he came into view. His wispy white hair was unbound and flapping in all directions, his boots were unlaced, and his shirt was haphazardly buttoned. Hungover and barely awake, just as Darvik had suspected.
Commander Streshim sniffed. “I hope this,” he gestured at the old master artificer, “is not meant as an example to your apprentice.” Erenkirk wiped his nose on a sleeve. “Gods, man, show a little dignity. I come to you as a representative of the Duke of Windmire.”
Erenkirk spat. “You don’t like me, find a new artificer. What does the Duke want me to make for him, for free I might add, today?”
“The Duke has been kind enough to exempt you and your apprentice from taxes, military service, and weekly inspection. You will repay his kindness by crafting whatever he desires.”
Erenkirk sighed. Darvik could tell the old man had some retort planned, but wisely held his tongue. Erenkirk knew full well what happened to those who drew the wrong kind of attention from the city guard; he and Darvik had built most of those consequences.
“I need another tool,” said Streshim. “Lately, prisoners have an ugly habit of dying before we get answers. We need a way to continue our interrogations.”
Erenkirk’s face went pale. He leaned heavily against the wall and smoothed his hair. “You’re talking about necromancy. The Sangrooks…”
“No,” said Streshim. “I’m talking about interrogating suspected traitors and heretics, and that’s how the Duke will see it. Make it happen.”
Erenkirk leaned the back of his head against the wall and breathed deeply. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “I have some ideas, but it will take a few months. The boy and I will need to make a trip.”
Streshim raised an eyebrow. “A trip?”
“Research,” said Erenkirk. “Maybe some tools.”
“You’re talking about the Manor?”
“I’m talking about the fastest way to make an artifact for nec— for posthumously interrogating prisoners.”
Now it was Streshim’s turn to think. “You can’t do it from scratch?”
Erenkirk for once stood tall and met the guardsman’s eye. “No.”
Commander Streshim shrugged with a jingle of mail. “Then see it done. This is too important to the Duke for half-measures. I’ll post a guard on this building until you return.” He turned on his heel and stalked out onto the street, but not before grabbing a spirit-lamp from the shelf.
Erenkirk followed Streshim to the door and slammed it shut. “A damn guard in my shop. I’d rather take my chances with the thieves.” He shook his head. “Did you extract that pig?” Darvik nodded. “Good. Take it to the butcher and trade it for some smoked pork for the road. Then come straight home. Don’t go sneaking off to that brothel like you always do. We leave at noon.” He clapped Darvik on the side of the head. “Why did you let him in? Hmm?”
Darvik spent the rest of the morning in a haze. Sangrook Mansion. That evil place had been abandoned for decades, and for good reason. The Sangrooks had ruled this country through their dark magic, necromancy and worse, leveling curses upon their
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