Chapter Fifteen
29th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
It surprised Ciras Dejote to realize he didn’t hate Borosan’s gyanrigot anymore. He respected the gyanridin’s skill at fabricating the machines. During the one day they’d remained in a cavern while a torrential rain fell-which had the added effect of melting a mountain in the distance-Borosan was able to modify one of the skull-sized mousers, create another duplicate of it, and to get the larger Nesrearck working. It resembled the smaller ones in that it had a spherical body atop four spider legs, but boasted more substantial weaponry. Whereas the smaller ones could shoot darts sufficient for impaling vermin, the larger thanaton carried a crossbow and a small sheaf of bolts.
Originally, the magic machines had been nonfunctional in Ixyll, which Ciras didn’t mind at all. The excess of wild magic rendered them unreliable, so Borosan continued to tinker with the devices as they traveled. He eventually figured out that if he sheathed what he called their “difference engines” in the protective cloth men wore in Ixyll, they would be insulated from the wild magic. Another modification let the thaumston recharge overnight, so the gyanrigot functioned better than ever.
With three gyanrigot conducting the survey, they were able to move more quickly. Even Borosan had become anxious to push on, and Ciras found no reason to complain. While he respected Borosan’s decision to collect data for Keles Anturasi, the new mission they’d been given was to find the Empress and bring her home. Both men realized it took precedence over the survey, so they picked up speed.
As much as he came to appreciate the utility of gyanrigot, he still was not comfortable with one aspect of gyanri. The discipline of mechanical magic could impart skills to people. A gyanrigot sword would make a warrior formidable-at least while the thaumston held a charge. Once that wore off, the soldier would likely die.
Ciras had trained daily for years to gain his mastery with a sword. If men were able to get results with no work, then the very discipline of swordsmanship would wither. If success required no work, no one would work and the very means of accessing magic could be lost.
Ciras was fairly certain Borosan couldn’t see any of that. His machines went about their tasks faithfully, pacing off distances to landmarks, scaling cliffs, measuring depth. They did so many things that men could do, but could only do at great risk to themselves, that the benefit of their utility couldn’t be denied. Keles would be overjoyed to have the data they had collected.
But there would come a point where someone who did not have the Anturasi skill at cartography would be able to use gyanrigot to gather data for his own charts. The need for exploration would evaporate because men could soon just dispatch machines. Even if a few of them were eaten by things like the goldwort, losing a machine was better than losing a man.
As long as the machines cannot make judgments, men will always have to explore.
Yet even with his reservations, he became quite glad the gyanrigot existed. As they traveled northwest, they cut across the trail of another party. Ciras recognized the tracks. The men had been part of a bandit group they’d trailed through much of Dolosan. They’d lost track of them when they entered Ixyll, but before that had seen evidence of the men having defiled graves and slaughtering thaumston prospectors.
The tracks revealed that the men were three days ahead. Moving swiftly, they shortened the lead significantly and found them sooner than expected. Had it not been for the bandits lighting a fire, Ciras and Borosan might have ridden into the small valley where they had made camp. Forewarned, they dismounted, approached on foot, and dispatched the gyanrigot to reconnoiter the bandit camp.
While he waited for the devices to return, Ciras crept up to the valley ridge and peered down. He saw only three of the bandits, but a round hole had been pounded into a stone stab, so he assumed Dragright was somewhere in there. Bigfoot, an unkempt giant of a man, rested beside the heavy steel sledge he’d used to make the hole. Tightboots sat on the other side of the hole, a couple of yards from where a bow and quiver lay. Closer to Ciras, with his back to the swordsman and the fire between him and the hole, Slopeheel squatted and held his hands out to the fire. He wore a sword in his sash, but squatted as a peasant would, so Ciras dismissed him as any real threat.
Something crashed from within the hole, jetting out a dusty gust. None of the bandits reacted with anything more than idle curiosity. Then a long, narrow cylinder sailed out. Its lower half split on impact, revealing an aged sword with a stained hilt. The blade rang when it hit the ground, but none of them moved to retrieve it from the dust.
Dragright emerged from the hole, dirty enough for him to have lain there since the Cataclysm. He coughed, pounding on his chest with a fist while hoisting a prize into the air with his left hand. Bits of flesh fell from the skull he lifted, but much of the shrunken scalp remained in place. Ciras even saw a white ribbon woven into one brittle lock.
Dragright hurled it to the ground. It shattered on impact. He stomped on it, reducing the skull to dust. He laughed, the others joined him, then he squatted and sifted the dust with dirty fingers.
He took a pinch of the dust and brought it toward a nostril.
Tightboots tossed a pebble at him. “Don’t. Save it. It’s worth more than you are.”
Dragright shrugged. “Just seeing how good it is. We’ve enough. There’s a dozen more in there. Swords, too, maybe even a bow for you.”
He snorted the corpse dust.
His head snapped back and his eyes widened. His body shook violently and he should have toppled onto his back, but somehow he came upright, as if being lifted by his throat. Dragright sneezed once, hard, and thick green ropes of mucus dripped from his nostrils like wax. He coughed again, then shook his head spasmodically, four times.
He smiled, all gap-toothed and happy. “This is the best we’ve found.”
Tightboots lofted another stone at him. “You say that with every tomb.”
The man’s hand swept up fluidly and snatched the pebble from the air. “And this time I’m right.”
Ciras rose and began a casual stroll down into their camp. He angled to keep Slopeheel on his right and the fire between him and the other three. He forced himself to walk loosely, never betraying the revulsion he felt at finding breathers of the dead.
Nor did he let his fear show. If thaumston could animate machines, so corpse dust could power others. A Mystic weaver’s dust could impart her skill to someone who breathed it. Likewise the dust of a warrior. Just how much skill no one knew. The practice was proscribed and the only source of knowledge about it came from stories whispered around campfires.
Slopeheel turned to look at Ciras. “Who in the Nine Hells are you?”
Ciras’ blade cleared its scabbard in a draw-cut that caressed the man’s throat front to back. It parted his spine and only left a small flap of skin and muscle beneath the man’s right ear intact. Slopeheel’s head flopped onto his shoulder as blood geysered from his neck, then he collapsed thrashing.
Tightboots cursed as he dove for his bow. “Damn the xidantzu!” He rolled and came up with the bow, but by the time he nocked an arrow and started to draw it, Ciras had reached him. The archer began to turn toward him, but the swordsman’s blade descended. It swept through his right elbow. The forearm whipped away, propelled by the bow. The archer stared at the stump in horror, then a second slash blinded him.