Chapter Three
The marketplace huddled in the shadow of the windship docks. The windship they’d seen earlier bumped quietly against the latticework tower, its sails tucked away against the hulls as crews swarmed over its decks, loading and unloading cargo. Rae wondered if, when the time came, he could convince the captain of one of those ’ships to let him serve as a stormbinder, maintaining the anti-ballast deep in the hull. This far from Fulcrum, they might not demand proof of his training. He might be able to negotiate passage for the whole family. If only . . .
“Quit your dreaming, Raelle,” his sister said. “We’re not here for the docks.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answered. “Not yet, at least.”
Vendor stalls in a patchwork of reds and yellows and greens lined the courtyard, their open fronts filled with hanging shelves displaying their wares. Space was at such a premium within the safe confines of the Bastion that some shops hung overhead, suspended from the sides of buildings and reachable only by plank walkways and perilous switchbacks. A dizzying array of goods were on offer, from hammered brass pots to jingling racks of knives, from paper dolls to spiritbound wards meant to protect the wearer from rogue phantoms. Food sellers filled the air with the smell of grilled meat and roasted vegetables, dusted with spices meant to mask the quality of the goods.
Nearly everything in the market was made in Hammerwall. The steading was essentially isolated from the rest of the Ordered World; the ever-growing wastelands had cut off the land routes to Hammerwall nearly a decade ago, and travel by air was both dangerous and unwise. While a lot of the materials needed for everyday life could be produced locally, some could not, and their supply dwindled by the year. Soon, the Iron College would declare Hammerwall unsustainable, and organize a mass evacuation to safer bastions, closer to Fulcrum. Not all the citizens of Hammerwall would accept evacuation, preferring to stay and fight the encroachment of Chaos to the bitter end. Rae was determined his family wouldn’t be among that doomed lot.
“This is where we split up,” Rae said. “Take care of the ax, and the honeycake if there’s any coin left.”
“What are you going to be doing?” La asked, as she took the satchel from Rae’s shoulder. “Nothing that’s going to get me in trouble with Mom, I hope.”
“The less you know . . .” Rae twisted his smile, but La answered with an eye roll. “Seriously, sis. There are friends of mine it’s better you don’t know. Stay honest as long as you can. That way, once we’re free of this place and safely nestled back in polite society, you can at least pretend to belong.”
“Whatever. Just be safe. There’s not enough money in this satchel to bail you out, and if I have to go home alone, Mother’s going to tan your hide and hang it from the barn as a warning to the crows.”
“I’m not doing anything illegal,” Rae said. “Today.”
“One hour, then I’m heading home. Don’t make me walk that road by myself.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rae said. Then he turned and got lost in the crowd.
Rae’s destination was on the narrowest of narrow streets, barely more than a plank suspended ten feet in the air down the length of an alleyway, with vendors on either side, their tents strung from steel cables anchored in the surrounding buildings. Every scrap of space in Hammerwall was used for something. The plank wobbled as he walked its length. The tent he wanted was at the far end, its flap closed against the wind, its wares hidden away. The only indication that it was occupied was the thin stream of smoke puffing out of a brass chimney in the corner of the roof.
Rae pushed the tent flap aside and stepped inside. It was hot under the canvas roof, the heat of the tiny stove in the back corner trapped by the tent’s thick linen. A scarred countertop separated the entrance from the craftsman’s domain, an area stuffed with folios and sheaves of ink-stained paper, all of it jammed haphazardly into the pigeonholes of a folding cupboard. The shopkeeper was a large man, with thick fingers that looked more like a farmer’s than a magician’s. The man did not fit with Rae’s image of a spiritbinder, so much so that he almost backed out of the tent. It was only the scent of scrywood, often used to attune mortal souls to the eight-fold realms, and the tapestries of scried souls lining the counter, that convinced Rae he was in the right place.
The bondwright turned on him, large, glassy eyes looking Rae up and down before saying anything.
“Help you, son?” the bondwright asked. “If you’re looking for work, there’s none here. Do better by the airdock.”
“I need a binding,” Rae said. He took the stack of coins out of his pocket and laid them on the counter, letting them clatter loudly together, in the hope of making them seem more substantial than they actually were. What he was buying was expensive, even by spiritbinding standards. “I can pay.”
“Of course you can. Everyone can pay, until they know the price. Wouldn’t walk into a shop, otherwise.” The bondwright leaned against the scarred counter, giving Rae’s tattered clothes a hard look before he tapped on the stack of mismatched coins. “Where’d you get these? I don’t want the justicars poking around my shop.”
“Inheritance from my father. He . . . he passed away last month.” Rae lowered his head, trying to look as much like a mourning son as he could. Not a stretch, really. “This is all I have left of him.”
“And you’re going to spend it here?”
“It’s what he would have wanted,” Rae said firmly.
“What you want, more like,” the bondwright said. “So what’s the binding? Life, to save your ailing ma? Order, to keep your failing farm from falling into chaos? Maybe a wraithkey, to keep your sweet papa close? None of the elementals. That’s too much gold for a damned firebox.”
“My soul,” Rae said, throwing his shoulders back and pushing out his chest, trying to regain some of the nobility Lady Kelthannis had drilled into him when he was a child. Stand straight, and the world will know you’re ordered, she had always said. “I want a scrying of my soul.”
The bondwright snorted. He pushed the coins back at Rae, tumbling the stack across the counter.
“You don’t have the money for that, and I don’t have a death wish. Go back to your farm and put that money into a new plow, or a brideprice for your lady true. Even if I had the skill to scry your soul, the justicars would take exception to a bondwright tangling with another man’s spirit.”
“That’s all the coin I have,” Rae said. “And it’s coin enough. And you’re ’wright enough, aren’t you?”
The bondwright paused, the sneer on his face frozen in place and doubt creeping into his eyes.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he asked carefully.
“You are Marcus Indrit, former court mage for House Felthan of Whiteflame Bastion, before you were drummed out of the Iron College eight years ago. Something to do with bribes. So you clearly know the cost of things, Mr. Indrit. The value of that information, for example, to a justicar.” Rae cocked his eyebrow. His father had recognized Indrit the day they arrived in Hammerwall, and had avoided him ever since. It took Rae quite a bit of digging to learn why his father always steered clear of this alleyway every time they came to town, but eventually he came across the damning paperwork. Apparently Hammerwall was the destination of choice for disgraced mages. “Should I go now? Back to my family, as you say. Back to whatever I’m running from?”
Indrit froze, then turned slowly back to Rae. There was calm violence in his eyes.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Indrit whispered. “And you’re no dead farmer’s son. So whoever you are, get out of here. Before you say something we both regret. Before you get hurt.”
“I’m not fool enough to walk in here with those accusations without making provisions. You have skill enough to scry my soul, and a sufficient lack of morals, as well. So stop pretending otherwise and start tracing the lines. And there’s no need for threats, Mr. Indrit. I walk out of here in one piece or my accomplice starts talking to the houseguard station down by the dock. They’ll be here before you bury my body.”
Indrit was very still for a moment. Then he chuckled and swept Rae’s coins off the counter and into his wide palm.
“Let’s not be dramatic, young lad. Like you say, there’s no need for threats. Just trying to watch after your interests, I am. Spiritbinding is a dangerous business, and not to be taken lightly.”
Rae watched the stack of coins disappear into Indrit’s cupboard and felt a stab of loss. That stack was his entire life, every scrap he’d secreted away from the family stash, every sketchy job he’d taken from Morgan. But it was the only way forward. That would have been enough to buy a new ax, and a new thresher, and maybe have some left over to replace all the broken jars in the cellar and fill them with food. Rae tried not to think about that. What he was doing would get them out of this place forever. Who needed a new ax, when you weren’t stuck in Hammerwall anymore?
“Take off your shirt, and anything that might have a spiritual resonance,” Indrit said. “Wouldn’t want your dead grammie’s precious locket creating an echo and ruining the image. I’m only doing this once.”
Rae did as he was told, suddenly grateful for the tent’s cloying heat. He sat on a stool next to the scarred counter while Indrit prepared something in the back of the shop. When the bondwright turned around, he was holding a piece of paper and a pen, dripping red.
“Let’s get this done, boy. Before an honest customer comes along and wonders what we’re doing.”
Indrit placed the sheet of paper on Rae’s chest, holding it in place with one outstretched hand while he prepared the scrying with the other. Indrit’s fingers were warm against Rae’s skin. The mage drew a circle in the air with the pen, whispering incantations as he reached into Rae’s soul with his own. Ink dripped from the pen, hanging midair like dark pearls suspended from the thinnest line. Rae felt his soul respond, answering to Indrit’s summoning. Rae’s spirit moved through his heart, his lungs, scraping against his rib cage like a fishhook. It reminded him of drinking hot wine at solsticetide, filled his head with the same fuzz. Indrit snapped his hand away, and lines of color and light trailed from his fingers, dancing in a dazzling pattern in the space between his fingers and Rae’s chest. Rae felt a tug in his bones, and caught his breath. When Indrit released the threads, they settled slowly back into Rae’s flesh, leaving a sigil on the paper. Indrit snatched it away and studied the gauzy lines, mumbling to himself as he strolled through his cupboards.
“A good start, a good start. You have potential. A very complicated soul. Are you sure your family has never worked with the College?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. When Rae shook his head, Indrit shrugged. “A pity. There is talent in your blood. I’m surprised the scouts never sussed you out. This far from Fulcrum, though, they might not have been looking so hard. Did you want to see it?”
Rae nodded. His head was spinning, and a slight tremor was working its way through his extremities. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself. Indrit placed the scrying on the counter between them.
A pattern of light pulsed across the parchment, not nearly as complicated as the sword hidden in the barn, but still an eye-bending tapestry of lines and swirls and interlocking knots. The lines were still burning their way into the paper. Rae pulled the paper closer. That’s my soul, he mused. This is the key to binding spirits. I can do this. I can!
“Like I said, a complicated soul. You have the talent, lad. If you ever get the price together, you should make your way to Fulcrum. Have them teach you proper,” Indrit said. He plucked up the scrying and folded it into an origami square, the corners tucked together neatly. “Better than being a feral mage.”
“Fulcrum won’t have me,” Rae said quietly.
“Well, there are other paths, if you don’t mind working in the shadows,” Indrit answered. “And you seem comfortable with the shadows. Is that good enough, friend? Neither of us need to speak to the justicars, do we?”
“Yes, that will suffice. I won’t say anything. Thank you,” Rae said.
“Just keep it to yourself,” Indrit said. He wiped the scattered drops of ink off the counter. “You could get into a lot of trouble with that scrying. I don’t want the Iron College tracing it back to me.”
Rae stood uncertainly. He slid his shirt back over his shoulders, leaving the front unbuttoned as he tucked the paper scrying into his belt. The noon whistle sounded at the dock. He had been gone too long. La would be worried.
“Good day, sir,” Rae said as he headed for the door. “Forget you saw me.”
“Indeed,” Indrit answered. “I trust the feeling is mutual.”
Rae stepped outside and breathed in the stale air of Hammerwall. There was something wrong with his head. He steadied himself on the rope handrail, placing his feet carefully on the plank walkway. The scrying had given him some surprising insights into spiritbinding, though. Like a muscle never exercised, even the symbolic extraction and etching of the tapestry of his soul had pulled at unknown joins in his essence. It was like learning to play an instrument by having someone else move your fingers along the strings. He thought it might help, the next time he tried to bind one of the motes mapped out in the sword hidden in the root cellar.
A pair of feet landed heavily on the walkway behind him. Rae whirled around, hand grabbing at the tiny knife his mother made him carry, rather than the proper sword and firelock he had always imagined at his belt. As soon as he saw who it was, he released the knife. But he was also glad his coins were already safely in the bondwright’s possession.
“Morgan, hell. I was just coming to see you,” Rae said.
“Were you? That’s good to hear,” Morgan answered. He was a lanky kid, nearly as tall as Lalette, with none of her awkwardness and twice her muscle. He wore an outfit of carefully curated nonchalance: stylishly ruined pants, and three overlapping vests. His boots were a little too big for his skinny feet. Morgan carried a proper brace of knives on his belt, and his calloused fingers kept brushing them as he talked. “But I don’t have anything for you today, young Raelle. Not a lot of market for black market chaosblades, not with a justicar creeping around the steading.”
Rae’s eyes narrowed. “What have you heard of that?”
“What I’ve said. That there’s a justicar snooping about. Asking questions about a diabolist in our midst.” Morgan’s delicate eyebrow arched over his lightly made up eyes. “You don’t know anything about that, I trust?”
“No, no. Not at all. It’s just . . .” Rae said stiffly. His eyes shot to the end of the platform. Morgan’s enormous companion, the immovable Mahk, came up the stairs. He smiled when he saw Rae. Rae swallowed hard. “I was hoping to talk to you about other jobs.”
“Other jobs, you say?” Morgan came closer, strolling easily across the precarious surface of the plank. “What kind of jobs?”
“You know. Bigger jobs. The kind of jobs that pay real gold.” Rae flinched as Mahk cleared his throat from the end of the platform. A pair of houseguard were passing the alleyway. They paid the three young men no mind, disappearing around the bend, but Rae realized his heart was nearly in his throat from the scare of being caught with the likes of Morgan. He turned back to Morgan, who was busily examining his fingernails. “I think I’m ready to help.”
“Are you? The kind of help we could get from our mutual friend Indrit?” Morgan jerked his head at the bondwright’s shingle. “Oh, yeah, we know all about him. Don’t think you’re the only one who can smell a rogue spiritbinder.”
“He won’t help you. He can’t afford the attention, should things go wrong.” Rae absentmindedly scratched at his chest, as though the tangled weave of his soul had left a scab. “Not like I can.”
“Can you? Because that last time we had this conversation, you swore you weren’t a spiritbinder. Have you solved that deficiency?”
“Soon,” Rae said with a confidence he didn’t fully feel.
“Good. Good good good,” Morgan said. “Well, that’s some excellent timing. I have just learned of the perfect opportunity for you to stretch your newfound skills.” He was very close now. His breath smelled like licorice, but the fetid stink of sweat clung to his clothes, with just the faintest whiff of rotting teeth underneath. “But if I make this arrangement, you can’t screw it up. These are serious people, Rae. Dangerous people.”
“I’ll be ready. I swear,” Rae said. He looked at Mahk again. The big man stood with his arms crossed, watching them both silently. Rae turned his attention back to Morgan. “Just give me a chance to prove myself.”
Morgan stood very still for a heartbeat, then broke into a tangletooth smile and clapped Rae on the shoulder.
“Sounds great! We’re all going to make a lot of money.” He slipped past Rae despite the narrow quarters of the plank, the handles of his knives strumming Rae’s rib cage. “Hallowsphere’s Eve. You can be ready by then?”
“I . . .” Rae hesitated. That was tomorrow. That meant he had one chance to bind the spirit. If his plan didn’t work, he’d be in a lot of trouble. Morgan arched his brows at him, inquisitively. “Yeah, I can be ready.”
“Grand! Mahk will meet you while everyone else is eating the Hallowsphere dinner. Take the southern road, toward the orderwall.” Without waiting for an answer, Morgan turned and walked away. “I’m counting on you, Rae! Don’t let me down!”
Morgan clattered down the stairs, diving into the crowd with both elbows. Rae went through his pockets, making sure Morgan hadn’t lifted anything from him, then remembered that other than the parchment tucked beneath his shirt, he didn’t have anything on him worth stealing.
“Are you sure about this, Rae?” Mahk rumbled.
“Positive. I need the money, Mahk. And I’ll have the spirit bound.”
The big man shrugged expansively. “Your call. If I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure this job only came up because of that justicar. Lot of work for rogue spiritbinders in the steading all of a sudden. Makes me a little nervous.”
“Everyone’s nervous these days,” Rae answered. He let out a long sigh, looking Mahk over. The gentle giant was always nice to Rae, even when making threats. “Why do you hang out with him, Mahk?”
“He’s kind to me,” Mahk answered. He looked over Rae’s shoulder at Morgan’s retreating back. There was something wistful in his gaze. “That’s all I can ask.”
“Yeah, well. If he asks you to beat me into a pulp, are you going to do it?” Rae asked.
“It’s not going to come to that, Raelle,” Mahk said, his toothy grin stretching almost to his ears. Mahk smiled a lot. Rae sometimes wondered what the man found to be happy about. “Because you’re going to be our little spiritbinder, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, Mahk. That’s what I’m going to do.”
Mahk nodded slowly and turned to go.
“Say hi to your sister for me. She’s a smart one, Rae. Stick close to her and you’ll go far,” Mahk said as he strolled down the swaying stairs. “Maybe even get out of this miserable steading.”
Mahk descended the walkway and worked his way through the crowds, head and shoulders above everyone else, not shoving his way through so much as plowing a path that could not be denied. Even the few horses in the street scrambled to get out of his way. Rae waited until he disappeared around a corner.
“I’m the one getting us out of here,” Rae muttered as he went down the stairs. “That’s my job. That’s why I’m doing this.”