Demir carefully removed his left glove and showed his glassdancer sigil. “I’d suggest lowering your weapons.” He subtly altered his accent, giving himself the slightest Grent drawl.
Both soldiers were up and alert now, and they paled visibly in the firelight before lowering their weapons. The woman, nervous and haggard, swallowed hard. “Apologies, sir. We didn’t know…”
Demir waved it off. “I’m looking for Kastora. I haven’t been able to find him, nor get news of his health.”
The soldiers glanced at each other, seemingly about to answer, when the woman gasped. “Holy shit. It’s the Ram.”
Idrian moved up to stand beside Demir. Demir shot him a glance, wondering if it would be easier or harder with him out in the open. “At ease, soldiers,” Idrian said.
“You’re … you’re not supposed to be here,” the young man said. If they’d balked at seeing a glassdancer, they were practically shitting themselves now. “You’re an Ossan.”
“Ossan or not,” Idrian replied, “Kastora is my friend.” He peered at the woman. “Tinny, right? And … Geb? You’re part of the glassworks garrison. We met last time I visited to have my eye worked on.”
“The Ram remembered my name,” Tinny whispered loudly to Geb, her mouth hanging open.
Demir put his hand over his mouth to hide a smile. No pretending to be a Grent glassdancer then. But this might be easier. “Kastora?” he prompted gently.
The pair seemed to deflate. Geb said, “I’m sorry, Ram. He’s hurt. Hurt real bad. The garrison was ordered out and even with all the best godglass at hand we couldn’t stabilize him enough to move him. He’s not going to last the night. Tinny and I volunteered to stay with him until the end. It’s the least we could do after he’s been so good to us over the years.”
Demir’s gaze fell on the open door behind them. By the flickering light of the burning buildings he could just make out a makeshift cot, piles of bloody bandages and blankets, and a person lying in that heap. He shoved his way between the soldiers and approached quickly, falling on his knees. He’d met Kastora, long ago, but had no memory of the kindly, pained face that stared back up at him through half-closed eyes. Demir examined the face for a few moments, then glanced down at the bloody coverings. He was no surgeon, but an aggressive bayoneting was the only thing he could think of that would put a man in such a state.
“Kastora?” he asked.
The old man opened his lips to reveal that he was clutching several pieces of milkglass and cureglass between his teeth. He used his tongue to move them off to one side. “Who are you?” he muttered.
“I’m Demir Grappo. Adriana’s son.”
“She sent help, did she?” His words were slow, but surprisingly coherent for someone at death’s door. He’d probably made that milkglass himself. “Could have come sooner, Lightning Prince.”
Demir flinched at the nickname, surprised someone like Kastora even knew about it. He turned and gestured for Idrian to join him. The breacher said something quietly to the two soldiers, then joined Demir at Kastora’s bedside.
“Idrian? Piss, I could have used the two of you this morning.”
“I’m sorry, Master,” Idrian said softly. “I would have come if I’d known.”
“Of course, of course.” Kastora’s eyes returned to Demir. “What’s your excuse?”
“My excuse?” Demir felt his eyes narrow, and tried to remind himself that he was talking to a dying man. “My excuse is that I only just returned from the provinces yesterday. My mother has been murdered, her death used as pretext for this war, and all I have from her is a note telling me to talk to you immediately.”
Kastora stared back at him in silence for some time. “That’s a good excuse,” he finally admitted. “What happened to Adriana?”
Demir could see the death in the old man’s eyes. It would be here soon, no helping it, but he bit back his questions and recounted the details of his mother’s death – and the subsequent outbreak of war – as best he could in a brief few moments. He had barely finished when he realized Kastora was muttering to himself. He leaned forward to listen.
“They couldn’t have known what we were up to, could they? No. It’s impossible. No one knew. It must have been unrelated. But the confession, the war. It is too convenient. It is…” He stopped, his eyes once again focusing on Demir. “The prototype. It was…” He tried to gesture. “… destroyed in the fire.”
“What prototype?” Demir asked, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Here it was – the reason his mother had partnered with Kastora. Some kind of silic advance? A new godglass? He grasped Kastora by the shoulder, hoping the physical touch would help the old man focus.
“Adriana didn’t tell you?”
Demir felt a pang of conscience. If he’d been here, he would already know what was going on. If he’d been here, his mother might still be alive. “She didn’t get the chance.”
“Of course. The prodigal son. Do you know anything?” The final word dripped with despair and derision.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Demir replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
Kastora let out another shuddering sigh. “There is so much to explain and not enough time. Where to begin?” He raised his voice. “Tinny, Geb. Leave us in private, please.”
The two soldiers, still standing in the doorway, withdrew without protest, leaving Demir and Idrian alone with Kastora. Despite how well-acquainted he must be with dying men, Demir was surprised to see Idrian looking very uncomfortable. Idrian said, “I should go too. Whatever you two have to discuss is silic business. I’m just a soldier.”
“No!” Kastora objected. “This is my deathbed confession. I will not give it before just one man that I do not know. You will stay, Idrian, if only to repay the kindness I’ve shown to you.”
Idrian’s apparent discomfort grew, but he remained, pressing gently on his godglass eye with two fingers. Demir reached out to take Kastora by the hand. Blood smeared between their fingers. “Tell us what you need to say.” Kastora stared at the ceiling in silence for some time, and Demir worried that he was slipping away. He gave him a shake, his patience waning. “Come on, man! You have to tell me!”
“There is too much,” Kastora said again in barely a whisper. Stronger, he continued, “The cindersand is running out.”
Demir scoffed. He couldn’t help it. It was a simple statement, at once true – cindersand was a finite resource, after all – and ridiculous. “That can’t be possible. There are thousands of mines and quarries all over the world. They produce so much…” He trailed off at the serious stare from the old master. “Explain.”
“Those mines,” Kastora said, “are empty, or close to it. Governments all over the world are already tapping into their stockpiles. Production is down, prices are up. At the current rate, it will take less than six months before the general public will find it impossible to buy godglass. In a few years, only guild-families and kings will be able to acquire it.”
Demir glanced at Idrian. The breacher’s facade was close to unreadable, but there was a glint in his one eye. Fear, perhaps. Demir didn’t blame him. Without cindersand you couldn’t make godglass. Everything depended on godglass. What Kastora was intimating wasn’t just the loss of a lesser material, but of sorcery itself. Civilization would collapse just as surely as it would with the disappearance of gunpowder or printing presses or waterwheels.
It couldn’t be true. Demir’s mind warred against the idea, and yet here was one of the greatest silic masters stating it as his deathbed confession. Demir thought back to his last day in the provinces, unable to buy a piece of cheap skyglass. Before that, he’d struggled to find witglass, and before that, forgeglass had been more expensive than he expected. At the time he’d just ascribed it to the breakdown of supply in the poorer regions of the Empire, but now he wasn’t so sure.